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Chapter Text

The Honmaru was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. But the shadows stretched longer than they should have—reaching ahead of the light, like they’d moved before the sun could catch up. The light felt… one beat too slow.

Akashi Kuniyuki sat cross-legged near the window, his dual-hued irises reflecting the amber sunset. Dressed in his fieldwork attire—a black singlet and tracksuit pants—he leaned against the wall with his sword resting beside him. His posture was relaxed, but his mind was elsewhere.

He had been feeling it more frequently lately—a weariness that settled deep within his bones. Not the fatigue of training, not the aches of a long mission. This was something more insidious. Heavy. Residual.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Hotarumaru. The youngest of their trio. The memory of that loss—distant, submerged, but never quite gone—returned like a weight tied to his chest. Akashi had failed him once.

He still felt it in his spine.

Late the previous night, when all was quiet, Akashi had scoured texts and records in secret corners of the Honmaru—places not meant to be opened. The possibility of reversing time. Of preserving what was lost. Dangerous thoughts. Reckless ones. But—

His ears had caught a faint shuffle.

He turned. Nothing.

Then again—a creak. A footfall. Behind him.

But no one was there.

The sound had repeated once, exactly the same. Then stopped.

Akashi stayed still, breath caught for a heartbeat. Just the house settling, maybe. But the silence that followed pressed in too tightly—

“Akashi, are you even listening?” snapped Aizen, his voice cutting through the quiet like flint on steel. His fiery red eyes narrowed with impatience.

Akashi didn’t flinch. “I’m listening. Haven’t heard anything useful yet,” he drawled, slipping easily into the cadence of dismissal. The old shield. Too well worn.

Hotarumaru stood a little apart, observing with mild concern. His small hands rested at his sides, oversized sword tucked against his back. “Maybe we should focus on planning our formation for the upcoming mission,” he offered, gentle but clear.

There was a pause.

Then, softly: “Maybe we should focus on planning our formation—”

He blinked. Hadn’t he just said that?

Aizen frowned. “You already said that.”

A faint shimmer passed behind Hotarumaru’s words. Gone before they could speak of it.

Aizen shrugged it off. “Whatever. Point is, I’m not dragging dead weight again.”

Akashi sat up slowly. “I don’t slack off. I just prioritize,” he said, almost as if reciting something practiced.

Before Aizen could bark a reply, the Honmaru vibrated faintly—a hum that wasn’t wind or wood or warning. Then, a sharp tone cracked the quiet.

They all turned toward it. A glowing slit of light appeared mid-air, humming with unrest.

From within, their leader’s voice filtered out, calm and exact:

“To the Rai swords: Temporal anomaly confirmed. Prepare for deployment.”

The message ended cleanly.

Aizen was already moving, tension flashing down his spine. “Finally. I was getting restless.”

Akashi sighed. “Again with the rushing…”

“This isn’t about you anymore,” Aizen snapped. “We don’t get to choose when the world starts falling apart.”

They moved to dress—gear laced, swords checked. Akashi’s fingers fumbled slightly on the strap of his glovelettes—just for a second. Then, inexplicably, the motion rewound–like time itself had brushed it away and placed his hand back where it began.

Hotarumaru glanced his way. “Be careful,” he said softly.

Akashi offered a faint smile. “I always am.” Then, he winked and gave an exaggerated yawn. “But if I get tired halfway through, you’re both carrying me out.”

Hotarumaru nodded brightly. “Okay.”

Aizen rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

The rift shimmered before them like water strung between stars—glittering and pulsing in silence.

Aizen stepped through first, blade out, every line in his posture tight. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.

Hotarumaru paused at the threshold. “It feels… sad,” he murmured. “Like something’s been hurting for a long time.”

Akashi stayed a half-step back, eyes fixed on the distortion. It shimmered once—then again, slightly out of sync.

Like a heartbeat too many.

There was no sound. But inside his chest, something echoed.

Not fear. Not yet.

Recognition.

The rift felt like breath caught in a mirror. Like a reflection that blinked before he did.

He didn’t have a name for it. Just a tension behind his ribs, like something unfinished waiting to surface.

“Spacing out on us, old man?” Aizen called, half-serious.

Hotarumaru’s eyes were wide with worry.

Akashi let a smirk rise. “Just thinking how we always get the fun jobs.”

Whatever waited beyond, he’d deal with it—even if something about the rift felt too familiar. Too close. Like he was already standing inside it. 

Like it knew him.

He stepped forward, the shimmer swallowing him whole.

Behind him, the shadow of a second ripple lingered in the air
—lagging, watching
—then vanished. 

Chapter Text

They emerged into twilight.

A battlefield suspended between eras—early Sengoku bleeding into something wrong. The hills were steep and overgrown, but broken by rising structures that didn’t belong: fragments of ruined tanks half-buried in soil, craters scorched with modern firepower.

Temporal bleed.

Steel and gunpowder. Ashigaru and shadows of soldiers from centuries ahead.

Aizen whistled low. “Well. This place is a mess.”

Hotarumaru turned slowly, his eyes full of quiet wonder. “Time doesn’t know where it is.”

Akashi’s hand was already at his blade, eyes narrowing. “No. Someone’s making it forget.”

The wind shifted.

Then they saw them—emerging from the haze: corrupted spirits in disjointed armor, their forms flickering with temporal static. Some wore rusted samurai armor fused with pieces of modern gear. Others were worse—distorted shades of real warriors from different times, dragged here and twisted.

And behind them, further down the slope, stood a shadowy figure unmoving. Its presence pressed against the edges of the air, like gravity bending the moment.

Hotarumaru stepped a little closer to Akashi without a word.

Aizen grinned, blade already drawn. “Looks like we’ve got a welcoming party.” He crouched near a broken tree root, eyes scanning ahead like a predator. “Ugly bunch. Sloppy formation. Easy pickings if we move fast.”

Hotarumaru stood beside Akashi, expression calm, hands gently resting on the hilt of his massive ōdachi. “They don’t belong here. It’s… sad.”

Akashi stared down the hill, heart steady but heavy.

But somewhere beneath that steadiness, something twisted—tight, restrained, familiar.

Let them come, he thought. Let them all come. I’ll take every blow before it reaches them.

Whatever this is—I end it here.

The three took formation—Akashi just slightly ahead, Aizen to his right, Hotarumaru to the left but within reach.

The corrupted warriors surged up the slope, weapons clashing, time-worn cries echoing like ghostly thunder. Their movements were unstable—some too fast, others dragging behind like a broken reel of film. Unnatural. Jagged. One flickered in place—jerking like a broken frame— before resuming its charge, time stuttering in its wake.

But the Rais were ready.

Akashi vanished from his position before the enemy’s front line reached them, his body a blur of motion—flickering between the corrupted soldiers like a phantom wind. His tachi flashed once, twice—clean strikes that severed limbs and armor with frightening precision.

Aizen rushed in right behind him, fire in his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Keep up, lazybones!” he called, blade darting in tight, vicious arcs.

“Already ahead of you,” Akashi murmured, reappearing just behind Aizen to deflect a spear aimed at the younger sword’s back. The spear shattered under the parry, the shockwave kicking up dust around them.

From the rear left, Hotarumaru advanced—not rushing, not reckless. Just steady.

His steps were deliberate. His sword, too large for someone so small, moved with slow grace—until it struck.

CRACK.

A single overhead swing shattered two enemies mid-charge, temporal distortion tearing around them as the echoes of their borrowed time screamed away into the sky.

Hotarumaru’s eyes stayed soft. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I hope you find peace.”

Aizen threw him a glance. “That thing’s still terrifying, Hotaru.”

Akashi, dodging a barrage of blades, called, “Keep it going! You hit harder than the both of us combined.”

They moved as separate rhythms—wind, fire, earth—but slowly, a beat began to form between them.

Hotarumaru moved before Akashi even called. A parry to Aizen’s exposed side. A pivot that gave Akashi his next angle.

Three blades, one rhythm.

They didn’t need to shout formations anymore—they moved like echoes of the same thought.

Aizen, ever charging, began to anticipate Akashi’s sudden appearances—ducking without needing to be warned. Akashi, weaving between enemies, subtly shifted foes into Aizen’s path, trusting the younger blade to finish them off.

And Hotarumaru stayed near—never quite behind, never far ahead—catching stragglers with clean, heavy swings. When Aizen lunged too far, Hotarumaru stepped in to shield his side. When Akashi retreated too fast, Hotarumaru’s quiet presence grounded the line.

A trio of corrupted warriors charged together—one from each direction.

Akashi blinked across the field in a flash, slicing the forward enemy’s legs out from under him. Aizen, spinning off Akashi’s feint, leapt over the staggered foe and drove his blade into the second. And Hotarumaru brought his great sword down with a whisper.

“Goodnight.”

The third dissolved into light and dust.

Then—

Silence.

The first wave was done.

Breathing hard, Aizen leaned on his knees. “Okay… okay, that was kinda good.”

Hotarumaru looked between them, cheeks faintly pink with exertion. “You both worked really well in tandem this time.”

Akashi rolled his shoulder with a quiet grunt. “First time for everything.” Then, without meaning to, the corners of his mouth curved—just a little.

Aizen caught it. “Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“Totally was.”

Hotarumaru giggled softly. “It was nice.”

Before anyone could tease further, the ground beneath them trembled. A deep, echoing thrum passed through the hillside—like the world skipped a beat and then caught up too fast.

Akashi’s smile vanished. “That wasn’t the last of them.”

Aizen straightened, blade ready again. “Well, we’re warmed up now.”

Hotarumaru tightened his grip and nodded. “We’ll stay together.”

Akashi didn’t argue. He only nodded once. 

Chapter Text

The three Rai swords stood still amid the fading light of the battlefield. The battlefield crackled with fractured time, ash stirring at their feet—but no new enemies came.

Akashi shifted slightly, narrowing his eyes. “It’s too quiet.”

Aizen straightened, flicking ichor from his blade. “Maybe the anomaly finally ran out of shadows to throw.”

Hotarumaru stepped closer, scanning the horizon. “It doesn’t feel over.”

A beat.

And then—

The world snapped.

A burst of air punched outward—silent and immediate. Not wind. Not magic.

Just absence.

A figure stood where there had been nothing.

No warning. No shimmer. No sound.

Just presence.

A boy—no, a reflection—wild red eyes gleaming, a grin spreading across his face like fire through parchment. The air around him shimmered—not with heat, but with something volatile. Momentum held just before detonation.

Aizen’s breath caught. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The double blinked lazily. Then, like waking into a spotlight, it chuckled—low and familiar. “Look at you. All bottled up. All behaved.” It dragged its blade along the ground, sparks trailing. “What a waste.”

Hotarumaru’s voice tightened. “It’s you. But… not you.”

Akashi’s fingers twitched toward his sword. “Echo,” he murmured. “Pulled from a possibility. A path you never walked.”

The corrupted Aizen’s gaze drifted past his counterpart—to Hotarumaru.

“And here’s the golden one,” he said, his voice curling into a sneer. “The favourite. Tell me, mirror-me—how’s it feel? Watching Akashi fuss over him like you’re just the spare blade on the rack?”

Hotarumaru’s breath hitched.

Aizen’s jaw locked. “Shut up.”

But the echo just laughed. “He’d dive into hell for him. You? He’ll let you burn.”

Aizen’s grip tightened on his hilt.

“Akashi,” he said, low and sharp. “Don’t hold me back.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Akashi replied, eyes narrowed.

The corrupted Aizen flared his arms theatrically. “You always wanted to burn brighter. You just never had the courage.”

Then he moved.

Not like a swordsman.

Like a wildfire.

Blades clashed in a burst of orange light as Aizen met his double head-on. Where the real Aizen fought with control, the echo struck without hesitation—no rhythm, no guard. Just relentless offense.

“You hesitate,” the double spat. “That’s your flaw.”

Aizen’s blade jerked up. His breath hitched. “It’s called control.”

Akashi ducked behind them, intercepting a slash aimed at Hotarumaru. “He’s not just fast,” he muttered. “He’s what happens when fire forgets what it’s burning for.”

Hotarumaru steadied himself. “Like Aizen when he skips breakfast.”

“I heard that!” Aizen hissed—but his breath was ragged now.

The corrupted version’s grin widened. “You’ll never match me. Deep down, you want what he gets.” His chin jerked toward Hotarumaru. “And you hate yourself for it.”

“SHUT—UP!” Aizen roared, the heat in his voice shattering into something raw and helpless.

Akashi’s expression sharpened. This echo wasn’t just strong. It was getting to him.

“Trade off!” Akashi ordered.

Aizen disengaged without hesitation.

Akashi flickered in—quick, surgical. A feint left, a flash right—his blade carved a clean line across the echo’s side.

Hotarumaru followed, his swing deliberate—knocking the double off balance.

“Aizen!” Akashi barked. “Now!”

Aizen surged back in—his blade a comet. Their final strike landed together, Aizen’s blade punching through his double’s chest.

The echo screamed—and shattered.

Silence.

Ash scattered into the wind.

Akashi turned—eyes only for his brothers.

Aizen stood trembling, blade lowered. Pale.

“Aizen,” Akashi said, firm but soft.

Aizen didn’t respond.

Hotarumaru reached out. “Are you okay?”

Aizen’s knuckles had turned white on his hilt. His voice, when it came, was raw. “I hated that thing.”

Akashi gave a faint nod. “We know. That’s why you beat him. And you did well.”

Aizen looked up. The fire was gone—only fear remained. “But what if I become that? What if one day… I stop holding back?”

For half a breath, Akashi looked at where the echo had stood.
Not with pity. Not even sorrow.
Just the quiet weight of knowledge.
That he’d never asked Aizen what it felt like to burn—quietly, constantly—alone.

He opened his mouth to say—something.

Just a few words. Enough to let Aizen know he hadn’t been second. That it wasn’t about choosing.

That maybe it was his fault for not knowing how to hold on without breaking apart.

But then the air shifted again.

A ripple, soft but wrong, cut across the battlefield.

Akashi’s spine went taut.

No time to process.

No time to comfort.

Beside him, Hotarumaru went still—eyes wide.

Another figure stepped through the fold.

Smaller.

Softer.

Smiling.

Akashi’s blood chilled.

Not because he feared the next fight.

But because this shadow wore Hotarumaru’s face.

And smiled like it had forgotten what warmth was.

Chapter Text

A whistle echoed through the fog—high, strange, and almost playful.
Akashi’s gut twisted.
Hotarumaru’s fingers tightened around his oversized odachi.

From the mist stepped a smaller figure. Familiar. Too familiar.
Same delicate build. Same pale hair. Same too-large sword.
But the eyes were too wide—glass-bright and glowing. And the smile…
Empty.

The corrupted version tilted his head, smile curling too wide, too still. “I was forgotten,” he murmured. “Left to sink where no one could hear me.”

His voice lilted upward, almost sing-song—but something trembled beneath it. “I called out. Again and again. You didn’t answer. So I stopped calling.”

Akashi stepped forward without hesitation, sliding between Hotarumaru and the double. His blade was down, but his stance was firm.

“Don’t listen,” he said tightly. “He’s not you.”

“But I was,” the corrupted one cooed. “I remember the silence. The cold. The way you turned away—like I was never really there.”

He turned toward Akashi now, smile stretching tighter. “You knew I was fading. You felt it.”

Akashi flinched.

Aizen’s head snapped up. “Knew what?”

Akashi didn’t answer.

The corrupted Hotarumaru's voice dropped—whisper-soft. “I waited for your voice. Both of you. I thought I was just asleep. That you'd wake me.”

He blinked slowly, like recalling a dream he didn’t trust. “But no one ever came. You let the sea have me. So I became all that was left. ”

Then he charged. Fast. No warning—just motion.

 He moved like someone remembering how to fight from muscle memory—jerky, too fast, too forceful.
The ground cracked beneath him as he swung his odachi—his too-large blade now unnervingly graceful in his hands.

Akashi dodged—but he was a heartbeat late, thrown off both by shock and hesitation. The blade raked across his ribs.

Pain flared. Blood sprayed.

“Kuniyuki!” Hotarumaru gasped, running to him.

“I’m fine,” Akashi growled through clenched teeth, staggering back. “Stay behind—”

“You’re not fine!” Aizen shouted, flying forward and skidding to a halt in front of his brothers. He pointed his blade at the smiling thing that wore Hotarumaru’s face. “Back off, freakshow!”

The corrupted Hotarumaru blinked. The smile faltered—just for a moment.
“Freakshow…?” he echoed. Not offended.
Just… puzzled.

His head tilted, eyes wide with something too hollow to be genuine surprise. “You always shouted so much,” he said sweetly. “But not when it mattered.”

His gaze drifted toward Aizen’s blade. “Even now… you raise your voice louder than your heart.”

The real Hotarumaru was trembling. Not from fear—but rage.

“You’re not me,” he said. Quiet. Cold.

The corrupted version blinked. “I tried to be. I held on to everything I was. Every song. Every story. Every step beside you.”
His voice cracked—then reassembled itself into that same smiling lilt. “But the silence got louder than your names.”

Hotarumaru stepped forward, past Aizen’s shoulder. “You’re the one who was left behind. I’m not.”
His hands tightened on the hilt. “I have them. And I’m not alone.”

The corrupted double flinched—just barely. Then, faster than before, he lunged.

Hotarumaru surged ahead—grief sharpening into resolve.
His sword cleaved through the next strike cleanly—massive, bright, unwavering. Sparks flew as the echo reeled, stumbling back in confusion.

Aizen moved in beside him, fire tight behind his eyes. “You don’t get to touch them again.”

Akashi—bleeding, breath short—vanished forward in a blur of motion.

The three of them struck in concert: Aizen from the flank, Hotarumaru from above, Akashi from behind.
A shatter of light.

The corrupted Hotarumaru staggered—eyes wide, not with pain, but surprise.
As his body cracked, light pouring through his form like spilled memory, he looked to the real Hotarumaru.

“I waited,” he whispered. “So long.”

And Hotarumaru—quiet, aching—answered him.
“I know. I’m sorry.”

The echo let out a soundless breath—less a scream, more a sigh.
Like a child finally releasing a cry he held in too long.

Then he fractured.
Ash scattered in the wind, too soft to be hatred.

Just memory, letting go.

Silence fell again.

Akashi stood there, chest heaving. His blade lowered slowly, but his eyes didn’t. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Then, his knees buckled, and sweat beaded at his brow.

Aizen knelt beside him, already starting to wrap a cloth around his torso. “You’re bleeding out.”

Hotarumaru grabbed his sleeve, his expression fierce and gentle all at once.
“You got hurt because of me…” he whispered, fingers trembling where they touched Akashi’s arm.
“I should’ve moved faster. I should’ve—”

Akashi reached out and rested his hand lightly over Hotarumaru’s. “It’s not your fault.”

He looked at them both—Aizen with his fire, Hotarumaru with his quiet strength.
For a breath—he wished he hadn’t lent his blade to Hotarumaru’s double’s destruction.

He opened his mouth to speak—
But the ground shuddered.
A deeper pulse.

Not the earth, not the rift.

Something inside him shifted—like a memory waking from the wrong side of time.

He didn’t need to look to know what it was.

The air behind them thickened.

Hotarumaru’s breath caught.

And then—step by step—a figure emerged.
Tall. Calm. Cold-eyed.

Akashi’s own face looked back at him.
Only this time…
There was no mask left to wear.
Just truth.

 And the weight of everything he couldn’t undo.

Chapter Text

The battlefield lay broken—split by fire, by grief, by too many truths rising at once. The air itself had gone still, like it feared what came next.

Akashi stood with one arm pressed to his side, blood still seeping through the cloth wrapped hastily around his wound. Hotarumaru and Aizen stood nearby, their forms steady but wearied. The shadow that had begun to form before them thickened—not violent, but patient. Like something long submerged that finally chose to rise.

And then it rose—slowly, deliberately—from the smoke.

Him.

The figure who stepped forward shared his build, his posture, even the looseness in his shoulders. But his face was wrong—drained of warmth, lined instead with old, exhausted sorrow. His eyes were heavy, not with rage like Aizen’s double, or abandonment like Hotarumaru’s, but with grief.

Unending, bone-deep grief.

Akashi didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Sword hanging in his left—the way Akashi always preferred but rarely revealed. A mirror that had stared too long into a tragedy it could never undo.

The doppelganger tilted his head in idle curiosity, regarding them for a long moment.
“So this is what I should become. Loyal. Tired. Bleeding for people I swore I’d never care about.”

Hotarumaru edged out from behind Akashi, brushing his sleeve.
“That’s not you,” he said, but something in his voice trembled.

The doppelganger flicked his gaze towards Hotarumaru, and something seemed to break in his expression.
“I tried to save him,” the doppelgänger rasped, voice like ash. “To stop the waves from taking him. I broke time to rewrite that moment.”

So this is where it leads, Akashi thought.
Not if I failed to protect them. But if I tried too hard.
If I gave in to the fantasy that I could undo the past without losing myself.

His double’s gaze lingered on Hotarumaru.
“I tore time itself apart for you. And no one stopped me—until it was too late.”

Hotarumaru stood frozen, his lips parting, the light flickering in his wide eyes.

Akashi’s breath caught in his throat.

I thought about it.
Every time I dreamed of the sea swallowing him—
Every time I stared at those records. Wondering if I should try.
Wondering if I could save him this time.

“That’s why you turned?” he asked, voice hoarse.

The corrupted version smiled—slow, weary. “No. I turned because no one let me.”

Akashi stared at the face that should have been his. The lines were all familiar, but worn—like a sword left too long in battle, never sharpened, never rested.

And yet, it wasn’t disgust or anger that stirred in him.

Just… recognition.

You’re me… he realised. If I’d let grief decide who I become.
If I’d let the guilt fester just a little longer.
If I’d crossed that line and told myself it was worth it.
You’re not a monster. You’re a warning.

Aizen stepped forward, blade raised. “We’re not going to let you rewrite history. No matter how much it hurts.”

The double’s mournful gaze shifted to the tantou. Something like anguish crossed his features.

Akashi lifted his arm to hold Aizen back. “No. This one’s mine.”

Hotarumaru reached for him instinctively. “But you’re—”
He caught himself, jaw tight. “You’re bleeding, Kuniyuki…”

Aizen’s brows furrowed. “You can’t take him alone. Not like this.”

Akashi didn’t argue. He only moved—slowly, deliberately—sliding his sword from his right hand… to his left.

Hotarumaru’s eyes widened. “He’s switching hands…”

Aizen’s mouth parted, stunned. “That’s where his real strength is—”

The wind shifted.

Before they could protest further, Akashi and his doppelgänger vanished.

Steel clashed. Faster than before. Harder. Cleaner.

They moved as one—each strike met with its twin, every parry a perfect echo. But there was no thrill in the duel. No triumph.

Only pain.

Each blow felt like cutting through reflection, through memory, through regret.

This isn’t just a duel. It’s a reckoning.
Not to prove I’m stronger—
But to say: I didn’t go that far. And I won’t.

“You hesitate,” the corrupted Akashi snarled mid-swing. “Because you know I was right.”

Akashi's grip tightened. “No,” he murmured, voice low but clear. “I hesitate because I understand you.”

Every strike is a step I almost took.
Every movement—a version of the choice I didn’t make.
I wanted to save him too. Gods, I still do.

“You tried to save him,” Akashi continued, parrying a downward arc. “You reached too far back. You drowned in it. And I… I see it now.”

A flicker passed across his double’s face. A crack in the mask.

Another strike. A shift. A stagger.
He could feel it now—not just resistance, but sorrow.

“You broke because no one reached back. But I’m here now. I see you.”

His double faltered—just a breath.

His injured side roared with pain. His breath was ragged. But his grip with his left hand held—sure, unshaken.

No more running. No more avoidance.

“And I forgive you,” he whispered.
“Akashi Kuniyuki.”

Their eyes locked.

His blade glowed—no longer a weapon, but a promise.
“Shinken hissatsu,” he breathed—and vanished.

Then time caught up.

Akashi’s blade carved through—clean, precise. Not rage. Mercy. A strike of absolution.

The doppelgänger gasped, then staggered back, looking down at the spreading wound with no surprise—only relief… and peace.

For a moment, time stood still again.

The doppelganger’s weary eyes drifted to Hotarumaru and Aizen, and softened as the gaze lingered. Then he turned—one last time—to meet Akashi’s own staring, sorrow-filled gaze.

“You let go,” the double whispered. “You did what I couldn’t.”

A small, quiet smile touched his lips.
“Thank you,” he murmured.

Akashi managed a nod.

And with that, his form blackened—scattering like crumbling ash on the wind.

He was gone, leaving behind nothing but silence.

Leave me to carry the rest.
So no one else has to.

There was a path Akashi would still have to walk. 

But not alone. 

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Ash floated gently in the air, catching in the folds of Aizen’s sleeves and the edge of Hotarumaru’s coat. Neither moved.

Around them, the world seemed to be righting itself again. 

Akashi stood alone, blade lowered, eyes locked on the place where his double had vanished—nothing left of him but a shimmer in the stillness.

The air was still.

No roar, no grief, no echo of a final strike.

Only silence — wide and waiting.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t chase the image.

Just stood, until the stillness settled inside him too.

Hotarumaru was the first to reach him. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, small fingers curling around the edge of Akashi’s sleeve.

Steady.

Real.

Aizen followed a moment later, silent now, his fire banked.

“You’re shaking,” Aizen said.

“I’m tired,” Akashi muttered.

But they could hear it in his voice—it wasn’t just fatigue. The wound on his side bled through the layers of his uniform, each breath thin and ragged. Slowly, he dropped to one knee.

Hotarumaru’s brow creased. “You’re worse than you said—why didn’t you—?”

“Because if I stopped…” Akashi said quietly, “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

His voice drifted, eyes still locked on the space his double had left behind. And then—finally—his shoulders sagged, like something inside him had cracked loose.

“I saw it,” he murmured. “What would have happened… if I let grief eat me alive.”

The confession hovered.

Then his voice dropped, barely audible.

“After the Pacific War… there were reports. That Hotarumaru—you—was lost. That your real blade had sunk and would never be found.”

Hotarumaru blinked. “What…?”

Akashi kept his gaze on the ground. 

“I thought of changing it. And I would have… had it not been for him .”

Aizen didn’t speak right away. But his breath caught.

His grip shifted slightly on the hilt still sheathed at his waist.

When he looked back at Akashi, the anger that once lived there was gone.

“You let me think it was just laziness,” Aizen said, voice low. “Like you didn’t care.”

Akashi flinched.

“You always looked like you were miles away,” Aizen went on, not bitter now—just tired. “And I… I hated you for it. I thought you were just leaving us behind.”

“I never left,” Akashi whispered. “But I didn’t know how to stay, either. Not without dragging you both into the wreck I couldn’t stop reliving.”

Aizen stepped forward. The silence between them shifted—not sharp, but heavy. Full of something closer to understanding.

“You’re still an idiot,” Aizen said, voice cracking. “But now at least I get it.”

Akashi looked at him then. Truly looked. And for once—he didn’t look away.

“I never told anyone,” Akashi said. “I thought if I locked it away… I could pretend it wasn’t real. But the fear of losing him again…”  his voice cracked as he turned his head to look over at Hotarumaru, “… never left me.”

He glanced back at Aizen. “And I hated that I… drifted away from you, too.”

Hotarumaru’s fingers clenched where they held his sleeve.

“You kept that to yourself… all this time?”

Akashi gave a small nod. “I couldn’t bear to see that joy leave your face. Even when I struck your echo down, I still saw the boy I couldn’t save.”

He looked at Hotarumaru, gaze finally steady.

“But I see now… you’re here. Alive. And stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”

Hotarumaru’s eyes filled with tears. “You never lost me.” His grip tightened. “You just needed to look.”

Akashi looked down again, then turned to Aizen, voice softer still.

“And you— You’re just as important to me as he is. It would break me if I had to lose you too.”

Aizen’s eyes shimmered.

“You idiot… you should’ve told us. You shouldn’t have carried that alone.”

Akashi managed a faint smile. The tension bled out of his shoulders like breath.

He breathed in—sharp, slow.

The pain was still there. So was the weight. But something else had settled in its place.

Not peace.

But something closer to permission.

I don’t have to fix what’s already gone , he thought. Just hold onto what’s still here.

“Too late to yell at me now,” he said out loud. 

Then—his body gave out.

They caught him before he could fall. Hotarumaru beneath one arm, Aizen on the other side.

“Easy, easy,” Aizen muttered, tightening his grip.

“You’re not dying after all that,” he snapped, voice trembling at the edges.

“Not planning to,” Akashi rasped. “Just… let me sleep until next spring…”

“Like hell we will.”

Hotarumaru gave a wet laugh, half-choked on relief.

Between them, they held him up.

The rift shimmered before them, light rising like dawn.

Together, they stepped through—three blades, three hearts, scarred and stitched together by pain, truth, and the love that chose to stay.

The Honmaru awaited—
And beyond it, a future they’d face together.

And behind them, the stillness faded with the fog.

Chapter Text

Time – Citadel Spring

Sunlight filtered gently through the shoji doors of the infirmary. Outside, cherry blossoms had begun to bloom, their pale pink petals drifting on the breeze like the final remnants of battle scattered into peace.

Inside, Akashi sat propped up in his futon, a cup of tea cooling on the table beside him—untouched.

Not because he was in pain.
Well… not just that.

It was because every time he so much as shifted, Hotarumaru appeared at his side with wide, worried eyes, as if a simple movement might reopen every wound.

“I told you, I’m not about to bleed out mid-blink,” Akashi mumbled, trying—and failing—not to sound ungrateful.

Hotarumaru puffed his cheeks. “You lost consciousness for two whole days! You don’t get to act like a stubbed toe is the same as a sword gash.”

Then, the boy sat curled at the edge of his futon, reading aloud softly from a picture book he insisted was “calming.”

From the other side of the room, Aizen strode in with a tray. “Herbal paste. For your ribs. Also, food. Eat this or I will personally feed it to you with my dagger.”

Akashi squinted. “Is that legal?”

Aizen plopped the tray onto his lap, ignoring him. “Eat. Rest. Shut up.”

Akashi sighed and took the food. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but… it wasn’t bad being looked after. He felt warm. Cared for.

…And deeply, deeply awkward.

He glanced between the two younger Rais as they quietly bustled about, bickering about who had folded the blankets wrong and whether Akashi had snuck out of bed when they weren’t looking (he had, once).

Hotarumaru, having given up on the idea of reading aloud, gently closed the picture book and stood up, stretching.

“I’ll go get more tea,” he said, voice soft. “Call if you need anything.”

Akashi gave a small nod. “Just the teacups this time, alright?”

Hotarumaru giggled, then slipped out with a rustle of the door.

He was used to dodging affection, not drowning in it.

Used to long silences, naps in the sunlight, letting life pass without ever having to explain why he kept things close.

He used to treasure the quiet—because no one could ask what he was hiding in it.

Now, those silences were gone.

Now, Aizen folded laundry in the corner with the deadly precision of someone who had nearly seen a loved one die and was trying very hard not to say how close it had been.

And Akashi…

Akashi lay there with his chest bound, his dominant arm still sore, and thought to himself:
I kind of want things to go back to normal.

Not because he didn’t appreciate it.

But because this version of normal—this closeness—meant he wasn’t just the lazy one anymore.
He was someone they cared about.
Someone they worried for.

Someone who could break.

And more than anything, made his heart ache—not from fear, but from how much it mattered now.

Truth didn’t sit easily yet. But he was learning to let it.

He glanced up, sensing Aizen’s approach—grumbling under his breath, blanket in hand, like it was just another chore.

“You know,” Akashi said quietly, “I remember when you used to glare at me if I so much as blinked too slow.”

Aizen didn’t stop folding, but his brow twitched. “I still do.”

Akashi chuckled, winced. “Not the same.”

There was a pause. Aizen set the blanket down and crossed his arms. “Back then, I didn’t know if I could rely on you. Or if you even wanted to be here.”

Akashi glanced down. “I didn’t know either.”

Aizen shifted his weight. “You didn’t let me break.”

Akashi blinked, then shrugged. “You didn’t let me, either.”

“Tch.” Aizen looked away. “Well. One of us had to hold the line.”

Akashi smiled faintly. “Guess we both did.”

A pause. Softer now, almost easy.

Then Aizen muttered, “Don’t make it weird.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then, casually: “Tell anyone we had a moment, and I’ll fake a relapse.”

Aizen gave him a flat stare. “Try it and I’ll push you back into the blankets.”

Akashi smirked.

For a moment, silence again—this time easy, light.

Then—

Interlude: Hotarumaru’s Cozy Crusade

“Put that down, Hotaru!”

Aizen glared across the room, fists clenched, as Hotarumaru stubbornly tried to drape a triple-layered fleece blanket over Akashi—who was currently wilting beneath the accumulated heat of approximately six other blankets, a heated stone, and possibly a cat someone had snuck in.

“I read that warmth is crucial to recovery!” Hotarumaru protested, clutching the blanket like a defensive shield.

“He’s sweating through his bandages!”

“I’m fine,” came Akashi’s muffled voice from somewhere deep beneath the folds. “Warm. Cozy. Becoming a steamed bun.”

Aizen stormed over, pulling back a corner of the blanket pyramid. “You’re turning into soup.”

Akashi blinked up at him through the haze. “Soup is efficient nutrition.”

“Get up.”

“I can’t. There’s too much blanket. I live here now.”

Hotarumaru giggled.

Aizen looked five seconds from detonating.

Akashi—blissfully unbothered—closed his eyes again. “Wake me up when the Honmaru needs saving.”

Aizen dropped the blanket with a grunt. “If you die of heatstroke, I’m leaving you there.”

“Thanks, kid. Love you too.”

Hotarumaru laughed harder.

Chapter Text

A few days later

The courtyard shimmered with early morning sun as Aizen and Hotarumaru stood at the ready, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Akashi… was on a bench.

Watching.

Still wrapped in light bandages, he tilted his head and lazily popped a grape into his mouth as the two circled each other.

“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Aizen asked Hotarumaru.

The smaller sword gave a brilliant, almost mischievous smile. “You weren’t the only one who got stronger.”

Akashi smirked. “Try not to flatten the courtyard this time.”

Aizen huffed. “You’re just mad you can’t spar yet.”

“Not mad,” Akashi replied, reclining further. “Just enjoying the show.”

They clashed—fast, clean, rhythmic.

It was different now. Not two swords trying to outdo the other, but two brothers pushing each other with trust and intent. Their footwork was in harmony. Their strikes timed. Where one flowed, the other answered.

Akashi watched with a twinge in his chest.

Pride. And longing.

But mostly, peace.

“Guess I don’t need to babysit you anymore,” he muttered to himself.

Then paused.

“…Still not letting you near the kitchen, though.”

From across the courtyard, Aizen shouted, “I heard that, KUNIYUKI!”

Hotarumaru, laughing mid-swing, nearly lost his footing.

Akashi smiled again, closing his eyes against the warm breeze. Yeah… this was good.

***

Later, when the others were asleep—Hotarumaru curled like a kitten beside the still-glowing hearth, Aizen slumped half-off his floor mat, snoring faintly—Akashi sat alone in the corridor outside their room.

The citadel was quiet. Night pressed against the paper walls, cool and weightless.

His hand rested against his bandaged side. The pain had dulled to a low pulse, like a heartbeat he could no longer feel properly.

He didn’t mind the pain.

It reminded him that he’d come back.

But as the wind stirred gently past the bamboo slats, his thoughts returned—inevitably—to the one who hadn’t.

The other him.

The one who had endured every ounce of vitriol Aizen’s warped echo had hurled against him.

The one who had stared at Hotarumaru not as he was, but as something already lost.

The one who had tried to rewrite time, believing no one else would.

The distortion had sealed itself behind them. Whatever fragment of that broken self lingered in the void, it could no longer reach this place. But the echo remained.

He had survived by burying grief. His double hadn’t.
But in shattering, that echo had given him what silence never could.
A reason to step forward.

Akashi exhaled, eyes tracing the shadows across the floor.

“I understand now,” he whispered to the stillness. “You weren’t just what I feared I could become.”

His fingers curled slightly in his lap.

“You were what I could’ve become. And in showing me that… you saved me .”

It hurt to admit. But he had to.

Because in the clash of mirrored blades and mirrored grief, he had seen the full path laid bare. And turned from it.

“You couldn’t stop yourself,” he murmured, softer now. “But because of you… I did.”

He thought of what he’d said—just before the final strike.
Not a battle cry. Not a condemnation.
Just a name.

“Akashi Kuniyuki.”

Not to claim it for himself—
But to give it back.

To remind the other who he’d been—
And to let him rest from who he could no longer be.

A name offered not with sorrow, but with mercy.
And in that final naming, he’d meant it:
You are still part of me. But you don’t have to carry it anymore.

A breeze passed through the corridor—cool, clean, and kind.

And for just a moment, Akashi let himself imagine:

A shadow standing nearby, no longer lost.

A weight finally lifted.

A sorrow finally seen.

“Rest now,” he said, eyes closed. “We both came back from the edge.”

Inside, Hotarumaru stirred. Aizen muttered something faint and sleepy.

Akashi smiled to himself.

Not alone. Not anymore.