Evening had fallen soft and low.
The courtyard was inked in violet light, the lanterns along the garden wall flickering like fireflies caught in glass. The wind had settled. The house had gone quiet, as if it, too, knew what morning would bring.
Mazanka stood at the edge of the wooden engawa, arms crossed loosely, Ka'ro finally still inside him.
His coat was half-draped over his shoulder. His hair a mess. His bandages fresh.
But his eyes—the one that could still see—held weight again.
Not pain.
Readiness.
"We need to talk," he said, nodding to Rakan and Teruko, who sat nearby.
Rakan shifted, alert. Teruko straightened.
Mazanka exhaled like he was letting go of a decade.
"We're not walking into another skirmish in the human world. This is Kyōgai. It's not made for kindness. It doesn't offer grace. It doesn't forgive people like us."
He turned slightly, eyes locking with Rakan's.
"Especially not you."
Rakan frowned. "Because I'm human?"
"Because you're not." Mazanka's tone was quiet. "Not completely. But they'll see you as less. And you've seen what that does."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy.
Just… still.
Mazanka let it settle before continuing.
"You don't have to go," he said. "This can still be your life. This house. This quiet. You can stay. I'll take Teruko. You never asked for any of this."
Rakan blinked. Then slowly, a heat began to rise behind his voice.
"You think I'd turn my back on everything I've learned? That I'd bury half of who I am just because it's hard?"
He stood.
"I'm not scared of what's waiting on the other side. I'm scared of forgetting. Of pretending none of this matters."
His fists clenched.
"I'm not a secret. I'm not someone who needs to be hidden. And I'm not going to live a safe life just so I can die unsure of who I really am."
Mazanka raised a brow.
Then smiled faintly.
"Alright, alright. Easy, hero. You're allowed to say you're coming without throwing an existential tantrum."
Rakan scoffed and sat again.
"Ass."
"Glad you're feeling confident. You'll need that when someone tries to stab your soul."
Mazanka turned now to Teruko, who had been listening in silence, her face unreadable.
"And you? You know what's waiting for you."
"I do."
"You're labeled a traitor. There'll be scouts. Markers. You might not even get five steps past the first settlement before they strike."
"Then let them."
Mazanka tilted his head.
"Not the answer I expected."
She stood now, her shoulders squared.
"That is my world too. I won't abandon it because someone painted me as something I'm not. I'll face them. And I'll clear my name."
"Even if they don't listen?"
"Then I'll protect them in spite of it."
A silence passed between them.
And Mazanka, though he said nothing, smiled at her.
Not mockingly.
But proudly.
They stood like that in the gathering dusk.
The three of them.
One born of both worlds.
One rejected by her own.
One who had once tried to leave it all behind.
And now, all three would return together.
The air inside the house was warm.
Not in heat. But in familiarity. The way memory clung to the walls. The way silence wrapped around it like a blanket too well-used to be folded away.
Rakan stepped softly through the hallway.
Each creak of the floorboards was a breath.
He passed the mirror that had once been too high for him to see into, now level with his eyes.
He passed the photos—faded, unframed. One of him as a baby, cradled in a woman's arms whose eyes had not yet grown tired from waiting. Another of her, younger, smiling beside a man with dark hair tied back, his face almost hidden from view.
His father.
Ryozenji.
He didn't stop to look. Not yet.
The hallway opened into the living room, and Naoko sat there by the open window, a half-stitched piece of fabric stretched in her lap, though her fingers weren't moving. The thread dangled from her hand like a thought lost mid-sentence.
She turned before he could speak.
"You're leaving with them, then."
Rakan nodded.
"You don't have to say it like I'm walking into a storm."
"You are," she said gently.
"I'm not afraid."
"I am."
She patted the seat beside her.
He sat.
The window let in the scent of damp earth and the whisper of wind passing between the trees.
"I want to help people," he said. "Like he did."
She didn't look at him.
"And you think that world will let you?"
"It doesn't matter."
He turned now, fully.
"You said something once. That people who know what pain is have a responsibility. That ignoring it is just another way of letting it win."
Naoko closed her eyes.
"You listened to me too much."
"Not enough."
He reached into his pocket and reached for the familiar touch of cold metal but his fingers met nothing.
"I found a necklace he left behind."
Naoko stared.
"I remember. He wore it every day," she whispered. "Even when he didn't wear anything else."
"Why did he go back?"
"Because he loved you," she said.
"But I wasn't born yet."
"He loved the idea of you."
They fell into silence.
The kind that doesn't need filling.
Then Rakan stood.
"I'm going to his world now."
Naoko looked up.
"You're not him."
"I know."
"You're more reckless."
He grinned faintly. "I get that from you."
She stood too.
Wrapped her arms around him.
Held him like she had when he was small, when his Ka'ro had flared in dreams he didn't understand and she'd sat with him until the fire in his veins dulled.
"You're still half of me," she whispered. "Don't forget that. Not when they call you other. Not when they try to make you forget."
"I won't."
"I've lost too much already," she said. "I don't want to lose you."
"Then I'll come back," he promised. "I'll come back better."
She pulled away, brushing her thumb across his cheek.
"You don't have to be better," she said. "You just have to come back alive."
He left her there for a moment.
Walked down the hallway again.
This time, he stepped into the room that had been locked for years.
His father's room.
It smelled faintly of cedar and time.
The bookshelves were still bare. The drawer still half open. The bed untouched. The room was bland. The sigil etched in the frame of the mirror still faintly shimmered with a seal he hadn't noticed as a child. Almost it had spawned into his life the moment Mazanka crashed into his life.
He ran his fingers across the edge of the desk.
"I'm going now," he said aloud.
No answer.
Just the feeling of something shifting in the air—not presence, but echo.
He walked back to his room, put on his coat, and opened the last drawer of his desk before plucking out a familiar necklace. His father's, a necklace that felt like it was humming to life every time it came in contact with his skin. He fastened it around his neck before he made his way out of the house, outside.
The air was colder now.
But he didn't shiver.
Teruko sat alone in the garden.
The sky above her was bruised blue, fading toward black. The lanterns lining the outer wall cast golden circles that didn't quite reach where she sat—half-shadowed, half-lit, like someone unsure of which world she still belonged to.
Her travel device lay on her lap. Sleek now. Restored. A gleaming emblem at its center shimmered faintly—her old Kenshiki insignia, unburned, untarnished.
But it felt like a lie.
She had cleaned it five times. Checked it for damage. Re-anchored the Ka'ro channels.
But she still hadn't activated it.
Not because it was broken.
Because she wasn't sure what world it would take her back to.
Footsteps shuffled behind her.
She didn't turn.
"Come to tease me again?" she said quietly.
Mazanka's voice answered, easy and amused.
"That depends. Do you bruise easy?"
She looked up. "You should be resting."
"And yet I am not. Astonishing, I know. Let's all take a moment to marvel."
He limped down beside her with a slow breath, easing onto the wooden step.
They sat in silence for a time.
Wind brushed through the leaves, and somewhere nearby a cicada began to sing.
"You don't have to come back with us," Mazanka said softly.
"You already gave me that choice."
"I'm offering it again."
She glanced at him.
"Why?"
"Because the girl I see sitting here isn't the one who stomped through two worlds thinking she'd be a One-Eye in a year."
Teruko looked down.
"I thought I understood the world. I thought I had control. But now I'm not even sure they'll listen when I speak. My name doesn't mean what it used to."
"No," Mazanka said. "It means more now."
She blinked. "How?"
"Because you've earned what it means. Not by rank. Not by bloodline. But by standing when it hurt. By staying when it burned."
He leaned back on his hands, gazing up at the night sky.
"Besides," he added with a grin, "you survived living under the same roof as me. That alone should qualify you for sainthood."
She chuckled, barely.
But it was real.
"You think they'll forgive me?"
"No."
He said it without cruelty.
Just truth.
"But you'll make them remember why they should have."
She stared down at the device again.
Then stood.
"Then let's go. I'll protect them. Even if they call me a traitor."
Mazanka looked up at her, and for a moment, something unreadable flickered in his expression—a pride, a trace of sorrow.
Then he stood too.
"That's the girl I remember."
They walked together back toward the house.
And behind them, the wind picked up again—not harsh, but expectant.
As if the world itself was bracing for what they were about to bring.
The night was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that waits.
The kind that follows.
Like something had ended.
Like the house, the trees, the wind—they all knew it too.
The three stood just beyond the gate: Teruko with her travel device clasped like a pulse between her fingers, Mazanka with his hands in his coat pockets, and Rakan adjusting the collar of his jacket, his father's necklace cold against his chest.
Then the door creaked.
And Naoko stepped out.
She walked slowly—no rush in her steps. No hesitation either.
She came to a stop before them, arms folded gently in front of her. The light from the paper lantern by the gate brushed over her face, catching the wear in her eyes and the strength in her spine.
Her gaze landed first on her son.
"So this is it," she said softly.
Rakan nodded.
"I'm ready."
"No, you're not," she replied with a soft laugh, stepping close and brushing the side of his face with her thumb.
"But I trust you'll figure it out before it kills you."
She pulled him into a hug, held him long, firm, quiet.
"I love you. Don't let the world carve that out of you."
"I won't."
"And don't be like your father."
"I… thought you loved—"
"I did," she whispered. "But if I'm being honest, I loved his heart more than his choices."
She stepped back, eyes moist.
"Be better. Be yours."
Then she turned to Teruko.
The girl straightened, expecting a nod at most—perhaps a curt "be careful" or "watch him."
But Naoko stepped closer.
Took her hand.
"I don't know what you've seen. Or who's after you. But I saw the way you helped my son, taught him."
"You're brave," she said. "Even when you don't want to be."
Teruko's mouth parted, stunned.
"I… I didn't—"
"That's the thing about kindness," Naoko said. "It's not always earned. But it's always needed."
She leaned in, pressed a kiss to Teruko's temple.
"Come back with him. Or don't come back at all."
Teruko swallowed, voice tight.
"I will."
Finally, Naoko turned to Mazanka.
Their eyes locked.
The air between them felt old—not stale, but storied. Worn. Lived in.
A history that couldn't be undone, but maybe—maybe—could be rewritten from here.
"It seems you haven't changed a bit since the last time I saw you. The epicentre of trouble," she said.
"It's my best quality."
"It's your worst."
"You can't prove that."
She smiled, faintly. Then looked past him for a moment.
Toward the darkness.
Toward the place where two worlds would meet again.
"I meant what I said. If something happens to my son, I'll haunt you myself."
"He won't break," Mazanka said, quieter now. "Not under me."
"But he might bleed."
"If he does, I'll bleed first."
He looked down, just briefly.
"Naoko…before Ryozenji left… he asked me to take care of him. I won't fail that again."
Naoko nodded once.
Her eyes didn't soften. But her shoulders did.
"So this really is it, then."
She reached out suddenly.
Pressed a small cloth into his hand.
It was old—faded.
A handkerchief with a sigil stitched in the corner.
Ryozenji's.
"Just in case you forget who you're doing this for."
The air stirred.
The Ka'ro in the Yugurekawa began to hum.
Light bloomed beneath their feet.
Rakan looked at his mother one last time.
She smiled.
"Don't forget where you come from."
"I won't."
Teruko nodded to her, silently.
Mazanka, for once, bowed his head without a quip.
And then the light took them.
The last thing they saw was Naoko—
Standing tall in the dark.
Unmoving.
Unflinching.
Watching the world take her son away.
And letting him go.
𓁿𖧼𓁿
The light in this place never flickered.
It pulsed—slow and alive.
A chamber carved beneath the skin of the world, hidden beneath ash and silence, where no wind could reach, no bird could sing. The walls were carved obsidian, polished smooth enough to reflect the soul back cracked.
The ceiling curved high like the inside of a bell. A shrine to secrets. Light came from nowhere. Or maybe it bled from the air itself—subtle veins of Ka'ro etched across the walls, softly glowing like whispers that refused to sleep.
In the center of the chamber, a man stood before a still pool of silver.
The water did not ripple.
Even as he moved.
Even as his power breathed from him.
He was tall, but not enormous.
Broad-shouldered. Built like something carved—not grown.
His robes were sharp, folded in ridged, angular layers. Crimson lines sliced through dark cloth like surgical incisions. His skin was pale stone kissed by ink. His hair was long and straight, dyed black to cover the unnatural silver underneath. His eyes were the only color not dull—burnt gold, laced with rings of Ka'ro sigils that shimmered when he blinked.
A name haunted the back of his followers' throats. Spoken only in ritual. Feared, loved, and followed.
Zankaikō.
He raised his hand over the pool.
And cut the air with one finger.
Not a slash. Not a strike.
A gesture.
A seam appeared in the water—an immaculate slit that remained open. Through it, light twisted inward and downward, like a thread being pulled from a wound stitched into another world.
And then—he spoke.
Not aloud.
But with Ka'ro.
A sound that didn't move through air, but through silence.
A voice answered.
From nowhere.
From everywhere.
"They've arrived," said Zankaikō.
"I know," came the voice.
Smooth. Low. Ancient.
It wasn't just sound—it felt like heat exhaled from black stone.
"The ex-One-Eye. The Kenshiki girl. And the half-human boy."
A beat passed.
"Rakan Sakurai," the voice said.
It didn't ask.
It knew.
"The Rift hums different when he breathes, nears."
Zankaikō's hand hovered above the seam in the water, Ka'ro lacing around his fingertips in delicate, perfect threads.
Then—casually—he plucked one of the threads.
A sound echoed out like a harp string caught underwater. Outside the chamber, deep beneath the hills where this sanctum was buried, a minor quake rumbled for less than two seconds before vanishing into nothing.
Not destructive.
Just a reminder.
"Shall I send Nagiha?" Zankaikō asked in a low voice. "He's been eager as of late, ever since his last battle with the fugitive One-Eye. It would be easy to make it look like a splinter cell. The Kenshiki and their Council still think we're a tale."
Silence.
Then—
"No."
"No?"
"What we want is not decided in force. Not yet."
"They're vulnerable."
"So is every seed before the bloom."
Zankaikō turned his gaze toward the far wall, where sigils of ancient Ka'ro users were carved in lines that spiralled endlessly inward.
"They'll seek answers," he said.
"Let them," the voice replied. "Truth is the most exquisite poison when tasted too soon."
"And the boy?"
"Let him believe in purpose. Let him wear his father's Ka'ro like it belongs to him."
A pause.
"It will taste better when it breaks."
Zankaikō smiled slightly.
Not cruelly.
But like someone who had seen flowers bloom in ash and knew they always died the same way.
He dipped his hand again into the seam.
The water closed.
The room fell still.
"How far ahead are we now?" he asked.
The voice answered softly.
"We are not ahead. We are beneath."
"Beneath what?"
"Beneath the roots of every choice they've yet to make."