Mazanka stood in the clearing long after Ryozenji had been taken, his feet rooted to the ground, his eyes vacant as they followed the retreating figures of the Kenshiki. His heart still raced, the adrenaline of the moment seeping out of him, leaving nothing but hollow exhaustion in its place.
He should've done something—anything. But Ryozenji had been right. He hadn't wanted Mazanka to risk his life, hadn't wanted him to join him in his rebellion. It was his choice, his decision to make. And Mazanka knew, deep down, that there was no changing it.
The silence of the forest was suffocating. It felt too still, as if the very air was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. He could hear his own breathing, the slight rustle of leaves in the wind, but it was as if the world had narrowed, the edges fading into a shadow that swallowed everything.
He turned and walked away, his steps heavy, as if the weight of the moment had somehow turned the forest floor into something thicker, more difficult to move through. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts, each one more bitter than the last.
He wanted to see Ryozenji again, wanted to tell him that he would fix this. But deep inside, Mazanka already knew it was too late.
The days that followed were a blur. Mazanka tried to focus, tried to keep his mind clear, but each moment was a slow burn. He couldn't shake the image of Ryozenji's face, calm, resigned, as he walked away. It haunted him in ways he didn't want to admit. He didn't want to think about how Ryozenji had surrendered so easily, how he had let them take him without even a fight. How could he just… let go?
But as the days bled into each other, something else started to fester. Something deeper. A gnawing, twisting guilt that wouldn't release its hold. He should have done more. He could have done more.
Mazanka spent his time in isolation, pouring over old texts and making calculations in his head, trying to figure out how to get Ryozenji out of the prison that now held him. He would do it. He had to. He couldn't just let his friend rot in a cell, condemned for nothing but a choice that Mazanka couldn't quite understand but accepted.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Mazanka's hand froze over a worn parchment as his eyes flicked to the wooden door of the small cabin.
A familiar face appeared in the doorway before he could even rise. It was Arashi—watching with that similarly endearing look she always gave him, as if he wasn't breaking apart, riddled with guilt, as if he wasn't the cause of all his issues, like he wasn't flawed, pathetic.
"Mazanka," she said quietly, stepping into the room. "You've been at this for days. You need to eat. And you need to stop pacing around in circles. It's not doing you any good."
Her tone was light, as if she was trying to keep him calm, but Mazanka could hear the edge of worry underneath it. She was right—he wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating. His entire world had narrowed to one thing: Ryozenji. And now, it felt like it was slipping away from him.
He turned away from her, his face hardening. "I can't just leave him there, you know? You heard what they said. He's a traitor." The words felt heavy in his mouth, but they didn't feel right. He wasn't a criminal. He wasn't a traitor. Ryozenji had simply made a choice that Mazanka couldn't follow.
"I know," she said softly, her footsteps light on the wooden floor as she moved closer. "But you can't keep doing this to yourself. You can't keep blaming yourself for what happened. You're not the one who made that choice."
Mazanka's fists clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowing. "I should have made him listen. I could've stopped him. I should've—"
"You should've what? Forced him to stay?" Arashi's voice was sharp, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. "You know as well as I do, Mazanka, that Ryozenji doesn't follow anyone's rules but his own. You can't change him. You can't change what he believes. He's his own person, just like you are."
Mazanka's breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping him. He had known that, deep down. Ryozenji had never been someone who could be forced into anything. He followed his heart. Always had.
"Just… help me get him out," Mazanka muttered, his voice heavy with desperation. He turned to face her then, his eyes bloodshot and worn. "Please."
Arashi didn't immediately respond, her gaze softening as she studied him for a moment. She seemed to understand, but her expression hardened soon after, a resolve settling in her features.
"Idiot," she said, voice steady. "You know I'll always help you whether you want it or not. "
It took another day to put the plan into motion. Mazanka had created the device—the Kōsen no Gantai—that he believed would allow Ryozenji to live in the human world without falling to the corruption of Ka'ro. It was a fragile thing, delicate and powerful at the same time, an invention born out of desperation and the will to save his friend.
But even with the device ready, Mazanka couldn't shake the fear that Ryozenji wouldn't want it. Wouldn't want him to save him.
They reached the prison under cover of night, their movements silent, cautious. The cold stone of the walls loomed high around them as they approached the gates, the air thick with tension. Mazanka's heart pounded in his chest, but it was a familiar pressure now—something that drove him forward, as if the weight of every wrong decision was pushing him to this point.
He found Ryozenji in a small, dark cell, curled on the floor, his clothes torn and his body battered. The sight of him—so broken, so frail—made Mazanka's chest tighten painfully. His friend had been beaten, not just captured.
Ryozenji didn't move as Mazanka approached, didn't even look up. He remained still, his face pale, his eyes distant.
Mazanka knelt beside him, his fingers brushing the ragged fabric of Ryozenji's shirt. "Ryozenji, what did they do to you?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but it trembled with the weight of his emotions.
"It's nothing," Ryozenji murmured, his voice a hollow echo of its usual warmth. "Just… some questions. Some things they wanted to know." He finally met Mazanka's eyes, and Mazanka saw the pain in them—pain not just from the physical wounds, but something deeper. Something far more broken.
"I can get you out of here, back to her," Mazanka said urgently, the device already in his hand, ready to be used. "I have a way. It's the Kōsen no Gantai. It'll let you live in the human world. You won't have to worry about Ka'ro corrupting you."
Ryozenji shook his head, his voice soft but firm. "No, Mazanka. I can't. I don't want you to risk your life for me. You need to leave. Before they find out what you've done."
Mazanka couldn't bear to hear it. He couldn't leave him here like this. "You can't stay here, Ryozenji. I can't… I won't leave you to rot in this place."
Ryozenji's face softened, and for a moment, he simply closed his eyes. "My wife and my…my boy will be safe if I'm not with them. That's what matters now. Please, Mazanka… leave me."
My boy…he…a child?
If Mazanka's heart wasn't broken already, it was burning to pained ash now.
Mazanka didn't want to listen anymore. He wouldn't. He had made a promise to himself—and to Ryozenji—that he wouldn't let his friend fall alone.
"I won't abandon you," Mazanka said fiercely, helping his friend to his feet. "I'm not letting you die in here, not like this."
The escape was barely a whisper, a shadow in the night. Mazanka moved swiftly, carrying Ryozenji on his back, the weight of his friend's body a constant reminder of everything they had lost. His heart raced, but there was no time to think about anything else. There was only the task ahead: getting Ryozenji out.
It wasn't just him which made it possible. Wasn't just him who had also fought to make sure nothing went wrong.
Arashi. She'd helped him slip Ryozenji past the guards, through the hidden passages, and into the darkened forests that bordered the prison. Her presence was a quiet strength at his side, though her worry was palpable as they parted ways.
For days, Mazanka had kept Ryozenji hidden, away from prying eyes, tending to his wounds. The other man had barely spoken, his body weakened by the brutal interrogations, but his mind had remained sharp, if not weary. Every time Mazanka approached, Ryozenji would offer a faint, knowing smile, but the flicker of resignation in his eyes never truly disappeared.
Mazanka had tried to convince him to rest, to let his body heal, but Ryozenji refused. "It's not about the body, Mazanka," he'd said once, his voice hoarse. "It's about what comes next. What comes after."
Days bled into one another, the urgency of their flight growing with each passing moment. Mazanka did what he could—tending to Ryozenji's injuries, keeping them hidden, avoiding the Kenshiki who scoured the lands for them. It wasn't just the threat of capture that gnawed at his insides. It was the unspoken truth that their every move, every breath, was one step closer to the inevitable.
The rift.
The divide between the worlds, where Ka'ro and the human world parted, and only those who held the right passage could cross freely. And if they were caught trying to cross without permission, the consequences would be severe.
Yet, despite it all, Mazanka couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time. That they couldn't keep hiding. That they wouldn't make it to the rift in time.
Mazanka's heart pounded in his chest as the familiar pull of Ka'ro surged through his veins, coursing through him like wildfire, his body alive with the raw energy of it. Each breath was sharper than the last, his senses stretching out into the space around him, listening for the movements of those who would soon strike. He didn't need to see them to know they were coming—he could feel the shift in the air, the faint vibration of power that indicated their approach.
They were too close.
Ryozenji's weight on his back had become a heavy burden, his friend's shallow, labored breaths mingling with the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. Every step Mazanka took was calculated, careful, his eyes scanning the horizon. He had to get Ryozenji to the rift—he had to get them to safety.
But the air was thick with tension, and the cold, distant feeling of impending doom gnawed at him like an invisible predator stalking from the shadows. There would be no safe passage for them now.
Suddenly, the rift appeared before them—a shimmering veil, so thin it seemed to hover at the edge of reality. It pulsed with an ethereal glow, the faintest promise of freedom and escape. Mazanka's breath caught in his throat. They were so close now, so close, that all he could do was push on, even as the weight of his friend's injuries, his own fears, grew heavier.
And then, the silence broke.
The Kenshiki appeared like shadows in the night, their presence oppressive, like the air before a storm. There were too many—more than Mazanka had expected, far more than he could handle in his current state. His heart raced, and for a brief moment, doubt flitted across his mind, the reality of the situation sinking in. He could feel the tension in his muscles, the instinctual urge to fight, to defend his friend.
But no—he wasn't ready to die. Not like this.
But his enemies—no, his old comrades—would not allow him to escape that easily.
"Mazanka," a voice called out from the darkness. It was a low, measured tone, carrying the weight of authority. "You are hereby charged as a criminal, for aiding the Kyōgai traitor Ryozenji Sakurai. Surrender now, and perhaps we can show mercy."
Mazanka's chest tightened. His Ka'ro rippled beneath his skin, surging, burning with the need to fight, to destroy, but he held it back. He had to be calm. He had to be smart.
"You don't know anything," Mazanka replied, his voice steady despite the fury bubbling inside him. His grip slipped as he let go of Ryozenji without taking his eyes off the enemy, letting his friend stand against the bark of an old and dead tree.
He heard the hum of Ka'ro intensify around him, the dark energy filling the air as the Kenshiki prepared to strike.
"I won't let you take him," Mazanka said, his eyes hardening with resolve.
And then the battle erupted.
It was an explosion of raw power—the crackling of Ka'ro energy clashing against the sharpened edges of Kenshiki technique. Mazanka moved like lightning, his body becoming a blur as he weaved through their attacks, his movements precise, fluid. His Ka'ro flared to life, twisting and curling around him in violent spirals, an unrelenting force that destroyed anything in its path.
The first to lunge was the vanguard—Daigo Hanrei, wielding Shintei-Ka'ro: Sen'ō Hekiya Flash-Sound Pulse Arrow. His Ka'ro concentrated in his throat and palms before he fired a series of sonic compression blasts that cracked the earth beneath Mazanka's feet.
Mazanka moved as if the sound didn't exist.
"Ikū-Ka'ro: Kōhai Yōjin. Resonant Delay Ward."
A ripple expanded from Mazanka's left palm—sound collapsing against an invisible fold, dissipating harmlessly around him like waves torn apart by stillness.
"Ikū-Ka'ro: Datsumō no Hien! Bladed Flight of the Molting Falcon."
Twin feather-like blades formed along his arms, his Ka'ro taking the form of luminous white slashes that dove at Mazanka like wings of slicing wind.
Mazanka spun—
"Sōgen-Ka'ro: Yūkō Hakudō. White Pulse of Silent Exchange."
—a single circular pulse of invisible Ka'ro burst from his chest, intercepting the wind-born blades, dissolving them mid-flight with perfect resonance.
He appeared behind the man mid-strike, palm open.
"Too slow."
"Ikari ni Kakeru: Seikatsu no Mawari. Unleashing Form: Cycle of Living Blades."
A cascade of Ka'ro erupted from his back—thin, arcing discs of rotating energy that sliced through the air in choreographed waves. The Kenshiki dropped, blood spraying across the bark of the trees.
Mazanka didn't pause.
A Kenshiki came at him from the left, a sword flashing in the moonlight, but Mazanka anticipated the strike. He sidestepped, his movements graceful and effortless, before countering with a barrage of sharp blasts of energy from his hands. The blast caught the Kenshiki off guard, sending him flying into the nearby trees, crashing through them like a ragdoll.
Two more came at once.
One with his Ka'ro laced into water, droplets hanging like beads from his fingers.
"Shintei-Ka'ro: Mizukagami no Tensei! Reflection Rebirth of the Water Mirror."
He struck, sending waves of mirrored Ka'ro outward—phantom clones in the rippling water lunging with each splash.
The other, a hammer-wielder, stomped the ground.
"Sōgen-Ka'ro: Sekiryū Danmaku! Red Dragon Barrage."
Pillars of crimson Ka'ro shot from the earth, spiraling like fangs of a buried beast, converging on Mazanka's position.
Mazanka skated across the battlefield, his movement sharp, measured.
He drew a small, curved blade from beneath his coat—carved obsidian lined with faint script.
"You lot really don't shut up with your stomping."
"One-Eye Form: Zanka no Sengetsu. Scorching Death — Crescent of the Final Moon."
He swung once.
A wave of compressed Ka'ro curved outward, slicing through water, earth, and mirrored clones in one single, burning arc.
The shockwave cracked the trees. One Kenshiki slammed into a boulder with a guttural cry. The hammer-wielder was flung backwards, blood painting the moss in wide strokes.
Mazanka's power surged in rhythmic waves, each strike flowing from his body as though he were conducting a symphony of destruction. The feeling of Ka'ro bending to his will, his mind in perfect harmony with the force coursing through him, was intoxicating. He had mastered this—he was one of the few who had reached the status of One-Eye, and it was because of moments like this—when the world seemed to stand still and bend to his will.
But despite his overwhelming strength, the Kenshiki kept coming. There were too many of them.
His eyes darted to the side, catching sight of Ryozenji, still propped against the dead tree. The other man was barely conscious, his face pale and drawn from the exhaustion and pain, but his eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—remained focused, even as he tried to stay stood up.
The world around Mazanka spun, his own Ka'ro becoming a swirling storm of energy. His senses were alive, sharp as ever, but there was a darkness that gnawed at him, the weight of what was happening sinking in.
"Stop, Mazanka!" Ryozenji's voice broke through the chaos, hoarse but filled with an unmistakable urgency. "This isn't your fight. We need to leave now."
But Mazanka could not. Not without him.
Another Kenshiki lunged at him from the left, his sword flashing in the dim light. Mazanka's body reacted before his mind could fully process the attack. With a swift motion, he caught the sword with his bare hand, the blade biting into his skin as his Ka'ro shield flared around him, creating a barrier strong enough to hold back the strike.
"You won't take him!" Mazanka growled, his voice low and dangerous, his Ka'ro sparking around him like a live wire.
The enemy was relentless, but so was he.
But then, the wind shifted.
Everything went still.
The air thickened. The trees bowed.
Mazanka didn't need to look.
He knew that Ka'ro signature.
A presence, far more familiar than he wanted it to be, pressed in around him—a thick, heavy weight in the air. The voice that followed cut through the tension like a blade.
"Enough."
Mazanka froze.
There, emerging from the shadows of the trees, was Kurosawa. His mentor, his once unwavering pillar of strength and wisdom, stood tall before him, eyes cold and calculating. The air seemed to bend with his presence, his Ka'ro an aura of quiet authority, still as a mountain.
"You're still a child, Mazanka," Kurosawa's voice was firm, carrying the weight of years of disappointment. "Still clinging to naive beliefs, unable to see the truth that lies before you."
Mazanka's grip on his weapon tightened, but his voice came out strained. "I'm not a child anymore, Kurosawa. You've trained me—this is what I've become. I'm no different from you."
"You're different," Kurosawa replied quietly, "You've fallen too far, Mazanka. This—" His gaze flicked to Ryozenji, holding himself up against the tree, "—this is a betrayal. Not just of your kind, but of everything you were taught. To stand with a Ka'ro traitor, to throw away everything for a fleeting human connection… It's disgraceful."
Ryozenji lifted his head weakly. His voice, though hoarse, carried the weight of his defiance. "We're not traitors, Kurosawa. We never were."
Mazanka's heart twisted. He could hear the desperation in Ryozenji's voice, see the unshakable conviction in his eyes despite the blood staining. But it wasn't enough. The two men stood at an impasse. The world seemed to hold its breath.
"You still don't understand, do you?" Kurosawa's gaze was colder than ever. His words were measured, controlled, as if he were explaining something far beyond Mazanka's grasp. "You've both betrayed the balance. The laws of the Kenshiki must be respected. We cannot allow the human world to intertwine with ours. It is forbidden."
Mazanka's pulse thudded in his ears, his Ka'ro aching to surge forward in response. He wanted to fight, to end this now, but Ryozenji's voice—weak, strained—echoed in his mind.
"Don't," he whispered. "You can't…"
Mazanka's spine went rigid.
"Mazanka," the elder Kenshiki said, voice calm, steel hidden in velvet. "You've forgotten your place."
Mazanka's eye narrowed.
"My place?" His voice trembled. Not with fear—but grief. "My place was beside him."
Kurosawa's eyes didn't blink.
"Then you will fall with him."
Kurosawa raised his weapon, a flash of steel too fast for Mazanka to react. He had no time to think, no time to process. Before Mazanka could move, the blade sliced through the air, nicking a few strands of his hair. But it wasn't enough to incapacitate him. He dodged.
"Shintei-Ka'ro: Ensei no Tōmei. Encircling Clarity of the Transparent Path."
A ribbon of invisible Ka'ro spiraled around Mazanka, its edges sharper than steel, its presence like the pull of memory turned into death. Mazanka ducked, but the spiral caught his arm—blood sprayed, clean and bright.
Mazanka hissed, spinning back.
"Tch. You still hit like a old man on his deathbed."
"One-Eye Form: Fumikomi no Zetsubō. Despairing Step of the Soul-Press."
He struck the ground.
A crater erupted beneath Kurosawa, gravity folding inwards. Kurosawa faltered—but only for a blink.
He countered.
"Kengen no Kyōin: Shōmyō Suiryoku. Authority Technique: Chanting Hydraulic Force."
A focused stream of pure Ka'ro burst from his palm, shaped like a flowing calligraphy stroke—it smashed into Mazanka's ribs, sending him hurtling through two trees.
Kurosawa swung his weapon again. The air around him seemed to tremble with the weight of the moment as he zoomed after Mazanka's flying figure. Time slowed, the earth beneath them holding its breath. In a single motion, Kurosawa pivoted his sword toward Mazanka with a precision that cut through the very fabric of space. It was fast, too fast. Mazanka barely had time to react.
But he did.
His Ka'ro flared around him, but not quickly enough. The blade grazed him—his shoulder, his chest. It was a scratch, nothing more. But it wasn't, not when he felt the slice carve into the device on his chest with a scratch, not when his imputed Ka'to twisted and bursted out in all directions. Shit, I had made that for Ryozenji. His Ka'ro had absorbed the rest of his mentor's blow.
A stray bolt of energy, tangled with Ka'ro, surged out from the device Mazanka wore—his Kōsen no Gantai. The unstable energy bounced off the hilt of Kurosawa's sword, sending it careening toward Mazanka's eye.
Time slowed.
Mazanka's heart stopped, and his world collapsed into a singular point of light. The ricochet—the device—hit him dead centre in the eye.
The impact was like a thunderclap, the force of it jarring his entire body. His vision went white, a sharp, searing pain exploding in his head. The world spun out of focus, and he staggered, disoriented.
His vision exploded in a painful burst of light that broke free a pained scream from him, and everything blurred as if the very fabric of reality had torn open.
The Kōsen no Gantai—intended as a gift to Ryozenji, a symbol of their shared bond—now betrayed him. The energy was unstable, too much Ka'ro pouring into it, and it oozed violently from the hole which was once his eye, digging into the crevices of his being and destabilizing his own power.
His Ka'ro twisted uncontrollably, a wild, destructive force that tore through the ground beneath him. The earth cracked open with a deafening roar, the air warping with the distortion of destabilized Ka'ro. The land itself seemed to scream as cracks spread out like veins, rending the earth, splitting it apart.
Kurosawa's eyes widened, for a moment looking almost… concerned. The energy pulse was too much even for the Kenshiki who stumbled with the shakes of the earth below. "Retreat!" he ordered, his voice commanding yet tinged with an unusual hesitation. "We must return to the Kenshiki Circle! Forget about them! Their injuries will kill them before they reach the human world, the rift will consume them!"
"Mazanka!"
Ryozenji's voice broke through his haze of pain. Mazanka's mind snapped to attention. His friend, his brother—Ryozenji, still alive, still clinging to him in the chaos around them. The opportunity was there, but it wouldn't last long.
Mazanka forced his legs to move, dragging his injured body toward Ryozenji. His mind barely registered the searing pain in his eye, his limbs growing weaker with each step. He stumbled, but his determination pushed him forward.
Ryozenji—sitting propped against the tree, barely conscious, his blood soaking the earth beneath him—lifted his hand toward him, weakly, desperately.
His stomach. White light, ripping and twisting into red blood and feeble flesh, ka'ro Mazanka couldn't mistake for anyone else's. He's been hit. Shit, shit, shit…
"Mazanka…"
With a final, Herculean effort, Mazanka reached him, pulling Ryozenji into his arms. "I've got you," he murmured, though the words felt empty, the weight of everything they had done crashing down around him.
With one last, desperate push, Mazanka surged toward the rift. Behind them, the world seemed to crack and split, the ground trembling as the remnants of their battle lay in ruin. The Kenshiki had long retreated, the scene unfolding like a twisted nightmare in Mazanka's disoriented mind.
But then—then—the rift beckoned, the only path forward, the only escape.
"Hold on, Ryozenji," Mazanka whispered, his voice rough, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain. He stumbled forward, dragging a heavily bleeding Ryozenji with him, feeling the last of his strength ebbing away.
They crossed the rift together.
And for a brief, fleeting moment, the battle was over.