The temple echoed with the sharp rhythm of strikes—wooden practice blades clacking, feet sliding across polished floors, breaths sharp and controlled.
Yoriichi stood at the edge of the circle, arms folded, voice cutting through the air like a cool breeze.
"This is practice, not combat. Precision over power. Control your force. Learn your partner's limits."
Akira rolled his shoulders as he faced Kanashimi again, that familiar smirk curling his lips. "Sure, Master. Wouldn't want to hurt the precious leader."
Kanashimi said nothing, only reset his stance—feet light, blade low, gray eyes steady.
They bowed. Circled. Engaged.
The first exchanges were clean: Akira testing with quick jabs, Kanashimi deflecting smoothly, redirecting rather than clashing. For a few breaths, it almost looked like cooperation.
Then Akira's smirk sharpened.
He feinted high, dropped low, and drove a sweeping strike toward Kanashimi's ribs—the exact spot still tender from the old wound.
Too much force.
Way too much.
The wooden blade connected with a dull, sickening thud.
Kanashimi's breath exploded out of him. He staggered sideways, one arm wrapping protectively around his side, face going pale as pain lanced white-hot through his healing ribs. He dropped to one knee, blade clattering to the floor.
The temple went dead silent.
Ren froze mid-form. Hana's hand flew to her mouth. Sora's eyes widened a fraction.
Akira lowered his blade slowly, smirk gone, replaced by something between defiance and unease.
Yoriichi was across the space in three silent strides. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
His presence alone was enough to make the air feel heavier.
He looked first at Kanashimi—checking breathing, color, pain level—then turned that winter-steel gaze on Akira.
"You were warned."
Akira lifted his chin, trying for bravado. "It was an accident. He should've blocked—"
Yoriichi cut him off with a single raised hand.
"Enough."
He turned to Kanashimi, voice softening by the smallest degree. "Can you stand?"
Kanashimi pushed himself up slowly, teeth gritted, but he nodded once. "Yes, Master."
Yoriichi faced the group again, then pointed toward the open doors leading to the backyard training yard—a wilder space of packed earth, old stumps, and no fragile rules.
"You two," he said, tone calm and utterly terrifying. "Backyard. Now."
Akira opened his mouth to protest.
Yoriichi's eyes flicked to him. "Practice exactly as you want. No restrictions. No holding back. Settle it there."
A beat.
Then, to the others: "You three—continue forms here. Quietly."
Akira swallowed, realizing too late what he'd unleashed.
Kanashimi picked up his blade, straightened despite the pain, and walked toward the doors without a word.
Akira followed, bravado cracking.
The four remaining students exchanged wide-eyed glances.
And Yoriichi watched the backyard doors slide shut behind them, expression unreadable.
The backyard training yard was wilder than the temple—uneven earth packed hard by years of feet, old stumps for obstacles, rings of mossy stones marking boundaries. No soft mats. No rules.
Akira strode in first, rolling his shoulders, wooden blade spinning once in his hand like he owned the place. His smirk was back, bigger now that Yoriichi wasn't watching.
Kanashimi followed more quietly, ribs throbbing from the earlier cheap shot, but his face calm as still water. He picked up a practice blade from the rack, tested its weight, then faced Akira.
"Use less power," Kanashimi said evenly. "This is still practice."
Akira laughed—loud, mocking. "What, afraid I'll break you again? Come on, leader. Show me what the cursed kid's really got."
He attacked without waiting for a bow.
First strike—overhead, heavy. Kanashimi blocked, but the force jarred his ribs. Pain flared white-hot.
Second—a sweeping low cut. Kanashimi hopped back, but Akira pressed, blade whipping in a brutal combo. One blow slipped past, cracking against Kanashimi's forearm. Another clipped his shoulder, spinning him half-around.
Akira grinned wider, tasting victory. "See? All that reputation, and you're still just—"
Kanashimi exhaled once, slow and deliberate.
Then something shifted.
He straightened, blade loose in his right hand, left hand hanging relaxed at his side.
Akira charged again—faster, harder, pouring everything into a flurry meant to overwhelm.
Kanashimi didn't move his feet.
He blocked every strike single-handed.
Right arm only—lazy, effortless parries, redirects, deflections. Blade meeting blade with sharp clacks, but never letting a single blow through. His left hand stayed motionless, like it wasn't even part of the fight.
Akira's grin faltered.
He swung wilder, desperate—overhead, side cut, thrust, spin.
Every attack met air or wood, deflected with minimal motion. Kanashimi's gray eyes stayed calm, almost bored.
Akira's breathing turned ragged. Sweat flew.
One final, furious lunge—full power, meant to drive Kanashimi to the ground.
Kanashimi tilted his blade a fraction. Akira's strike slid harmlessly past.
Then—lightning fast—Kanashimi's free left hand snapped up, fingers closing around Akira's wrist like iron.
He twisted once.
Akira's blade flew from numb fingers, embedding in the dirt ten paces away.
Kanashimi released him, stepped back, and bowed—properly, politely.
Akira dropped to his knees, clutching his wrist, face flushed with shock and something close to fear.
Kanashimi's voice was quiet, almost gentle.
"Next time… use less power."
From the temple doorway, hidden in shadow, Yoriichi watched—arms folded, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
Lesson delivered.
The backyard air crackled with tension.
Akira, on his knees for only a heartbeat, surged back up—eyes wild, pride stung raw. Electricity sparked around his right hand, blue-white lightning coalescing into a shrieking, chirping spear of pure tochi: Chidori. The sound was deafening, birds fleeing the canopy overhead.
"You think that little trick scares me?" he snarled, voice nearly lost in the screech. "I'll burn right through you!"
He charged, arm cocked back, Chidori thrusting forward like a living thunderbolt.
Kanashimi's eyes narrowed.
No room to dodge—not with his ribs screaming, not with Akira this close and this fast. So he planted his feet, drew every last drop of tochi from his core, and poured it into his legs in a single, explosive surge.
The ground beneath him cratered slightly as he launched—forward, low, impossibly quick.
He reached Akira first.
One hand snapped up, fingers splayed against the Chidori's screaming heart. Tochi flared brilliant green around his palm—the secret art of Lumora: Thread Severance. The roaring lightning spear compressed, thinned, stretched into a single vibrating thread of pure energy, humming like a drawn bowstring.
Akira's eyes widened in shock.
Kanashimi backflipped—graceful, deadly—blade flashing in his free hand as he spun mid-air.
The thread snapped taut between them.
He cut.
A clean, diagonal slice.
The Chidori split in two perfect halves, lightning bursting harmlessly into the sky like twin fireworks—crackling, blinding, beautiful.
Akira cried out as the backlash grazed his arm—a thin, precise cut across his forearm, blood blooming bright against his skin.
The thunderous boom rolled through the forest like a storm breaking.
Akira dropped to one knee again, clutching his bleeding arm, staring up at Kanashimi in stunned silence.
Kanashimi landed lightly, breathing hard—sweat on his brow, tochi utterly spent, legs trembling from the drain. He sheathed his blade slowly, gray eyes steady.
"I said… use less power."
Before Akira could respond, the backyard doors slammed open.
Yoriichi stood there, silver hair stirring in the lingering wind, face carved from ice.
The other three students peeked wide-eyed behind him.
Yoriichi's gaze took in everything: the cratered ground, the blood on Akira's arm, the ozone smell of severed lightning, Kanashimi swaying from exhaustion.
He stepped forward, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut stone.
"Kanashimi."
Kanashimi dropped to one knee immediately, head bowed. "Master."
"You were told this was practice. Not combat. You used Thread Severance—a forbidden technique outside life-or-death—and exhausted your tochi reserves completely. On a classmate."
Kanashimi's voice was small. "He… would not listen. I could not dodge. I only meant to disarm—"
"Silence."
Yoriichi's tone was cold fire.
"You endangered yourself and him with reckless display. Pride is not precision. Control is not showmanship. You will run the binding sequence until you collapse tonight. No food. No rest. And tomorrow you will apologize to Akira—properly—before the entire team."
He turned that fearsome gaze on Akira, who flinched.
"And you—provoking beyond reason. You will join him in punishment. Together."
Akira bowed his head, blood dripping into the dirt. "…Yes, Master."
Yoriichi looked between them, something almost weary in his eyes.
"Learn to fight beside each other. Or the surface will teach you the hard way."
He turned and walked back inside.
The backyard fell silent again—two boys on their knees, blood and pride spilled on the earth.
But in the quiet, Akira glanced sideways at Kanashimi… and for the first time, there was no sneer.
Only wary respect.
Kanashimi and Akira returned to the practice temple in silence, real katanas now sheathed at their sides—sharp steel, no wooden toys. The air felt heavier, the forest light dimmer, as if the trees themselves were watching.
Yoriichi stood in the center, arms folded, silver hair catching the green glow. His gaze swept over them—Akira's bandaged arm, Kanashimi's pale face and shallow breathing.
"Akira," he said, voice calm as a frozen lake. "One hundred binding sequences. Full form. No shortcuts."
Akira bowed stiffly, relief flickering in his eyes. "Yes, Master."
Yoriichi turned to Kanashimi.
"You will perform the sequence until I tell you to stop."
Kanashimi bowed deeper, no protest, no plea. "Yes, Master."
Yoriichi gave one final, unreadable look between them, then turned and walked out—doors sliding shut with quiet finality.
The temple was theirs alone.
Akira drew his katana first, starting the flowing sequence—strike, pivot, guard, flourish—movements sharp but controlled, counting under his breath.
Kanashimi drew his own blade—the sealed Katana of Death humming faintly—and began the same forms. Slow at first, conserving what little tochi he had left, but perfect. Every line clean, every angle exact.
Ten minutes passed.
Twenty.
Akira's breathing grew heavier, sweat beading on his brow as he hit fifty.
Kanashimi didn't slow. His ribs burned, legs trembled, but the forms stayed flawless—almost mechanical, like he'd switched off everything but duty.
At seventy-five, Akira finished a sequence and paused, chest heaving, staring at Kanashimi who hadn't stopped once.
He couldn't hold it in anymore.
"That thing you did outside… with my Chidori…" Akira's voice was rough, half awe, half frustration. "You turned it into a thread and cut it clean with your leg. What the hell was that?"
Kanashimi didn't answer.
Didn't even look at him.
Just flowed into the next form—strike, pivot, guard, flourish—blade singing softly through the air.
Akira stepped closer, katana lowered. "Hey. I'm talking to you. What was it?"
Silence.
Only the whisper of steel and measured breaths.
Akira's jaw tightened. "Fine. Be like that."
He resumed his sequences, finishing the last twenty-five in brooding quiet.
When he reached one hundred, he sheathed his blade, wiped sweat from his face, and stood there—watching Kanashimi still moving, still perfect, still silent.
Fifty more minutes.
An hour.
Kanashimi's face was ghost-white now, sweat soaking his robes, movements slower but never sloppy. Each form cost him, but he paid without complaint.
Akira shifted uncomfortably.
Finally, he muttered—low, almost reluctant.
"…You can stop, you know. He's not even here."
Kanashimi kept going.
Akira exhaled, running a hand through damp red hair.
"Idiot," he said, but there was no venom in it anymore.
He sat against the wall, arms crossed, and waited.
Because some lessons you don't learn by talking.
You learn by watching someone refuse to break.
Even when everyone else already has.
Later that evening, after the punishment sequences finally ended and Kanashimi was allowed to collapse (still silent, still obedient), Akira slipped away from the dorms.
He found Ren, Hana, and Sora in the academy's moon-lit courtyard, nursing bruises and egos from their own extended drills.
Akira didn't waste time on greetings.
"I need you guys with me. Now."
Ren raised a brow. "What, another round of getting humiliated?"
Akira's jaw tightened. "Just come."
Minutes later, the four of them stood outside the doors of Yoriichi's private practice hall—the one reserved for advanced students and personal training. Akira knocked once, firm.
The door slid open almost immediately.
Yoriichi stood there in simple black robes, silver hair loose, expression as unreadable as ever.
"Master," Akira said, bowing quickly, the others following suit. "May we enter? We… need clarification."
Yoriichi's gaze swept over them—Akira's bandaged arm, the lingering sweat on all their faces, the wary curiosity in their eyes.
He stepped aside. "Enter. Speak."
They filed in, lining up in a loose semicircle. The hall was dim, only a few lanterns glowing, the air still faintly charged from earlier drills.
Akira took the lead, voice steadier than he felt.
"Master… this afternoon, in the backyard. Kanashimi—he turned my Chidori into a thread. Compressed it, stretched it, then cut it clean in half with a single swing. The backlash barely touched me. It was… perfect."
Ren crossed his arms. "He did it with his leg. No hand seal. No visible tochi buildup. Just—gone, then sliced."
Hana added, quieter, "It wasn't any academy technique we know. And he used everything he had left after your punishment. He could barely stand after."
Sora finally spoke, voice low. "What was it?"
Yoriichi regarded them for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it felt like judgment.
Then he moved to the center of the hall, drawing his own katana with a soft ring of steel.
"Thread Severance," he said simply. "An ancient art of Lumora. Forbidden outside true combat. It requires absolute precision, perfect tochi control, and willingness to empty oneself completely."
He demonstrated—slow, deliberate—a single downward cut. Green tochi flared briefly along the blade's edge, thin as silk, humming.
"This thread can cut anything: steel, lightning, even intent if the wielder is skilled enough. But the cost is high. One mistake, and the backlash severs the user."
He sheathed the blade.
"Kanashimi learned it young—because he had to. Because the Katana of Death demands nothing less than perfection from its bearer."
The four students stood frozen.
Akira swallowed. "He… used a forbidden technique on me?"
Yoriichi's eyes narrowed. "He used it to protect you from your own recklessness. Your Chidori would have rebounded fully without his intervention. You'd be in the healer's hall—or worse."
Ren's arms dropped. Hana's eyes widened. Sora looked at the floor.
Akira's voice came out rough. "I… didn't know."
Yoriichi's tone softened—not gentle, but fair.
"Now you do. Remember it on the mission. He is your leader not because of favor. Because he has paid prices you have not yet imagined."
He turned away, signaling dismissal.
"Rest. Tomorrow you train as a team. Properly."
The four bowed deeply and filed out in silence.
Outside, under the glowing canopy, Akira stopped, staring at his bandaged arm.
Ren muttered, "We've been idiots."
Hana nodded slowly.
Sora said nothing—but for the first time, his gaze held something close to respect.
Hours bled into the deep night.
The practice temple was supposed to be empty, lanterns turned low, only the soft rustle of leaves outside.
But the four—Akira, Ren, Hana, and Sora—couldn't sleep. Curiosity, guilt, something new gnawing at them—drove them back.
They slid the door open just a crack, peering in like kids spying on a secret.
And there he was.
Kanashimi, alone in the center circle, katana moving through the binding sequence again and again. Slow now, almost dreamlike—each form perfect despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his body. Sweat soaked his robes, hair plastered to his forehead, face pale as moonlight. His breathing was shallow, controlled, but his legs trembled on every pivot.
He hadn't stopped.
Not once.
Akira's breath caught. "He's… still going."
Ren's usual cold mask cracked. "How long has it been?"
Hana hugged her arms to herself. "Hours. Master left ages ago."
Sora whispered, "He looks like he'll drop any second… but he won't."
They pushed the door wider and stepped inside, soft-footed.
Akira tried first, voice unusually gentle. "Hey… Kanashimi. It's late. You can stop. Master's not even here."
No response. Just the whisper of steel through air, the next form flowing seamlessly.
Ren tried next, awkward. "Come on. You proved your point. We get it."
Nothing.
Hana stepped closer, voice softer. "You're going to hurt yourself worse. Please… just rest."
Kanashimi's eyes stayed forward, focused on nothing and everything. Lips pressed tight. Not a word.
Sora, usually the quietest, spoke up. "We were wrong. About a lot. You don't have to keep punishing yourself for us."
Still silence.
Only the endless sequence—strike, pivot, guard, flourish. Again. Again.
Akira rubbed the back of his neck, frustration and something like shame warring on his face.
"…You're really not gonna say anything, are you?"
Kanashimi flowed into the next form without breaking rhythm.
The four stood there, watching the boy they'd spent years fearing and mocking push himself far past any limit they'd ever touched.
Finally, Akira exhaled, defeated.
"Fine. Keep going, stubborn idiot."
He sat cross-legged against the wall.
Ren joined him.
Then Hana.
Then Sora.
None of them spoke again.
They just watched—in quiet, growing respect—as Kanashimi danced alone with his punishment until the first hints of dawn crept through the canopy.
Only when his legs finally gave out and he dropped to his knees, katana clattering, did Akira move—quickly, catching him before he hit the floor.
Kanashimi's eyes fluttered, exhausted beyond words.
Akira's voice was rough but careful.
"We've got you."
And for the first time, no one flinched at the touch.
Dawn light filtered through the high canopy windows, painting the temple floor in pale gold.
Kanashimi's katana lay beside him where it had fallen. He was on his knees, palms flat on the cool wood, head bowed, chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. Sweat dripped from his chin, mixing with the faint trace of blood he'd bitten back to stay silent.
The four classmates sat frozen against the wall, Akira still half-supporting him, none daring to speak.
The doors slid open without a sound.
Yoriichi stepped in, robes pristine, silver hair catching the first rays like frost. His gaze swept the scene—four guilty students, one collapsed boy—and settled on Kanashimi.
His voice was quiet, but it filled the temple like winter wind.
"How did you allow yourself to drop, Kanashimi? I did not say you may stop."
Kanashimi tried to push up, arms shaking violently. He managed only a few inches before collapsing again, forehead touching the floor in the deepest bow he could give from his knees.
"I… can't continue, Master," he whispered, voice cracked and raw. "Forgive me."
Yoriichi walked forward until he stood over him. The silence stretched, heavy enough to crush.
Then he crouched—slow, deliberate—until he was eye-level with his student.
"Will you do it again?" he asked, tone unreadable.
Kanashimi's eyes glistened, but no tears fell. He met Yoriichi's gaze for the first time in hours.
"No, Master. Never."
Yoriichi studied him—searching for defiance, for weakness, for truth.
He found only exhaustion and absolute surrender.
A long breath left the master, almost inaudible.
"Good."
He reached out, one hand settling firmly on the back of Kanashimi's neck—warm, steady, the same touch he'd used since the boy was small and terrified of his own shadow.
"You pushed far enough. The lesson is learned."
He glanced at the four wide-eyed students against the wall.
"You four—carry him to the dorms. Properly. No dragging."
Akira was on his feet first. "Yes, Master."
Ren and Sora moved to help without hesitation. Even Hana stepped forward, supporting Kanashimi's other side.
Yoriichi rose, voice softer now, meant only for Kanashimi.
"Rest today. No training until I say. That is an order."
Kanashimi's eyes fluttered, relief and gratitude too deep for words.
As the four carefully lifted him—Akira and Ren taking most of the weight, Hana steadying his head, Sora guiding their steps—Yoriichi watched them go.
At the door, he added, almost to himself, "You are not a machine. Remember that."
The doors closed.
And for the first time in years, Kanashimi let himself be carried—silent, trusting, finally allowed to be human.
The four classmates carried Kanashimi through the quiet, glowing paths of Lumora, dawn light filtering through the ancient canopy like soft gold dust. He was limp in their arms—head against Akira's shoulder, breathing shallow, utterly spent. No one spoke. The only sounds were their careful footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.
They rounded a bend near the central heart-tree—and nearly walked straight into Yōsei.
She was hurrying the opposite way, braid swinging, arms full of a small basket that smelled suspiciously like fresh honey-cakes and healing tea. Her midnight eyes widened the instant she saw them.
Then narrowed to dangerous slits.
"What. Happened."
The words were soft, but every one of them carried the full authority of the village princess.
She dropped the basket without ceremony—cakes rolling across the moss—and was in front of them in a heartbeat, hands reaching for Kanashimi's face, brushing damp hair from his forehead, checking his pulse with trembling fingers.
"He's burning up with exhaustion. He's fainted. Who did this?" Her voice rose, sharp as a blade. "Tell me the name right now. I swear I will not leave them alive."
Akira swallowed hard. "It was… punishment. From Master Yoriichi."
Yōsei's eyes flashed like storm clouds. "Yoriichi? I'll—"
Sora, usually the quietest, stepped forward quickly. "Master Yoriichi gave the order, but… it was because of what happened in training. Akira pushed too far. Kanashimi countered with a forbidden technique to stop it. Master punished both of them. Kanashimi just… kept going. Long after he should've stopped."
Yōsei's fury wavered, replaced by something raw and aching. She looked at the four faces—guilty, tired, carrying her butterfly boy like he was made of glass.
"You four were with him," she said, voice low and dangerous again. "And you let it go this far?"
Ren rubbed the back of his neck, eyes on the ground. "We didn't let it. We… watched. And we couldn't stop him. He wouldn't stop."
Hana's voice was small. "He didn't say a single word the whole time. Just kept going until he dropped."
Yōsei exhaled shakily, anger deflating into worry. She reached out, taking Kanashimi's limp hand in both of hers.
"Idiot," she whispered to him, even though he couldn't hear. "You beautiful, stubborn idiot."
Then she straightened, princess mode back in full force.
"Fine. Master Yoriichi can eat me alive later—I'll deal with him. But you four…" She pointed a finger at each of them in turn. "You're carrying him the rest of the way. Gently. And tomorrow you're going on that mission together, right?"
Ren nodded. "Yeah. First supervised surface scout. All of us."
Yōsei's eyes gleamed with sudden determination.
"Good. Then you're going to keep him safe up there. You're going to watch his back like your lives depend on it—because they might. And if anything happens to him…" She let the threat hang, sweet and terrifying.
Akira managed a weak grin. "We… kinda figured that out tonight."
Yōsei softened, just a fraction. She picked up her fallen basket, salvaged the least-squished honey-cake, and tucked it gently into Kanashimi's hand even though he was out cold.
"Tell him when he wakes up," she said quietly, "that if he ever pulls this again, I'll chase him to the surface myself and drag him home by the ear."
The four nodded solemnly.
Yōsei stepped aside to let them pass, watching them carry her exhausted butterfly boy toward the dorms.
Then she turned in the opposite direction—toward Yoriichi's house.
Someone was getting an earful before breakfast.
And Princess Yōsei did not plan to be gentle.
Kanashimi stirred slowly, the world coming back in pieces—soft mat beneath him, faint scent of healing herbs, sunlight filtered through leaves. His body felt like it had been dragged through a storm and left to dry, every muscle aching, ribs throbbing dully.
He opened his eyes.
Hana was already sitting on the edge of his sleeping mat, silver hair loose, eyes wide with relief the second he moved.
"Oh! You're awake!" she exclaimed, louder than necessary. She turned toward the open door and called out, "All of you—come here! He's up!"
Footsteps hurried in.
Sora appeared first, hands in his sleeves, expression carefully neutral but eyes softer than usual.
Ren followed, arms crossed but posture less guarded.
Akira last, red hair messy from a sleepless night, looking like he'd rehearsed what to say a hundred times and forgotten every word.
The four of them crowded the small dorm room—standing, kneeling, hovering—suddenly making the space feel tiny.
Kanashimi pushed himself up on one elbow, blinking in confusion at the unexpected audience.
"…Where is Master Yoriichi?" he asked, voice rough from disuse and exhaustion.
Hana answered quickly, almost tripping over her words. "He checked on you at dawn, said you're off training today—doctor's orders—and then left for the council. Something about the surface message."
Akira rubbed the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. "He… also told us to make sure you ate. And didn't do anything stupid like try to train."
Ren added quietly, "We brought food."
Sora nodded toward a low table someone had dragged in—steaming tea, rice porridge, fresh fruit, and—Kanashimi noticed with a faint twitch of his lips—a small stack of honey-cakes that looked suspiciously like the ones from the Eldrin estate kitchen.
Kanashimi stared at them all, gray eyes wary but curious.
"…Why are you here?"
The room went awkwardly silent.
Akira cleared his throat. "Because we were jerks. For years. And last night… we saw what you actually do when no one's watching. So… we're here. Deal with it."
Hana elbowed him. "What Akira means is… we're sorry. Really sorry. And we brought breakfast as, um, apology number one."
Ren shrugged, trying for casual. "Also, tomorrow we're supposed to protect each other on the surface. Figured we should start practicing that part now."
Sora simply inclined his head—small, but sincere.
Kanashimi looked from face to face, searching for mockery, for the old disdain.
He found none.
Just four awkward, earnest teenagers trying very hard not to look like they cared too much.
He exhaled slowly, something tight in his chest loosening just a fraction.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
Then, after a beat: "But if any of you try to feed me like Yōsei does, I'm leaving."
Akira barked a surprised laugh. Hana giggled. Even Ren's mouth twitched.
The ice—finally, truly—began to thaw.
The dorm room was quiet except for the soft clink of tea cups and the rustle of someone passing the honey-cakes.
Kanashimi sat propped against the wall, porridge bowl in his lap (mostly untouched), gray eyes flicking between the four faces hovering around him. They were trying so hard to act normal—Akira pouring tea too carefully, Ren arranging fruit like it was a mission, Hana fussing with an extra pillow, Sora silently refilling his water.
Finally, he set the bowl aside and asked—voice low, almost hesitant, like he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
"Why did you really change your minds?"
The room stilled.
Akira froze mid-pour. Ren's hand paused over the fruit. Hana's pillow-adjusting stopped. Sora met his gaze first—steady, honest.
Akira exhaled, setting the teapot down with a soft clunk.
"Because we watched you last night," he said quietly. "You kept going long after anyone else would've quit. Not to prove something to us. Not for pride. Just… because you said you wouldn't do it again. And you meant it."
Ren nodded, arms crossed but posture open. "We've spent years calling you cursed. Thinking you were dangerous. But last night you took punishment meant for both of us… and didn't say a word. Didn't blame me. Didn't blame any of us."
Hana's voice was softer. "You could've stopped. Could've made excuses. You didn't. And when you finally dropped…" She looked away, silver hair hiding her eyes. "We realized we've been the ones acting like children."
Sora spoke last, simple and direct. "You protected Akira even when he didn't deserve it. With a technique that could've killed you if it went wrong. We saw what 'cursed' really looks like. And it wasn't you."
Kanashimi stared at them, something raw flickering behind his careful mask.
Akira rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink. "So yeah. We were wrong. Really wrong. And we're… trying to fix it. Starting with breakfast. And not being assholes anymore."
He paused, then added with a small, crooked grin, "Also, Yōsei threatened to end us if we didn't take care of you on the mission tomorrow. So there's that."
Hana swatted his arm. "Akira!"
But Kanashimi's lips twitched—the tiniest, real smile.
He looked down at his hands, voice barely above a whisper.
"…Thank you."
The four exchanged glances—relieved, awkward, hopeful.
Ren pushed the honey-cakes closer. "Eat. You're still pale. And tomorrow we've got your back. For real this time."
Kanashimi picked up a cake, took a small bite.
And for the first time in years, the room didn't feel cold.
The council chamber in Lumora's heart-tree was already thick with tension when the doors opened without ceremony.
Two perimeter guardians marched in, dragging a bound man between them—mid-thirties, surface clothes torn and muddied, a black hood recently removed from his head. His face was bruised, eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. Behind them walked a third guardian carrying a sealed metal case, the official insignia of the United Nations gleaming on its surface.
Lord Eldrin rose slowly from his seat. Yoriichi remained standing, arms folded, expression carved from winter ice.
The lead guardian bowed. "My lord. Master Yoriichi. This one was caught two leagues from the outer ward. He carried this case and repeated a single phrase: 'Message for the hidden villages. From the surface leaders. Truce requested.' We brought him unharmed, as per new protocol."
Eldrin's voice was calm but carried absolute authority. "Unbind him. Wake him fully."
One guardian splashed a vial of sharp-scented restorative over the man's face. He gasped, coughed, and jerked upright on his knees, blinking against the glowing moss light.
The man looked around—taking in the living wood walls, the ancient faces, the quiet power filling the room—and swallowed hard.
"I'm… Ambassador Elias Keller," he managed, voice hoarse. "Special envoy from the United Nations emergency summit. I carry a message from the leaders of 198 nations."
He glanced at the case the guardian still held.
"It's recorded. Audio and video. They… they know about you. All of you. The broadcast from Japan couldn't be contained. The world knows the eleven villages exist."
A ripple went through the council—shock, anger, calculation.
Eldrin's eyes narrowed. "And what does the surface want now that their ignorance is gone?"
Keller met his gaze, steady despite the fear. "They offer gratitude for centuries of silent protection. They request open dialogue. Partnership. Shared knowledge of the artifacts. Oversight together, not conquest."
Yoriichi spoke for the first time, voice low and cold. "They threaten war if we refuse."
Keller didn't flinch. "Some do. Others want peace. The message explains everything—their fears, their terms, their willingness to stand down military movements if you agree to talk. They chose me because I have no military rank. Neutral."
He nodded toward the case. "Play it. Please. The world is holding its breath."
Eldrin exchanged a long look with Yoriichi.
Then he gestured to the guardian. "Open it. Play the message."
The case clicked open. A small holographic projector hummed to life, casting the recorded faces of world leaders into the living chamber—solemn, united, speaking words no hidden village had ever heard from the surface before.
The council listened in absolute silence.
And in the dorms, Kanashimi slept on—unaware that the mission he was meant to lead tomorrow might never happen the same way again.
Because the surface had finally come knocking.
Politely.
For now.
The holographic projection flickered to life in the center of the heart-tree chamber, casting blue-white light on the ancient wood walls.
Faces of world leaders appeared one by one—serious, unified, speaking in turns. The message was carefully scripted: gratitude for centuries of unseen protection, acknowledgment of the villages' sacrifices, proposal for open dialogue, shared guardianship of the artifacts, mutual non-aggression pacts, even offers of technology and resources in exchange for knowledge.
No threats this time. Only pleas wrapped in diplomacy.
"…We stand in awe of what you have done in silence. We ask only to stand beside you now, in the light."
The recording ended. The projection winked out.
Silence stretched, thick as sap.
Elder Thorne broke it first, scoffing. "Pretty words from children who pointed missiles at us yesterday."
Elder Lira's voice trembled. "They know our locations. They admit it. This could be a trap."
The academy teachers exchanged uneasy glances.
Lord Eldrin remained seated, fingers steepled, midnight eyes unreadable. He looked to Yoriichi.
The master stood motionless, silver hair catching the moss light, face a mask of perfect control.
But his eyes—those winter-steel eyes—burned.
He spoke at last, voice low, lethal calm.
"They speak of partnership. Of gratitude. Yet seven days ago they debated capturing us. Seizing the artifacts. Ending us with fire from the sky if we refused."
He stepped forward, gaze sweeping the council.
"This message is not surrender. It is delay. They fear what they cannot control. They want our power on their terms—leashed, shared, diluted."
Eldrin's voice was quieter, but no less firm. "And yet… they chose words over weapons. They sent a single unarmed man through our wards, risking his life to deliver this. That is not the act of conquerors."
Yoriichi's jaw tightened. "It is the act of those who believe we are reasonable. Who think we will negotiate because we have always chosen mercy over massacre."
He turned to the bound ambassador, Keller, still on his knees.
"You," Yoriichi said, voice cutting. "Your leaders know what one artifact unleashed could do. Do they truly believe we would hand such power to those who threatened nuclear strikes days ago?"
Keller met his gaze, steady despite the fear. "Some do. Some don't. But enough do to send me here with this offer. They're terrified—of you, of the artifacts, of what happens if we fight. They want alliance because they know they can't win without destroying everything."
Eldrin rose slowly.
"We protected the surface in secrecy because openness would breed exactly this: fear, greed, demands. Now secrecy is gone. We cannot return to it."
He looked around the chamber—at the elders, the teachers, the guardians.
"We will answer. But not today. Not hastily."
Yoriichi inclined his head, the barest fraction. Agreement, reluctant.
Eldrin addressed the ambassador directly.
"You will remain our guest—honored, unharmed—until we decide. Your message is heard. Our reply will come when we are ready."
Keller bowed his head. "Thank you."
The council dispersed in low, urgent murmurs.
But Yoriichi lingered, staring at the spot where the hologram had been.
Eldrin placed a hand on his shoulder.
"The world has changed, old friend."
Yoriichi's voice was almost inaudible.
"So must we."
Outside, the forest whispered secrets to the wind.
And in the dorms, Kanashimi slept on—dreaming of open skies he might never see the same way again.
The chamber doors had barely closed behind the dismissed council when Lord Eldrin's expression hardened into something none of them had seen before—not anger, but absolute resolve.
He turned to the perimeter guardians still holding the bound ambassador.
"Blindfold him. Gag him. Plug his ears. Bind him so tightly he cannot move a finger."
The guardians obeyed instantly—cloth over eyes, wax in ears, gag forced between teeth, ropes cinched until the man whimpered.
Eldrin's voice was ice.
"March him to the outer border. Kick him back onto surface soil. Let him run. Let him think he's free."
One guardian hesitated. "My lord… he carries their message of peace—"
Eldrin cut him off with a look. "A message wrapped in threats. We will send our own reply."
He turned to Yoriichi.
"Assassinate him. Quietly. Publicly enough that the surface understands the cost of trespass."
Yoriichi's face remained stone, but his eyes flickered—only someone who knew him for decades would see the conflict.
Eldrin continued, voice low and unyielding.
"Send Kanashimi. Unarmed. No Aura Fang. No katana. Tell him to finish the man with Thread Severance—using water from the nearest surface river or rain puddle as medium. Make it clean. Make it unmistakable."
Yoriichi's jaw tightened. "He is barely recovered. And the four—"
"They go as backup," Eldrin said. "Supervised support. They will watch from distance. They will not intervene unless he fails. This is the lesson the surface needs: we do not negotiate from fear. We answer intrusion with precision."
The guardians dragged the struggling, muffled ambassador away—his pleas lost behind the gag.
Yoriichi bowed, deep and formal.
"It will be done."
Eldrin's gaze softened for the briefest moment.
"Tell the boy… this is not punishment. This is protection. For all of us."
Yoriichi turned to leave, robes whispering over the living wood.
Outside the chamber, the forest seemed to hold its breath.
And in the dorms, Kanashimi slept peacefully—unaware that the sky he'd only just begun to dream of again was about to be stained with blood once more.
By his own hands.