But Yoriichi's voice stopped him cold.
"One more thing."
Kanashimi stiffened, slowly turning back. "…Yes, Master?"
Yoriichi's gaze was calm, but there was a glint in it—like steel catching light.
"Why were the two of you holding hands?"
The blood drained from Kanashimi's face, then rushed back twice as hot. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"We—we were… practicing grip strength," he managed, voice cracking just a little. "For… training purposes."
Yoriichi regarded him in silence long enough to make the crystals feel cold.
Then he stepped to the open window, gave a low whistle, and a sleek black crow swooped in from the night gardens, landing gracefully on his outstretched arm. Its eyes were sharp, intelligent—clearly no ordinary bird.
"This one," Yoriichi said evenly, "was keeping watch from the vines. He listens. He sees. He was late returning, but he saw enough."
The crow cocked its head, letting out a soft, almost smug caw.
Yoriichi stroked its feathers once. "Tell me everything from the beginning. Because if I learn later that you left out details…" He glanced at the crow. "He mentioned that when he finally arrived, there was a faint trace of lipstick on your lip."
Kanashimi's hand flew to his mouth as if the evidence might still be there. His face went nuclear red.
The crow cawed again, louder, like it was laughing.
Yoriichi's expression didn't change, but his tone was final. "Start talking."
Kanashimi stood frozen, eyes wide, looking like he was calculating whether death by embarrassment or a thousand laps would be worse.
Kanashimi's throat closed completely under Yoriichi's piercing stare. The crow on his master's arm tilted its head, black eyes gleaming like it already knew every embarrassing detail.
"Ma… mas… Master…"
Yoriichi's voice cracked through the room like a whip—sharp, loud, the rare thunder of true anger.
"Say it properly!"
The sudden volume hit Kanashimi like a physical blow. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—an old, conditioned response drilled into him from years of brutal training and constant fear of failure. His vision tunneled, heart slamming against ribs, and a hot, metallic taste flooded his mouth.
A thin trickle of blood slipped from the corner of his lips, bright red against pale skin.
Yoriichi's anger faltered instantly. His eyes widened a fraction—the only sign of shock he ever allowed.
Kanashimi swayed, forcing himself to stay upright through sheer will. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, smearing crimson, voice small and trembling.
"Master… I'm sor… sorry. She—she made me try… her lip… lipstick."
The words tumbled out in a horrified rush, barely coherent.
"It was an accident with a tart and—and the glaze got everywhere and she said it tasted like her lipstick but there was no actual lipstick I swear it was just the fruit glaze and we didn't mean to—"
He cut himself off, realizing he was rambling, and dropped to his knees, forehead pressing to the floor in the deepest bow he could manage without collapsing.
The crow flapped its wings once, cawing as if scandalized.
Yoriichi stood frozen for a long beat, staring down at his trembling student—blood on his lip, body shaking from conditioned terror, spilling the most ridiculous confession imaginable.
Then the master did something Kanashimi had never heard in sixteen years.
He exhaled a short, quiet huff that was almost—almost—a laugh.
"Stand up," Yoriichi said, voice back to its usual calm steel.
Kanashimi rose slowly, still pressing his sleeve to his bleeding mouth, eyes fixed on the floor.
Yoriichi stepped forward, took a clean cloth from his sleeve, and pressed it gently to the boy's lip himself—firm but careful.
"Lipstick," he repeated, deadpan. "From a tart."
Kanashimi nodded miserably, expecting punishment, extra training, anything.
Instead, Yoriichi released him and turned away, shoulders suspiciously even.
"Clean yourself properly. Meditate twice as long tonight. And tomorrow—" He paused at the doorway. "—you will run only five hundred forms. Not a thousand."
Kanashimi blinked, stunned.
Yoriichi didn't turn back. "Accidents happen. Even with… lipstick."
The crow cawed again, indignant.
Kanashimi stood there long after his master left, cloth pressed to his mouth, face burning hotter than the blood.
He was never eating another tart as long as he lived.
Kanashimi bowed once more, murmuring a barely audible "Yes, Master," before turning toward the short hallway that led to his room. His legs felt strangely heavy, the adrenaline crash from the interrogation mixing with the lingering exhaustion from the mission and the day's unexpected emotions.
He made it three steps.
Then the cough started—deep, wrenching, unstoppable. His hand flew to his mouth, but it was too late. He dropped to his knees hard on the tatami, body folding forward as blood spattered across his palm and onto the clean floor—bright crimson against pale skin and dark wood.
The attack lasted only seconds, but it left him gasping, vision spotting, forehead pressed to the cool mat as he tried to breathe through the iron taste.
Footsteps—swift, silent—behind him.
Yoriichi was there in an instant, kneeling beside him with none of his usual distance. One strong arm slid around Kanashimi's back, supporting his weight without hesitation, the other hand pressing the same clean cloth from earlier firmly but gently to the boy's mouth.
"Breathe slowly," Yoriichi commanded, voice low and steady—no anger now, only absolute control. "In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Do not fight it."
Kanashimi obeyed on instinct, leaning into his master's hold because there was no strength left to do anything else. The coughing eased into shaky breaths, blood staining the cloth but slowing.
Yoriichi didn't let go. He shifted to sit properly on the floor, pulling Kanashimi against his shoulder the way he had the night before—firm, grounding, allowing no room for shame or retreat.
"You pushed too far today," Yoriichi said quietly, wiping the corner of Kanashimi's mouth with careful precision. "The mission. The emotions. The… lipstick." The last word held the faintest dry note, but no judgment.
Kanashimi's eyes squeezed shut, mortification burning hotter than the blood. "I'm sorry, Master. I didn't mean to—"
"Enough." Yoriichi's tone cut through the apology gently. "This reaction is mine to carry as much as yours. I raised my voice. I know what it does to you."
He reached for a small vial on the nearby shelf—the same healing draught Reina had used—and tipped it carefully to Kanashimi's lips.
"Drink."
Kanashimi swallowed obediently, the warmth spreading through his chest, easing the raw ache.
When the vial was empty, Yoriichi didn't move away. He stayed there on the floor, arm steady around his student's shoulders, letting the silence settle until Kanashimi's breathing evened out completely.
Only then did he speak again, softer than Kanashimi had ever heard him.
"You are allowed good days. You are allowed to smile. To hold hands. To taste… whatever ridiculous thing the princess feeds you." A pause. "But you are not allowed to hide when it hurts. Not from me."
Kanashimi's head stayed bowed against his master's shoulder, tears—this time silent and painless—slipping free.
"Yes, Master," he whispered.
Yoriichi helped him to his feet moments later, guiding him to his room and onto the mat without a word. He pulled the blanket up to Kanashimi's chin like he used to when the boy was small and nightmare-haunted.
"Sleep. No meditation tonight. No dawn training. Rest."
Kanashimi's eyes were already drifting shut, the warmth and safety finally pulling him under.
Just before sleep took him, he thought he felt the faintest pressure on his hair—Yoriichi's hand, brief and careful, like a blessing.
Sapporo, surface world – the morning after the storm.
Odori Park was cordoned off with yellow tape fluttering in the cold wind, police cars flashing red and blue against the fresh snow. Reporters crowded the barriers, cameras clicking, breath steaming as they shouted questions at stone-faced officers.
Inside the park's central clearing, the crime scene was a nightmare.
Detective Hiroshi Tanaka—mid-forties, tired eyes, cigarette habit he couldn't kick—stood with his hands in his coat pockets, staring at what was left of Aiko Tanaka (no relation, just cruel coincidence).
The body lay half-buried in crimson snow, skin pale as porcelain against the dark stains. But it was the wounds that made even seasoned officers look away.
Dozens of huge, perfectly circular holes—clean entry and exit, no tearing—punched through her torso, arms, legs. Like something had fired invisible cannonballs straight through her. Blood loss was catastrophic; the snow for meters around was soaked dark, frozen in grotesque patterns.
The forensic scientist assigned to the scene—a young woman named Sato, first major case—knelt to examine one of the wounds. She lifted a gloved hand, probing gently.
Then her face went green.
She stumbled back two steps, turned, and vomited violently into the snow, retching until there was nothing left.
Tanaka sighed, lighting a cigarette despite department rules. "Get her some air," he told a uniform. "And someone bring coffee. Strong."
He crouched beside the body himself, careful not to disturb the scene.
"No weapon fragments. No bullet casings. No footprints leading in or out except hers." He muttered to his partner, a rookie named Kato who was trying very hard not to look as green as Sato.
"And that black residue around the edges—lab says it's organic, but dissolving fast. Like whatever made these holes was… alive."
Kato swallowed hard. "The witnesses from last night—monster attack, they said. Big wolf thing. But this…" He gestured at the holes. "This doesn't look like claws or teeth."
Tanaka exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the cold sky.
"No," he said quietly. "This looks like someone—or something—wanted her dead very, very badly. And made sure she didn't survive even a second."
He stood, eyes narrowing at the perfect spacing of the wounds.
"Almost like… practice. Or rage."
Overhead, the winter sky was wide and bright—beautiful, indifferent.
Just like the boy who had stood under it hours ago, falling like judgment.
Back in Lumora, Kanashimi slept peacefully for the first time in years.
While up here, the normal world began to wake up to the fact that some secrets kill to stay buried.
Back in the frozen Odori Park crime scene tent, the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp bite of winter seeping through the flaps.
Detective Tanaka hunched over the autopsy table photos spread across a folding desk, cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips. His partner Kato stood nearby, flipping through witness statements, while the recovering forensic scientist Sato sipped water in the corner, face still pale.
"Multiple perforations," Sato said weakly, pointing to the enhanced images. "Perfectly circular, 3-4 cm diameter, clean edges—no tearing, no bullet fragments, no powder residue. Like... like something punched straight through bone and tissue without resistance."
Kato snorted, trying for levity. "Swiss cheese murder? Or maybe the killer used some kinda invisible hole-puncher. Aura fang or whatever from those video games—zap, teleport, poke holes everywhere."
A few uniforms chuckled nervously.
Tanaka didn't laugh. He stubbed out his cigarette and tapped one of the photos—close-up of the victim's torso riddled with those eerie, uniform voids.
"Funny thing," he said quietly, voice gravelly. "Half the witnesses from last night swore they saw a big wolf monster tearing into people. The other half described a black-cloaked figure blinking around like a ghost, striking faster than eyes could track. And now this body looks exactly like something invisible drilled through her over and over."
The tent went silent.
Kato shifted uncomfortably. "Hallucination from the cold? Mass panic?"
Tanaka shook his head slowly. "People also saw it like that. Phones caught blurry shadows, weird lights. Lab's rushing the black residue—says it's organic, dissolving too fast to ID. Not gunpowder. Not acid."
He straightened, eyes hard.
"This isn't a normal killer. And if the wolf thing was real... we're not dealing with knives or guns."
Sato swallowed hard. "So what do we tell the press? 'Monster attack confirmed'?"
Tanaka lit another cigarette, staring at the photos of the snow-soaked clearing.
"We tell them we're investigating all leads. And quietly... we start looking into old legends. Yokai. Demons. Whatever the hell could do this."
Outside, snow kept falling, covering the bloodstains a little more.
While the surface world began whispering about monsters in the park.
And down below, our sweet Kanashimi slept, dreaming of butterflies and a certain princess's laugh.
Inside the dimly lit precinct conference room, the air thick with coffee and cigarette smoke, Detective Tanaka pinned the last blurry still from a witness phone to the evidence board. The image showed a fleeting black silhouette mid-"blink" in the park snow.
He turned to the small team: Kato, Sato (still a little green), and Dr. Miyazaki—the department's go-to forensic pathologist, an older man with wire-rim glasses and a perpetual look of scholarly skepticism.
Tanaka tapped the photo. "This isn't random. It's too clean. Too deliberate. I've been digging into old case files—cold ones going back decades. Same pattern: unexplained demon or vampire corpses turning up drained, dissolved, or sliced to nothing. No human killers ever caught. And now this girl—perforated like Swiss cheese by something invisible."
He paused, voice dropping. "It might be the work of the hidden village people."
Dr. Miyazaki snorted, pushing his glasses up. "Come on, Tanaka. That's legend. Old folklore—secret clans living underground or in mountains, guarding humanity from monsters. Ninja fairy tales for kids."
Tanaka didn't flinch. He slid a folder across the table—printouts from the victim's hacked freelancer account, forum posts and encrypted emails.
"Don't forget," Tanaka said, eyes hard. "From the very beginning of these 'monster' cases, we only ever found the dead bodies of devils, demons, vampires. Perfectly executed. No collateral except when someone human got too close—like our victim here, snapping photos of things she shouldn't."
Miyazaki leaned forward, scanning the files despite himself. "So what, vigilantes? Superheroes?"
"Chōjin," Tanaka replied, using the slang for Japan's rumored ultra-powered individuals—like modern-day Avengers, whispered about in dark corners of the net. "But they're few in this country. Fifteen, twenty at most. Registered or not, they're monitored. And none of them leave wounds like this—no powers matching invisible multi-strikes."
He pulled up a final screenshot: Aiko Tanaka's last freelance gig post—"Paying big for proof of underground anomalies near Sapporo. Ward shimmer caught on cam. Contact if you know the old legends."
Tanaka met Miyazaki's eyes. "She found proof. And something—or someone—from those 'legends' made sure she never shared it."
The room went quiet, the hum of the projector the only sound.
Outside, snow kept falling over Sapporo, burying secrets a little deeper.
While far below, in glowing crystal halls, a certain boy slept off tart kisses and butterfly chases—completely unaware his "perfect" mission had just lit a fuse in the normal world.