The chamber was dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns casting flickering shadows across towering shelves laden with ancient scrolls and imperial decrees. Emperor Hoshimi Masaki sat reclined in his throne-like seat, the weight of the empire pressing down like a mantle of stone. His thoughts lingered on his recent discussion with Grand General Takigawa Yoshito—the father of the Vermillion Princess—regarding the dispatch of reinforcements to a neighboring kingdom. The Dark Order's movements had grown increasingly bold. While the empire bore no formal obligation to intervene, lending aid now would earn a powerful debt—and a kingdom in one's favor was never a wasted investment.
As the General's footsteps faded, the heavy doors creaked open once more.
This time, it was Grand Minister Shinegori Arata who entered, his expression calm but taut with unspoken tension.
Masaki studied him for a moment, then gestured.
"Arata. So soon after the war council—what matter weighs so heavily?"
Arata bowed low before rising. "Your Majesty, I come on a personal matter... concerning my daughter, Akane."
Masaki's brow arched. "Go on."
Arata hesitated only a moment, then spoke with practiced restraint. "She has begun investigating a man named Shimuzu Rin."
At that name, the Emperor's gaze sharpened. He straightened in his seat.
"She's searching for him?"
Arata nodded. "Yes. She sent a letter to my office requesting records on his origins. She suspects something... and with her intellect, it is only a matter of time before she pieces it together."
Masaki exhaled slowly, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against the armrest. "If what you say is true, then it is only a matter of time before she discovers Shimuzu Rin is, in fact, Hoshimi Rin."
Arata's hands clenched at his sides. "That is precisely what troubles me, Your Majesty. Should she uncover the truth without imperial sanction, she would be in violation of sealed knowledge. Even as the White Princess, such knowledge could cost her her life."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed, his thoughts running deep. He had long known that Akane's mind mirrored her father's—sharp, cunning, dangerous when curious. In that, she resembled Rin as well. But intellect was a double-edged blade. When two minds of equal brilliance crossed, status became the deciding factor. And Rin, despite everything, remained a commoner—at least for now.
Masaki's sigh was heavy. "If we attempt to shield the truth, she will only dig deeper. That would be... problematic."
His gaze met Arata's, steely and direct.
"Very well. I will allow you to reveal the truth—but only in controlled fragments."
Arata bowed low. "You have my deepest gratitude, Your Majesty."
Masaki reached beside his seat, retrieving a small golden tablet etched with his personal seal—the mark of absolute authority. He held it out.
"Give this to her. It is a direct edict from me. She is to speak of this to no one. Not even her sisters."
Arata accepted the tablet with reverent care, the weight of it more than physical.
Masaki's voice deepened. "She is to guard this secret with her life... at least until Rin returns to the palace."
The words lingered, a quiet acknowledgment that the day of reckoning drew near—that exile could not last forever.
"One more thing," Masaki added, his voice now low and grave.
"Ensure she carries this tablet when she confronts Rin. If he discovers someone has learned his identity without permission, he may not hesitate. He has changed, Arata. If he sees her as a threat... he will strike."
For a brief second, the Grand Minister's breath caught. He had known Rin as a child, clever and quiet. But that boy had vanished. In his place stood a warrior tempered by pain, sharpened by war. If Akane reached for the truth the wrong way, she wouldn't get the chance to explain.
"I understand," Arata said solemnly. "She will not face him unprepared."
Masaki gave a single nod. "Then go."
Arata bowed once more and exited the chamber, each step echoing with the burden of what lay ahead.
As the heavy doors closed behind him, Emperor Masaki leaned back, folding his hands together. Lanternlight danced across his contemplative face.
"Rin… your time is running out," he murmured.
The soft hum of mana reverberated through the air, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to resonate with the earth itself. Rin sat cross-legged in the center of the training grounds, his brow furrowed in concentration. The atmosphere around him shimmered faintly, as if the very fabric of the world bent to his will.
Harumi watched from a safe distance, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Awe and anxiety warred within her as she observed the swirling currents of mana around Rin. They moved with unnatural precision, spiraling into his body and out again in a near-perfect circular flow. He was the center of an invisible vortex, and the sheer pressure of the energy made her skin prickle.
The tension in the air thickened. Rin's breaths grew labored, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Harumi's heart twisted as she watched. This is too much, she thought.
"This is his new theory, isn't it?" she murmured, a note of dread in her voice. "The... mana furnace."
She remembered how Rin had tried to explain it to her once—how it would turn his body into a living forge, absorbing ambient mana and refining it continuously. A self-sustaining source of power, far beyond conventional limits.
But there were risks.
Harumi's stomach tightened as she watched the shimmer of light around Rin intensify, warping the air like heat rising from stone. He was trembling now, faint lines of strain around his eyes, and the flow of mana grew increasingly erratic.
"Rin…?" she called, taking a cautious step forward.
Rin didn't answer. His body was rigid, the mana around him surging wildly. A deep thrum echoed through the ground—then a pulse. Like a heartbeat. Then another. Faster. Louder. Off-beat.
Something was wrong.
"Stop it!" Harumi shouted, voice rising with panic. "Rin, something's not right!"
But the furnace was already collapsing.
With a sound like a crack of thunder, the mana vortex imploded. A burst of searing light enveloped Rin, followed by a concussive shockwave of unstable energy. Harumi flinched and shielded her eyes as the blast rolled over the grounds, kicking up dust and scattering loose tiles from the courtyard floor.
When the light faded, the air was silent.
Rin lay sprawled on the cracked stones, a shallow crater beneath him. Steam rose from his back. His clothes were singed and torn in places, and glowing embers of mana flickered harmlessly around him like dying fireflies.
Harumi sprinted forward. "Rin!"
He groaned softly, coughing as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His hair was a mess, his face streaked with sweat and soot—but he was alive.
"Damn," he muttered, wincing as he sat upright. "I messed up the final compression cycle. It... overloaded."
Harumi knelt beside him, grabbing his hand, relief washing over her face. "You think?! I thought you were going to die!"
"I miscalculated the mana threshold," Rin said, voice hoarse but calm. "The furnace started feeding on unstable energy. It couldn't hold."
Harumi stared at him. "And what would've happened if you hadn't stopped it?"
Rin gave a weak chuckle. "Probably a full mana implosion. Which, yeah... I'd rather not find out how that feels."
She hit his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make her point. "Idiot."
"Fair," he said, then grinned faintly. "But at least I learned something."
Harumi sighed deeply, her heart still pounding. "Please just—next time—maybe don't blow yourself up in front of me?"
"Noted," Rin said, slowly rising to his feet. His body ached, but his core was intact. The furnace hadn't formed—but he was alive, and he had data. That was enough for now.
"Are you okay?" Harumi asked hesitantly, her voice still tinged with worry.
Rin managed a small, tired smile. Sweat clung to his neck and collar, his limbs heavy, but the faint hum of mana still pulsed steadily beneath his skin. "Yeah. I'm fine. I just... needed to make sure I was ready for whatever comes next."
Harumi stepped closer, her brows drawn together, her mouth a taut line. Then, without warning, she punched his chest—not hard, but enough to make him flinch. "Why are you even like this?"
He blinked, rubbing the spot with a grimace. "Ouch. Couldn't you have just said you were worried?"
"That was me saying I was worried," she snapped. Her voice was sharp, but her eyes were brimming with unshed relief.
Rin gave a soft chuckle under his breath. "Right. I forgot that's your version of affection."
"I was almost cooked alive just now, thank you very much," she added, gesturing dramatically toward the charred edge of her sleeves, a faint smudge of soot on her cheek. "You do realize that when someone says 'mana furnace failure,' they don't mean 'explode like a sun-starved firework,' right?"
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking. "It was just a feedback burst. I overcompressed the intake channel when stabilizing the flow cycle. It was—"
"Don't explain it," Harumi interrupted, grabbing his arm and steadying him as he staggered. "Just sit down before you collapse and I have to drag your mana-sizzled corpse back inside."
Despite his protests, Rin allowed her to guide him to the shade of a nearby training hall awning, where the breeze was gentle and the scent of blossoms drifted in from the courtyard garden. He sat, his body aching in places he hadn't realized existed, and leaned his head back against the wooden post.
Harumi knelt beside him, inspecting him like a war medic. "No burns... you got lucky. Your clothes are ruined, though. As usual."
"I liked this robe," Rin murmured, glancing down at the singed hem.
"I warned you not to use that color if you were going to blow up again. I just finished mending it last week."
"You're too good to me," he said with a wry smile.
She smirked faintly. "Damn right I am."
Then, without another word, she began removing his scorched outer robe and rummaged through the nearby training supply box. She pulled out a rough cloth and started wiping the sweat from his neck and arms. Rin didn't move, didn't comment—this wasn't the first time she'd done this, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Their roles had long since settled into a rhythm: he pushed too far, and she cleaned up the aftermath.
He closed his eyes, letting the silence settle.
A bird chirped in the distance.
Wind danced through the paper chimes hanging from the rafters.
"I'll boil water for the bath," Harumi said quietly after a while. "You'll need it after frying yourself alive."
Rin opened one eye. "You don't have to—"
"I'm not cooking for you," she cut in, narrowing her eyes. "Let's not get confused about that."
He smiled. "Heaven forbid."
"I will, however," she said, brushing his damp hair back with a soft cloth, "clean your wounds, reinforce your binding seals, and organize the storage room again because you knocked everything loose with that mana shockwave."
She sounded irritated. She probably was. But her hands were gentle.
Rin glanced at her sideways. Her maple-colored eyes were focused, her expression impassive in the way that only someone who knew you too well could manage—like this wasn't the first time she'd cleaned up after him, and it wouldn't be the last. And though no words passed between them, something deeper lingered beneath the surface: a quiet understanding forged in years of shared battles, late-night planning, and the silent comfort of knowing someone would always have your back.
"…Thanks, Harumi," he said softly.
She paused mid-motion, then resumed her work. "Don't make me do this again tomorrow."
"I'll try not to explode tomorrow," he replied.
"Try harder."
By the time Rin had regained some strength, the sun had dipped lower, casting golden light over the pale stones of the White Flower Palace grounds. Harumi helped him to his feet with the kind of practical strength that didn't boast or ask for thanks. She slipped under his arm, steadying him as he hobbled toward the bathhouse at the edge of the compound.
No words about nobility or destiny. No talk of honor or duty.
Just the easy, steady rhythm of footsteps and soft breathing.
As they walked, Rin glanced at her again, her expression unreadable as always.
To her, he was just Rin. A comrade. A troublesome, explosion-prone battle maniac. She didn't know about the blood in his veins, the name he had once carried, or the burdens buried beneath layers of false smiles and old scars. She didn't need to.
She was the only one who never looked at him like he was more than what he claimed to be.
And yet—when he was with her, even if she didn't know the truth—he felt seen.
They reached the door to the bathhouse.
Harumi pulled away, giving him a sideways look. "I'll go clean up the training field. And the storage room. Again."
"Harumi."
"What?"
"…You're a lifesaver."
"Don't get used to it."
She turned briskly on her heel, walking away without looking back. But Rin caught the flicker of a smile at the edge of her lips as the wind caught her hair.
Left alone, Rin stepped into the bathhouse, the hum of the newly stabilized mana furnace gently thrumming in his core.