It was not a shout that broke the air. Not a war cry. Not even Ka'ro.
It was the kind of silence that knew something terrible was coming.
The kind of silence that widens in the chest before a blade finds its mark.
And then the sky cracked—not above, but within the ground, as if the world itself exhaled a long-forgotten name. Trees leaned in as though listening. Stones shifted without wind. The land itself braced.
From the fractured ridge ahead, a figure dropped—clean, measured, like a sword being lowered onto an altar.
He landed in a crouch that didn't break the earth but stilled it. No flourish. No aura-spilled bravado. Just presence. Tangible. Dense. Unapologetically alive.
And when he rose—vertebrae unfolding like the pull of a bowstring—he brought with him a gravity that bent the conversation of the world.
He was too still to be safe.
A sculpted figure in half-ruined Kenshiki garb, sleeves torn just enough to show the sinew beneath, collar high, half-shadowing the lower half of a face carved with restraint. His body held no wasted tension, no twitch of anticipation. Just one sharp truth wrapped in lean muscle and cooling steel:
He was already judging them.
His eyes lifted at last—slowly, as if to punish the act of looking.
And when they settled on Rakan, something deep in the boy's ribs clenched.
"You reek of something wrong," the boy said, not loud, not soft—just final. "And you wear it like it was given to you, not earned."
Mazanka exhaled through his nose, low and tired, leaning against a crooked tree whose bark had long since given up resisting the rain.
"Ah. That's a winning personality," he murmured, sarcastically.
Tanzeki stepped up sharply.
"Sazuri, this isn't the time—"
"It never is," Sazuri cut in, eyes flicking to Rakan like a hawk to a mouse. "But the wrong Ka'ro walking the right path needs to be corrected."
Rakan stepped forward before anyone could grab his shoulder.
"Try me."
"I intend to."
Rakan scowled.
Not just with rage. Something else.
With instinct.
Like prey recognizing a predator it had never seen—but somehow always feared.
"You don't even know me," Rakan muttered bitterly.
"Good," Sazuri replied. "Then I'll get to kill you without any useless pointers."
"Nobody is dying," came Teruko's declaration, voice tight with the strain of unwanted memory.
Sazuri's gaze flickered to her.
It wasn't surprise.
It was recognition.
Teruko returned his stare unwavering, with wariness.
Sazuri's eyes flicked between the group before it landed back on her.
It wasn't just a glance.
It was calculation.
"Didn't think I'd find the disgraced prodigy of Kurosawa playing bodyguard to a half-breed."
His gaze returned to Rakan.
"You smells wrong. Like something not meant to last."
"You talk a lot of shit for someone standing alone, asshole," Rakan growled.
Sazuri didn't flinch.
He blinked once. Slowly.
"Alone is the natural state of power."
"You're a Kenshiki," Teruko snapped. "You know that's not how we fight."
"Then maybe the Kenshiki need to be broken."
He struck without a warning glyph.
No incantation.
Just motion.
One foot scuffed forward, and then—
CRACK.
Sazuri was in front of Rakan before anyone could speak.
His leg came up in a wide arc, heel glowing with scarlet glyphlight—
Rakan's instincts screamed.
He ducked and slid back, the kick slicing air above his head, Ka'ro singeing his hair as it passed.
Teruko went for her weapon. Mazanka's gaze sharpened.
But Sazuri didn't press the attack.
He straightened—perfect posture, like a statue—then cracked his neck to one side.
"Decent reaction."
"You could've killed me," Rakan spat.
"That was the point."
Then—
Shugoh appeared.
Bounding over a log.
Holding a stick.
"Is this a spar? Are we finally sparring?"
"Shugoh, don't—!" Teruko started.
Too late.
Sazuri didn't pause. His heel came down in a perfect arc toward Shugoh's ribs.
CRACK.
But—
Shugoh blocked.
With the stick.
Badly.
But it worked.
Kinda.
Sazuri's foot skidded, and Shugoh spun off like a leaf in a cyclone, yelling:
"I DIDN'T CONSENT TO THIS ENERGY!!"
But Sazuri had already turned away from him, the earth cracking below his feet before he reappeared before Rakan.
The world didn't have time to prepare.
By the time Ka'ro bloomed beneath Rakan's feet and his body surged forward, the earth had already begun to scream.
He struck with a rising blow, Ka'ro spiralling from his fist like a cyclone starved of air. The sheer force of it fractured the soil, the sky above splitting with white arcs of discharge.
Sazuri caught the strike—not with a block, but a lean. His palm folded against Rakan's wrist and diverted the blow sideways in one fluid twist, the excess Ka'ro ricocheting off a tree behind him. The bark exploded into flaming shrapnel.
"Sloppy," Sazuri muttered. "Your rage is as loud as your footsteps."
"I hope you choke to death on your own blood," Rakan snapped, snapping forward with a low, sweeping kick.
Sazuri disappeared.
Reappeared behind him with a knee to the spine.
Rakan gritted his teeth—Ka'ro exploding from his shoulder to intercept, forming a crackling barrier—
Sazuri struck through it.
"Elbow like a bell," Mazanka muttered distantly.
His elbow hit Rakan's back like the sound of a temple bell struck too hard.
"Ikū-Ka'ro: Jinrai Seiyaku!"
Rakan twisted mid-air and slammed both palms to the ground—Ka'ro howling upward in a cone of compressed thunder. The shockwave threw dust, flame, and electricity in every direction.
Sazuri grinned.
Vanished.
Appeared in mid-air.
His arms spread wide, Ka'ro swirling like coiled serpents down his arms.
"Kōhaku Ka'ro: Shiketsu Utsuro! — Hollow Blood Guillotine!"
He dove.
Blades of red Ka'ro extended from his hands—curving, serrated. He struck the ground like a scythe into flesh, Rakan barely rolling aside, the edge of the blade tearing through his shoulder cloth and slicing into skin.
Shugoh's voice finally chimed back in, far too cheerfully:
"Wow! You guys are hitting really hard today!"
Rakan held his bloody shoulder, stumbling back.
"Shut up and stay out of it!"
"Don't be silly—I came all this way. Might as well stretch my bones!"
Shugoh bounced forward, ducked beneath a crimson blade Sazuri whipped sideways toward Rakan—and threw a thumbs up at Sazuri.
"Tag! I'm in!"
"What," Sazuri growled, expression venomous.
"Let's spar, bestie!"
Sazuri didn't even blink.
He moved.
Speed.
Not blur.
Not teleportation.
Speed.
Inhuman.
Feral.
He was on Shugoh in less than a heartbeat. A flurry of six strikes—one for each major artery—Ka'ro coating each hand like claws dipped in flame.
The first strike missed.
The second was blocked—by accident.
The third was caught with a knee.
The fourth? Shugoh ducked mid-stretch, yawning.
"Oop!"
"Don't mock me," Sazuri hissed.
"I'm admiring your form," Shugoh replied brightly. "Are those glyphs self-inscribed? Love the edge."
"I'm going to end you."
Sazuri dropped low—legs sweeping.
Shugoh leapt over him with all the grace of a bird running into a window. He flailed mid-air, then caught himself with a roll that shouldn't have worked.
Sazuri's arm extended, launching a chain of Ka'ro needles at his chest.
Shugoh twirled—badly.
Caught three in the shoulder.
Didn't even flinch.
"Ow! …That was either a compliment or a test of reflexes. I passed, right?"
Sazuri's eye twitched.
The next exchange turned monstrous.
Sazuri unleashed his full footwork. Glyphs ignited beneath every step, his feet slamming the ground in impossibly rapid succession—almost as if he were dancing atop the air.
Shugoh's body bent, twisted, contorted in completely unreadable patterns.
He dropped under a blade, threw a slap—not a punch—at Sazuri's face.
It connected.
Sazuri stopped. Visibly stunned.
"Did you just slap me?"
"That was a strategic palm kiss!"
Sazurididn't even respond as he launched a mid-air spinning kick at Shugoh's throat—
Shugoh caught it with both arms, fell backward, and flung him aside with a grunt.
Ka'ro drenched everything as Sazuri was thrown, colliding with a nearby tree which cut in half and started collapsing with an upset groan at the impact.
The shockwave knocked Rakan off his feet.
Teruko, watching from a distance, wiped sweat from her brow.
"He's insane," she muttered.
Mazanka smirked faintly.
"Which one?"
She failed to find a reply.
Sazuri flipped back onto his feet and—before the dust could settle—drove straight toward Rakan again.
"I'm not done."
"Who said I was?"
Rakan met him head-on.
Their fists collided—
Ka'ro screaming from the impact like torn metal.
Their movements became pure velocity. Punch for punch. Foot for foot. Shoulder to blade. The forest was an orchestra of destruction—trees falling, ground fracturing, lightning in every scream.
Rakan caught one strike.
And for the first time—he landed a clean counter.
His palm exploded across Sazuri's chest with a burst of thunder, sending him flying backwards with a crash and grunt.
Silence.
Sazuri slowly stood.
Blood ran from his mouth.
He smiled.
"You're finally listening to your anger. Good. Let's see if it speaks louder than mine."
They both launched forward.
But suddenly—
Shugoh leapt in again, spinning mid-air, arms flailing like a child learning to swim.
"ME NEXT!"
"GET LOST!" both shouted in unison.
Shugoh crashed between them.
Sazuri tried to strike over him.
Rakan ducked under him.
Shugoh flipped—accidentally kicking both of them in the face.
The three of them hit the ground in an instant.
Sazuri and Rakan knocked out by the sheer force of Shugoh's kick whilst the boy in question fell the face first, head colliding harshly with the ground below him.
Everything remained still for some moments, quiet, tamed as the three boys lay still and unconscious.
Bruised. Bloodied.
Breathing hard.
None backing down even in their unconsciousness.
And in that moment—
It was clear:
They weren't sparring.
They weren't rivals.
They were forces.
Three suns in gravitational conflict.
The only question was which one would collapse first.
But the peace didn't last long.
The forest was smoking.
Not with fire.
But with collision.
Ka'ro scorched the air like ghost-light, painting the trees in swirls of white, crimson, and violet heat. A patch of earth cracked open near Rakan's feet—still trembling from the violence of what had just transpired.
Rakan woke first, stumbling to his feet and taking in Sazuri who was out cold before him, at least that was until his attention was snagged by the sound of a boyish giggle from his side—Shugoh had awoken with a series of disoriented blinks and a lopsided grin.
Sazuri was the last to regain consciousness, waking with a string of hissed curses as he rose to his feet as if them getting knocked out had never happened.
The three boys stood in a jagged triangle of breath and bruises.
No one spoke.
Only the wind dared stir.
Sazuri's sleeve fluttered at the shoulder where Rakan had struck him. His chest rose and fell with quiet, disciplined inhales—but the blood at the corner of his mouth glistened like ink.
Rakan's arms hung at his sides, the Ka'ro in him still twitching—eager to strike again. His hair was disheveled, one eye twitching from the aftershock. He was gritting his teeth like they were the only thing holding back the scream building in his throat.
Shugoh stood perfectly upright.
Smiling.
Despite the welt forming above his temple, the cuts along his arms, the busted lip.
"You both look like you need a nap," he said, hands on hips. "Or a group hug."
"Shut your mouth," Sazuri muttered.
His voice was low. Not exhausted. Icy.
"The way you fight is a disgrace to ever atom in existence. Stop existing."
"That's fair," Shugoh replied brightly, ignoring his biting remak. "But also: unpredictability is the path to innovation. I read that on a fortune wrapper once!"
Mazanka dragged a hand down his face from the edge of the field.
"I liked it better when they were unconscious," he whispered.
Teruko, still catching her breath after throwing a containment glyph to stop a falling tree earlier, glanced at the trio again—at the cuts on Rakan's side, the blood on Sazuri's jaw, the impossible way Shugoh was still talking.
"That was…" she muttered, not finding the right words to finish.
What could she even say? It was ridiculous? Intriguing? Insane?
She didn't even know who to be more impressed by.
Sazuri who fought like a deadly and masterful tank, Rakan who was able to keep up with a full-fledged Kenshiki and actually land a blow despite his inexperience or Shugoh who managed to best the pair with nothing but raw power and absurdity.
Tanzeki and Nishira didn't respond.
They were watching Sazuri.
Because something in him had changed.
His body had gone still.
Not from fatigue.
But from something else.
His fingers twitched. His spine shifted. And then—
"…Do you feel that?"
Everyone paused.
The trees stopped again. The birds remained silent. And the ground—the ground—began to hum.
Not loud.
But constant. Like the pulse of something enormous buried beneath centuries of silence, now beginning to stir.
A whisper inside the bones.
"That…" Sazuri whispered.
His pupils narrowed, gauging.
He turned his head west. Not fully. Just enough to see what none of them could.
And then, in a breath—
He had vanished, the only proof his existence being the scorched earth below them.
"Hey—!" Rakan stepped forward, Ka'ro flaring again. "WE'RE NOT FINISHED YET!"
"Rakan—" Teruko reached out, but he was already chasing after the other boy.
His steps weren't steady—they were fueled by fury, a need as he dashed between the trees.
Shugoh only tilted his head, watching.
Then brightened.
"FIELD TRIP!"
And he was chasing after them.
But not with the joy his shout ticked with.
But with the echo of something he still didn't understand.
Like he had seen this moment once. In a dream. Or a warning.
Mazanka exhaled through his teeth. Loudly.
"Those moronic children are going to get their selves—no, all of us—killed."
Teruko didn't respond right away.
Then:
"If we don't follow them, they will die."
Mazanka stretched his neck, already cracking from Ka'ro residue.
"You take the lead."
"Why?"
"Because I need ten more seconds to regret all my life choices."