Ren slammed another bundle of shattered obsidian bamboo onto the growing pile.
The stalk exploded into black splinters.
He inhaled sharply.
Exhaled louder.
Inhaled again.
Like oxygen had personally betrayed him.
Orin wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.
"I hate him."
Shura, currently dragging a stalk twice his height and three times his pride, nodded solemnly.
"I already apologized."
Ren didn't even look at him.
"That apology," he said flatly, "had the emotional depth of a broken spoon."
Shura frowned.
"…What does that even mean?"
"It means," Ren snapped, "Master Juro cut an entire forest in half Just for Flexing."
The damage looked worse up close.
Obsidian bamboo didn't break easily.
It shattered.
Every cut was too clean.
Too precise.
Like something had passed through it that didn't belong here.
The forest didn't look destroyed.
It looked offended.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Ren didn't turn.
"If that's him again, I'm throwing this at his head."
Zenkyou emerged first, hands casually folded behind her head, boots crunching over shattered black shards.
She stopped.
Looked around slowly.
Then looked at them.
Then—
She laughed.
Not loud.
Not polite.
Just enough.
"…Oh," she said, blinking once. "You look terrible."
Ren turned slowly.
"Say that again."
Zenkyou leaned forward slightly, examining him like a questionable artifact.
"You," she said calmly, "look. Terrible."
Orin pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Why are you like this?"
Yura stepped past Zenkyou quietly, her gaze drifting across the damage.
She watched Shura struggle with the massive stalk.
Her eyes lit up—not with judgment.
With analysis.
"This is actually very effective training," she said sincerely. "Muscle endurance. Grip correction. Breathing under stress."
Shura almost dropped the bamboo.
"…I'm suffering."
Yura nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes. Very educational suffering."
Ren stared at her.
"You're not helping."
Before she could respond—
A familiar voice drifted from behind them.
"Since you're all gathered," Juro said pleasantly, hands tucked into his sleeves, "you might as well assist."
The forest went quiet.
Zenkyou froze mid-step.
"…Excuse me?"
Juro smiled gently.
"Cleaning builds character."
She turned slowly.
Too slowly.
Juro's survival instincts activated immediately.
He stepped back once.
Then twice.
"Now," he added carefully, "when I say assist, I of course mean—"
Zenkyou's aura flared.
The air vibrated.
Leaves lifted from the ground.
Ren blinked.
"…Is he about to die?"
Juro turned and ran.
"WAIT—"
Zenkyou launched after him.
"I'M KIDDING—" he shouted.
"YOU'RE CLEANING TOO—"
The mountain trembled.
Trees bent violently outward as they vanished into the distance.
A distant echo followed.
"HELP!"
Ren stared at the horizon.
"…Did Master just get chased across a mountain?"
Orin squinted.
"…Yes."
Yura clasped her hands peacefully.
"They will return."
Pause.
"…Eventually."
Shura slowly lowered the bamboo.
"…Should we help?"
Ren resumed stacking debris.
"No."
—
They stopped at the peak of a mountain far from the forest.
Wind howled against stone.
Above them, the Ceiling loomed—vast, unmoving, eternal.
Juro leaned against a rock, breathing slightly harder than dignity preferred.
Zenkyou stood beside him now, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
The humor had drained.
Silence stretched.
"…What is Shura?" Juro asked quietly.
Zenkyou didn't answer.
Wind moved her hair across her face.
Still silence.
Finally—
Zenkyou exhaled.
"You're asking the wrong question."
Juro glanced at her.
She didn't look at him.
"You keep asking what he is."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"…You should be asking why."
Juro's expression didn't change.
"Then tell me."
Zenkyou tilted her head slightly.
"He came from the sky."
Juro almost laughed
"Are you sure?"
Then she glanced at him sideways.
"I'm kidding."
The wind shifted.
Juro's gaze shifted.
It fell to the ring on Zenkyou's finger.
The wind quieted slightly.
"You should move on."
Her smile didn't fade.
"Maybe."
A beat.
"But echoes don't disappear just because you stop listening."
The mountain beneath them cracked slightly.
Not from power.
From pressure.
Juro opened one eye.
"…You're paying for that."
Zenkyou laughed softly.
Then vanished.
Juro stared at the fracture in the stone.
Some losses cannot be repaired.
Some don't leave the body.
They stay.
They reshape you.
And sometimes—
They return wearing a different name.
He pushed himself off the rock.
Far below, the forest waited.
And Shura was still cleaning.
Complaining.
Arguing.
Alive.
Unaware that somewhere above him—
Old wounds had begun to stir.
And something that should have stayed silent…
Had started listening again.