The steady sounds of pestle crushing against mortar in a soothing pattern filled the medical ward.
Soutarou lay on a woven mat, his left hand draped across his eyes, blocking out the amber glow of lantern light.
His chest rose and fell in measured breaths, his body still, almost meditative.
The door burst open.
"Soutarou!"
Panicked footsteps pounded across the wooden floor. Sakura dropped to her knees beside Soutarou.
"Are you—" Her hands hovered over him, wanting to touch but afraid to hurt. "What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
Her voice cracked on the last word, fear barely contained beneath the surface.
"Don't worry, he's fine."
Tomohiro didn't look up from his work, the pestle continuing its steady grinding. The scent of medicinal herbs bitter, earthy thickened the air.
Soutarou kept his eyes closed, but he recognized their voices easily. Sakura's worried pitch. Tomohiro's calm pragmatism.
"He's actually more than fine," Tomohiro continued his tone carrying a hint of bewilderment.
"No broken bones. No cuts. I don't even think the blood on his uniform was even his, there's not so much as a scar remaining."
The grinding paused as Tomohiro finally looked at Soutarou studying him with clinical curiosity.
"Honestly, it's remarkable. Though based on what the new recruit said, he should be in critical condition but he is not."
Sakura's entire body sagged with relief, tension draining from her shoulders like water.
"Thank the Goddess," she breathed.
Then her fist drove into Soutarou's ribs.
CRACK.
"AHHH!" The shout came from everyone in the room simultaneously including Soutarou.
He rolled to his side, arms clutching his ribs, face contorted with sudden, sharp pain.
"Sakura!" Tomohiro's voice pitched up with horror. "You just broke his ribs! You're adding to my work!"
"I didn't" Sakura's hands flew to her mouth, face pale with shock. "I didn't mean to hit him that hard! If he wasn't so stubborn—none of this would have happened."
Soutarou sat up slowly, hissing through his teeth, one hand pressed against where she'd struck.
"That was painful, Sakura," he managed, voice strained.
"I'm sorry!" She reached for him, then pulled back, afraid to cause more damage. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—"
"Safe to say I was right."
Everyone froze.
The voice came from the doorway cold and satisfied.
Jojo stood framed in the entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable but his eyes hard as he surveyed the scene.
His gaze locked onto Soutarou with something between contempt and confirmation.
Soutarou kept his expression neutral.
"You let the demon go," Jojo said. Not a question. An accusation.
"I'm sure he did his best." Sakura began, voice defensive.
"All he had to do was alert us when he encountered it," Jojo cut her off. "Not engaged. A simple flare and we would have handled it."
"He didn't have a flare."
The quiet assertion turned every head in the room.
Miwaka sat up from where she'd been resting on another mat across the room, hands folded in her lap, eyes steady on Jojo despite the tremor Soutarou could see in her fingers.
"And the demon destroyed mine the moment I saw it," she continued, voice firm despite her obvious exhaustion. "We had no way to signal. We did what we could."
"You heard her," Sakura said, turning back to Jojo. Her expression had shifted the relief replaced by anger.
"They were cut off. They survived. That should be enough."
Jojo's gaze flicked to Miwaka, then back to Soutarou.
"If you need saving from a newbie and you can't kill demons," he said slowly, each word deliberate, cutting, "Then you're useless to us."
He turned to Tomohiro, dismissing Soutarou.
"Stop wasting your time on him."
Then he walked away.
Sakura's jaw clenched so hard Soutarou could hear her teeth grinding. She surged to her feet, hand flying to her katana's hilt.
"Stop."
Soutarou's hand caught her arm gently.
She spun on him, eyes blazing with protective fury.
"He can't just."
"He's right."
The words hung in the air.
Sakura stared at him, mouth opening in protest, then closing, then opening again, struggling to process what she'd heard.
"What?" Her voice came out small, hurt, like he'd struck her.
Soutarou released her arm and looked down at his hands calloused from years of training, empty of the power everyone expected.
"He's right," he repeated, voice quiet, resigned. "I couldn't kill it. I engaged and let it escape. Miwaka had to save me."
His eyes lifted to meet Sakura's, and there was something sad.
"I'm exactly what he says I am. A slayer who can't slay."
The defeat in his voice sounded genuine.
Sakura's anger crumbled, replaced by pity and sadness, the helpless ache of watching someone she cared about believe the cruel words thrown at them.
She sank back down beside him, hand reaching for his—hesitant, gentle.
"Sau..." Her voice broke slightly. "You survived. Against a Jōkyū. That's not nothing."
Across the room, Miwaka watched the exchange in silence, face carefully neutral, but her hands clenched in her lap.
She knew the truth.
She'd seen what he really was.
And watching him lie and diminish himself made something in her chest twist uncomfortably.
Tomohiro cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence.
"Well," he said, returning to his grinding with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, "useless or not, you're still my patient. So lie back down and let me check those ribs Sakura... just broke."
He shot Sakura with a pointed look.
"And you no more relieved punching."
Soutarou's lips twitched almost a smile.
He lay back down, hand returning to cover his eyes, and let Tomohiro examine the fresh damage.
Soutarou woke the next day to the soft sounds of healing quiet murmurs, the rustle of bandages, Tomohiro's steady footsteps moving between patients.
He sat up carefully, testing his ribs. Still tender, but the sharp pain had dulled to a manageable ache. He stood and retrieved his katana from where it rested against the wall.
"Tomohiro," he said quietly.
The healer paused mid-motion, a roll of bandages in his hands, and looked over.
"Thank you." Soutarou bowed slightly.
Tomohiro's expression softened just a fraction. "Just my job."
But something in his eyes suggested he'd heard those words less often than he should.
The morning air was crisp, the scent of smoke from the attack still lingering.
Workers swarmed the outer barracks, hauling away blackened timber.
The sound of wood scraping stone and distant hammering filled the air.
Soutarou walked through the organized chaos, anonymous in the crowd of activity.
Voices drifted toward him, two workers taking a brief rest, leaning against the intact wall.
"So no one knows why the demon attacked?" the first one said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Command's got nothing," the second replied, shaking his head. "They never even caught it. That Jōkyū just... vanished."
"I heard Inoue Soutarou was the first to find it." The first worker's tone carried skepticism. "That useless one. How'd he survive a Jōkyū?"
"Luck?" The second shrugged. "Or a new recruit saved him. A Fifth Class slayer."
One of them stopped mid-sentence, noticing Soutarou standing within earshot.
Their expressions shifted awkward, embarrassed but not apologetic.
Soutarou simply nodded once and walked away giving them nothing.
'Good. They still see the useless slayer.'