The city of Hoshinaga rose from the plain like a promise polished smooth by hands that had never bled.
Stone gates gleamed. Banners stirred in the morning breeze. Merchants called out prices with practiced cheer, and the smell of rice porridge and oil drifted through streets already alive with footsteps. From the ridge above, Hayate watched the flow of people and felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the sense that walls, no matter how wide their streets, always closed eventually.
"We blend," he said. "We do not linger."
Aiko nodded. Her hair was braided tight, tucked beneath a simple cap. She wore a merchant's cloak now, patched and unremarkable. Hayate had traded his dark garb for muted cloth and wrapped his blades in oiled canvas, slung like tools. Nothing about them asked to be remembered.
They entered with the crowd.
Hoshinaga had learned how to erase gently. There were no shrines to old orders, no songs about shadows. The city preferred glass lamps to torches, guards with ledgers instead of spears. Peace wore a uniform here, crisp and convincing.
They found lodging above a teahouse near the river. The keeper's eyes slid over them and moved on—exactly as Hayate preferred. From the window, the city unfolded: bridges arcing over gray water, rooftops layered like scales, a watchtower rising at the center like a needle pinning the sky.
"That's the Ministry quarter," Aiko murmured, following his gaze. "Records. Archives. Courts."
"And hunters," Hayate said. "If they smell blood."
They spent the morning learning the city's rhythm. Aiko drifted easily among stalls, asking careful questions, listening more than she spoke. Hayate lingered at the edges, counting guards, exits, blind spots. He learned where the city breathed and where it held its breath.
By midday, Aiko returned with ink-stained fingers and a tight smile. "They're moving faster than I thought," she said. "The archives are being consolidated. Anything older than twenty years is flagged."
"For removal," Hayate finished.
"For destruction," she corrected softly.
They shared a look. Decision settled between them, unspoken but firm.
At dusk, the city changed clothes. Lamps bloomed. Music drifted from courtyards. Hayate tied his hair back and wrapped his face with a thin scarf—not enough to hide him, just enough to make people forget details.
"You stay close," he told Aiko. "If we split, we meet at the river steps by the third bridge."
"And if—"
"If something goes wrong," he said, "you keep moving."
She studied him, then nodded. "I trust you."
The words were a blade and a balm.
The archive building wore humility like armor. Low walls. Wide doors. A place that wanted to be mistaken for a school. Hayate slipped in through a side entrance as a pair of clerks argued over a crate. Inside, the air smelled of dust and oil—of history kept tidy.
They moved room to room, Aiko reading signs, Hayate listening for footsteps. When they reached the flagged stacks, Aiko's breath caught. Red tags fluttered from shelves like wounds.
"Here," she whispered, already working. She copied titles, dates, names—anything she could carry in her head if paper failed.
Hayate heard the patrol before it rounded the corner.
"Now," he murmured.
They turned—and nearly collided with a woman in a gray coat, hair pinned severe. She froze, eyes sharp, then flicked to the red tags and back.
"You shouldn't be here," the woman said.
Hayate stepped forward, ready.
But the woman lifted a finger. "Quiet," she hissed. "If you're stealing ghosts, do it quickly."
Aiko stared. "You—"
"Know," the woman finished. "Yes. And I'm tired."
Boots sounded nearby. The woman opened a panel in the wall—a service passage—and shoved a bundle into Aiko's arms. "Take this. Names they missed. Go."
Hayate hesitated only long enough to meet the woman's gaze. He saw fear there—and resolve.
"Thank you," he said.
They vanished into the passage as voices filled the stacks. Hayate sealed the panel behind them and led Aiko through narrow ways until cool night air spilled over them by the river.
They didn't stop running until the bridges thinned and the lamps grew sparse.
Under the third bridge, Aiko sagged, clutching the bundle. She laughed, breathless and bright, and the sound echoed off stone. Hayate watched her, something loosening in his chest.
"You were right," she said. "They're erasing. But not everything."
"No," he agreed. "Not while people choose otherwise."
They sat with their backs to the cold stone. Above them, the city went on—music, laughter, the soft lie of safety.
Aiko opened the bundle. Inside were lists, pressed flowers, a child's drawing tucked between ledgers. Proof that lives had been lived outside the margins.
"I can't carry this all," she said.
"You don't have to," Hayate replied. "We will seed it."
She smiled. "We."
He nodded.
A shout rang out across the water. Lanterns bobbed—searching.
Hayate stood. "It's time."
They crossed the river by stepping stones slick with moss. On the far bank, the city's noise faded. Fields stretched toward shadowed hills.
Aiko slowed, suddenly unsure. "Where do we go now?"
Hayate looked east, where the land rose and fell into places the Ministry did not map well. "To people who remember," he said. "And to those who want to."
She fell into step beside him. Their shoulders brushed—accidental, then not.
"Hayate," she said quietly. "Back there… you could have left."
"Yes."
"You didn't."
"No."
They walked on, the distance between them measured now in shared breath. Above, the stars sharpened, indifferent and constant.
As the city receded, Hayate felt the old loneliness try to return. He did not let it. He matched his stride to hers and chose the open road.
Behind them, Hoshinaga slept.
Ahead, the future waited—unmapped, dangerous, and alive.