Mazanka awoke to the sound of footsteps on wood.
Not hurried. Not alarmed. Just present.
Alive.
The ceiling above him was faded cedar, smudged with old rain stains and a crooked spiderweb clinging to one corner. There was no pressure on his chest, no screaming Ka'ro in his eye. Just soreness. A dull, dragging ache in his side, and the kind of fatigue that settled somewhere behind the ribs—where willpower usually lived.
He let his fingers curl into the edge of the futon beneath him.
Soft.
Warm.
Real.
"Back in the land of those who snore and stew," he muttered hoarsely.
No one responded.
He blinked, forcing his vision to adjust.
The room was lit by early gold. The light of a quiet morning, full of kitchen sounds and half-formed laughter beyond the shoji screen. A blanket had been laid gently over him. His shirt had been changed. The bandages were neat—clean, layered, meticulous. Someone had cared.
Mazanka tried to sit up.
His body replied with a very long no.
Still, he managed to shift, propping himself up against the wall, ignoring the quiet protest in his joints.
Through the papered screen to his right, voices murmured—low, steady.
He tilted his head, listening.
In the courtyard beyond the house, Rakan and Teruko moved like drifting shadows.
Sparring.
Not seriously.
Not perfectly.
But with rhythm.
She moved with precision—legs firm, eyes watchful, correcting Rakan's stance with a tap of her heel or a murmured word. Rakan stumbled once, laughed, and went again.
Mazanka watched, expression unreadable.
Then slowly—quietly—he smiled.
Not wide.
Not smug.
Just something human. Soft at the corners. Faintly glowing like coal left after a long night's fire.
He sat like that for a while.
Letting time move around him.
Letting his body rest and his mind stay still.
The Ka'ro in him had quieted. The corrupted eye behind the bandage no longer burned. Just lingered, like a memory not quite ready to be forgotten.
He listened to the clash of palms and steps outside.
To Rakan laughing when Teruko swept his legs again.
To her grumbling in return.
Mazanka exhaled.
"Looks like you're figuring it out, kid."
He stood up, hissing at the sting that shot through his eye and down his body but he ignored it as he shifted further into the house.
The door to the kitchen slid open with a wooden sigh.
Rakan's mother, Naoko, stood by the stove, stirring a quiet pot of broth with soft vegetables wilting in its heart. The kettle steamed beside it, whispering into the air.
She did not turn around.
Mazanka stood at the doorway.
One hand against the frame.
His steps were slow, careful. Not just because of the pain in his side—but because there was something heavier in the air than bruises and Ka'ro.
"It smells like heaven in here," he said softly.
Naoko didn't answer immediately.
She stirred once more. Then turned.
"You shouldn't be walking."
"I got tired of listening to teenagers flirt outside my window."
"They're not flirting."
"You'd be amazed how much they are."
Naoko snorted—barely.
But it cracked the stillness.
She pulled a chair out from the table.
"Sit."
He lowered himself into it, wincing slightly.
"I think half my ribs are whispering curses at me."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Depends who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
He sighed. "Mm… mine."
She nodded.
Not with agreement. But with acknowledgment.
The steam from the kettle curled between them.
Mazanka leaned back, looking at the worn wooden ceiling.
"This house hasn't changed."
"It's held together by stubbornness and tea stains."
"Fits you."
"You're not charming."
"I'm in mourning. Let me have something."
Naoko poured him tea.
Set it down without flourish.
For a moment, they both just sat—watching the surface ripple.
Then—
"Tell me," she said. "What happened to him?"
Mazanka's eyes didn't move from the cup.
"I told you once. That living in a dream too long has consequences."
"Yes."
"He believed he could rewrite the rules. That love was enough. That the world would look away if he smiled hard enough."
"He always smiled like that," she said.
Mazanka finally looked up.
"We're supposed to die in battle. The Kaneshiki. But Ryozenji though. He died the moment he decided to protect something the world said he couldn't have."
His hands folded over the cup.
"He went back to fix things. To find a solution . To sacrifice himself for the only thing be cared for but couldn't have. And they… they tried to punish him for."
Naoko's fingers tightened around her own mug.
"Did he suffer?"
"Not for long."
"Did he die alone?"
Mazanka swallowed hard.
"No."
Silence spun between them—long and aching.
Then—
"I'm sorry," Mazanka said.
His voice cracked slightly.
"For how I spoke to you, him. For how I left him. For not stopping him. For seeking him safe."
Naoko didn't reply right away.
She looked down at her cup. Then finally met his gaze.
"I was wrong, too. When you came to the door. I was angry. I let it blind me."
"You had every right."
"No. I didn't."
She took a breath.
"I don't blame you for his death. He chose me. Chose to stay. Chose to go back. It was his choice. That was always his strength. And his curse."
Her voice gentled.
"You knew him longer than I did. You loved him just as much."
Mazanka said nothing.
But something broke in his posture.
Not visibly.
Just… softened.
Then Naoko leaned forward.
"But listen to me, Mazanka."
"Hmm?"
"I won't forgive you if something happens to Rakan. He's all I have left."
His gaze sharpened.
"You brought him into this. You'll keep him breathing. You'll keep him whole."
"I'll try."
"Good."
Another pause.
Then Mazanka spoke again, softer this time.
"Are you really okay with him walking into that world?"
Naoko didn't answer at first.
Then—
"No."
She placed her hands flat on the table.
"But Ryozenji had a principle. He believed in choice. In letting people walk toward love, toward pain, toward freedom—even if it breaks you."
She looked toward the hallway.
Where her son was laughing outside.
"That choice gave me Ryozenji. And Rakan. And I won't take it from him now. Not even to save myself the heartbreak."
Mazanka stared at her for a long moment.
Then, quietly—
"You're braver than either of us were."
"No," she said. "Just more human."
He took a sip of tea.
The ache in his body hadn't gone.
But something lighter moved through the room now.
Not healing.
But the possibility of it.
Time zoomed by in a blur. A few days had come and gone.
Dawn had not yet touched the courtyard, but the world was already breathing.
Mist coiled in soft waves across the grass. The stones, still wet from the rain, glistened like bones unearthed in gentle light. Trees whispered with early wind, their leaves rattling like old paper, heavy with dew.
Mazanka stood barefoot in the center.
His coat hung loose off his shoulders, swaying faintly in the morning hush, a tea cup in one hand, the other half-raised toward the horizon as if feeling for something that had not yet arrived.
Behind him, Rakan and Teruko stood in silence—arms folded, bodies aching from yesterday's punishment.
"Ka'ro," Mazanka said softly with a bored yawn like he were reciting from a book he had read a thousand times over, "is not something you command. It's something you allow."
He sipped from his cup, eyes closed.
"Most people try to master it like it's a sword or a beast or a title. But Ka'ro is none of those things. It's not obedient. It's listening."
He opened his eyes.
"The question is—what are you really asking it to hear?"
They began with motion.
Teruko first—flawless in posture, every step a declaration, every breath calculated. Her blade moved in arcs, trailing Ka'ro ribbons that shimmered like liquid flame.
"Shintei-Ka'ro Art: Gōshun no Tate! Shield of Honored Spring."
Her tattoos flared along her forearms, Ka'ro blooming from them in concentric symbols that circled her arms and wrists—defensive lines built on discipline.
She struck forward with speed and silence, her footwork skimming the edge of the stone like she was gliding through snow.
Mazanka watched her with half-lidded eyes.
"Perfect form," he murmured. "But still too much armor around the soul."
Rakan was next.
His Ka'ro didn't bloom—it surged.
Raw, jagged, unformed. His body moved like he was chasing something just ahead of him, never quite able to catch up.
"Ikū-Ka'ro: Jinrai Seiyaku! Thunderclap Covenant."
The impact of his palm sent cracks through the stone beneath. His breath was wild, teeth gritted, Ka'ro coiling up his spine and spilling from his arms like a current with no bank to guide it.
Mazanka called out:
"Again. But this time—breathe with your body, not your anger."
Rakan exhaled through his teeth.
"That's what I'm doing."
"No. That's what you think you're doing. What you're actually doing is fighting ghosts."
They clashed next.
A slow duel—controlled, rehearsed—but each strike carried intent.
Teruko's movements were poetry with punctuation:
Clean. Sharp. Timed.
Rakan's were chaotic music:
Off-beat. Improvised. Heavy with feeling.
Their blades met mid-air.
Ka'ro flared—his like lightning trapped in floodwater, hers like fire penned into runes.
They pushed, pivoted, clashed again.
"Senjō no Aokizu! Azure Scar of the Battleground." Teruko cried. Her Ka'ro lashed outward, a wide slash of energy shaped like a searing lotus, meant to distract, blind, and bind.
Rakan answered:
"Ikū-Ka'ro: Hakai Junpaku! Pure Destruction Step." He shattered the earth at his feet, leaping from the rubble, sending raw shock into the edges of her bladeform.
The clash rang like chimes struck too hard.
Both staggered. Neither fell.
Mazanka clapped once.
"That," he said, "was almost beautiful."
Teruko was panting. Her lips parted, eyes sharp.
"Almost?" she said.
"Beauty isn't just form," he said. "It's surrender. It's the willingness to be known. And you're still hiding in the shapes they taught you."
He turned to Rakan.
"And you," he said, "you're not hiding. You're lost. There's a difference."
"I'm trying," Rakan muttered.
"Then stop trying," Mazanka said. "Just be. Let the Ka'ro show you what's still trapped in you."
They sat after that—on the edges of the field, beneath a swaying tree that had outlived more seasons than Rakan had names for.
Teruko dabbed blood from her knuckles. Rakan chewed on dried fruit from the kitchen.
Evening fell slow.
The sky stretched itself into bruised purples, gold giving way to copper, copper to ash. The courtyard lights flickered on one by one—small, amber things that glowed like fireflies reluctant to be born.
Her fixed device sat on the bench, its shape slim and polished now, like a mended relic. Mazanka had fixed long before their battle with the strange ka'ro wielder, yet she hadn't touched it once, let alone thought about using it. Teruko had checked it twice, then once more, but she hadn't used it. Not yet.
She had a ticket home, her ticket back to her comrades, to her role as a Kenshiki, back to her mentor, back to her life and the purpose etched into her being the very moment she learned to wield Ka'ro.
But she didn't move, couldn't muster the same excitement she would have felt a two weeks ago. She was reluctant now, a child unwilling to let go.
Let go of a half-human anomaly and a man who had betrayed the very ranks she called her family and home. Her existence. A Ka'ro novice and a criminal.
The air shifted.
Soft at first—like a ripple across still water.
Then it thickened.
A vibration passed through the ground, barely audible, like the hum of a string being plucked beneath the world.
Rakan stood.
Teruko froze.
Mazanka's head tilted slightly.
"Wait," he said, voice suddenly quiet.
The wind stopped.
The sky held its breath.
And space cracked.
It opened like folded silk—the air itself tearing into seams—and a figure emerged.
Not in flesh.
In light. In memory.
Projected Ka'ro, but dense enough to cast shadow.
A woman.
She stood barefoot on nothing, arms crossed over a coat that had seen too many battles. Her hair streaked silver. Her eyes burned.
Not with anger.
With warning.
"Mazanka," she said, voice echoing through their bones.
He didn't move.
Teruko whispered, stunned as if someone had dropped a boiling star in her hands.
"That's… that'sArashi Mikagami."
"I don't have time for lies," the older woman spoke. "So I'll be plain. We're dying. Entire Kenshiki units. Quietly. Without report."
A pause. The world held its breath.
"I've seen Ka'ro turn on its wielder. I've seen glyphs we thought forgotten, drawn in the air like someone's rewriting what we believe."
There was shuffle from the other side of the projection.
"I asked the Circle Council, fellow One-Eyes. They say it's a phase. An anomaly. They bury it under tradition and refuse to see the blood beneath it." She turned her gaze, as if searching for something in the background which her projection hid, something only she could see.
"But I see it."
Her voice caught, just once.
Then she straightened.
"I have a plan. It may cost everything. But if it works, it buys us time. If it doesn't, I'll already be ash before they remember my name."
Mazanka closed his eyes.
His hand trembled slightly at his side.
Arashi's gaze softened.
"I know you left. I know you've tried to live among the peace you always pretended not to need."
"But I also know who you are."
"So if you're still listening…"
The projection faltered—just slightly. As if the Rift reached for it. "Come back. Bring no banners. Bring no orders."
Background noise fed into the air quiet, hissing. "Bring who you trust. And be ready."
She paused.
"Because once this starts, there will be no next time."
There was a smile, a smile too unsettlingly warm for a woman who looked as if her entire world was wilting into nothing.
"Goodbye, Mazanka."
And then—
She was gone.
Light faded.
The silence afterwards was brutal.
Rakan stared at the space where she had been.
Teruko stepped back, hands tight.
Mazanka stood for a long time.
Then—
His voice sounded caught, broken. "She never says goodbye unless she means it."