There was no warning.
No sound or growl. Not even a branch breaking in haste.
Only a blur that tore through the brush like a scythe of shadow, rust-coloured and sinewed with rage.
Tatsuya barely registered the thing as a beast before it was there, lunging from the treetops in a wide arc straight toward Micah's exposed side.
"Micah!" Tatsuya's voice tore through his throat, raw and helpless, as he reached out.
But someone had already moved.
Steel met air, and in a flash a soundless sweep of motion, so fluid it seemed to ripple the very space around it, like a silk thread cutting through water, elegant and unstoppable.
It was Kiome.
His body turned in one flawless motion. No hesitation. Just the precise shift of weight and the whisper-draw of his blade gliding free from its sheath.
He didn't attack the beast; rather, it looked like he welcomed it.
He let it come; its weight, its claws, and its hunger descended upon him like a crashing wave upon a still lake.
And then, the lake moved.
With a single step, Kiome became water. His blade arced upward in a smooth, effortless counter, not clashing with the beast's momentum but redirecting it.
The creature, a twisted chimaera of wolf and dog, its hide bristling with spines and its eyes glowing an unnatural red, screeched as its forward lunge was stolen from it.
Tatsuya couldn't follow the motion. Only the result.
A line of blood traced the air.
The beast landed behind Kiome, stumbling, collapsing.
Then its head fell off.
It was clean, silent, even gentle, like a final breath exhaled not in agony but in the quiet dignity of something laid to rest, not slain.
Micah stood frozen, hand halfway to his own sword.
But there was no need anymore.
Because Kiome had already sheathed his katana.
Not with flourish nor with pride. But with the grace of someone who hadn't fought but merely acted.
The Sword Art of Water.
He is strong!
Tatsuya had seen fighters before. Paul's crushing force, Ruza's frantic precision, and Sora's controlled brutality.
But this.
This was something else.
It wasn't that Kiome was faster than the beast.
It was that he had never been where the beast thought he was.
Every motion had been a response. Not a counterattack, not retaliation. A perfect echo of aggression, turned back upon its sender with the inevitability of a tide returning to shore.
The sword art of water is a defensive art, but Kiome showed the attacking power of it.
Water is destructive; with enough force, it can destroy anything in its path.
Micah exhaled, loud in the sudden stillness.
They moved forward in silence again.
Tatsuya stayed behind Tokagame but slightly ahead of Micah and Kiome. He glanced back only once.
Kiome was walking with the same even pace, his hand no longer resting on his hilt.
But Tatsuya now understood something he hadn't before.
Kiome wasn't calm; he was controlled.
Like water in a bowl held just steady enough not to spill.
And when it moved, when that bowl tipped, nothing escaped.
No waste of movement, no waste of time—just a cut, as fluid and inevitable as a stream slipping through stone, carving its path without ever needing to force it.
part 2
Tatsuya turned back to the path ahead.
Compared to him, I am nothing.
His thoughts wandered, but he didn't fall into despair; it made him focused and determined to do better, to train harder, and that was a step forward.
Tatsuya understood yearning for that power was envious, so the only thing he could do was use it as a means to get stronger.
They ventured deeper into the forest.
Tokagame walked without pause. His gaze was forward, his pace deliberate.
Tatsuya had trust in Tokagame; he trusted that he'd protect him. But if he was in a life-or-death situation, he would still choose to run.
His trust wasn't on the same level as Sora or Ruza yet, but he was making improvements. Walking beside them in this forest proved that.
But Tatsuya had his suspicions. Why hasn't he said anything yet? He didn't even react when Kiome killed that beast?
As his thoughts wandered, he suddenly stopped.
He didn't say anything. Didn't raise his hand or draw his blade. He simply stood still, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted.
Tokagame's shoulders rose slowly with a deep inhale, as though the air itself had changed.
Then Tokagame's eyes sharpened.
"…The Scent of the Devil," he muttered.
And the words sank into the soil like dropped stones.
Micah straightened. Kiome moved his hand to the hilt of his blade, quiet and immediate.
But Tatsuya—
Tatsuya's chest froze.
What?
Tokagame took another slow, precise breath, then turned his head slightly, just enough to gesture toward the southeast.
"About forty meters. Past the blackroot tree. I can smell it clinging to the bark."
"How many?" Kiome asked.
"Just one."
Tokagame's eyes narrowed. "But it's not trying to hide."
They moved as one now, keeping silent steps and blades ready.
But Tatsuya stayed back for just a moment longer, staring at Tokagame's back.
How?
That scent.
The Scent of the Devil.
He had it too.
Had been marked by it. Bathed in it. It lingered on his skin like a curse he couldn't scrub off, a pulse from his soul when fear gripped him too tight.
He remembered Shiloh. The people's stares. The disgust. The way even Sora had once looked at him with those unreadable, haunted eyes.
And yet…
Tokagame had never reacted.
Not once. Not even when they trained together. Not when they fought side by side.
Not when Tokagame stood this close, like he was now, sniffing out the stink of corruption like a hound trained on blood.
Nobody else had.
Why? Why could he smell it now and not then?
Why hadn't Tokagame flinched when Tatsuya was right beside him?
Why didn't he draw his blade the first day they met?
Tatsuya had his suspicions; the knight in the city of Deity, Sora, and Ruza had smelt it on him, and Paul too. But the others didn't?
His heartbeat rang too loudly in his ears. It drowned out the crunch of leaves underfoot and the murmurs of the others.
A sickness curled in his stomach.
"Hey," Micah said suddenly.
Tatsuya's breath hitched.
Micah had slowed his steps, just slightly. He wasn't looking at Tokagame. He was looking at Tatsuya—his brows knit, head tilted as if listening for something no one else could hear.
"You okay?" Micah asked. Not loud. Not accusatory. Just… careful.
For a heartbeat, Tatsuya thought—
He knows.
Micah took a half step closer, his nose wrinkling faintly, like he'd caught a scent that didn't belong. His lips parted, as if he were about to say something else.
What if he smells it?
What if he feels it?
What if this is the moment everything changes?
But then—
Micah exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. He gave a small, sheepish smile.
"Sorry. Just thought you looked pale."
The moment passed.
Just like that.
Micah turned away, quickening his pace to rejoin the others.
And Tatsuya stood there, frozen.
If Micah had spoken again—
If he'd asked one more question—
If he'd said the wrong thing—
Something might have broken right there.
His heartbeat thundered even louder now.
What if he's pretending not to notice?
What if he's always known?
What if he's just waiting until I slip up?
No—Tokagame wasn't like that.
He'd been kind. His entire personality showed his humility.
But people changed when they saw the scent. When they felt it.
They stopped seeing you.
They saw a threat.
A beast in a boy's skin.
Tatsuya bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste copper.
He couldn't afford to think like that.
Not now.
Not when they were this close to their target.
Tokagame crouched low, eyes locked forward. The terrain dipped into a hollow, where fog clung like breath to the ground. A gnarled tree rose at the centre, its roots twisting into the air like frozen serpents.
Micah stepped to Tatsuya's side, whispering, "You okay?"
Tatsuya nodded quickly. "Yeah." But he wasn't.
Kiome spoke next, tone cool and certain. "He's waiting for us."
Getting closer, Tatsuya, for the first time, smelt it. The scent.
It was like rot, but sentient. Like the hatred of a place that remembered every trespass, every drop of blood spilt into its soil, and wanted more. Filling his nose like smoke, like blood drying under fingernails, like nightmares trying to claw their way free from his ribs.
Micah gagged slightly, pressing a hand over his mouth.
Kiome didn't flinch. But his grip on his sword grew tighter.
Tokagame stood tall.
And then, something moved.
The mist stirred without sound.
A figure emerged from behind the tree, like a shadow peeled off bark, stepping out into the lightless hollow.
part 3
A hooded figure an appeared, his face almost fully covered by the shadow or his hood.
Long limbs. Bent posture. And in each hand, a curved sickle—blackened iron, notched and crusted in rust that didn't come from rain.
His the teeth glinted like silver in moonlight.
A smile.
A wide, thin smile.
Then, he moved like a whip cracked through air; his body shot forward, low and fast, feet never stomping, only slidingacross the dirt.
The twin sickles flashed.
Tokagame's blade was already drawn.
A single note rang out—high, clean steel singing through mist.
Their weapons met, not with force, but with intent.
The Demons first sickle came from above, the second from below, a pincer meant to shear Tokagame apart from neck to waist. But the katana turned sideways, not to parry, not to clash.
To glide.
The first sickle veered off course with a shiver of sparks. The second, deflected by a subtle turn of the blade's spine, slid past Tokagame's kimono without drawing a thread.
Tokagame didn't speak.
His body bent like a reed in the wind, flowing sideways as Rukai passed by.
"Ahahaha—!"
The laugh burst from behind the sickles. Shaking, ecstatic, giddy.
He turned mid-run, knees wide, posture wild.
He lunged again.
His movements were not measured. They were deranged, an erratic flurry of arcs and slashes that twisted mid-swing, improvised reversals, and slashes from impossible angles. A dance of chaos, driven not by precision, but frenzy.
And yet.
Each time Tokagame moved, the world stilled.
A step to the left.
A breath.
A subtle pivot.
And the chaos passed through him like wind through reeds.
Tatsuya judged Kiome to be strong, but he, Tokagame, was a league of his own.
So this is a master of the Sword Art of Water!
The katana never met steel head-on.
It touched only at moments of imbalance—deflecting just enough, never more than required.
Not wasting a motion.
Water was the only word Tatsuya could find for it.
Rukai reeled back, landing with a skid.
Tokagame stood unshaken.
"Done?" he asked softly.
The figure hunched forward, breathless and wheezing from laughter more than exertion.
"No," Rukai said. His voice was soft and lyrical.
"I'm never done."
He straightened. Slowly. Joints cracking.
Then, he turned his face up toward the sky. It was a beautiful day; the temperature was perfect, with no clouds in the sky. Perfect for a day of peace, but still, even in this weather, evil would arise.
"Ahhh. That rhythm… that silence… that serenity…"
He spread his arms, the sickles dangling from each wrist like ornaments on a madman's altar.
His head twitched to the side. Once. Twice.
Then, he turned toward them.
And spoke.
"But I ask you—how do you live like that?"
His voice was calm now. Gentle. Like a father kneeling before a child.
"You feel the rage, don't you? You all feel it. That coil in your chest. That scream stuck in your lungs. That moment when someone hurts you, and you think, —They deserve to die for this."
He began pacing. Slowly.
Sickles dragging behind him, leaving trails in the dirt like leeches slithering after blood.
"And then what do you do with it? Hm? Do you swallow it? Do you say, 'I mustn't be angry, I must be better, I must rise above'? You call it virtue. I call it denial."
He giggled—just once.
Then took another step.
"You see, I've seen what denial does. To children. To mothers. To men who look in the mirror and pretend they aren't broken. I've seen how they chain their rage down. How they bury it under smiles and duty and obedience. Until it rots them from the inside."
He stopped walking and lifted his sickles, crossing them over his chest like wings.
"But not me. No." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I listen to it."
He snapped the sickles apart. "I obey it."
He took one step forward. "And I serve it."
"Wrath is not just emotion. It is revelation." His voice was rising now.
Each syllable etched with fervour.
"It tears the mask off. It shows you who you really are. The moment someone wrongs you and you want to tear their face off with your teeth—that's not weakness." He laughed—louder now. "That's the truth! That's purity! That's the only moment you're not pretending!"
Rukai's arms spread wide, back arched.
"That's when the lies die. That's when the world makes sense. When you stop holding back! When you stop lying to yourself! When you finally scream, I HATE YOU!"—and mean it."
His breath was ragged.
The laughter choked now.
"Wrath doesn't need reason. Wrath doesn't ask for forgiveness. It doesn't beg. It doesn't kneel. It doesn't wait."
He pointed one sickle directly at Tokagame.
"It takes. It burns. It destroys. And in the ashes—there is only honesty."
No one spoke.
The forest was dead silent. Not even the wind dared to move.
Only Rukai, who was smiling now.
"Do you know what my name means?" he asked, voice soft again. "They gave it to me. The Cult. After I showed them how far I would go. After I slit the throat of my teacher. After I set fire to my own family's house. After I stood in the flames and laughed."
He tapped his sickles together.
Once.
Twice.
"I kneel before Sin instead of false gods. I kneel before the Sin that gives me salvation, the hatred that burns me with love. And so they named me…"
He bowed his head.
Like a priest offering benediction.
"Rukai, Demon of Wrath." He looked up.
And for the first time, the cowl shifted enough to reveal his eyes.
They weren't red. They weren't glowing. They were human.
Brown, but wide. Wide with hunger. With longing. With the ecstasy of one who had found his god and would kill a thousand innocents to stay in its grace.
Tatsuya couldn't move. Not from fear but from something colder.
"Wrath is freedom. It's when the chains snap. When the lies break. When you stop pretending to be good. That's wrath."
Another step. A smile too wide.
"People think love is powerful? No, no, no. Love begs. Love yields. Love pleads for mercy. But wrath—oh, wrath doesn't beg! Wrath takes!"
His foot hit a puddle.
"Wrath is when the sheep kills the shepherd. When the servant slits the master's throat. When the broken boy stops crying and starts screaming. That's the moment. That's the truth!"
He held his arms wide, blood leaking down his side, and his face was haloed in fog.
"I am Rukai, the Demon of Wrath! I am your real self! The one you buried behind manners, rules, gods—friends."
"The scent always calls the strong, doesn't it?"
Tokagame didn't answer.
His stance shifted.
Tatsuya watched, eyes wide. The scent was heavier now. Like it was pushing down on them. Pressing like testing. Waiting to see who would buckle first.
Tokagame, though, didn't move like someone resisting pressure.
He moved like someone accustomed to it.
"…You speak of honesty," Tokagame said, his voice barely more than a breath.
Rukai tilted his head.
"And yet you cling to rage like it's the only truth that matters."
Rukai grinned. "Isn't it? The only emotion strong enough to cut through all the others?"
Tokagame took a step forward. Quiet. Measured.
"No. Wrath is easy. It comes when we are hurt. When we are afraid. When we feel powerless. It demands nothing of us except that we burn."
He raised his sword—not to attack.
To speak with it.
"To be humble… is harder."
Rukai let out a laugh that crackled like a splintering bone. "Humble? You think I haven't been stepped on before? You think I don't know what it's like to kneel? To swallow my pain until it festers into something sharp?"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I just stopped pretending it was noble."
Tokagame nodded, almost solemnly.
"I know that pain," he said. "And I know the anger it brings. That fire inside your chest, the kind that feels like it'll consume you if you don't let it out."
He glanced at his blade.
Then back at Rukai.
"But if every time we are wronged, we let that fire rule us—then we are not people. We are torches. Burning anything that gets too close."
Rukai's eyes narrowed. "And what's wrong with that?"
"Everything," Tokagame said quietly. "Because a fire doesn't choose what it destroys."
"Humility is not weakness. It's not silence in the face of injustice. It's the strength to feel everything—the pain, the rage, the need for vengeance—and still choose not to be consumed by it."
He slowly sheathed his katana.
The click echoed like a verdict.
"It is not the absence of wrath. It is the mastery of it."
Rukai's lips curled. But the grin was smaller now.
Mocking. But less certain.
"So you think you've mastered yours? Is that it? You've reached enlightenment in this fog-choked world, and now you'll preach to me?"
Tokagame shook his head.
"No. I struggle with it every day. Every hour. Every time I pick up this blade, I ask myself if I'm doing it to protect—or to punish."
His hand remained steady at his side.
"That's what humility is. It's doubt. The willingness to be wrong. The courage to walk forward anyway."
Rukai stared at him.
And then laughed.
Not loud this time. Not joyful.
Low. Bitter.
"Courage," he muttered. "You talk about courage like it's something clean."
He stepped forward, one sickle trailing behind him like a shadow.
"You say you doubt yourself. You question every strike you make."
Another step.
"Then how do you know if anything you've done is right?"
Tokagame didn't blink.
"I don't."
Rukai froze.
"I don't know if what I've done is right. And I never will."
He looked upward, toward the sky.
"But I still believe. In the people I protect. In the bonds I build. In the idea that kindness—even flawed—can be stronger than hate."
His voice was firmer now.
"But believing doesn't mean never falling. It means getting back up, even if your heart is heavy."
"Even if you're filled with rage… you can still choose not to become it."
A beat passed.
Rukai didn't speak.
The grin was gone now.
His hands trembled slightly—not with fury.
With something colder.
Quieter.
A memory, maybe.
He clenched the sickles tighter.
"…Then you are a fool," he whispered.
Tokagame nodded.
"Maybe. But I'd rather be a fool with open hands than a wise man whose only answer is blood."
part 4
A blur.
A flicker in the trees above.
And steel.
Rukai dropped like a vulture from the canopy, both sickles glinting as they fell toward Tokagame's spine.
"—!"
Kiome moved instantly. But Tokagame was faster.
He twisted mid-step, blade already half-drawn, and parried both sickles with a single motion that looked more like a breath than an attack.
Clang!
A ripple in the air.
Rukai was relentless.
His movements defied rhythm. He didn't follow form or pattern and didn't pause to recover or retreat. He fought like a man who had no concept of his own life—only the pleasure of aggression, of motion, and of the heat that violence carved into the world.
It was a twist of the Sword Art of Fire, and his relentless wrath was carved into his own fighting style.
The complete opposite of Tokagame's fighting style.
The sickles came down in twin arcs, and Tokagame's blade whispered across them, bending the force off course without ever clashing head-on.
One slash missed.
Then another.
Rukai spun, flung a sickle mid-air—and Tokagame sidestepped it, batting it aside with the back of his sheath before slashing upward toward the exposed chest.
Rukai grinned and leaned back, but the tip of the katana still sliced clean across his cloak.
A line of red bloomed.
His blood hissed as it hit the cold dirt.
Tatsuya watched in silence.
His hands clenched at his sides. His sword was ready. He was ready, but he couldn't move. Because there was no opening.
None.
Every inch of the clearing was swallowed in motion—fluid arcs of steel, twisted footsteps on mud, and feints nested inside counters nested inside feints. Each time he thought he saw a gap, a place to step in and help—
It was already gone.
Or worse, it was a trap.
He wasn't skilled enough to enter that dance.
And he knew it. If I go in now, I'll just get in the way.
His chest felt tight. His legs, heavier than iron.
Micah was watching too—jaw tense, one hand hovering near his blade—but still. Kiome hadn't moved either. Not because he didn't care. But because he understood.
This level—this tempo—it was beyond all of them.
"He's winning…" Tatsuya whispered.
Rukai was bleeding now. Breaths heavier. His cowl was torn at the shoulder.
Tokagame still hadn't drawn his full blade. He was holding back, or maybe he didn't need to go all-out.
His stance was effortless. His eyes never wavered. Every slash was answered. Every breath perfectly measured.
And yet, something itched beneath Tatsuya's skin. A wrongness. A splinter of unease.
Why hasn't Rukai run? Why is he still smiling?
Despite the blood. Despite the injuries. Despite the clear disadvantage—
Rukai smiled wider.
"Do you think this is where it ends?" he asked mid-spin, parrying Tokagame's strike with the inside curve of his sickle.
"I bleed a little, and now you think I'm cornered?"
Tokagame didn't reply.
He moved in.
A downward cut, controlled and precise, meant to disable, not kill.
Rukai caught it with both sickles, crossed in an X—but the force cracked his stance, sending him stumbling back.
Tokagame advanced.
Another cut. Lower this time. Targeting the knee.
Rukai dodged late.
A line of blood opened across his thigh.
And yet, he laughed.
Not in pain but in joy.
"You're beautiful, but isn't it rude to not give your name as I gave mine?"
He ducked under the next swing, not countering, just getting closer.
"I almost didn't feel it." Another step forward.
Tokagame slashed sideways. A wide cut meant to drive him back.
Rukai didn't evade. He stepped into it.
Blood sprayed.
His right shoulder was torn open, the flesh peeling back like wet cloth.
But he didn't flinch.
"YES!!"
He grabbed Tokagame's wrist with his free hand.
And for the first time… Tokagame's stance broke. His eyes wide. Blade still half-raised. And then…
Rukai's other hand moved. Faster than anything before.
A sickle buried into Tokagame's side.
Tatsuya's breath caught in his throat.
"Tokagame—!"
He gasped, not in pain, but in shock.
Blood trickled down from under his ribs.
Tokagame coughed once.
Then Rukai's knee slammed into his stomach, and the blade ripped free.
Tokagame stumbled back.
And fell to one knee.
It had happened in a second.
One second.
After dozens of perfect parries, after flawless technique, after holding the upper hand—he was on the ground.
Bleeding… Defeated.
"Do you know why you lost?" Rukai whispered.
His breath rattled in his chest.
His body trembled with strain, with euphoria, with something more primal than victory.
"Because you wanted to win cleanly."
He knelt down in front of Tokagame.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"You were still thinking about not killing me."
Tokagame glared upward.
But said nothing.
Rukai leaned closer.
His voice was soft enough that only the knight could hear.
"You can't tame Wrath. You can't measure it. You can't contain it like water in a bowl.
You hesitate. I don't. That's the difference."
Argh!!
With his free hand he punched Tokagame in his left side, sending him flying in the opposite direction of Tatsuya and the others.
With a dull thud, Tokagame landed against a tree, motionless.
Tatsuya's eyes widened. What!? That was the only thought that came into Tatsuya's mind.
He looked at Tokagame; there was no sign of life. Surely he'll get up, right? Please….