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Chapter Text

The dojo was quiet that evening. The air was thick with summer heat, heavy enough that even the cicadas outside seemed to wail in exhaustion.

Their cries echoed in waves, rising and falling, as if the world itself breathed with them. Sunlight slipped lazily through the shoji screens, casting golden squares across the tatami mats.

Hakuji sat kneeling in the training hall, his broad shoulders still damp with sweat from hours of drills.

The ache in his arms, the sting in his knuckles, the dull throb of his legs—all of it was familiar, almost comforting.

These pains reminded him that he was alive, that he was learning, that he was worth something. This dojo had given him purpose when the world spat on his name.

He was wiping his brow when Keizo’s voice called from behind.

“Hakuji.”

The single word froze him in place.

Something about the way his master said it, measured, steady, heavier than usual and full of urgency, made his master's voice resound within his head, sending unease creeping through Hakuji’s chest and shiver down his spine.

His breath caught. Had he done something wrong? Had he disappointed Keizo?

A flood of anxious thoughts surged through his mind. Did I make a mistake during sparring? Did I fail to protect Koyuki somehow? Am I growing weaker instead of stronger?

Slowly, cautiously, he raised his head.

Keizo stood a few steps away, framed by the pale light filtering through the shoji. His robe was loose, his hands folded behind his back, and on his face was the same smile he always wore—gentle, unwavering, almost playful.

That smile had carried Hakuji through storms before. Seeing it now, some of the fear in his chest eased, though not completely.

“I have something important to tell you,” Keizo said, lowering himself to sit on the mat across from his student. His movements were calm, unhurried, but his eyes—calm though they were—seemed to carry a weight behind them.

Hakuji straightened instinctively, his body tense like a bowstring.

Keizo looked at him for a moment before speaking again. “It’s about Koyuki.”

The name struck Hakuji like lightning. His heart jolted, skipping a beat, then racing uncontrollably. Koyuki. Her face immediately flooded his mind: the delicate curve of her smile, the soft voice that always greeted him with kindness.

She had been the first to look at him without disgust, the first to treat him as human instead of filth. She was the one who gave him hope.

His chest tightened. “Koyuki… Is she in trouble? Did something happen? Does she need me?” The words tumbled out too fast, his voice cracking under the strain.

But Keizo only chuckled. He reached across the tatami and placed a warm, fatherly hand on Hakuji’s head, ruffling his thick, sweat-dampened hair. The gesture was so familiar, so comforting, that for a moment Hakuji almost forgot his fear.

“No, nothing like that,” Keizo said, his tone light. “Quite the opposite, in fact. She’s been speaking to me a great deal lately. And it seems she’s grown rather fond of you.”

Hakuji blinked, stunned into silence. His throat felt tight, as though the air had turned to stone.

Keizo smiled wider, almost mischievously. “She’s sixteen now, and you’re eighteen. A fair age for marriage. As her father, I would be honored to give my daughter’s hand to you.”

The dojo fell into silence.

Hakuji stared at him, unblinking, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Marriage? To Koyuki? His pulse pounded in his ears, louder than the cicadas outside.

“You… you want me to marry Koyuki?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Yes,” Keizo replied simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His smile never faltered.

Hakuji’s body locked, every muscle taut. He sank onto the tatami floor fully, trembling from the weight of those words.

His mind screamed to say yes. Every fiber of his being longed for it. For three years he had loved Koyuki in silence, never daring to hope.

To hear her name spoken in this way, with her father’s blessing—it was more than he ever dreamed.

But his heart, bound by scars, would not allow him to accept.

“Master…” His voice cracked, hoarse, trembling. “I can’t… I can’t accept this.”

Keizo tilted his head slightly, still smiling. “Why not?”

Hakuji’s hands shook as he pulled back his sleeves, exposing the thick ultramarine bands tattooed around his wrists. He held them out like shackles.

“Because of this. Because of who I am. These tattoos aren’t just ink, they’re a mark of shame. A reminder of the crimes I committed before you took me in. I can’t erase them. No matter how hard I try, I’ll always be a criminal. Koyuki deserves someone pure. Someone clean. Not me.”

His eyes dropped to the mat, burning. His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. “If I stay by her side, I’ll only stain her life with my darkness.”

For a long moment, Keizo said nothing. Then, with the same unshaken warmth as always, Keizo leaned forward again and ruffled Hakuji’s hair.

“Well,” he said softly, “then think about it some more. You don’t have to answer today.”

He rose slowly, his robe shifting with the motion, and stepped toward the door. Before sliding it open, he looked back one last time. His smile hadn’t faltered. “You’re a good man, Hakuji. You’ll see it one day, even if you can’t now.”

Then the door slid shut, leaving Hakuji in silence.

Hakuji sat frozen on the tatami, his body trembling. His heart screamed at him—say yes, say yes, this is what you want, what you’ve always wanted. But his mind clawed back with the bitter truth: You are a criminal. You will only taint her light.

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes and fell silently, dripping onto the mat below. His shoulders shook as he lowered his head, unable to contain the storm inside him. For the first time in years, Hakuji cried openly.

Down the hall, Keizo let out a deep sigh. His smile had not faded, but his shoulders carried the faint weight of disappointment. He walked slowly until he reached another door and knocked softly.

“Koyuki, may I come in?”

The sliding door slid open, and there she was—his daughter, her face glowing faintly in the lantern light. Her gentle eyes widened slightly at the sight of him.

“Father? Is something wrong?” she asked in her usual soft, melodic tone.

Keizo shook his head, stepping inside. “No… but I spoke with Hakuji. About you.”

At once her cheeks flushed pink, blooming like sakura petals. She lowered her gaze shyly, fidgeting with the sleeve of her kimono.

“Father… you shouldn’t have. I was going to tell him myself, when the timing was right.” Her voice faltered. “But… what did he say?”

Keizo sighed again, sitting across from her. He took her small hands into his larger ones, squeezing them with the tenderness only a father could give.

“He still sees himself as a criminal,” Keizo admitted quietly. “He believes his past makes him unworthy of your heart.”

Koyuki’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face. But instead of disappointment, only concern lingered in her eyes. She lowered her head, then looked back up with quiet resolve.

“That’s all right,” she said softly, but with steel beneath her voice. “If that’s what he believes, then I’ll just prove him wrong. I’ll show him that he is worthy of love. That my heart belongs to him, and no mark of the past can change that.”

Keizo blinked, then chuckled quietly. Her optimism, her stubborn warmth—it reminded him so much of himself. He reached out and patted her head gently, smiling with pride.

“You really are my daughter,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

Hakuji woke up gasping for air, perspiration was dotted all over his pale forehead. He had just had a nightmare. A nightmare about how he failed to protect Koyuki.

His chest heaved as he sat up, the thin blanket clinging to his damp skin. Moonlight filtered weakly through the paper-thin window, casting long shadows across the tatami floor.

Hakuji clutched at the fabric of his yukata, the image of Koyuki’s face—her gentle smile turning to horror—still burned behind his eyes.

The silence of the room felt deafening.

Tears began filling up his eyes, he had already failed the first person he loved — his father. There was no way he was going to let Koyuki fade away from his life..

Unable to drift back to sleep, he tiptoed to Koyuki’s room. Sat in the place he would usually sit when he was taking care of Koyuki, he watched her sleep. She slept soundly, her expression serene. Her chest rose and fell at a slow and steady pace. The moonlight cast a dim glow upon her face, highlighting her delicate features.

To Hakuji she looked like a goddess sent from the heavens, he slowly reached out his hand, cupping Koyuki’s face lightly.

Two years ago, after her mother’s passing and her illness, Koyuki’s cheeks were as pale as a ghost, she barely ate and was only bone and skin, there was not a hint of life or colour in her face.

Until Hakuji appeared in her life, through his attentive and deliberate care, colour began to fill her cheeks, she began to look alive again, enabling her to overcome her disease and be able to move freely, to speak freely and most importantly live like a human being again.

Hakuji was her source of life, he was the one that restored life into her.

Gently, Hakuji lifted his palm, departing his hand from Koyuki’s cheeks, he gently held her open hand,” I will always protect you Koyuki, always” he muttered under his breath while keeping a firm yet gentle grip on Koyuki’s hand.

Still asleep, a subtle smile spread across Koyuki’s face, her hand tightened and was holding Hakuji’s. Hakuji just looked at her face, his gaze was tender and full of warmth.

As time went by, an orange hue began to scatter across the dark night sky — the sun was peeking across the horizon. Letting go of Koyuki’s hand, Hakuji walked across the room without causing a single noise to avoid disrupting the sleep of the woman he truly cared for.

Proceeding with his usual daily routine, he had his morning spar with Keizo “I can’t help but notice that you're not in your usual state today Hakuji.” Keizo declared “Your movements are blunt and your attacks are lacking vigour and your mind — it seems to be elsewhere. Has anything been bothering you lately?”

“No, no, not at all” Hakuji stammered “Let’s just continue sparring. Shall we?”

“No” Keizo said determinedly, his tone remained calm and his features were relaxed “You don’t seem like you’re in your best state today, and in state, I don’t mean you physical state but instead your mental state, go find out what is bothering you and invite me for a spar some other time.”

Hakuji groaned and Keizo let out an amused chuckle, as he could already clearly tell what was bothering his beloved apprentice.

Hakuji sulked back to his room, took a quick shower and decided to look for Koyuki.

He found her at the front of the dojo, drying the freshly washed kimono and haori.

She worked with silent focus—picking each wet garment from the bucket, wringing out the excess water, and pinning it neatly onto the string with wooden clips. Her movements were quick yet precise, so engrossed in her task that she didn’t notice the broad figure quietly approaching her.

Hakuji walked up to her and stood next to her side, when Koyuki turned around and saw Hakuji standing right behind her, she jumped in surprise. “Sorry, sorry — I didn’t mean to scare you! I was just admiring the way you did chores. Do you mind if I help you?”

Koyuki shook her head “there is no need for that, I can manage on my own, Thank you for the offer though.”

After being turned down by Koyuki, Hakuji was still persistent and Koyuki had no choice but to let him assist her. “You can help me by twisting the clothing pieces and handing them to me.“ Koyuki informed Hakuji, he nodded and began without wasting another second..

Despite being far stronger than Koyuki, Hakuji still found it challenging to twist the clothing pieces, he was frowning and grunting while attempting. Koyuki noticed that Hakuji was actually tugging on the clothing pieces instead of twisting them, she let out a little laugh “You're about to rip that kimono apart Hakuji!” She placed her hands on Hakuji’s.“Relax, and follow what my hands are doing”.

With Koyuki’s hands on his, Hakuji couldn't help but blush uncontrollably. He tried his best to focus but Koyuki’s closeness makes him unable to do so. Still, he continued to help her finish the chores, his heart pounding with every twist.

“Are you feeling well, Hakuji?” Koyuki piped up in concern.

“No, no, why? Is there anything wrong?” Hakuji questioned back in a confused tone. Koyuki’s hands were still firmly placed on his.

“It’s just… your face looks like it’s heating up. Are you sure you’re fine?”

Hakuji’s ears turned pink—he had definitely realized how flustered he was with his and Koyuki’s touch still connected.

“There’s no need to worry, Koyuki. Let’s just… continue drying the clothes, shall we?” Hakuji reassured.

Koyuki only nodded lightly, though her expression still showed prominent hints of concern.

Finishing up with the task, Hakuji retreated back to his room—away from the scorching summer heat, and away from the presence of Koyuki.

Still feeling sheepish from the events a few moments ago, he decided to meditate and calm himself down. Not only to clear his mind, as Keizo suggested, but also to try to get rid of the stubborn shade of red covering his entire face.

He hadn’t meditated for long before he heard a knock on the sliding door.

“Come in,” Hakuji granted permission, thinking it was his master checking up on his “mental state” or whatever.

But instead, the figure that walked in was petite, not bulky.

Koyuki entered the room, holding a tray. Two cups of cold green tea rested on one side, and two cold towel rolls on the other. She placed the tray squarely in front of the meditating Hakuji.

Hakuji opened his eyes. His gaze met Koyuki’s, and their eyes remained in contact for a few brief seconds—until Koyuki looked away, her face now flushing pink.

“You didn’t have to go through so much trouble for me. I’m fine, see?” Hakuji placed Koyuki’s pale hand onto his forehead.

“I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be unwell. I know how much you want to get stronger, and if you got ill, wouldn’t your progress be halted temporarily?” Koyuki muttered. “Plus, you used to take care of me every day anyway. Compared to your efforts, this is the least I can do.” She put on a radiant smile, warming the entire globe for a few seconds.

Looking at the tray in front of him, then at Koyuki’s tender expression, Hakuji thought in that moment that his life was fulfilled. This—being next to Koyuki, protecting her, growing old by her side—was exactly what he wanted.

But no, Akaza reminded himself. I’m just a mere criminal unworthy of such a big heart. I should just cherish the compassion I can still afford to receive from her for now.

Koyuki turned back to look at Hakuji again. “Hakuji…” Her face was coated in that same pink shade once again.

“What?” Hakuji asked curiously, anticipating what Koyuki was about to say.

“Do you want to watch the fireworks with me this year?” Koyuki inquired, her nervousness evident in her shaky voice. “You’ve carried me to watch the fireworks these past few years when I was unable to. Since I can finally walk independently, I figured it’s my turn to be the one inviting you to watch the annual fireworks tonight.”

The fireworks. How could Hakuji have forgotten such an important event? Maybe it was just the inner strife in his head—debating between how he was a criminal and his true feelings for Koyuki.

“S-sure,” Hakuji mumbled.

Koyuki clapped her hands together and put on such a delighted expression that it was rare to see—even for her.

Seeing her so happy with his answer made Hakuji’s heart flutter once more. One day, being together with Koyuki was going to give him a heart attack!

Chapter Text

A thick blanket of darkness had tinted the once clear blue sky from only a few moments ago. The moon hung low and full, casting a silver glow across the lush grass field. Stars scattered faintly around it, twinkling like fragments of shattered glass spread across the heavens.

The night air of summer was fresh and crisp yet warm, carrying the faint scent of blooming grass and the distant echo of cicadas. The breeze wrapped around them like an embrace, soft and protective, as if the night itself wished to shelter the two.

“Ready?” Hakuji asked gently, glancing at Koyuki.

She nodded, her hair tied into a high bun, secured with a delicate hairpin. She wore a silver kimono she rarely brought out—only for special occasions—and under the moonlight, she looked ethereal. The pale glow highlighted her fair skin, accentuating her delicate features as though she were carved from moonlight itself.

Hakuji couldn’t help but stare. Koyuki, feeling his gaze, looked back at him with those luminous eyes of hers. Within them, he saw reflections of unspoken feelings—thousands of words they had yet to say aloud, quietly lingering in the space between them.

Without thinking, Hakuji reached out his hand. By instinct, Koyuki’s hand slipped into his. Her fingers were soft and cool, fitting so naturally in his that it felt as if they were meant to be there all along.

Without letting go, they ran together up the gentle slope of the hill, Hakuji always glancing at her from the corner of his eye, worried that the pace might be too much for her.

But Koyuki only smiled, tightening her grip on his hand and running faster, as though her joy gave her the strength to keep going.

When her breaths grew shallow and uneven, they finally slowed their pace. The last few meters they walked side by side, still hand in hand, their footsteps in rhythm with each other.

“Hakuji,” Koyuki breathed, her voice faint between pants, the soft puff of her breath misting slightly in the cool air.

“Hm?” Hakuji turned to her, his face calm and unbothered, not a single sign that he had been running as well. It was as though his endless energy came not from his body, but from being at her side.

“Do you remember the first time you took me to watch the fireworks?” she asked, her eyes soft, replaying the memory vividly in her mind. “You had to carry me because I was too sick to come on my own.”

“Did I?” Hakuji tilted his head, searching his memory.

Koyuki’s lips curved into a tender smile. “Yes. You carried me by yourself, all the way to the top of this hill. Just so I could have the chance to see the fireworks.”

Hakuji snapped his fingers as the memory resurfaced. “Ah, yes! Of course—I promised you, didn’t I? I promised I would take care of you.”

Her smile widened, faintly tinged with pink. “But taking care of me didn’t mean you had to carry me all the way here… you were too kind, Hakuji.”

He averted his gaze, ears turning red. “Well… I just wanted to see you happy.” His voice grew softer, almost shy. “Seeing you happy makes me happy too.”

At last, they reached the top of the hill. The world seemed to open up before them, the horizon stretching wide with the town lights flickering below like countless little lanterns. Above, the moon sat as guardian of the night, watching over them.

Koyuki set down the mat they had dried together that very afternoon. She smoothed it out carefully, her hands moving with a quiet grace, as though the simple task carried great meaning.

Hakuji knelt beside her to help, their shoulders brushing faintly, and though neither said anything, the small contact made both of their hearts beat a little quicker.

They sat down together, close enough that the fabric of their sleeves touched. The night wrapped around them, silent but alive, carrying with it the anticipation of what was to come.

And somewhere in the distance, faint drums echoed—the signal that the fireworks would begin soon.

“Hakuji…” Koyuki muttered, staring at the mat spread evenly across the lush green grass.

“Yes?” Hakuji turned to her, his expression soft, curious.

“Do you also remember that before you took me to watch the fireworks two years ago, I mentioned them to you first?”

“Of course,” Hakuji confirmed without hesitation, his voice steady though his heart stirred at the memory.

“That year was when my mother had lost her life. I grew so ill that almost everyone had lost hope for me.” Koyuki shuddered at the recollection, her hands curling into her lap. “Until you came along. When I told you that I might not be able to make it for the fireworks that year… you told me that missing it wouldn’t be an issue. That there would be a fireworks show next year anyway — even the year after that, I could go watch them then.”

Hakuji’s eyes softened, his chest tightening with the weight of what she was saying. He remembered it clearly now—how frail she had been, how her voice had wavered when she spoke of not making it to see another summer. Back then, he hadn’t thought too deeply about his words. But now, hearing them reflected back, he realized how much they had meant to her.

“That was the first time I felt hope, Hakuji. It was you who gave me hope.” Koyuki’s voice cracked, tears welling up until they spilled down her cheeks. “Everyone else had given up on me… but you never did.”

“Koyuki…” Hakuji breathed, his throat tight. He instinctively reached out, brushing his calloused thumb against the corner of her eye, wiping away a tear. His hand lingered against her cheek, trembling slightly as if he feared she might break. “I… I never could give up on you.”

“When you mentioned the words ‘next year’ to me,” Koyuki continued between soft sobs, “you showed me that you had faith in me. Faith in my future — a future that almost everyone but you thought was impossible.”

“You didn’t only imagine a future for me Hakuji… you are the creator of this future, if you hadn’t entered my life, father would have to work rough jobs to support us." Koyuki continued "Without your tender, attentive care I would have never gotten better, I might not even exist by now. But the most important of all was your company, in your company I sought warmth, consolation, I sought a home.”

Hakuji swallowed hard. His ears burned red, though his gaze never wavered from her tear-streaked face. “I didn’t say it because I was certain, Koyuki. I said it because… because I couldn’t imagine a world without you in it.” His voice grew low, almost breaking.

“If I was the only one left to believe in you, then I was prepared to hold on to that belief forever.”

“You didn’t only imagine a future for me, Hakuji… you created this future,” Koyuki whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “If you hadn’t entered my life, Father would have been forced to work himself to exhaustion, taking rough jobs just to keep us alive.

Without your tender, attentive care, I would have never gotten better. I might not even be here right now.”

Her eyes glistened as she looked at him, every word carrying years of gratitude and love. “But the most important of all was your company. In your company I found warmth… I found consolation… I found a home.”

Hakuji froze, his breath catching in his throat. The word home struck him deeper than anything else she had said. He had never considered himself someone who could give that kind of comfort. To him, he was a man with blood on his hands, a criminal unworthy of such purity. And yet—Koyuki was looking at him as though he were her entire world.

“Koyuki…” Akaza muttered, his voice was raw, burning with passion, but still quivering slightly, trying to suppress his mind was filled with strife, if he opened his heart, it would flow out of his mouth like a waterfall ”I’m surprised you think that much of me, even though I am not the person you had just described, your words make me want to believe maybe, but just maybe I could be the person you see me as”

Hakuji gently took both her hands into his, holding them tightly against his chest, right over his pounding heart. “You gave me hope too, Koyuki,” he admitted. “Even if I was just a criminal… even if I was undeserving… being with you made me believe I could live a life worth protecting.”

Koyuki’s tears flowed freely now, though her lips curved into a trembling smile. “Hakuji…” she whispered, her voice filled with both sorrow and joy.

Letting go of Koyuki’s hand, Hakuji turned his gaze away. His voice was still low and shaky, as though he were forcing each word past the tightness in his throat. “But I am just a lowly criminal, unworthy of such high praise. These tattoos on my arms…” He glanced down at them, the inked patterns crawling across his skin like a reminder that refused to fade. “…they can never be overlooked by others. They solidify what I am.”

Tears welled in his swollen eyes as he clenched his fists against his knees. “One day we will have to part ways. We were never destined to be. Our futures shall not intertwine…” His voice cracked on the last word, breaking apart under the weight of his own despair.

Koyuki’s eyes widened, her sorrow deepening until it was almost unbearable. “Stop… please, stop, Hakuji,” she cried, her voice breaking before it grew strong again, firm with conviction. “Never call yourself a criminal again. Those tattoos—those mistakes—they were from a past you’ve already left behind. They do not define you. They do not symbolize who you truly are.”

Hakuji shook his head, his voice raw and full of guilt. “I was a criminal once, Koyuki. What if… what if my old ways return? What if I repeat the same mistakes and hurt you, or others, again?” His body trembled, caught between shame and fear. “I don’t know if I can trust myself.”

Koyuki leaned closer, her hand finding his again, this time gripping it firmly as though she could anchor him in place. Her tears glistened in the moonlight, but her tone was steady, unwavering. “Then I will make sure you never do so, didn’t you say you wanted to get stronger to protect me Hakuji?”

“I’m sure to protect me, you will never turn to the dark side, and you will always follow the light, make the correct decisions, just like how you are now and how you have been the past few years.” Her floral patterned eyes were sparkling, full of hope, reflecting the pale moonlight. She held on to Hakuji’s hands tightly.

“Koyuki…” His voice broke completely, hoarse with emotion. “Why… why do you believe in me so much? Why do you give so much of yourself to someone like me?”

“Because you never gave up on me when I was at my lowest and weakest” She squeezed his hand tighter. “You were the only one by my side giving me strength.”

Hakuji’s heart was about to pound out from his chest. His entire body shook—not from fear this time, but from the overwhelming warmth of her words. Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled her into his arms.

The world around them melted away, time seemed to have stopped its footsteps for a moment. The chirping of the cicadas, the gentle summer breeze, the vast night sky—they all seemed to fade, leaving only the quiet sound of Koyuki’s heartbeat against his chest, steady and real..

For the first time in years, tears were pouring out from Hakuji’s eyes at this point, like two rivers flowing down his cheek, freely without suppression.

The first firework exploded with a sizzle and crack, illuminating the dark light night sky, with millions of radiant particles scattered all over it.

“Look Hakuji! look at how beautiful it is.” Koyuki gasped, sounding thrilled.

Hakuji gathered all his strength and looked up.The night sky was indeed magnificent, the fireworks seemed alive, leaving trails of silver glow before erupting into flames and blossoms of different colours. Even after erupting, the fireworks seemed unwilling to fade, turning the sky into a dazzling kaleidoscope.

The fireworks cast different hues on the couple, bringing light and colour to their lives as if symbolising their beginning of a new journey.

“Hakuji.” Koyuki called out once more.

Hakuji turned to her, looking straight into her eyes, their hearts and souls connected, even if everything else disappeared, even if the world met its demise, they would remain unaffected, unbothered, inseparable.

“Will you marry me?”

“Koyuki…” His voice cracked as the tears poured freely. He cupped her face in his hands as though she were the most fragile, sacred treasure in existence. “Yes,” he breathed. Then louder, steadier, with a vow carved into his soul: “Yes, I will. I will — in this life, and in every lifetime we are blessed to meet again.”

A firework burst above them at that very instant, scattering golden light across their faces like a blessing from the heavens.

The fireworks seemed even more beautiful than before. Perhaps it was not the fireworks that had changed, but the hearts of the besotted couple clinging tightly to one another. Every burst of color above mirrored the light blooming within them — fleeting yet eternal in memory.

Chapter Text

The last firework faded, its dying sparks dissolving into the velvet night, leaving the enamored couple wrapped in a silence that was not empty, but peaceful.

The air, no longer filled with the sharp hisses and crackles of fireworks, now welcomed back the steady song of cicadas.

From beyond the hill drifted the softened sounds of laughter, cheer, and festival music, all growing faint, as though the world itself were retreating, giving this moment wholly to Hakuji and Koyuki.

Everything felt alive—every blade of grass brushing against the night breeze, every cricket hidden in the dark, every star that trembled above—as alive as the love that pulsed between them.

“Shall we return?” Hakuji finally asked, his voice low, almost careful, as though breaking the silence might shatter the fragile beauty around them.

He glanced at Koyuki, the woman who had just become his fiancée, and even the word felt too grand, too miraculous to belong to him.

“Please wait for me, Hakuji,” Koyuki answered softly, her lips curving into a radiant smile. “I want to capture this scene and keep it forever inside me.

Just for a moment more. Let me remember everything—your hand in mine, the scent of summer grass, the sound of the cicadas, and… you.”

Hakuji’s throat tightened, but he gave a gentle nod. Words would not come easily to him at a time like this.

They lingered beneath the open sky, both of them still flushed with excitement, their spirits lifted high and yet trembling from what had just taken place.

Hakuji felt as though reality had shifted under his feet.

Could it truly be real—that Koyuki loved him, wholly and unreservedly? That she wanted not just today, not just the promise of tomorrow, but a future where they would share every joy and burden, side by side?

His mind returned again and again to the same thought: he was blessed, blessed beyond measure. He had never dared to dream of this, yet here it was, placed gently into his hands like a fragile miracle. He turned slightly to look at Koyuki.

The moonlight touched her face, her delicate features aglow, and in that moment she seemed less like the frail girl he once nursed back to health and more like a vision of strength, serenity, and endless devotion.

Koyuki, meanwhile, was overwhelmed by a happiness so profound it left her almost dizzy.

She felt as though she had stepped into a dream—a dream that was both everlasting and ephemeral, as if time itself had slowed for her to savour this instant.

For so long she had struggled with her own weakness, with the fear of tomorrow never coming, with the despair that had nearly swallowed her whole.

But now she had convinced him—convinced Hakuji—that his scars or his past do not define who he was as a being.

He was not a criminal, nor was he destined to walk the path of ruin. To her, he was worth more than the world itself.

And so, as the night deepened around them, their thoughts aligned with certainty: they were destined to be together.

Whether in moments of joy or in the face of hardship, whether in the warmth of heaven or the flames of hell, their bond would remain unbroken. Love such as theirs was not bound by time nor place—it was written into the very fabric of their souls.

Hand in hand, they stood in silence for a long while, letting the night embrace them, both too moved to speak.

For the first time in their lives, the future did not feel distant or uncertain. It was here, now, alive in the shared rhythm of their hearts.

Koyuki turned to her fiance, “We should get going now, father is still at home waiting for us.”

Hakuji didn’t respond with words, instead he pulled Koyuki into an embrace full of warmth, care overflowing with a tenderness that words could never capture.

Without warning, he lifted her effortlessly into the sky, his strength making her feel as light as the summer breeze.

Koyuki squealed, not in fear but rather pure bliss, a sense of security rushed to her, situated in Hakuji’s arms, she felt like she was safe from every threat incoming, safe from any being intending to harm her, safe from any weapon this cruel world had created.

Her beautiful large eyes were glittering so brightly, they could be mistaken for one of the stars.He pulled her close to him, pressing his forehead lightly on hers.

The image of them was so precious, it would be too priceless to be put in a museum. Indicating how pure and true their hearts are for each other, how they were born to be together, how their fates would still bring them together no matter which part of the universe they were in.

Their bond was unbreakable and everlasting, no one could ever separate them.

And then, with the same care as the years before, Hakuji carried Koyuki in his arms once more.

But this time, it was different. For now, when his gaze fell upon her, it did not tremble with hesitation or shadowed doubts.

Instead, his eyes shone with unwavering affirmation. Every glance declared his devotion. Every heartbeat swore his promise. Every breath said what words could not: “Koyuki, I could never let you go.”

Walking step by step steadily, the couple’s gaze connected, soul intertwined, until they finally reached the entrance of the familiar dojo.

At last, they arrived at the entrance of the familiar dojo. Its wooden frame, lit softly by the lanterns inside, looked more like home than ever before.

From the doorway, Keizo stood waiting. His eyes, weary from years of hardship, softened when they fell upon the pair. He did not need words, nor did he need explanations. Just one look at their faces—Koyuki’s radiant, trembling with joy, and Hakuji’s eyes still red yet shining with newfound resolve—was enough for him to understand.

He had already known everything that had taken place. He saw the subtle change in Hakuji’s bearing, the way his steps were steadier, his shoulders less burdened, as though a heavy weight had been lifted. He saw the way Koyuki clung gently to Hakuji’s sleeve, her expression glowing with hope and certainty.

A quiet sigh escaped Keizo’s lips, one of deep relief. For years, he had prayed silently that his daughter would find happiness, even if his own hands could not provide her the life she deserved.

And now, standing before him was the answer to that prayer.

Contentment welled in his chest. Not only had his daughter found someone who loved her more than life itself, but that man had been shaped and softened by her love into someone worthy, someone steadfast. Keizo could see it clearly now—his daughter was safe, cherished, and her future was no longer uncertain.

With a faint, almost trembling smile, Keizo stepped back from the entrance, silently welcoming them home.

Seeing his master reminded Hakuji of his words from earlier, he now as well could clearly understand what his mental ‘state’ was lacking. It lacked courage, courage to free himself from his past. Now, with Koyuki by his side, all of those past burdens seemed nonexistent.

“I believe you two have something to tell me…” Keizo’s voice was calm but carried a certain weight, the kind only a father could hold. He stood at the entrance of the dojo, arms folded loosely behind his back, his expression unreadable at first.

Koyuki’s cheeks flushed as she stepped forward, her hand instinctively reaching for Hakuji’s. “Father… Hakuji and I…” She faltered for a moment, her voice trembling not with fear but with overwhelming emotion.

“Father… I asked Hakuji to marry me.” Her voice wavered for only a heartbeat before it steadied, clear as a temple bell. “And he accepted. I wish to spend my life with him.”

Hakuji straightened his posture, forcing himself to meet Keizo’s eyes.

For once, there was no hesitation. “Master Keizo… I do not deserve such an honor, but I vow with everything I am that I will cherish her, protect her, and never let her down.”

The words hung in the air, sacred and heavy, as if even the cicadas outside had paused to listen.

Keizo’s gaze softened. Slowly, he exhaled, and the corners of his lips curved into a faint smile. “So it is as I thought.”

He looked between the two of them, his eyes glistening with quiet relief. “Koyuki, my daughter… you have chosen well. And Hakuji…” He paused deliberately, his voice steady, “you have given me your word before that you would protect her. Now, you have bound yourself to that vow for life.”

Hakuji bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the floorboards. “I swear on my soul, Master. I will never allow harm to come to her, not while I live.”

“I believe I have already said this, but you two are at the peak of your youth,” Keizo exclaimed, his voice brimming with anticipation. “I don’t intend to pressure you… but you should get married.”

His words carried both authority and warmth, but as soon as they left his lips, his composure faltered. His eyes glistened, and what began as a faint sniffle quickly turned into tears rolling down his cheeks in steady streams.

“My daughter… my student…” His voice trembled with emotion, though he remained standing tall, torn between dignity and the tide of feeling. “The heavens have been kind to me. To witness this moment in my lifetime—” His words caught, a sob escaping before he could contain it.

Hakuji shifted uneasily, unsure whether to bow or search for a handkerchief. “Master…” he murmured.

Meanwhile, Koyuki’s lips curved into a tender smile. She had rarely seen her father cry—not in grief, but in such unguarded joy.

Yet even in this moment of sincerity, his effort to maintain composure gave the scene a faintly theatrical air. His nose reddened, his shoulders shook, but still he tried to stand tall, as though refusing to let emotion claim all of him.

Realising how he must look to them, Keizo gave a short, self-conscious laugh through his tears. “Forgive me… a father’s heart is never as strong as it pretends. To let go of a daughter is no easy thing. But if it is to you, Hakuji… then these tears are of gratitude, not sorrow.”

Warmth filled the room, touching yet awkward enough that Hakuji and Koyuki exchanged a glance, each hiding a faint chuckle. Their blushes deepened as they looked back at each other, silently seeking approval in one another’s eyes.

“Oh, I still remember vividly the day your mother and I married, Koyuki!” Keizo suddenly burst out, his voice rising with renewed energy. “Ah, a memorable day it was, etched into my soul—one I could never forget, even after a hundred lifetimes.”

The couple blinked at his sudden surge of passion, taken aback by the shift from tears to nostalgia.

“The flowers, the vows, the air thick with blessings,” Keizo continued, his eyes shining as fresh tears brimmed and spilled.

“And now… to think I would live to see another young couple stand where I once stood—my own daughter and my cherished student!” His emotions swelled so intensely that his tears flowed like an actor on a grand stage, part poignant, part melodramatic.

The young couple, dumbfounded yet moved, finally gathered their resolve. After a quiet nod between them, Hakuji straightened, his voice clear and unwavering. “Master, forgive me for cutting short your reminiscence… but I would be honored to marry Koyuki at any time.”

Keizo drew in a long breath, collecting himself. Though his face was damp with tears, there was a solemn light in his eyes now.

“Very well,” he declared. “Then we must begin preparations. A union is not simply two souls joining—it is a celebration of life itself.” His voice wavered, colored by memory of his own wedding and the anticipation of theirs.

Koyuki’s lips trembled into a radiant smile, tears sparkling in her eyes. She tightened her grip on Hakuji’s hand, her voice soft but steady. “Thank you, Father.”

Keizo stepped forward, placing a calloused hand gently on her shoulder, his martial strength tempered by tenderness. “Do not thank me, child,” he said, his tone hushed and reverent. “Thank the heavens that have granted you both this happiness.”

“In that moment, their happiness felt eternal, but nothing is forever— would it endure the weight of destiny, or vanish like a firework against the night sky?”

Chapter Text

That night was peaceful for Hakuji. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he slept without torment.

No nightmares of his father’s lifeless eyes. No visions of Koyuki falling away from him. No echoes of his master’s voice fading into silence.

Death did not stalk his dreams. Instead, there was nothing—only a rare, dreamless slumber which did not wake him in the middle of the long, dark night, leaving him anguished, breathless, face filled with terror words cannot explain.

When dawn broke, the weight that had crushed his chest for so long was absent. His breaths came easier, as though the air itself had forgiven him.

He sat up slowly, blinking in disbelief. Was this what freedom felt like?

The stains he had once thought indelible, the guilt he carried like shackles, seemed lighter. He could almost imagine them gone.

Perhaps it was Koyuki’s unwavering words the night before—the way she had spoken with such warmth, such certainty—that anchored him.

She had declared him worthy when he could not. She had embraced the broken man he was and, with gentle strength, taught him to see himself through her eyes.

For the first time, he dared to believe he could deserve her boundless love.

Adrenaline surged through him as though his body, too, had awakened.

His steps down the hallway were lighter than usual, almost unrecognizable, carrying the rhythm of someone who had glimpsed joy after too long in darkness.

He passed the wooden beams and paper screens of the house he had come to know so well, every detail seeming sharper, brighter, filled with meaning. Even the faint scent of tatami seemed alive.

But before heading to the dojo where he and Keizo sparred each morning, he slowed his stride.

There was something he wanted more than routine discipline, which was to see her. To greet Koyuki at the start of the day, to remind himself that she was real, here, alive.

He stopped in front of her room, his hand hovering above the sliding door. A strange conflict welled up inside him.

Should he skip the usual formalities and knock? They were basically confirmed to marry. Yet, out of respect and not to overstep any boundaries, he could not simply barge in, he wanted to ensure his beloved’s comfortability, she might still not be accustomed to the wife and husband dynamics between them.

Even if she belonged to his heart, she was still her father’s treasured daughter, still someone he wished to honor rather than claim.

So, after a moment’s hesitation, he raised his hand and knocked softly, almost timidly, the sound barely carrying down the hallway.

His heart thudded in his chest as he waited. Memories of yesterday’s joy filled him—her smile, her words, the warmth of her hand in his—but now, in the quiet of morning, he wondered if it had all been too much, too fast.
No answer came. He stood there awkwardly, rooted to the floor, torn between retreating and daring to slide the door open. His pulse quickened. Finally, unable to bear the silence, he slid the paper door aside.

Inside, the soft light of morning filtered through the shoji screens, painting the room in muted gold. Koyuki stirred, half-asleep, her hair tousled from sleep, strands falling loosely around her face.

She looked fragile, unguarded—yet when her drowsy eyes found him, her lips curved into the faintest smile.

Before he could speak, she moved. Slowly, almost instinctively, she crossed the small distance and pressed herself into his chest. Without hesitation, she buried her face against him, arms curling around his muscular torso. Her cheek rested against the firmness of his body as if she had always belonged there. She inhaled deeply, taking in his scent with a long, trembling breath, as though she wanted to capture it, hold it forever in her memory.

Hakuji stiffened in surprise, his breath catching. Koyuki had always been gentle, graceful—but this was different. This was raw, unrestrained, like a hidden longing spilling free.

For a moment, he stood frozen, overwhelmed by the weight of her trust and closeness. Then, awkwardly at first, his arms rose to enfold her.

He held her carefully, almost fearfully, as though she were porcelain that might shatter in his arms.

But the longer he felt her warmth pressed against him, the more that fear melted away. Instead, he allowed himself to revel in it, to memorize the delicate curve of her frame, the faint scent of her hair, the rhythm of her breath against his chest.

He wanted to capture every detail as well, carve it deep into his memory, a treasure he could return to it whenever darkness tried to consume him again.

“Good morning, my dear,” Hakuji whispered, his lips close to her ear. His voice trembled slightly, a mixture of tenderness and disbelief that he was allowed this happiness.

The words startled Koyuki out of her drowsy haze, returning her soul back to her unfazed body. She shuddered softly and pulled back, retreating from his embrace as though suddenly aware of her boldness.

Her cheeks flushed crimson, the same shade as the swirling red patterns on her morning kimono. Even so, with her hair still loose and her face bare of any makeup, she looked unearthly, ethereal, as if she had stepped straight from a dream.

“S-sorry, Hakuji,” she murmured, her voice so quiet he almost had to lean in to hear it. Embarrassment flickered in her eyes, a fleeting insecurity about the intimacy she had so openly given.

Hakuji only chuckled gently, the sound warm rather than mocking. His gaze lingered on her, drinking her in as though she were sunlight he had been starved of.

“Why apologise?” he said, his smile soft but genuine. “All I want is to see you just like this.”

Koyuki blinked, her blush deepening, and she lowered her gaze. He could see her fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her kimono, the tiniest nervous habit betraying her emotions.

Gathering his own courage, Hakuji tilted his head, his voice firmer now though still carrying that undercurrent of tenderness. “Since you’re awake… Do you mind if I hug you again?” His words carried a newfound confidence—it was his turn to step forward, to bridge the distance she had hesitantly created.

Koyuki’s breath caught. Her face turned a deeper shade of red, almost glowing against her pale skin. She raised her eyes to meet his briefly, then quickly looked away, her lips parting with a shy tremor.

“S-sure,” she whispered. The word carried both uncertainty and longing, a quiet plea for him not to mistake her hesitation as rejection.

That was all the permission he needed. Without waiting another moment, Hakuji closed the distance between them and gathered her into his arms once more.

This time there was no hesitation, no awkwardness—he lifted her lightly, her slender frame rising with ease, and held her close to his chest. His embrace was firmer now, desperate almost, as if he feared that letting go would mean losing her forever.

Koyuki gasped softly at the suddenness, but then relaxed into him, resting her head against his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat hammering against her cheek, quick and unsteady, mirroring her own.

For a long moment, the two simply stayed there, wrapped in a silence more eloquent than words.

To Hakuji, it felt like the world itself had narrowed to this single instant—the warmth of her in his arms, the fragile trust she gave him, the fragile hope that maybe he was no longer defined by the mistakes of his past. If eternity could be captured, it would be here, in this embrace.

When at last they separated, it was not because they wished to, but because time itself demanded it. Hakuji lingered, his hands still brushing the fabric of her sleeves, reluctant to let go fully. His eyes softened as he spoke. “I must go train with Master now, Koyuki,” he said, his tone both regretful and content, like a child forced to leave behind a beloved toy.

Before she could reply, he leaned down and pressed the lightest kiss against her cheek. It was fleeting, almost innocent, but it carried with it the weight of everything he could not yet put into words. Her skin warmed beneath his lips, and when he pulled back, he saw her expression—eyes wide, lips parted slightly in surprise, her blush blooming anew.

Unable to stop the smile spreading across his face, Hakuji stepped back, his body buzzing with a fullness he had never known before—happiness, tenderness, and a rare sense of fulfillment, as though for once in his life he was allowed to be whole.

He turned toward the hall, his steps light, practically skipping, the warmth of her cheek against his lips still lingering like an aftertaste of a dream he refused to wake from.

And as he walked away, he carried that fullness inside him—a fragile, glowing satisfaction, a fleeting sense of fulfillment that he swore to protect, no matter what.

Bowing to his master before the spar, as he had countless times before, this time Hakuji’s heart felt unusually light. For once, there was no invisible weight dragging him down, no chains of guilt tightening around his chest.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself — today, he was not a boy haunted by past failures, but a man standing tall.

The spar began. Hakuji slid into his stance with flawless precision, his frame low and steady, leaving no angle uncovered, no weakness to exploit. His eyes burned with a sharp, unwavering focus, every muscle alive and responsive.

Keizo lunged forward without hesitation, his strikes fast and heavy, like crashing waves. Yet Hakuji moved as though water itself guided him — flowing, redirecting, slipping past each attack with ease. His defense was unshakable, his counters sharp and deliberate.

“Keep it coming, boy!” Keizo barked, though pride shone through his booming voice. His strikes intensified, the dojo echoing with the clash of fists and feet.

He unleashed his full strength, techniques that once forced Hakuji to his knees, but now—Hakuji met them. Block after block, strike after strike, he matched Keizo’s overwhelming blows, not with desperation, but with clarity.

Every step forward was precise, every deflection carried purpose. His movements were seamless, his momentum unstoppable. Then, in a flash — a glint in Hakuji’s eyes, sharper than steel. He saw it. An opening.

Without hesitation, he struck. His counter was swift, faster than the blink of an eye. Keizo’s instincts screamed too late. The master’s footing faltered, and with a soft but decisive thud, he braced himself against the tatami, breaking his fall skillfully, yet unable to deny his defeat.

The dojo fell silent, save for their breaths.

Keizo chuckled hoarsely, pushing himself upright. Then, bowing low to his apprentice, his voice trembled with pride. Raising his head “Oh… my dear student,” Keizo began, eyes glistening with emotion. “You’ve not only surpassed me in strength — but in spirit.”

His tone wavered between solemnity and comedic exaggeration, as tears started streaming freely.

“I never thought I’d live to see your talent flourishing like today. With your skills, boy, no one would dare challenge you to a duel, you’d be fierce, daunting, unstoppable. No one would dare stand in your way, in the path to become the strongest”
Hakuji shifted awkwardly at his master’s dramatic tone, he was used to how ridiculous Keizo was at times.

But this—this was just pure comical, ruffling his own thick head of hair, unsure whether to chuckle awkwardly or bow deeper.

Keizo clutched his chest theatrically, voice rising. “With attacks like lightning and defense like iron, you may well be the greatest martial artist in the world! The glory of Soryu burns brighter in you than it ever did in me!” He sniffled loudly, tears spilling like waterfalls.

“And—” his voice cracked, “you can protect my beloved daughter far better than I ever could, I’m now forced to hand over my dear Koyuki to you.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, but more tears immediately poured out, as though his body had no intention of stopping. His sobs echoed so dramatically it almost sounded staged.

Hakuji blinked, bewildered. “M-Master… didn’t you already say you were glad for me to marry Koyuki yesterday?”

“Yes, yes I did!” Keizo exclaimed, voice rising to the heavens as though in opera. He pointed a trembling finger at Hakuji.

“But witnessing it with my own eyes, feeling your strength firsthand—! It is one thing to promise me with words, boy, but another to prove to me with your fists that you are worthy of her!”

“Master, please, you don’t need to cry so much…” Hakuji muttered, half embarrassed, half deeply moved. His heart swelled, realizing this over-the-top display was more than theatrics — it was his master’s way of giving his blessing.

Keizo finally stood, wiping his eyes, forcing a laugh through his tears. “Protect her, Hakuji. Protect her smile, her gentle heart, with the same strength you’ve shown me today.

If you do that…” His voice softened, trembling with sincerity now. “…then I can live the rest of my days at peace.”

Hakuji bowed deeply, his throat tight, his voice steady. “I swear it. On my fists, on my life — I’ll protect her.”

Keizo straightened his back, rolling his shoulders with a loud crack, then shook out his arms. “Hah, not bad for an old man,” he muttered with a grin, stretching as if preparing for round two. His stance settled, firm and grounded, the familiar fire in his eyes rekindled.

Hakuji wiped the sweat from his brow, then tugged at the edges of his uniform, smoothing it down before rolling his neck. He kneaded the sore spots on his ribs and arms, every muscle in his body alive from their last bout, but his spirit far from exhausted.

Bowing once more, he raised his guard. His breathing slowed into rhythm, his chest rising and falling evenly, his eyes never leaving his master.

The spar resumed.

Keizo struck first, lunging forward with a lightning-quick jab meant to test Hakuji’s guard. But Hakuji didn’t so much as flinch — his arms shifted precisely, his defense closing like an unshakable fortress.

Each time Keizo advanced, Hakuji’s body responded as if it knew the answer before the question was even asked.

Yet this time, something strange stirred in his vision. A faint glimmer sparked at the edge of his sight — like frost forming on glass. Then, without warning, a shape bloomed before him: a compass, its edges branching into the form of a snowflake, surrounding him.

It shimmered, flashing in front of Hakuji’s very eyes, yet remained tethered to him, moving with him no matter how he shifted his stance. Each point of the snowflake gleamed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“What—?” Hakuji muttered under his breath, but had no time to dwell on it.Keizo’s fist was already moving toward his temple.

The compass shifted, one of its icy-blue points glowed brightly, clearly indicating where Keizo was about to strike — and Hakuji’s arm moved instantly, almost without thought.

His forearm snapped up, blocking the blow cleanly. The impact sent a tremor down his bones, but the block was perfect.

Keizo growled approvingly. “Good! Don’t falter!”

Blow after blow came raining down, Keizo’s movements sharper, faster, more unpredictable than before. His fists were like hammers, his feet slicing through the air with precision. Yet no matter how sudden, no matter how clever, each strike fell exactly where the compass directed Hakuji to defend.

A branch of the snowflake would light up wherever an attack was incoming, whenever it sensed a threat.

Then, something else caught his eye.

Keizo wasn’t just moving — he was glowing. A faint shimmer wreathed his body, an aura blazing around him like fire. It coiled around his limbs, fierce and vibrant, yet it did not consume him. It wasn’t heat Hakuji felt — it was presence.

Keizo’s willpower, his life force, his fighting spirit itself radiated outward, as though the master stood wrapped in a mantle of living flame.

Hakuji’s heart raced. Am I… hallucinating?

He slapped his cheek mid-fight, the sting snapping against his skin. Opening his eyes to look around again.

But to no avail, the compass remained, gleaming cold and steady around him. His master’s aura was also unwavering, it only burned brighter and brighter as time went by.

Keizo leapt suddenly, springing high into the air. His body twisted mid-spin, descending with a sweeping kick aimed at Hakuji’s blind spot — behind his shoulder, an angle no ordinary fighter could defend in time.

But the compass lit up sharply, the crystalline point flashing like a star. Hakuji pivoted instantly, his arm snapping up at the exact moment needed. His forearm caught Keizo’s shin mid-swing, halting the strike.

The impact thundered through the dojo, yet Hakuji stood steady, unmoved. To him, it felt like brushing off a passing breeze. Keizo landed with a grunt, his eyes narrowing. “So… even my shadow strikes don’t work anymore, hm?” His grin spread wider, pride and disbelief mingling in his voice.

Keizo pressed in with ruthless precision, fists and feet hammering from every angle, his aura flaring with fiery intensity — a blazing heat that seemed to set the very air trembling.

Yet every time he struck, another branch of the snowflake compass lit up, guiding Hakuji’s guard. A knee toward his ribs — blocked. A low sweep at his legs — stepped over. A sudden elbow at his temple — parried and redirected.

It was uncanny, like Hakuji wasn’t merely defending — he was anticipating.

But then he noticed something else. The light wasn’t only reacting to Keizo’s attacks. Other branches glowed faintly too — not red with danger, but blue, cool and calm, pointing toward Keizo himself.

Targets. Weaknesses.

His heart thumped. He didn’t know how he knew, but he understood: if he struck along those lines, his attack would land clean. Keizo leapt back, then forward again, twisting into a spinning kick aimed at the side of Hakuji’s skull. The strike was fierce, the kind of blow meant to test the limits of endurance.

The snowflake lit once more. Hakuji raised his guard in perfect timing, forearm catching shin, the impact echoing like a drumbeat through the dojo.

Keizo landed, eyes sharp. “So… you’re reading me now.”

A final strike slipped through his guard, landing square against his chest. The impact forced Keizo back, his heel skidding across the tatami before his leg gave out. With a heavy thud, he sank to one knee, breathing hard.

Silence.

Hakuji froze, his chest heaving. The compass still shimmered faintly before him — then, just as Keizo lowered his head in acknowledgment of defeat, the vision shattered.

The snowflake dissolved like frost melting under the sun. The fiery aura around Keizo flickered and disappeared, leaving nothing but his master, sweating and smiling despite the loss.

Hakuji blinked rapidly, his hands trembling. “W-what… just happened to me?” he whispered, though no answer came.

Keizo chuckled hoarsely, wiping sweat from his brow. “Heh… whatever it was, boy… it did pack a punch.” Keizo groaned once again, getting back up to his feet. “This old man can’t keep up with you anymore Hakuji, you might even have to go easier on me.” Keizo chuckled, sounding fatherly and warm.

Hakuji remained there, still in disbelief. He had zero idea what had just happened to his vision. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn't ordinary.

Chapter Text

Walking back to his room, Hakuji’s thoughts were relentless, not giving his mind a moment of peace. His heart was still half-lifted by triumph, yet weighed down by confusion.

The fight replayed in his mind like a film he couldn’t stop watching, the way the snowflake-shaped compass had sprung to life around him, glowing faintly with each movement, guiding his stance, predicting every strike.

He remembered the way Keizo’s aura had looked—blazing like fire, yet harmless, illuminating the space around him without scorching him.

Why did it appear now? What is it trying to tell me? Hakuji’s jaw tightened. He had no answer.

When he entered the bathing room, the warm steam curled around his skin like a blanket, but it couldn’t soothe his mind.

Lowering himself into the tub, he let the hot water wash over his tired body, sinking until only his face and damp black hair remained above the surface.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, hoping the heat would silence his thoughts.

But to no avail, the deeper he sunk into the tub, the deeper he sunk into his thoughts as well.

He sat up abruptly, droplets sliding down his chest. Determined, he tried again to summon it. His brows knitted together, lashes damp as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Opening his eyes abruptly, but the bathhouse was the same: steam, flickering lantern light, nothing else. No snowflakes. No aura. Just emptiness.

He clicked his tongue in frustration. Was it just pure imagination? He was certain that Keizo couldn’t see the snowflake, maybe it was just a hallucination after all.

Finally, with a sigh, he stood, water cascading down his frame. He grabbed the towel, rubbing himself down with brisk, impatient strokes.

Just as he wrapped the cloth around his waist, tucking it securely, a faint creak made his head snap up.

The sliding door was opening.

“Koyuki—?” The name left his lips before he could stop it.

Her figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the light behind her. For an instant, she looked almost as surprised as he did. Her soft eyes widened, her lips parted, and her entire body froze.

Hakuji felt his breath catch.

Despite his lightning reflexes, he couldn’t react in time—not to this. He clutched the towel tighter against his waist, but it was too late.

Her gaze had already fallen on him.

She didn’t just glance—she straight up stared, her eyes were fixated on the presence facing her.

From his shoulders, broad and dripping with water, to the distinct lines on his chest and stomach, down to the defined muscle of his arms, veins striped across his taut skin.

Sunrays were peeking in through from the small opening at the top of the bathing room for ventilation, highlighting Hakuji’s every muscle fibre, showing off his flawless complexion, paired with a striking, gorgeous, envious face filled with beauty, not a single defect was in sight.

Almost no one could turn away from such a marvelous sight, let alone Koyuki, her love for the man standing in front of her was even broader than the man’s shoulders.

Every part of him was laid bare under her unintentional scrutiny. The steam only magnified the sight, curling around him like a veil, half-revealing, half-concealing, but not enough to hide.

Koyuki’s lips trembled as she inhaled sharply. Her eyes darted away for a heartbeat, then returned almost against her will.

Hakuji felt his own face burn. He had faced down dozens of opponents, had stared death itself in the eye more than once—but never had he been so utterly defenseless.

“K-Koyuki!” he blurted, voice breaking. “I’m in here—!”

But the words came too late.

The colour in her eyes drained, surging back into her cheeks in a violent flush. Her entire face went crimson, even the tips of her ears glowing.

“Ah—! I-I didn’t—!” Her voice quivered as she whipped around, both hands flying to cover her eyes. “S-sorry, Hakuji!”.

She spun around swiftly, sliding the door shut behind her as she escaped — as far as she possibly could.

It possibly could, in such a way that she feared a single extra second of exposure might strike her dead on the spot.

The room fell silent again, save for the soft drip of water from Hakuji’s hair.

He stood there motionless, the towel clenched so tightly in his hands that his knuckles whitened.

His heart pounded wildly, louder than any sparring strike, louder than Keizo’s shouts, louder than the rushing water.

He swallowed hard, heat rushing not only to his face but his chest, his entire being.

“She…” His voice faltered. “…she really saw everything.”

Hakuji groaned softly and dragged a hand over his face, hiding it even though no one could see him.

He felt like collapsing right back into the water just to cool his burning embarrassment.

Outside, Koyuki leaned against the wall, clutching her chest with trembling hands.

Her breath came fast and uneven, her heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

She pressed her palms to her eyes as if she could erase the image—but no matter how hard she tried, it stayed, vivid and sharp. “I didn’t mean to.” “But why didn’t you turn away sooner? You couldn’t resist, could you?”

The voices in her head tore at her, leaving her drowning in shock, shame, and confusion all at once. “Oh, what was Hakuji going to think of her? Staring so shamelessly like that?”

Inside, Hakuji stood frozen. Though the towel still covered him, his dignity felt stripped bare, shredded into nothing.

He dressed in a rush, impulsively pulling on his clothes while his hands shook, tugging his haori tightly around himself as though it could hide the humiliation burning beneath.

Even when fully covered, he kept checking, making sure not the slightest patch of flesh he was not supposed to show, was visible. Yet the memory of Koyuki’s startled eyes lingered, unsettling him.

He hesitated at the door, knowing she was just on the other side. For all his strength and all he had endured, this moment felt harder to face than his past.

How was he supposed to look her in the eye now—after losing the last shred of dignity he still clung to?

Hakuji gathered every bit of courage he could muster and slid open the sliding door. The faint creak echoed in the quiet hallway, startling Koyuki so much that she flinched, her back pressing against the wall as if she’d been caught doing something forbidden.

Her eyes darted toward him, wide and restless, but the moment their gazes almost touched, she quickly looked away.

Hakuji turned, facing her fully now. Despite being only a few steps apart, neither of them could find the strength to hold eye contact.

The air felt hot to the touch, the atmosphere was tense, no one dared to make a sound, nor a sudden movement, even the birds stopped their song, the dew stopped dripping from the leaves for a moment.

Nonetheless, it was still a chilly morning, the morning air drifted in from the open entrance at the far end of the hallway, carrying a chill that brushed against their skin.

The opening left the both of them exposed.

Yet, strangely, it wasn’t the chill from the breeze that made their hands tremble or the heat of the air that powered their pounding hearts—it was the fragile silence hanging between them.

felt like a millennium stretched thin across those few seconds, neither willing to break it. Finally, both opened their mouths, voices colliding.

“Sorry—”

They froze. Their eyes met, only for a fleeting instant, before Koyuki’s face flared red and she turned her head away.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know you were in there, Hakuji! And I didn’t mean to—” Her voice cracked as she squealed, almost tripping over her own words. “I didn’t mean to stare at you, I swear!”

Hakuji blinked, watching her with a calmness that almost unnerved her, his expression unreadable but his eyes gentle. “You don’t have to apologise to me, Koyuki.”

She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to protest, but the weight in his voice stilled her. Embarrassment still burned her cheeks, yet curiosity flickered through her flustered gaze.

Hakuji exhaled slowly, his tone softer than she had ever heard it.

“You always apologise to me. Ever since you were sick, lying helpless in bed, you said sorry to me every time I tended to you—as if being ill was something you had chosen. But it was never your fault.”

He lowered his eyes, almost as if ashamed of the memory. Then he lifted his gaze again, earnest and unwavering, not a trace of harshness in his words.

“You don’t have to apologise for things beyond your control… my dear. Even if you make mistakes, you should never, ever apologise to me. I could never hold any grudge against you, no matter what you do, my love, I will never hate you, I couldn’t even get angry at you even if I tried.”

Koyuki’s breath caught in her throat, her heart stumbling over his words. Something in his voice—gentle yet firm—settled deep inside her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Hakuji paused, then gave a faint, almost self-deprecating smile.

“If anyone should apologise, it’s me. I should’ve called out, should’ve told you I was inside before you opened the door. I put you in that situation.”

The sincerity in his tone left Koyuki wordless. She wanted to respond, to tell him it wasn’t his fault either, but her voice failed her.

Instead, all she could do was look at him—really look at him—her cheeks still warm, her hands clutching at her kimono sleeves as if they could keep her from unraveling.

“Since we are basically married, all your mistakes will be my mistakes, we will face adversity together as one.”

These words, although spoken lightly by Hakuji, weighed heavier than the world itself in Koyuki’s heart. To him, it was a simple truth, but to her, it was a vow — unshakable, eternal.

Her chest tightened, overwhelmed by emotions she couldn’t put into words. Should she cry? Should she laugh?

Every feeling surged and tangled together until she could no longer contain them. With trembling arms, she threw herself against him, burying her face into his chest.

“Hakuji…” she whispered, her voice muffled, fragile.

Hakuji’s breath caught for a moment, but his arms instinctively wrapped around her.

One hand rested gently on her back, stroking it with a tenderness that seemed to melt the tension in her shoulders, while the other pressed her closer to him, as if afraid she might disappear if he loosened his hold.

Koyuki’s slender fingers clutched tightly at the fabric of his haori, as though he were her anchor in a storm she never wanted to end.

Hakuji lowered his head, resting his cheek against her hair, his heart thundering in his chest, but his embrace remained steady, unyielding.

Finally letting go after what felt like centuries, they began walking down the open hallway together, their hands still firmly intertwined.

The morning breeze drifted through the paper screens, carrying with it the scent of dew and the faint chirping of sparrows.

The floor creaked gently beneath their steps, yet the silence between them was anything but uncomfortable.

They spoke in fragments, voices soft and unhurried, sometimes pausing simply to smile at one another.

Bits of laughter slipped out here and there, brightening the quiet hall. Their words went from lighthearted jokes to future dreams, nothing too heavy, nothing too serious — just the simple joy of being together.

The way their shoulders brushed every few steps, the way their fingers refused to part, even for a moment, made it feel as though the world around them had faded, leaving only the two of them in their own small universe.

The hallway stretched on, but neither of them cared where it led. So long as they walked it together, every step felt like home.

Their walk stretched far beyond the wooden hallway, spilling into the quiet yard, and then further still, until even the protective shadow of the dojo no longer framed them.

The world outside seemed brighter that morning, every tree swaying with the wind as though blessing their union, every ray of sunlight gilding their path in gold.

Their voices carried easily into the air — chatter and laughter weaving together like a melody of its own.

They were inseparable, never once stumbling into silence, for whenever one paused the other filled the space with words, or even just a smile that said more than any sentence could.

At one point, Hakuji stopped suddenly, planting his feet and taking in a deep breath as if preparing for something grand. With all the courage he could summon, he attempted to sing a melody for Koyuki — a raw, unpolished gift, clumsy but sincere.

Yet the moment the first few notes escaped, both of them dissolved into laughter. Shaking his head in defeat, and for the sake of both his and Koyuki’s eardrums.

Hakuji softened his voice to a quiet hum, letting the tune carry his love where words and singing failed.

By the time they noticed, the sun had long risen from the horizon, climbing high into the sky, its warmth spilling directly above them. Reality, like a distant whisper, began to press into the dreamlike morning.

Hakuji’s heart tightened with sudden remembrance — his father. The man who had guided him once, the man whose words still resound in his brain to this day, the man who deserved to know of this joy, even if only in spirit.

Turning to Koyuki, Hakuji spoke with a radiant smile, his voice rich with a mixture of pride and tenderness.

He bid her a fond farewell, promising he would return quickly, as if the day could never be long enough to keep them apart.

With light steps, and a heart brimming fuller than it ever had before, he began his journey toward his father’s grave.

He did not know.

He could not know.

With every step he took, he was blissfully unaware that in the shadows, beyond his sight, the fragile happiness he had so desperately built was already beginning to crack, and that terrors he could never imagine were preparing to rip it all away.

Darkness was about to seep uncontrollably into his just-turned peaceful life once again.

Looks like peace was never an option to Hakuji in this lifetime.

Chapter Text

The route was treacherous—winding up steep mountainsides, crossing rivers that swelled with summer rains, and threading through pine forests whose dense canopy seemed to swallow the light whole.

The air was heavy with the musk of damp earth and resin, and the summer heat pressed down like an unforgiving weight, suffocating and relentless, making the voyage unbearable for most.

But for Hakuji, this path was strangely comforting. Each step he took felt weightless, as though unseen hands lifted the burden from his shoulders.

Every obstacle—slippery rocks by the riverbanks, jagged roots twisting across the trail, steep climbs where the soil threatened to crumble—was nothing more than a minor test, effortless to cross.

It was as if his father’s spirit walked quietly at his side, guiding him, steadying him, urging him onward.

The road, perilous as it seemed, was not an enemy to Hakuji. It was familiar.

Each stone he stepped on, each bend in the trail, each shadow stretched by the pines—he knew them all as though they had been etched into his very soul.

This path had seen his weakest moments, had witnessed him stumble beneath grief, rage, and guilt, yet it had also seen him rise again, stronger each time.

The dojo where he now lived stood hidden, far from the bustling streets and noisy city he once knew.

That distance was a gift.

Hakuji rarely returned to town except for urgent matters, for every visit reopened old wounds. His past—cruel, unforgiving, relentless—lingered in the corners of every memory the town carried.

Walking through it was like carrying chains, each whisper from strangers adding weight to his chest.

And yet he could not avoid the whispers. His tattoos drew eyes wherever he went, and judgment followed with scathing precision.

“What a beautiful young man,” a woman murmured to her friend, her voice low but tinged with appraisal.

They were seated on wooden chairs at the side of the main road, sipping steaming cups of tea as if the bustling street before them existed solely for their entertainment.

Their eyes were narrow and beady, sharp as needles, darting from one passerby to another in constant judgment.

The other woman leaned closer, her powdered face wrinkling as she whispered back, “What are those rings around his wrists?” Her voice carried both curiosity and suspicion.

Recognition dawned almost instantly. Both of them gasped softly, their painted lips parting. Though their conversation halted, their bodies betrayed them — stiffening, turning their heads ever so slightly away from Hakuji as though to shield themselves from contamination.

They still whispered, but their words slithered in hushed tones, just far enough beyond Hakuji’s peripheral hearing.

Their faces were plastered with layers of makeup, rouge on their cheeks and powder caked into every crease, but no amount of cosmetics could conceal the ugliness etched into their expressions.

Their eyes glittered with malice, their lips curled with disdain. Even their motions — the way they leaned together to whisper, the way their fingers twitched around their teacups — carried an air of cruelty dressed as civility.

To them, Hakuji was not a man walking with purpose, but a subject to be picked apart, a spectacle to be scrutinized. They saw only the tattoos, the remnants of a past he had been trying so hard to escape, never once glimpsing the earnest heart that beat beneath his scarred skin.

Another time, a child’s innocent voice pierced Hakuji like a blade, sharper than any weapon.

“Mummy, is this what happens if you don’t walk on the right path?”

The words were delivered with pure curiosity, untainted by malice.

The little girl’s eyes were wide, shimmering with the kind of honesty only children possessed.

She had no way of knowing the weight her question carried, no way of understanding how her voice echoed the poison of adults who had already carved judgment into her heart.

She stepped closer, lifting a small hand to point directly at the faded rings around Hakuji’s wrists, her gaze naive and unflinching.

The mother’s reply came swift and cruel, her voice sharp enough to cut through bone. “Didn’t I tell you never to go near filth like that?” she spat, yanking her daughter’s wrist with such force the child nearly stumbled.

She pulled her away as though even standing in Hakuji’s shadow would taint her with disease, her eyes narrowed, lips curled in disgust, every movement drenched in contempt.

Hakuji stood motionless, swallowing the sting in silence. He could endure blades, fists, and the crushing weight of stones upon his body, but the disdain in the mother’s voice was harder to bear.

And yet, it wasn’t her words that hurt the most—it was the child’s bewildered expression as she was dragged away, still looking back at him with innocent eyes, unable to understand why her simple curiosity had earned her such a violent response.

He had heard it all—every word, every whisper, every venom-laced syllable.

Shame clawed at him, threatening to suffocate him. And yet, he never hated them for it. Not once. Instead, he believed it must be his fault, that he alone carried the dishonor.

Maybe I am what they say. Maybe I am cursed to live this way forever, he would think.

Still, there was one truth he clung to — love. For now, he was engaged to the woman who had seen beyond the ink and the scars, the one who had looked at him not with fear but with a warmth so vast it seemed to stretch beyond the universe itself.

This time, walking through town, he imagined her walking alongside him.

The murmurs of the villagers no longer pierced him as they once did. Their words, once knives, now bounced off him harmlessly. His pride—his love—was stronger than any shield forged on earth. With her in his heart, he could not falter.

He even stopped by a small shop, his thoughts warm with anticipation. He wanted—needed—to bring her something that spoke of his devotion.

His eyes found a kimono, delicate and breathtaking, adorned with snowflake patterns. It seemed to mirror her very soul: quiet, graceful, dignified.

He pictured her slipping it on, her smile soft and luminous, her laughter echoing in the stillness of their home.

The image alone made his chest tighten, his steps grow lighter. For the first time in years, he felt giddy, almost like a child with a secret gift.

Every coin he placed on the counter had been hard-earned, scraped together from the rough work he took on under his master.

He remembered the aches, the sweat, the bruises—but all of it felt worth it now. He even realised he had more than enough. Where once he had been called poor, now some considered him wealthy.

Such words no longer shamed him. Wealth meant nothing by itself. What mattered was how he could use it—for her, for them.

Other customers in the store stared, but Hakuji ignored them. Their gazes were nothing compared to the glow in his mind’s eye of how she would look in that kimono.

He paid for it with steady hands and left the shop with his heart lighter than his purse.

The distance to his father’s grave was only a short walk, yet with the kimono tucked under his arm, it felt like crossing a lifetime.

Each step seemed heavier than the last, as though the earth itself were slowing him, urging him to remember. When he finally reached the familiar stone, the swell of joy he had carried all morning softened into something quieter, something bittersweet.

The ache he thought had dulled over the years pressed against his ribs again. This was the resting place of the only family he had once known, the man who had raised him, flawed as he was, and the man whose absence had shaped him just as much as his presence once did.

He lowered himself slowly, kneeling on the worn ground, and brushed away the dust and fallen leaves clinging to the stone. His fingertips lingered on the carved characters, tracing them as though memorizing them for the thousandth time.

The silence around him deepened, so complete that even the summer air seemed reluctant to stir. Only the rhythm of his breathing filled the space, steady but weighted.

Hakuji bowed deeply before the stone, his forehead nearly brushing the earth. When he finally sat back, his legs folded beneath him, he spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the silence.

“Father… today, I don’t know where to begin. There’s so much I want to tell you. So much I wish you could see with your own eyes.”

He drew a long breath, staring at the name carved in stone. “Do you remember when you told me that men like us could never hope for much?

That we’d only be kicked down no matter how hard we fought? I carried those words for years, but… things are different now. I have something worth fighting for. Someone.”

His hands rested on the kimono folded neatly before him, and his expression softened. “Her name is Koyuki. She’s… everything, Father.

She doesn’t see me the way the townsfolk do. To her, I’m not the boy with the branded wrists or the criminal’s son. She looks at me as if I’m… human.

More than human, even. When she smiles at me, it feels like I finally belong in this world.”

Hakuji's voice caught, but he pressed on. “We’re… engaged now. Can you believe that, Father? Your disgrace of a son is getting married.

Koyuki asked me herself. I still don’t know if I deserve her, but I swore to protect her, no matter what. I’ll give her the life she deserves—the one you always wished you could give me.”

He tilted his face upward, as though looking into unseen eyes.

“You should have seen the way Master cried when I told him. He made such a scene—big tears pouring everywhere. You’d have laughed, I know you would. But he’s happy for us. He’s proud of me..”

A breeze rustled the grass around the grave, and Hakuji paused, letting it wash over him. He smiled faintly.

“I like to think that’s you, Father. That it’s your spirit, sitting here, listening to me ramble. I can almost picture you crossing your arms, grumbling that I talk too much. But maybe… maybe you’d be proud, too.”

His shoulders sagged as the flood of words kept spilling.

“I train every day, harder than ever. I even surpassed Master once. I think I’m stronger now than I ever thought I could be. But strength doesn’t mean much unless I use it to protect what matters.”

His voice was bright and determined, carrying a sense of strong responsibility over what belonged to him.

“You always told me to use my fists to survive. Now I’ll use them to shield her, to shield our future. Isn’t that what you would’ve wanted for me? To be more than just a brawler, more than just… your failure of a son?”

Silence pressed in again. He stared at the ground, tracing circles in the dirt with his thumb.

“I wish you were here to meet her. You’d like her tea, the way she laughs softly, the way she worries too much. You’d tell her she could do better than me. And maybe you’d be right. But she chose me, Father. She chose me.”

Finally, his voice dropped to a whisper.

“So… please keep watching over me. Over us. If you’re out there, if your spirit is still wandering, stay close just a little longer. Let me feel like I’m not doing this alone.”

Hakuji’s lips trembled with words that begged to be spoken. He wanted to stay—wanted to talk, and talk, and talk, until his throat grew hoarse.

To tell his father every detail: the way Koyuki laughed softly when she tried to hide her blush, the way Master cried like a fool when he gave his blessing, even the awkward stumble that morning outside the bathing room.

Every small moment, every fleeting gesture felt precious enough to offer up like an offering at the grave.

But the sky was already changing, the brilliant blue paling into amber. The sun slid slowly toward the horizon, painting the world with a fleeting glow.

He knew the journey back was long, and he could not linger.

A tightness pressed in his chest. He clenched his fists, bowed his head, and whispered.

“I wish I had more time, Father. Just a little longer, to tell you everything. But I know… you already see it all, don’t you? You’ve been watching, haven’t you? Maybe you even smile when you see me laugh with her.”

His hand rested against the cold stone one final time, as if trying to warm it with his touch. “I’ll be back again soon. I promise. Until then, keep watching me, keep watching us.”

Rising slowly to his feet, Hakuji gave the grave one last, deep bow, his shadow stretching long behind him in the setting light.

With the kimono tucked under his arm and his heart strangely light, he turned to make the long walk back—never knowing what cruel twist of fate awaited him before the next visit.

He bowed once more, deeply, pressing his palms into the earth. “I’ll come back again, as I promised. Always. Because no matter what, you’ll always be my father. And I’ll always be your son.”

His journey home seemed unexplainably difficult, as though the very land had turned against him.

For the first time in a long while, it felt as if his father’s spirit wasn’t there to guide him. Each familiar path now seemed foreign, harsher, unwelcoming.

Every stone he climbed consumed a bit more of his strength, as though leeching the resolve from his bones.

His legs grew heavier with every step, his breath rougher, the air itself pressing down on his shoulders like an invisible burden.

When he reached the rivers, they felt wider, deeper than he remembered. The waters no longer whispered but roared, an unforgiving rush that clawed at his ankles, daring him to stumble.

Crossing them was no longer effortless—it was a struggle, every current pulling at him with relentless force. For the first time, he felt small before the river’s will.

The forests too seemed altered. The canopy overhead thickened, letting in less light, swallowing him in its shadows.

Even the chirping of birds had dulled into silence, replaced only by the distant creak of branches and the faint rustle of unseen things.

And though Hakuji’s body was strong, his heart felt the weight of it all more than his muscles did. A hollow absence lingered in his chest.

For so long, he had convinced himself that his father’s spirit walked beside him on these roads. But today… it felt as though he was walking alone.

Still, he pressed forward, teeth gritted, clutching the kimono tighter beneath his arm as if it were the only anchor pulling him onward.

When his foot finally landed on the familiar path leading to the dojo—the path where he and Koyuki would sometimes promenade together in peace—something inside him felt different.

This road had always been warm to him, a place where laughter floated in the air, where Koyuki’s hand had fit perfectly in his own as the cicadas sang their songs.

But now, instead of lightness, a weight pressed heavily on his chest.

Each heartbeat pounded louder than the last, thumping against his ribs as if warning him of something his eyes had not yet seen.

His breath came uneven, each inhale sharp, each exhale shivering.

A sudden gust of wind cut through the summer air, colder than it should have been, brushing across his face with a bite that sent a tremor through his very soul.

He paused, narrowing his eyes. The familiar garden, the worn wooden beams, the lanterns swaying softly—all of it felt… wrong.

The air was too still. The cicadas, once so loud, had gone quiet. The silence was suffocating, oppressive, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

Every instinct screamed at him. His soul felt restless, uneasy, as if something terrible had just transpired within those walls.

His hands trembled slightly, his knuckles whitening as he clutched the fabric of the kimono tighter against his chest.

The joyous gift that had once filled him with warmth now felt unbearably fragile, a cruel reminder of what was at stake.

Step by step, he forced himself forward, though each movement felt heavier than dragging chains through mud.

His feet pressed against the earth, yet his body resisted, every muscle screaming for him to stop, to turn back, to run before he saw the truth waiting for him. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

As he drew closer, the outlines of figures came into view. His breath caught in his throat. Four men were huddled at the entrance of the dojo, their postures stiff, their presence unusual.

Their bodies blocked the doorway like shadows standing guard, their voices low, urgent, carrying tones of authority and unease. Hakuji slowed, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach.

He stood rooted to the ground, his eyes widening, his pulse frantic.

For a fleeting moment, his mind spun with denial. Perhaps they were travelers asking for shelter. Perhaps they were merchants passing news to his master.

But the knot in his gut told him otherwise. The way they leaned close to each other, the way they guarded the entrance as if to shield it from prying eyes—this was no casual gathering.

Hakuji’s world, which had only just begun to feel whole again, suddenly wavered on the edge of collapse. His fingers twitched at his sides, his breath sharp and shallow.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. And with each passing second, the weight of that truth pressed heavier on his chest.

Hakuji’s body trembled as he stood frozen on the path before the dojo. The four men at the entrance turned their heads sharply at his approach.

Their uniforms, the crested caps, the weight of their presence—it was the police.

Three of them were speaking in hushed voices, clipboards in hand, scribbling. Another crouched low, inspecting faint white powder scattered on the ground near the doorway.

The fourth was stationed upright at the threshold, arms outstretched as if to prevent anyone from entering.

The sight rooted Hakuji in place. His chest tightened, his lungs constricted. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. The dojo, usually filled with the soft echo of training, the warmth of laughter, the calm presence of Koyuki and her father, now stood silent as a grave.

One of the officers noticed him and stepped forward, lifting a hand.

“You can’t come through here,” the man said firmly, his voice meant to be authoritative but edged with unease. “This is an active investigation—”

But Hakuji’s blood had already gone cold. His instincts screamed, louder than any words could. The faint metallic tang in the air reached his senses—bitter, acrid, poisonous.

His breath quickened.

“What happened inside?” he demanded, his tone breaking, desperate.

The officer faltered, avoiding his gaze. “A poisoning. We believe someone tampered with—”

Before the man could finish, Hakuji’s vision blurred with panic. His heart thundered, and the world seemed to tilt sideways. His legs moved before his mind could think.

“Move.”

The officers stepped to block him, but Hakuji’s restraint snapped. His hand slammed into one man’s chest, sending him staggering back, his body moving with the speed of a predator.

The others shouted, but it was too late—Hakuji had already shoved past them, his sandals slapping against the wooden floor as he stormed into the dojo.

Inside—The air was suffocating, heavy with the unmistakable stench of poison.

His gaze swept frantically across the room until it landed on two figures.

First, Keizo. His frail body slumped lifelessly against the wall, his lips tinged blue, his skin pale as parchment. A silence clung to him that could not be mistaken.

Then—Koyuki.

She was lying just beyond him, her hair fanned out across the tatami, her chest faintly rising and falling. The shallow breaths nearly invisible, fragile like a candle’s flame before the wind.

“Koyuki!” Hakuji’s voice tore from his throat as he dropped to his knees beside her.

And the moment continues exactly as before—him cradling her in his arms, whispering desperately, clashing with the police, torn between hope and despair.

“Koyuki!” His voice cracked as he fell to her side, his trembling hands brushing the strands of hair from her pale face.

Her skin was cold, clammy, her breaths so shallow that for a terrifying second he thought she had already joined her father.

“No, no, no—please, Koyuki…” His voice broke into a whisper as he gathered her into his arms. The kimono he had bought, still folded and untouched, slipped from under his arm and landed on the tatami beside them.

His gift for their future lay forgotten, meaningless now in the face of this nightmare.

Her head rested limply against his chest. Hakuji clutched her tighter, rocking her gently as though motion alone might breathe life back into her.

Tears blurred his vision, hot trails spilling freely down his cheeks.

From the doorway, the police entered cautiously, their footsteps heavy on the floorboards. One of them muttered, “We warned you not to come in here…” but his voice faltered when he saw the raw devastation written across Hakuji’s face.

“The poison,” another officer said, pinching his nose due to the poison-stenched air, “it was slipped into the water supply. Both victims—” he glanced at his notes, then at the scene, “—Keizo Takahashi, deceased. Koyuki Takahashi, alive but unconscious. Condition… uncertain.”

Alive. The word tore through Hakuji like lightning.

His grip on her tightened. “She’s alive,” he repeated, his voice hollow, trembling with hope and fear alike. “She’s alive. She’s going to make it.”

The officers exchanged uneasy looks. One knelt, reaching for Koyuki’s wrist as if to check her pulse, but Hakuji snapped his head toward him, eyes blazing.

“Don’t touch her!”

The man froze, caught by the feral snarl in Hakuji’s tone. His arms shook as he lowered Koyuki gently back into his embrace.

Hakuji’s chest heaved, torn between protectiveness and helplessness, his whole body quivering with rage at whoever had done this.

He looked past the officers, past the walls of the dojo, past everything, and screamed into the silence.

“Who did this?! Who?! Tell me!” His voice was a combination of different emotions, fear, rage and hopelessness.

No answer came, only the whisper of the wind through the open door, and the sound of his own breath, harsh and uneven.

Hakuji buried his face against Koyuki’s hair, his voice cracking into a sob. “I promised you… I promised you we’d live together, happily, forever. Why—why is the world like this?!”

Behind him, the officers murmured again, scribbling notes, their presence like shadows pressing closer. One finally spoke, voice grim.

“We have reason to believe the poison was deliberate. Someone targeted this household.”

The words landed like a hammer. Deliberate. Targeted.

The fury swelling in Hakuji’s chest burned brighter than any fire.

He had spent years dragging himself from the pit of his past, finding light in Koyuki, finding peace in Keizo’s dojo. And now, that light was being ripped away.

He rocked her gently, as if by holding her close he could shield her from the cruelty of the world, from death itself. Yet deep inside, he could feel it—the fragile line tethering her spirit was fraying.

Suddenly, he sensed a presence approaching from behind.

“Child, do calm down,” came a familiar voice, low and steady, yet tinged with urgency. “She can still be saved… please, place her down and let the medics tend to her.”

The words seemed to brush against his skin like a chill wind. Hakuji’s body stiffened, his bloodshot eyes darting toward the source.

There, at the doorway, stood Hiroshi—the old man who lived next door to the dojo. His bent frame was illuminated faintly by the late sunlight, the weight of age carved into his wrinkled features.

Hakuji’s chest heaved, every instinct screaming to keep Koyuki close, to shield her from everyone, from everything.

But Hiroshi’s voice had always carried with it a steadiness, a quiet authority born not of strength but of years, and it tugged at the fraying edges of his sanity.

He pulled himself together with great effort, forcing back the sob that clawed at his throat. He could not fall apart.

Not now. Not when Koyuki still clung to life. She needed him to stand tall. She needed him to believe.

“D-Did you see…” Hakuji’s voice cracked, his words trembling as violently as his hands. He shut his eyes for a second, forced them open, and tried again.

“Did you see w-who… who poisoned the well, Hiroshi?”

The old man stepped inside slowly, the wooden floor creaking under his sandaled feet. His gaze, dim but unwavering, fell upon Hakuji.

In it was a sorrow so profound it made Hakuji’s chest tighten further.

Hiroshi had been there since the beginning—he had watched Keizo inherit the dojo from his own master, watched him train and raise students, watched the community come to respect him.

For decades, Hiroshi had stood as the dojo’s shadow, a neighbor and quiet guardian.

And now, in that gaze, there was only pity. Pity for Keizo, for Koyuki… and for Hakuji himself.

“My child…” Hiroshi’s voice quivered slightly, though he tried to hold it steady. “I will be honest with you this time.” He shook his head, weary with grief.“

While you were away visiting your father’s grave, the new head of the rival kenjutsu dojo… and a handful of his underlings… they poisoned the well.”

The old man was also shaking at this point, but whatever grief he felt, it was incomparable with what Hakuji is feeling.

”They knew they could never defeat you nor Keizo in a fair fight, so their only option was to poison the well.”

The words hung heavy in the air, sharp as blades, cruel as poison itself.

Hakuji’s stomach dropped, bile rising in his throat. He stared at Hiroshi, unable to breathe, unable to move. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Poison.
Deliberate.
While he was away.

Hakuji’s mind reeled, the word poison echoing in his skull like the tolling of a funeral bell. His grip on Koyuki tightened instinctively, as though clutching her harder could anchor her to this world.

His breath hitched, shallow, every inhale burning his lungs. He wanted to scream, to run, to tear the culprits limb from limb, but his body was paralyzed—caught between despair and rage.

Hiroshi’s eyes softened with something else—guilt. His old hands trembled as he pressed them together in front of him, as if praying for forgiveness.

“I saw them, Hakuji,” he admitted, voice brittle. “Earlier today. They loitered by the well, too long, too secretive. My bones told me something was wrong, but… I convinced myself it was nothing. I should have known better.”

He bowed his head low, shame pulling at every wrinkle in his face. “Had I spoken, had I stopped them, perhaps Keizo… perhaps Koyuki would not have suffered so.”

The admission pierced Hakuji deeper than the news itself. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding until his head throbbed.

A part of him wanted to lash out, to demand why Hiroshi had stayed silent, why he had let shadows creep where light should have been.

But then, Hiroshi’s hand—frail, weathered, trembling—reached out, resting against Hakuji’s quaking shoulder.

“Child… I see the fire in your eyes. I see the storm raging in you. Do not let it consume you, not now.” His voice lowered, steady but weighted with urgency.

“Anger will not wake her, you must not let your emotions control you. Rage will not heal her. If you break here, who will hold her when she wakes?”

Hakuji’s throat constricted, a raw sob threatening to break loose. His vision blurred, but he blinked the tears back violently, refusing to let them fall.

Hiroshi’s words pressed against the fury surging within him, trying to hold it at bay.

He looked down at Koyuki—her face pale, her breath faint, but still there. Still fighting. His chest ached with a cruel mixture of relief and terror.

At last, he spoke, his voice hoarse, ground down to a whisper.

“They took her light… poisoned what was pure. And yet she still breathes.” He lowered his head, forehead brushing against hers as he held her tighter. “They poisoned her, she was innocent”

“She was innocent.”

These three words resounded in Hakuji’s mind like a bell struck deep within his skull, reverberating over and over until it was all he could hear.

His arms tightened instinctively around Koyuki’s frail body, as though he could shield her from the cruelty of the world simply by holding her close enough.

His entire being screamed to protect her, to build a wall between her and every malicious hand that dared to reach toward her.

But what good was a shield that arrived too late?

Her pale face pressed against his chest, her breath shallow and fragile, cut him deeper than any blade ever had. Innocent—that was the truth of her.

She had never harmed anyone, never deserved this. She had smiled at him with warmth when the world spat on his name.

She had offered him gentleness when others called him a beast. She had given him hope.

And now, because of him—because he had not been here when it mattered—she lay poisoned, her body trembling in his arms.

His thoughts became a storm of self-hatred.

Why her? Why not me? It should have been me. I was the one they wanted to break, not her. Why couldn’t they come at me directly? Why did I let this happen?

“Why am I never there… when they need me the most?”

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He buried his face into her hair, eyes burning, his voice hoarse, croaky and trembling.

“I’m sorry, Koyuki. I’m so sorry… I should’ve protected you. I should’ve—”

But words meant nothing now. Apologies could not pull poison from her veins.

His guilt coiled tighter and tighter around his chest, choking him with every breath. He could not shake the thought—if she dies, it will be because of me.

The words echoed, cruel and unrelenting, until they carved themselves into his very bones.

But beneath the crushing weight of guilt, something else stirred. A darker voice, deep and commanding, rose from the pit of his soul.

Then make them pay.

Hakuji’s trembling quieted. His tears burned away, replaced by a searing heat behind his eyes. He looked down at Koyuki—frail, poisoned, suffering—and in that moment, grief and regret transformed into a singular, merciless resolve.

His hands clenched into fists, the tendons in his arms taut as bowstrings. He had failed to shield her once, but he would not fail again.

If the world thought it could take her from him, it would learn what became of those who dared touch what was pure.

He raised his head, his gaze no longer hollow but ablaze, he stood up even firmer than before, on the Earth his enemies still walked on.

Enemies is an understatement, instead, it should be targets.

Chapter Text

Hakuji didn’t feel the same, not anymore. Knowing that Koyuki was in so much danger, he couldn’t even grieve over his master’s death in peace.

The sorrow of Keizo’s passing was still raw, but compared to the sight of Koyuki’s weak and trembling body, it was as if his own grief had been pushed aside.

His chest ached in a way he could not describe, as though his very heart was being torn apart from the inside.

He couldn’t just sit there. He couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened.

The people next door weren’t neighbors, they were criminals—evil men who had attacked innocent civilians, poisoning them for nothing but greed and land.

Such nefarious, heinous crimes mustn’t be overlooked. Even the thought of them breathing the same air as Koyuki and Keizo made his blood boil.

“Hiroshi…” Hakuji’s voice cracked as he spoke, still staring at Koyuki’s pale face.

“If I… if I leave this to the police, do you really think justice will be done? No… no, it won’t.” His hands trembled as he brushed damp strands of hair from Koyuki’s forehead.

“You know it as well as I do. They’ll bribe their way out with land or money. Or worse… they’ll threaten the police with their filthy gang. They’ll walk free, like nothing ever happened.”

His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

The air around him felt heavy, suffocating, every breath harder than the last. His heart was still hammering wildly in his chest, his veins burning with adrenaline.

Even if he wanted to calm down—desperately, desperately wanted to—he couldn’t.

He couldn’t restrain the fire raging in his mind, nor could he think clearly with his thoughts so consumed by vengeance, despair, and anguish.

“Why… why do people like that get to live while she suffers like this?” His voice wavered, breaking into something close to a sob.

His fists clenched tightly at his sides until his nails bit into his palms, leaving crescents of pain. “Koyuki was innocent. She never hurt anyone. And now… look at her…”

He turned his gaze back down at her. Her once rosy cheeks had lost all color, her lips pale and cracked.

Her forehead burned under his touch, feverish, and yet her body seemed drained of all life, as though her soul had been pulled out from her fragile form.

Hakuji’s throat constricted, his words trembling. “You always smiled, didn’t you, Koyuki? Always… always smiled at me.

When everyone else called me a monster, you—” his voice broke again, and he pressed his lips together, trying to force the words out. “You called me human.”

His chest shook, a sob rising, but his eyes burned dry. He had no tears left, only the hollow ache of guilt.

He wanted to pour out every emotion, every word locked inside, but he couldn’t. No matter how much he tried, nothing would be enough.

He buried his face briefly in her hair, his voice hoarse and low. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve protected you.

I should’ve… I should’ve stopped this.” His hands clutched her tighter, as though he feared she would slip away if he loosened his grip even a little. “Why wasn’t it me? Why did they take it out on you?”

Hiroshi didn’t know how to calm down this broken boy anymore, he seemed beyond repair, no matter what word he uttered, it didn’t help at all.

The silence of the room pressed down on him, broken only by the faint, uneven sound of her breathing. Each breath was fragile, shallow, as though the thread of her life might snap at any moment.

Slowly, Hakuji lifted his head, his eyes burning with something darker now. He turned toward Hiroshi, his voice low but shaking with rage.

“Even if the law forgives them… I won’t. Even if the whole world ignores what they’ve done… I won’t. They poisoned her. They destroyed everything I had left.”

His hands trembled as he looked down at her again, guilt gnawing at him from every direction. “She deserves to live. And they…” His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as his breath grew sharp. “They deserve nothing.”

Hakuji’s voice was cold, he carried no emotions, no pity for those who had taken the people he cared for away from him. The only thing he wanted brought upon them was suffer and endless pain, though no matter how much suffering they go through, it will never be able to make up for the crimes they had committed and Hakuji would never be satisfied, even if their disgraceful souls were wiped from the surface of the Earth, not a single molecule of ash lingering

Hakuji sat there, determined as always. He wouldn’t get up to wash the grime off his body. He wouldn’t even close his eyes for a moment of rest after the long, exhausting journey to the grave.

He would never let go again.

He had let her slip from his sight once, and that single moment had nearly cost her life. Poisoned—right in front of him, while he had been powerless. The guilt carved itself deeper into his chest with every breath.

This is all my fault.

He thought it again and again, like a curse, clutching her tighter yet holding her with all the tenderness he had left. His arms were both a shield and a cage, trembling as he cradled her fragile body.

Not until the medic arrived for another examination—and after endless persuasion from both Hiroshi and the healer—did Hakuji finally loosen his hold.

“Boy,” Hiroshi said gently, though firm, “you can’t carry the weight of past regrets forever. I know you’re in unimaginable pain, but if you don’t let go, if you keep clutching her like this, you might only make her condition worse.”

The medic echoed him nervously, holding out a bundle of herbs. “Her fever is climbing fast. If she doesn’t take these right now, she… she might not last through the night. Please, sir—you must let her go.”

But Hakuji didn’t respond. His hollow eyes stayed locked on Koyuki’s pale face, as if he could will her soul to stay tethered to this world by his gaze alone.

Hiroshi and the medic exchanged a troubled glance. Their words seemed useless—shattering against the iron wall of Hakuji’s stubbornness.

And then, at last, his arms shifted. With painstaking care, he lowered Koyuki onto the tatami. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost reverent—like a man setting down a treasure from a thousand years past.

To Hakuji, she was worth more than treasures, more than the whole world itself. Without her, his world would not exist.

Though his heart bled, he overcame his fear, letting her slip from his arms once more.

The medic immediately began his work, tending to her with quiet urgency. Hiroshi kept a close eye, hovering like a watchful guardian.

For the first time in hours, Hakuji stepped back. His throat was dry, his lips cracked, his body still caked in dirt and sweat. He felt like a husk, hollowed out.

He walked to the waterfall nearby. The cool rush of water over his skin did little to cleanse the grime inside his heart, but it at least dulled the stench of his sweat and blood.

Standing beneath the waterfall, Hakuji let the torrent crash onto his back, sharp and unrelenting, like a thousand needles piercing his skin.

He did not move. His feet were rooted to the stone, his body rigid, as though he had become part of the rocks themselves.

He lowered his head, eyes hidden beneath the heavy stream. Whether he wept or not, it no longer mattered—the water washed everything away.

The roar filled his ears, yet inside his mind there was only silence, a numb emptiness.

He couldn’t feel the sting of the cold, nor the ache in his muscles.

All he could see was Koyuki’s pale face, Keizo’s absent smile, and the weight of his own failures pressing down harder than the waterfall itself.

So he stood, motionless, letting the cascade conceal his grief, waiting for strength to return.

After being motionless for nearly half an hour, he finally opened his mouth. His insides were nearly dry, not a single hint of hydration could be seen inside his body, he looked like a withering dry weed despite standing under tons of water gushing all over him.

Releasing himself from suffering, he drank until his stomach threatened to turn, until not a single drop of water left in the downpour.

Drying himself with slow and lifeless movement, he was careless and sluggish, his body seemed as if it was operating without a soul.

A gurgling came from his stomach, but food… food he could not stomach. His appetite had long since withered. Even the thought of eating felt wrong, obscene, when Koyuki lay burning with fever.

He forced himself only to do what was necessary to keep standing. Nothing more. She would need him when she woke.

On the way back, he filled a gourd with clean water, guarding it as if it were a jewel. Returning to her side, he soaked a cloth and placed it carefully on her forehead, just as he had done countless times before. His hands shook, but his touch was gentle.

It was the only thing he could do for her now—wait, and keep her alive with the only strength he had left.

Hakuji entered the house after he was finally dried, he reached for the white robes his master had worn nearly every day.

The fabric was soft, but as his fingers brushed across it, he felt the weight of countless years—countless mornings when Keizo had tied these very sashes, countless afternoons when he had walked across the dojo floors with calm, steady steps, countless evenings when his laughter filled the air.

The robes carried with them Keizo’s spirit, his scent, his warmth. To Hakuji, slipping into them felt like stepping into his master’s shadow, a shadow so vast and unwavering that he wondered if he would ever be able to fill it.

He drew a long breath before putting them on. The garment hung loosely from his frame; the sleeves dangled past his wrists, the hem pooled slightly at his ankles.

He folded the excess fabric once, then again, until they fit his limbs. Even so, he felt like a child dressing in the attire of a giant.

On the back, stitched with firm strokes of black ink, were two bold characters: 素流 — Soryu.

The very name of the martial art his master had created. A symbol of discipline, of honor, of a lifetime’s worth of sweat and sacrifice.

Keizo had lived and breathed Soryu, not merely as a fighting style, but as a way of life—a path meant to protect, to guide, to bring dignity where once there was none.

Hakuji’s throat tightened as his eyes lingered on those two characters. They seemed to pulse with life, as if demanding of him a promise: Carry this on. Do not let it end here.

Kneeling on the tatami floor, he pressed his forehead to the mat. His body trembled, not from weakness but from the crushing weight of grief.

“Master…” His voice cracked, barely audible. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t here when you needed me most. I couldn’t protect you… I couldn’t protect Koyuki. I failed you.”

The words felt like knives tearing through his chest.

But then his gaze fell once more upon the bold strokes of Soryu at his back, and another thought pushed itself through the haze of grief.

“No… I won’t let this be the end. Not of you. Not of everything you built.”

He closed his eyes, gripping the fabric at his chest until his knuckles whitened.

“I’ll carry your legacy, Master. I’ll pass down Soryu, no matter what it takes. Even if the world turns against me, even if I’m left with nothing… I’ll keep your teachings alive. I’ll make sure everyone remembers your name.”

His voice steadied as he spoke, as if repeating the vow hardened it into stone.

In the silence of the dojo, broken only by the faint crackle of incense burning for the dead, Hakuji rose to his feet.

The robes still felt heavy, far too large for him. But with each breath, he began to carry them more naturally, as though his body was learning to bear the weight of a legacy.

These white robes were not his to wear. Not yet. But someday, he swore, he would grow into them. Someday, he would be strong enough to embody what Keizo had stood for.

For now, they were a mourning shroud. A tribute. A reminder that the man who raised him, who gave him a home, who entrusted his daughter to him, was gone.

The two bold words, 素流, burned like fire on his back as he stepped out into the fading light.

Keizo might have left this world, but Hakuji would ensure that his art, his values, his very soul, lived on through him.

Hakuji walked over to the main room, he slid the door open with slow, deliberate hands, the soft creak breaking the silence that hung over the dojo.

The medic was gone, as was Hiroshi. Only Koyuki remained, lying quietly on the futon, her pale form rising and falling with the faint rhythm of her breath.

Relief stirred faintly in his chest at the sight, though it was quickly swallowed by the ache that never left him.

Beside her pillow sat three folded notes and a small cloth-wrapped package. Hakuji knelt down, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for them.

The first note, written in the neat, efficient handwriting of the medic, read:

“Her condition is still critical. The fever must be controlled with the herbs provided, brewed and given every few hours. Keep her cool, and do not let her exert herself under any circumstance. Her body is fighting, but it needs time. She may wake soon—when she does, ensure she drinks water slowly, in small sips.”

Hakuji pressed the paper flat against his knee, his jaw tightening. Every word carved deeper into his heart. It wasn’t a promise of recovery, only instructions to fight for one.

He picked up the second note, recognizing the shaky strokes of Hiroshi’s writing.

“Child, forgive me. I should have acted sooner, and for that, I carry regret heavier than stone. Do not let vengeance devour you. Koyuki needs you steady, not burning. If you lose yourself now, you will lose her too. You are stronger than your past. Prove it—for her, for Keizo, for yourself.
I must also apologise for not staying by Koyuki’s side while she is in such a fragile state. I have been summoned by the police for questioning—it was urgent, and I could not refuse nor delay. But do not worry, child. I will speak the truth, and I will make sure the world hears of the evil that festers in the dojo next door. Perhaps my words alone will not undo the harm they’ve caused, but I pray they will sway the path of justice.”
—Hiroshi

Hakuji’s eyes lingered on the last stroke of Hiroshi’s signature.

The words pressed into him like lead, heavy and suffocating. His hands trembled slightly, the paper crinkling under his grip.

He wanted to be grateful—grateful that Hiroshi was speaking the truth, that someone was willing to stand against the corruption that rotted the town from within.

But at the same time, a bitter frustration clawed at his chest. Why now? Why leave her now, when she needs every pair of eyes watching over her?

Hakuji’s gaze drifted to Koyuki, her body still and frail on the tatami, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only reassurance that she was still with him. He tightened his fist around the note until his knuckles burned white.

“Old man…” he muttered under his breath, his voice breaking. “You should have been here. You should have stopped them before it came to this… you should be watching her now, not sitting in some cold hall answering questions to men who will never understand.”

He exhaled sharply, realizing his anger was not truly at Hiroshi but at himself. At his own absence. At his own weakness. Still, the words lingered in him, planting a conflict he could not ignore: Do not let vengeance devour you.

Hakuji lowered the note slowly, placing it back beside the herbs, his heart torn. He wanted to honor Hiroshi’s plea, to stay steady, to be the shield Koyuki needed. But beneath it all, the fire of vengeance still roared, threatening to consume him whole.

He brushed his fingers over Koyuki’s hand, whispering softly, “I’ll stay… for you. But if they take you from me, no words, no law, no old man will stop what I’ll become.”

The second note was shorter, also written by the medic.

“Her pulse is weak but steady. Fever is high, do not let it climb further. Grind the herbs into a fine paste, mix with clean water, and feed her slowly. Change the cloth on her forehead often. If her breath falters, keep her upright. She must drink water every few hours. The coming nights will decide her fate—stay vigilant.”

Hakuji exhaled, his hands loosening their grip on the paper. There was no comfort in these words, only responsibility. But responsibility was something he could bear—it was something he needed to bear.

Finally, he turned to the package. He set the note aside and unwrapped the small package. The herbs, dry and brittle, gave off a sharp, earthy scent.

His hands moved with uncharacteristic gentleness as he crushed them with the mortar, mixing the powder with clean water he had carried from the waterfall. His movements were stiff at first, but soon steadied; he couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

Carrying the bowl to Koyuki’s side, he carefully sat her up, supporting her against his chest. Her head lolled slightly, her body light and fragile in his arms.

He dipped a cloth into the cool water and laid it across her burning forehead, watching the way her features eased just a little at the touch.

“Koyuki…” he whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “You’ll be alright. You have to be.”

He lifted the bowl to her lips, tilting it slowly, letting the liquid touch her mouth. Her throat stirred faintly, swallowing in weak, halting motions.

Relief pricked his eyes, a knot loosening in his chest. “Good… that’s good,” he murmured, his voice shaking with both fear and fragile hope.

He fed her a little more, then pulled her closer, resting his forehead lightly against hers as he whispered, “Rest now. I’ll do everything… everything I can.”

Even as exhaustion pressed into his bones, Hakuji stayed vigilant. He refreshed the cloth when it warmed, checked her breathing, whispered to her as though his voice alone could tether her to life. He wouldn’t close his eyes. He wouldn’t falter.

Not again.

Chapter Text

The thin scarlet veins at the corners of Hakuji’s eyes stood out like small rivers of blood under pale skin a few nights without letting his eyes close, not letting Koyuki out of his supervision.

He hadn’t closed his eyes properly for two days, each hour awake made his already heavy eyelids want to fall shut even more.

Fatigue pooled at the base of his skull, a heavy, pulsing ache that made thinking feel like his head was being pounded constantly.

His limbs were bulky, his fingers trembled now and then when he reached for a damp cloth, and even the small movements that used to be automatic required effort.

Still, he shoved the exhaustion to the edges of his awareness as if it were an uninvited guest.

There were no comforts he could afford, no bed to fall into for an hour, no food to revive him, no idle moments to let his guard down.

The body wanted sleep, the mind wanted rest, but the part of him that mattered — the part that held Koyuki’s life in its hands, would not allow it.

He kept counting her breaths, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, measuring each shallow inhale as if it were a bargain he had to keep.

When the room tilted for a fraction of a second and a cold sweat prickled his scalp, he swallowed the dizziness and straightened.

“Not now,” he told himself, quietly and fiercely. His needs, he decided, could wait in a corner of his mind.

They were luxuries when the only thing that mattered was keeping her warm, keeping her wet cloth fresh, keeping a steady stream of water to her lips.

Pushing him to persist was a raw, personal question gnawing at him. If he failed, what would he be left with? If he could not complete this simple task, how would he carry himself through the world afterward? Stripped of honor, of purpose, what dignity would remain?

Those thoughts sharpened his resolve more than they weakened him. So he remained awake, eyes bloodshot, hands rough and careful, anchored to the bedside by fear and love in equal measure.

He never strayed from Koyuki’s side after that brief, necessary walk to cleanse himself at the waterfall while the medic tended to her.

That short absence had been unbearable enough — the thought of leaving her again, even for a moment, filled him with unease. Now, every heartbeat he stayed beside her felt like a vow renewed.

With careful, deliberate hands, he reached for the cloth resting on her forehead. It was damp and heavy with her fever, radiating heat as though it had stolen fire directly from her skin.

To Hakuji, the temperature felt scorching, unbearable for his fingers, yet he forced himself to hold it, knowing she had borne far worse. He set it gently aside, as if even an object touched by her suffering deserved respect.

Taking up a fresh cloth, he dipped it into the bucket he had filled earlier with water from the waterfall.

The water was cool, the kind that bit slightly at his skin when it first touched, and for that reason alone he chose it — a small comfort, a counterweight to the burning heat in her body.

He wrung it out exactly as she had once taught him, his strong hands moving with a strange, reverent care, twisting not too tightly, not too loosely, just enough to keep it firm but soft.

He remembered her gentle voice correcting him once, her laughter like a joyful melody when he had splashed water everywhere in his clumsy attempts. That memory guided him now, as though she were still teaching him in the quiet of the sickroom.

After folding the cloth neatly, he laid it across her brow, lowering it with the precision of a craftsman placing the final piece of a sculpture.

He didn’t move away immediately, watching for the subtle twitch of her eyebrows, the shift of her breathing, any sign that she felt relief.

The used cloth he carried outside the room, not discarding it, but hanging it just beyond the doorway where the night’s summer breeze brushed against it.

The air was cool enough to refresh the fabric, yet close enough that he could reach for it in an instant. He would not risk placing it farther away. If her fever spiked or the current cloth dried too quickly, he needed to act within seconds.

He had another cloth ready, one reserved solely for wiping away the fine beads of perspiration that clung stubbornly to the pale forehead of his beloved.

Every time the droplets formed, Hakuji would lean in, dabbing gently, as though each touch might chase away her suffering.

When her lips began to crack from dryness, he would lift the gourd with trembling but careful hands, tilting it just enough for the water to trickle past her lips.

Sometimes she would swallow weakly, other times it would take a moment, but he never rushed, never forced—patience was all he could give. And each sip she managed was like another stitch binding her back to life.

He would speak to her, voice low and uneven, whispering as if afraid silence might steal her away

“Hang on, Koyuki… you can do it.”
“You are strong. We’ll get through this together.”

Even the simplest phrases carried the weight of his soul, as though by uttering them he could tether her spirit more firmly to the world.

Her expression would sometimes soften—her brow relaxing, her lips twitching faintly—whenever his hand touched her skin or his voice broke the stillness.

He pressed on. Cloth after cloth, bucket after bucket, hour after hour. Each time he replaced the compress on her forehead, he noticed the smallest change—the heat lowering by the faintest margin, almost imperceptible.

Yet he refused to feel relief. Relief meant loosening his grip, and he could not allow that.

His routine became a cycle as relentless as his heartbeat, cooling her brow, wiping her sweat, moistening her lips, coaxing her to take her medicine when the time came. Over and over, like a ritual, an offering of devotion carved into the passing hours.

But beneath his tender actions, his mind blazed with unrest. The fury that had rooted itself in his chest and had stubbornly refused to diminish, it roared with every breath he took, roaring and wilder than any conflagaration.

Rage at the injustice, rage at his own helplessness, rage at the thought that her life had hung so precariously, all of it burned hotter than any fever.

He felt no calm even as her temperature began to subside, no rest even when her body loosened slightly in his arms.

His muscles screamed, his eyelids dragged downward, his thoughts frayed at the edges until reason barely clung on. Yet he would not allow himself to falter.

Not when Koyuki, fragile and vulnerable, lay before him in need of his strength. Not when every vein, every muscle in her body seemed to call out for his care, even though every muscle and vein of his was slowly giving in.

She had almost slipped into the cold, merciless grasp of death, and he had nearly lost her. He was not going to let that become reality, never.

So he endured. No matter how heavy his eyes grew, no matter how violently exhaustion tore at him. Rage and fear had replaced sleep, and until she opened her eyes again, Hakuji refused to close his.

Even though Hakuji was exhausted beyond the point of thinking clearly, his rage still burned, fiery and uncontrollable, a blaze that no extinguisher could ever smother.

Old man Hiroshi’s words, urging restraint and patience, were the only fragile chains keeping him from exploding in a frenzy, anchoring him to not lose himself.

But those chains were wearing out, getting weaker and weaker, about to break and snap at any moment.

At this moment, Hakuji had already lost all sense of calm—revenge was no longer a choice but an inevitability.The next second, Koyuki was in his arms, her fragile body swaddled in a soft duvet, her breath faint but steady against his chest.

With dragging, heavy steps, Hakuji trudged toward the familiar wooden door of Hiroshi’s home. It wasn’t far from the dojo, probably only fifty long strides.

His knuckles struck the door louder than intended, the sound echoing in the quiet night, careless of whether it startled the old man within.

The door slid open almost immediately.

Hiroshi stood there, lantern light casting deep shadows on the wrinkles of his tired face. It was as though he had been waiting—expecting this moment, expecting him.

“The water supply is running low,” Hakuji rasped, forcing the words from his throat. His voice was raw, hoarse, every syllable scratching painfully.

He adjusted Koyuki in his arms, tightening the duvet around her. “Look after Koyuki for me. Please… go to the dojo, all the medicine and supplies are there.”

Hiroshi’s gaze softened, though concern flickered beneath his calm exterior. “Boy, you should be resting. I can see the exhaustion in you, even in this darkness.”

His tone was gentle, yet edged with quiet insistence—like a grandfather scolding a child who refused to sleep.

“No n-need,” Hakuji replied, shaking his head weakly. His voice cracked, throat burning from fatigue.

Hiroshi sighed deeply. He knew those words were futile, like whispers thrown against a roaring storm. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from trying.

Guilt weighed on him like a boulder—he had failed to notice the poisoned well, failed to shield Keizo and Koyuki when they needed it most. He could not undo that failure, but he could, at the very least, stand beside Hakuji now, no matter how dangerous the road ahead became.

Together, they set off through the dimly lit path, the night air was chilly tonight, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and pine. The summer heat of the day had long since faded, leaving only a cool wind that whispered through the trees, brushing against their sleeves and hair.

The lantern in Hiroshi’s hand swung with each careful step, its warm glow carving a fragile circle of light in the vast darkness.

Hakuji walked a half step ahead, with the stiffness of a man barely holding his body together, though still clutching Koyuki securely, but not too tight, he couldn’t suffocate her, she needs plenty of Oxygen at this state.

Hiroshi kept close, his lantern swaying with every step. The silence between them was thick, filled with words neither knew how to voice. For a long while, only the crunch of gravel beneath their sandals accompanied them.

Finally, Hiroshi spoke, his tone low and cautious, cutting through the night air, cutting the once peaceful yet icy silence..

“Has she… been getting better?” he asked. The concern was genuine, sincere, almost pleading.

Hakuji gave the faintest nod, but in the shroud of darkness, Hiroshi could not see it. Realising this, Hakuji forced himself to speak, his voice breaking as though dragged from his scratchy throat.

“Y-yes.”

It was enough. Hiroshi didn’t press further. He could hear the truth in Hakuji’s tone—the exhaustion, the fear, the simmering rage beneath.

This was not the time for conversation, not the time to unearth buried emotions. And so he let the silence return, walking beside the young man whose spirit was flickering like a torch battered by wind, yet still burning defiantly against the night.

Hiroshi entered the tatami room carefully, with light footsteps, afraid to disturb the peaceful silence once again.

Hakuji went through all the basic steps and important details about his routine, though his voice was rough, incoherent, and barely perceptible, Hiroshi still nodded actively at every syllable released from Hakuji’s dry mouth.

The old man leaned in slightly each time, his brows knitted together, as though committing every single word to memory—because he knew these instructions weren’t just routine, they were Hakuji’s lifeline, his way of keeping the girl tethered to this world.

After finishing his brief walkthrough, Hakuji picked up the gourds and bucket, though his hands trembled faintly from fatigue.

He paused for a moment, staring at the last gourd, the one he left behind. It sat beside Koyuki’s futon, still half-filled with clean water, positioned within easy reach—as though he couldn’t bring himself to leave her completely defenseless, even for a short while.

“She… she’ll wake up thirsty,” Hakuji muttered under his breath, almost to himself. His voice cracked, raw from sleepless nights and suppressed cries.

“Don’t forget to wet the cloth every half hour… and wipe her forehead when she sweats. If her lips dry… use that gourd. Not too much at once, just enough.”

Hiroshi nodded again, but this time his chest tightened at the sight before him. The boy—no, the young man—was stretched thinner than the paper walls around them, his shoulders slumped, his eyes bloodshot, his entire being frayed to the edge of breaking.

And yet, even in this state, every word Hakuji spoke was about her. About Koyuki.

The old man wanted to say something, anything, to lighten that burden—but when he opened his mouth, nothing came. All he could do was bow his head slightly and murmur, “I understand, child. I’ll tend to her as if she were my own.”

Hakuji gave the faintest nod, his lips pressed tight. And then he turned away, shoulders squared stiffly, facing his back to Hiroshi and—most importantly—to Koyuki.

Every step he took away from her futon weighed heavy, as though invisible chains bound him to that small, fragile body lying motionless on the tatami. But he forced himself forward, because he needed water, because he needed to prepare. It was the bare minimum of what he could still do for her.

The night air outside slapped against his face the moment he slid open the door. Cool, damp, smelling faintly of moss and river stones, it filled his lungs in sharp, uneven gasps.

His legs, stiff from hours of kneeling at Koyuki’s side, felt as though they’d forgotten how to move, dragging across the dirt path like weights shackled to his ankles. And yet, he kept going, bucket and gourds in hand, down the familiar slope toward the waterfall.

The sound of rushing water grew louder the closer he came. The waterfall, bathed in pale moonlight, cascaded like a silver veil down the cliffside. Hakuji crouched low at the bank, plunging the gourds one by one into the icy current.

His hands stung at the touch, but he did not flinch. He filled the bucket next, lowering it carefully until the stream swallowed it, waiting for the cool liquid to rise and crest over the rim.
But the waiting—those few slow moments as the bucket filled—felt unbearable. Eternal.

Each drop that splashed into the wooden pail seemed louder than thunder, a mocking reminder of how powerless time made him feel. His heart pounded, restless, furious at stillness.

And then—he heard it.

Not the steady roar of the waterfall. Not the chirp of insects hidden in the grass. Something else. Faint at first, carried by the wind, then sharper, clearer—the metallic ring of steel against steel. A clash. Cheers. The crack of wood, the bark of laughter.

Hakuji’s head snapped up. His ears strained, following the sound down the narrow valley. It wasn’t far. His blood ran cold, then boiled all at once, as the echoes rolled toward him like waves. He knew where it came from even before his eyes confirmed it.

He rose to his feet slowly, muscles taut, his shadow stretching long across the stones. He moved through the trees toward the source, every step silent despite the storm that now raged inside him.

And then he saw them.

The rival dojo. The swordsmen. Torches lit the courtyard in a haze of orange, painting their silhouettes against the night. They weren’t training. They weren’t working. They were celebrating.

The new leader, a man with arrogance painted across every line of his face, stood at the centre, laughing, a cup of sake raised high. Around him, his followers cheered, slamming their swords together, sparks scattering into the dirt. Their voices rose in chorus, crude and triumphant, like jackals feasting on a kill.

The sight froze Hakuji in place. For a single moment, his breath caught, his chest tightening so painfully it felt like his ribs would snap. And then—something inside him broke.

Every ache in his body vanished. The exhaustion that had weighed down his arms, his legs, his very eyelids—gone. The hunger, the thirst, the pain in his skull—all of it evaporated into nothing. In its place surged something far more potent.

His veins burned, his muscles coiled tight, his heart thundered as if ready to tear through his chest. Rage, pure and unrelenting, coursed through him like fire racing across dry grass.

His hands clenched until his knuckles whitened. His vision narrowed, the torchlight around the courtyard blurring at the edges. He could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet or the cool sting of night air on his skin.

All he could see, all he could hear, all he could think of—was them. The murderers. The cowards who had poisoned instead of fighting. The men who had dared to touch Koyuki, dared to rob her of her warmth.

Suddenly, a cold gust of night wind hit his face, reminding him of his actual purpose to leave Koyuki behind. He dashed back to the waterfall without another thought, head filled with pure hatred and revenge, fists tightly clenched, fingernails almost tearing through his pale skin.

The gourds and the bucket were already filled to the brim, water was spilling out of them, scattering across the grass around, left waiting at the bank.

He wanted to rush straight for the celebrating men, rip them apart and destroy their lives the way they destroyed his.

But in a fleeting instant, the thought of Koyuki’s face—pale, fragile, yet still alive—flickered through his mind. He could not abandon her completely. He could not leave her without water.

With trembling precision, he carried the filled vessels back up the slope. Each step felt like walking through fire, his body screaming at him to abandon everything and lunge straight for the rival dojo.

But he resisted—barely—just long enough to reach the familiar door of his home.

The tatami room glowed dimly in the lanternlight beyond, Hiroshi’s figure faintly visible at Koyuki’s side.

Hakuji did not step in. He dared not capture Hiroshi’s attention, dared not hear another word of calm reason.

His hands shook as he lowered the bucket and gourds onto the wooden planks, placing them just inside the entryway. His breath came ragged, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

The chains from those heavy words had finally broken. The iron bonds that Hiroshi’s voice had wrapped around him, the final thread of restraint keeping his fury tethered, snapped like a weak twig in the storm that now consumed him.

“I’m sorry, old man,” Hakuji muttered under his breath, his lips barely parting, the words carried away by the restless night air. No one else would hear them. No one else was meant to. They were an apology and a farewell, in one hushed whisper from a raspy throat.

His gaze shifted toward the dim light leaking through the cracks of the tatami door, where the frail and subtle rise and fall of Koyuki’s breath waited for him. His throat tightened, his voice breaking even as he forced the words out, trembling like the flame of a candle in the wind.

“I’m sorry, Koyuki.”

A silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. He could almost imagine her eyes opening, her gentle voice telling him to stay, to sit by her side just a little longer.

But the silence stayed unbroken, and Hakuji’s heart broke under the weight of it, like a fragile glass bottle harshly thrown to the ground with brute strength..

“I will be back.”

He said it with all the conviction he could muster, though even he could not tell if it was a promise or a plea.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms until his skin split and blood welled, dark and hot. The sting anchored him, grounded him in the decision he had already made.

And then—without another sound—he turned.

Not toward the waterfall. Not toward rest. Toward them.

Every muscle in his body surged with purpose, every drop of fatigue burned away, replaced by a single truth that screamed louder than anything else:

Vengeance.

He ran. Not stumbling, not dragging, but with vigor. With rage. With fire. His feet pounded against the earth, carrying him straight toward the rival dojo, toward the men whose laughter still rang in his ears, toward the source of every bit of his anguish.

And this time, there would be no hesitation.

Chapter Text

Rain began pouring from the sky without warning. It didn’t begin with gentle trickles as it usually did, no soft drizzle over the fields nor subtle raindrops wetting the ground as a warning.

It came all at once, a furious downpour, a curtain of water that blurred the night without any signs it was coming before it began.

Hakuji stepped out from the front yard, and the world greeted him with thunder and rain. His bare feet slapped against the drenched ground, splashing through shallow puddles that burst outward like shattered glass, sending water flying up his calves.

The cold struck him instantly. The rain soaked into his white robes in seconds, clinging to his skin, weighing him down as if trying to chain him in place. The heavy fabric flapped against his body, plastered to his chest, but he drove forward, each stride fueled by fire strong enough to burn through the storm.

The dirt path softened under the assault of the rain, turning into a slick trail of mud. Each step sank into the earth, pulling at his heels like hands trying to drag him down, leaving deep prints that filled with murky water the moment he lifted his foot.

The edges of his robes were stained brown, streaked with grime, but he no longer cared. The mud only reminded him of what he’d already lost—purity, peace, the life he should’ve had.

His breath came hard and ragged, steam mixing with the cool mist of the rain. Droplets ran down his face, some sliding into his mouth, bitter with the taste of soil carried from the roof tiles and branches above. Others stung his eyes, mingling with the heat of tears he could not stop, though in the storm they became indistinguishable.

The sound of the downpour drowned everything, a deafening roar that swallowed the world whole. Yet through it all, Hakuji heard the pounding of his own heartbeat—loud, furious, unrelenting.

His fists pumped at his sides as he ran, knuckles white, nails still biting into the cuts he’d left in his palms earlier. His body screamed for rest, every muscle sore, his lungs burning, but the storm seemed to merge with his fury, carrying him forward, feeding his stride.

The earthy scent of rain rose from the soaked ground, sharp and heavy, clinging to his nose and lungs. It was the smell of renewal, of life—but to Hakuji, it was suffocating, a cruel reminder that nature continued to flourish, indifferent to his grief.

Lightning flashed across the sky, splitting the heavens with white fire. For a second, the rival dojo loomed ahead in the distance, its dark silhouette stark against the night. Hakuji’s eyes locked on it, and the thunder that followed felt like it echoed from his own chest.

His pace quickened. His anger deepened. His resolve hardened. The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm within.

Entering the front yard of the rival dojo, a strong sense of unease and disgust hit him like a wall. The sight of the familiar grounds—once a place of rivalry, now a nest of murderers—made bile rise in his throat.

The rain still poured, streaming down his face, dripping from his jaw, tracing along the lines of his veins that stood out against his pale, strained skin. His eyes burned crimson, not from the storm, but from the wrath boiling inside him.

His mind carried no thoughts of retreat. No fear. No hesitation. His body was a vessel carved hollow by grief, filled to the brim with only vengeance and rage. Every nerve in him trembled with violent anticipation, every muscle tightened as if preparing for war.

Hakuji slowed his pace. His quick, reckless run became a deliberate march, each footstep striking the mud-packed ground with finality, as though hammering down nails that sealed his path.

There was no turning back—not tonight, not ever. Each step anchored him deeper into his resolve, weighing him with the gravity of his purpose.

The dojo’s sliding doors glowed faintly with light from within, the shadows of figures etched across the paper panels. He could see their outlines clearly: men sitting cross-legged, tankards of sake raised high, swords leaned lazily against the walls. Their arms moved freely, gestures wild, bodies relaxed in careless celebration.

Laughter carried faintly through the paper, muffled by the storm, but sharp enough to pierce through the roaring downpour and grind against his ears.

They didn’t even notice him—this tall, broad, rain-drenched figure standing just steps away. To them, the night was theirs to revel in, their crimes already buried beneath sake and arrogance.

It was almost comical. Truly, if Hakuji had any humor left in him, he might’ve laughed. They looked as though they were celebrating a festival—voices raised, bodies swaying—like children oblivious to consequence.

Perhaps they thought they had won. Perhaps they believed the world would bend and accept their sins as triumph.

But he knew. He remembered. Their laughter wasn’t born from joy, it was rooted in blood. They were celebrating the death of his master, Keizo, a man who had given Hakuji a reason to live.

They were celebrating the poisoning of his Koyuki, his light, his one anchor in this fractured life. They were laughing at pain that wasn’t theirs.

His thoughts halted in an abrupt, icy stop. The laughter blurred into static. His focus narrowed, centered only on his fists, clenched so tight that his knuckles cracked, also grounding his bare feet firmly on the wooden panels. His entire being braced for what was to come, his fury sharpening into something unshakable, immovable.

And then—without warning—Hakuji lunged forward.

He seized the sliding door with both hands and wrenched it aside—not with restraint, not with control, but with force so violent it shattered under his grip.

The bamboo framework splintered into countless shards, scattering like a rain of jagged fragments. The delicate paper tore apart in bursts, fluttering in the air like wounded feathers, fragments mingling with the rain that swept inside.

The sound silenced the room instantly. Every silhouette froze mid-motion. Cups halted before lips. Jaws slackened. Heads turned. Their revelry was severed in one brutal instant.

And in the doorway stood Hakuji—drenched, robes clinging to his frame, his hair plastered against his forehead, his chest rising and falling with deep, storm-fueled breaths.

The downpour outside framed him, lightning flashing behind his shoulders, thunder rolling like a war drum announcing his arrival. His eyes locked onto the men inside—not wide with madness, but narrowed, sharp, and deadly.

“Isn’t that Keizo’s disciple from next door?”

The words slithered out of the leader’s mouth, heavy with sake, arrogance dripping from each syllable. His voice carried across the room, not with the steel of command, but with the dull bravado of a man who had long since mistaken cowardice for cunning.

He didn’t rise from his seat, didn’t even straighten his swollen back; instead, he leaned lazily against the low table, his hand clutching another overflowing cup.

His cheeks were flushed red with alcohol, and his speech was sluggish yet boastful, like the ramblings of a man too drunk on both liquor and his own hollow sense of power.

There was no fear in him—only arrogance.

The leader’s eyes, small and beady, narrowed as they fell upon Hakuji’s drenched figure. Those eyes revealed much: they were not sharp with clarity, not hardened by years of discipline or battle.

They were eyes that saw the world through a narrow slit, incapable of depth, incapable of honor. They belonged to a man who would never meet his enemies on equal ground, who would rather scheme in the shadows than face them head-on.

A mocking smirk spread across his broad, greasy face. His lips curled back, exposing crooked teeth stained by years of tobacco and drink. The smirk stretched wider, pressing into the folds of flesh that sagged beneath his cheeks.

The man’s chin—if it could still be called a chin—was buried beneath layers of fat. Not one, not two, but three thick rolls stacked upon each other, quivering slightly every time his voice rumbled through his throat.

And what a throat it was—short, stumpy, barely visible beneath the swollen jowls that enveloped it. He looked more like a pig dressed in robes than a master swordsman.

The robes themselves, once symbols of martial discipline, strained around his bulk, their fabric stretched thin across his large stomach. Where others wore their uniforms with pride and precision, his seemed more like a costume—a desperate attempt to conceal his own incompetence.

At his side lay a hat he had discarded earlier, revealing a sparse and greasy scalp. A few wiry strands of hair clung desperately to his head, plastered down with sweat and oil. His forehead shone slick beneath the lamplight, the skin stretched and glistening as if mocking the very concept of discipline.

This man, this failure, mess, abomination of a swordsman, dared to call himself a leader.

“It was unfortunate we couldn’t finish this guy as well,” he continued, his voice thick with drink, each word laced with mockery. “Using the exact same way we ended Keizo… ended by us.”

The men around him chuckled, emboldened by their master’s arrogance, their laughter mixing with the clinking of cups. None of them felt the chill that filled the room, none of them sensed the storm of rage standing only meters away.

They were too blinded by their own triumph, too drunk on victory to notice the predator they had trapped themselves with.

This leader, this coward, had built his power not on strength, not on skill, not on the honor that once defined the way of the sword.

No—his rule was carved from poison and deceit. He was the kind of man who would rather foul another’s well than draw his blade in a fair fight. A man who would rather strike from the shadows than face an enemy in the light.

It was pathetic.

A dojo of such size and renown, now rotting under the leadership of a man who knew nothing of honor, who knew nothing of discipline, who knew only how to spread corruption like a disease.

Poison was his weapon. Lies were his armor. And cowardice was the foundation upon which he sat so proudly, mistaking it for strength.

Every word he spoke was an insult—not just to Keizo, not just to Koyuki, but to the very art of swordsmanship itself.

And Hakuji, standing in the doorway, drenched and silent, could feel the rage coil tighter in his chest, burning hotter than the storm outside.

The men around him erupted into laughter at their leader’s words, the drunken jeers spilling into the smoky air of the room. Cups clattered, sake splashed across the tatami, and some of the younger swordsmen pounded their fists on the table in mock applause.

“Ended by us!” one of them echoed, his voice shrill and slurred.

“Keizo thought he was untouchable, but he was just another fool!” another chimed in, wiping rice wine from his beard.

“Now his daughter… What a shame, hm? Perhaps next time we don’t waste such beauty,” a third sneered, his words earning more howls of approval.

The room was thick with their cruelty, their sense of triumph so overwhelming that not one of them even stopped to notice the storm building in the man who stood in their doorway.

Hakuji’s eyes flicked across their faces—each one distorted, twisted in grotesque laughter. Their mouths were wide, teeth yellow, breath reeking of sake, their expressions all blurring together into a single, hideous mask of corruption.

These were not swordsmen who lived by discipline or code; they were cowards hiding behind poisoned wells, scavengers feeding on weakness. Every clap, every drunken cheer was another nail hammered into Hakuji’s restraint.

The leader leaned forward, squinting at Hakuji through his beady eyes. His chin folds jiggled with each smug chuckle. “What? Do you plan on avenging them, boy? With those fists of yours? You’re nothing but a stray dog they picked up off the streets.”

He raised his cup high and spilled sake down his robes in a toast, as if mocking Hakuji’s very existence. “Drink to their memory, why don’t you? Because after tonight, yours will be just that—another memory.”

The laughter roared again, echoing against the wooden beams of the dojo, but in Hakuji’s mind, every cheer, laughter and jeer was only fuel for the already raging combustion in his heart, causing him to explode at any given moment. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned white, veins bulging against his skin.

Within the blink of an eye, in a swift, precise movement, Hakuji had already seized the plump leader by the throat, lifting his entire weight off the ground with only one arm.

The man’s legs kicked helplessly in the air, sandals slipping from his feet, his layers of robes sagging down and exposing the folds of flesh that made up his gut. His face, once smug and red from drunken boasting, now twisted into purple blotches as Hakuji’s iron grip closed tighter.

“W-what are you doing?!” the man rasped, spittle bubbling at the corners of his lips. His fat fingers clawed at Hakuji’s wrist, but it was like trying to pry apart stone. His eyes bulged, sweat dripping down his double chins as panic finally replaced arrogance. “L-let go!”

But Hakuji did not let go.

His eyes—those same eyes that once brimmed with warmth whenever Koyuki smiled, that softened whenever Keizo placed a hand on his shoulder—were now drained of all humanity.

They were voids, colder than steel, darker than the storm raging outside. His gaze carried no hesitation, no flicker of doubt, no recognition that the man in his grip was even human. It was the gaze of a predator staring into nothing but prey.

The fat leader gurgled, his voice breaking into a pitiful whimper. His lips quivered as though pleading, but Hakuji’s expression remained unchanged—unfeeling, detached, as though his heart had been ripped out and replaced with ice.

For years, people had known Hakuji as reckless yet kind, stubborn yet loyal. A boy who would fight bare-knuckled in the streets, not for greed, but to protect his father’s medicine. A boy who had once believed that fists could shield others, not destroy them. But at that moment, that boy was gone.

His movements were mechanical, cold as the rain slicing down outside. His arm didn’t tremble under the leader’s weight, his posture didn’t bend.

He stood firm, unyielding, like a mountain rooted into the earth. Even the sound of choking in his grasp didn’t stir him—it only deepened the pitiless shadow in his eyes.

“H-help… me…” the man wheezed, his beady eyes darting frantically toward his subordinates, their drunken grins now wiped clean.

Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth, his thick neck swallowed whole by Hakuji’s crushing hand. His legs kicked less and less, his body sagging like a puppet losing its strings.

“W-what are you all waiting for? Take him down!” another swordsman roared, slamming his cup aside. His cheeks were flushed red from sake, words slurred but desperate.

The men finally broke from their paralysis, blades rasping from their scabbards as they rushed forward. The floorboards trembled beneath their charge, but Hakuji did not move—not even to acknowledge them. His empty eyes were still locked on the writhing man in his grip, as though the world beyond that trembling neck no longer existed.

The fat man thrashed one last time, his stubby fingers scratching at Hakuji’s forearm, leaving shallow, useless red streaks. His eyes bulged, veins spreading purple across his cheeks, his tongue beginning to protrude from his lips in an ugly, pitiful sight.

Hakuji’s expression didn’t flicker. No pity. No hesitation. No humanity.

His grip tightened.

CRACK.

The sound echoed like a thunderclap in the silence of the dojo. A grotesque snap that silenced even the roaring rain outside for an instant. The leader’s body jerked once, then went limp, his head slumping to one side at an unnatural angle.

His lifeless weight hung heavy in Hakuji’s hand, his swollen face frozen in that grotesque mask of panic and disbelief.

Gasps tore through the dojo. A few swordsmen staggered back, faces pale, sake forgotten. The reek of alcohol mixed with the sharp tang of fear.

Hakuji finally released his grip, letting the corpse drop to the polished wooden floor. It landed with a dull, heavy thud, robes spilling out around the bloated body like a burst sack of grain.

The man who had moments earlier been laughing in arrogance was now just a heap of flesh, discarded without ceremony.

Hakuji lowered his hand slowly, his knuckles still white, tendons standing out like cords beneath his skin. His cold gaze shifted from the corpse to the circle of men that remained.

Those hollow eyes pierced each of them in turn, silent, merciless. He didn’t need words—the weight of his stare alone was enough to choke the breath from their throats.

The men trembled, blades shaking in their hands. Some gritted their teeth, forcing themselves forward despite the pit of dread in their stomachs.

Others hesitated, feet glued to the floor as the realization sank in: their leader, their so-called “master,” had been ended in less than a heartbeat.

And still, Hakuji didn’t move like a man—he moved like something beyond human. His chest rose and fell slowly, evenly, as though the act of killing had cost him nothing. Rainwater clung to his hair, sliding down his jawline, dripping onto the floor.

The silence after the neck snap was deafening, oppressive, broken only by the faint creak of blades trembling in unsteady grips.

Then, finally—Hakuji stepped forward. One step, heavy and deliberate. The floor groaned.

And the swordsmen, despite themselves, staggered back.

The swordsman who had roared before shouted again, his voice shrill with desperation.

“What are you all doing? He killed our master—don’t falter! Destroy him!”

Twenty… thirty blades hissed free of their sheaths, the metallic sound slicing through the tense air. They surged toward Hakuji from every angle, a tide of steel and shouting voices.

And then— the snowflake appeared.

It bloomed into existence around him, sharp and crystalline, its symmetrical glow pulsing with an otherworldly brilliance. To the swordsmen, nothing changed, but to Hakuji, the world itself slowed. Time stretched, stretching like a rubber band, elastic, giving him ample time to read every single movement in tiny detail, considering how sluggish the swordmen's movements were.

He could see their feet stampeding on the firm wooden planks, droplets of rain falling in splashing on their robes, blades carving sluggish trails through the air.

And around each man—an aura. Some faint and flickering, some dull and wavering, a few barely visible at all. Their fighting spirit, tampered and diluted by alcohol, dimmed like lanterns struggling to stay lit in the storm.

Not one carried the blazing fire Keizo once had. Not one was worthy.

Hakuji’s jaw clenched.

His fist clenched.

And then—he struck.

A single, devastating punch ripped through the stillness, faster than the lightning striking the ground outside. Five men crumpled before they even knew what hit them, their bodies flung across the dojo like dolls.

They slammed into the wooden wall with such force that the sturdy beams cracked, splintered—and collapsed, a whole section of the dojo caving in under the impact. Dust and splinters filled the air, mingling with the pounding of the rain outside.

The others hesitated, horror flashing in their eyes—but their drunken bravado and their comrade’s scream still drove them forward. They roared, charging, blades flashing under the flickering lantern light.

One lunged behind Hakuji, sword angled for the nape, the spot most men never protected. A fatal strike—if Hakuji were ordinary.

But the snowflake pulsed again. A line of light flared across his vision, showing him the blade’s exact trajectory before it even began its descent. Without turning his head, without sparing the man a glance, Hakuji swung his elbow backward.

CRACK.

The swordsman’s jaw shattered on impact, his body spinning through the air before crumpling into a heap, sword clattering from his hand.

The others pressed on, hacking, slashing, stabbing from every direction. But Hakuji did not dodge. He didn’t need to. Their blades were sluggish, predictable, pathetic compared to the brutal, unyielding training Keizo had drilled into his body.

Steel met skin—and bounced away. Or rather, it was struck aside, shattered by knuckles harder than iron, by kicks that landed with the weight of a hammer.

Every blow Hakuji delivered was merciless, crushing and precise. Ribs caved. Arms snapped. Men screamed, their voices drowning beneath the storm outside.

These weren’t warriors. These weren’t men of discipline, or loyalty, or honor. They were cowards who poisoned wells, who struck from shadows, who laughed over the murder of a good man.

They were all small fry to Hakuji, nothing more than flies and mosquitoes to be swatted aside. Their swords, their shouts, their drunken fury—none of it mattered. To him, they were incompetence made flesh, absurdity in robes, a living joke that brought only harm to the world.

And they deserved every punch he landed, every kick he drove into their ribs, every brutal strike he unleashed.

Guided by the snowflake, his movements were cold and precise, breaking bones, shattering faces, casting bodies across the floor as though they weighed nothing. Their attacks bounced off him like rain striking stone, a nuisance, nothing more.

If not for the rage boiling in his veins, he might have yawned. Fighting them was child’s play—an endless display of weakness before a man who had no room left for mercy.

Meanwhile, all this time, Hiroshi could sense something was wrong. Deep down, a gnawing unease twisted in his stomach. Something wasn’t right—something was terribly, unmistakably wrong.

There was no way that filling the buckets and the water gourd would take that long. Even for someone as heavily sleep-deprived and worn down as Hakuji, whose mind and body had been pushed to their absolute limits, this delay was unnatural.

Hiroshi glanced toward the small gourd that rested beside him. The water within it sloshed faintly as he touched it, half-filled at best.

The supply was dwindling, only a few shallow gulps remained, and the bucket they usually relied on stood nearly dry. He could feel his throat growing parched, but that was nothing compared to the anxiety creeping into his veins.

He wanted—desperately—to get up, to rush out into the storm and look for Hakuji. Every instinct inside him screamed that something had happened. But he didn’t move.

He couldn’t. His legs felt heavy, as though bound by iron chains, rooted firmly to the wooden floor. Hakuji’s words echoed in his mind, steady and commanding: “Stay. Watch over Koyuki.”

He had entrusted her to Hiroshi. And that trust weighed heavier than steel chains ever could.

Koyuki lay behind him, her breath shallow, her face pale against the futon. Hiroshi dared not look away for long, afraid she might fade from existence the moment his eyes wandered. The responsibility was crushing, but he forced himself to remain calm.

He told himself again and again that Hakuji would return, that the man who carried the weight of mountains on his shoulders could not possibly fall.

And yet… that unease refused to fade. The silence outside felt too heavy, only leaving the pitter patter of the downpour and the random strikes of thunder, crashing into the ground, startling the old man a bit each time. Each minute also felt like an hour, the wait just seemed endless.

But Hiroshi sat perfectly still, his fingers clenching tightly around the rim of the gourd as if holding on to the last remnants of hope. He must not falter. He must not let fear drive him away from his post. Hakuji had trusted him, and for Koyuki’s sake, for Hakuji’s sake—he would not waver.

Hakuji strode down the long wooden corridor, his drenched robes dragging across the floor, leaving streaks of muddy water in his wake. His fists swung methodically at his sides, each arc cutting through the air like a pendulum of destruction.

Every time a new swordsman leapt out from a doorway or lunged from behind, Hakuji’s arm snapped forward, automatically, without hesitation—knuckles colliding with jaw, ribs, or throat—sending bodies crumpling before they even had the chance to raise their blades.

The corridor became a graveyard of groans and splintered wood, his steady footsteps echoing louder than the storm outside. The snowflake lingered at the edge of his vision, pulsing, warning, guiding—but at this point, it hardly mattered. None of them were a match.

Finally, he reached the last room at the end. The sliding door was already open, and within the dim candlelight sat a man, kneeling on the tatami.

His back was straight, his sword resting sheathed across his knees. His hands pressed together in still meditation, his eyes closed as if the chaos outside didn’t exist at all.

Hakuji froze for the first time that night. This was no drunk reveler. No trembling coward. The air itself felt heavier around this man, his presence radiating a calm so deep it pressed against Hakuji’s burning rage like water against fire.

Hakuji charged forward, his fist cutting through the air with the force of a hammer meant to shatter bone, cutting through the fragile air between him and the unusual swordsman, snapping the air from breaking the sound barrier.

He thought he would crush this man before he even had the chance to react. But the moment his knuckles should have connected, the figure was gone.

The snowflake inside Hakuji’s vision flared, its patterns scattering like ice fractals across his sight. And even then—even with the world slowing to a crawl—this man’s speed slipped past him.

In the blink of an eye, the swordsman was behind him, sword half-drawn, the whisper of steel slicing through the air.

Instinct saved him. The snowflake blazed, guiding his muscles before his mind could register. He spun, arm jerking up just in time to catch the strike. Steel met flesh with a violent crack, sparks bursting where blade kissed bone.

Pain shot down his arm, but he didn’t flinch. He forced the blade away, teeth clenched, veins bulging in his temples.

Hakuji staggered back three steps, breath heavy, heart slamming against his ribs. This wasn’t like the drunken cowards he had swatted aside moments ago.

Their attacks had been laughable—wild, untrained, poisoned by liquor and arrogance. But this… this man was different. Every move carried precision. Purpose. Weight.

The swordsman stood from his meditation cushion, now fully facing him. He moved slowly, deliberately, his sword slipping free of its sheath with a hiss that seemed to carve silence into the room. He didn’t waste a single ounce of energy.

His posture was unshakable, feet rooted into the tatami like ancient roots gripping soil. His presence filled the corridor like a looming storm.

He was older, perhaps forty or fifty. A thick beard framed his hardened jaw, streaked with gray that only added to the severity of his expression. His eyes—sharp, unyielding—were nothing like the small, beady eyes of the bloated fraud Hakuji had just executed.

There was no drunken glaze, no hollow smugness. Only clarity. Discipline. A refined gaze honed through decades of combat.

His brows were furrowed, not in anger, but in focus. The way he held his sword—steady, reverent, not boastful—told Hakuji everything.

This was no coward who would poison wells or laugh over cheap victories. This was a warrior. A real one.

For the first time that night, Hakuji felt something pierce through the fog of his rage. A sliver of recognition. Of respect. Of danger.

He adjusted his stance, legs spread, arms raised. His fists trembled, not from fear, but from the raw energy surging through him. The snowflake glowed faintly at the edges of his vision, warning him. Urging him. This man was not like the rest. He could not be underestimated.

For the briefest moment, Hakuji’s fury battled with his instinct to hesitate. If he had met this man under any other circumstance—if tonight weren’t painted with blood and vengeance—perhaps he would have asked for his name.

Perhaps he would have bowed in respect, even sought wisdom from him. This man could have been a mentor, someone to sharpen his raw strength into true skill.

But no. That time was gone. That path was burned.

His fists tightened until his knuckles whitened, veins crawling along his arms like blue fire.

This man was standing between him and vengeance. And for that reason alone, he would fall.

Hakuji charged at him once again, his fists clenched with unrelenting force, but this time the swordsman did not sit still—he moved, charging back with his blade fully unsheathed.

The air around him seemed to ignite, the burning aura radiating from his body so intense that even Hakuji, in his storm of rage, could feel the heat pressing against his skin like the breath of a furnace.

The swordsman’s movements were sharp, deliberate. He used the same technique as before, vanishing from Hakuji’s direct line of sight and reappearing beside him.

But Hakuji was no longer blind to it—his snowflake vision blazed to life, the crystalline light illuminating the incoming strike. He braced himself, muscles coiled like steel cables, and deflected the attack just in time.

The clash rang out like thunder, steel against flesh, sparks exploding where blade met fist. Hakuji’s eyes narrowed, cold and focused, scanning for the faintest sign of weakness.

Then, suddenly, he saw it—the middle of the swordsman’s torso glowed, faint but unmistakable, the snowflake marking it as an opening, a chance.

He didn’t hesitate. He swung the same fist that had just deflected steel, pouring his entire strength into the strike.

The impact was brutal, but Hakuji did not stop there. With relentless precision, he unleashed a barrage of blows—punches and kicks raining down upon the glowing weak spot. Unlike the drunken swordsmen before, this man was no mere distraction.

He had skill, experience, and discipline—but even so, he was being pushed back, overwhelmed by Hakuji’s raw power.

The final strike sent him crashing backward, but not far. He landed heavily a few meters away, sword still in hand, aura burning hotter than ever. His body trembled, but his eyes remained sharp. This fight was far from over.

At the undestroyed dojo next door, Koyuki stirred faintly, her fever burning hotter than before. The cloth on her forehead, once cool and damp, was now hot, nearly scorching to the touch.

Hiroshi wrung it out again, but the gourd beside him was bone dry, not a single drop left to moisten the fabric. He bit his lip. He had been stalling, hoping Hakuji would return soon, but he could wait no longer.

The old man rose, joints aching as he stood, and moved toward the side entrance. He slid the door open and peered into the stormy night. Rain poured heavily, the downpour drumming against the roof tiles and splattering against the wooden veranda.

His gaze instinctively darted toward the waterfall—yet it was hidden behind a veil of rain and storm clouds, blurred beyond recognition. No silhouette at the base, no figure trudging back up the path with buckets in hand.

Only the faint shimmer of water cascading down, glimmering for an instant whenever lightning cracked across the sky.

Lowering his eyes, he saw the bucket and gourds neatly placed right outside the entrance, filled to the brim with clean water.

Fortuanately the veranda shielded the bucket and gourds from the frightful downpour, not allowing the clean water to mix with the murky rain water.

But the sight brought Hiroshi no relief. The boy who was supposed to be carrying them inside was nowhere to be seen.

“Hakuji…” he called out, voice trembling but clear, drowned almost instantly by the pounding rain. No reply came.

A weight pressed hard against his chest. Something was wrong.

He stepped fully outside, the cold rain soaking his robes in seconds, each drop striking his skin like needles. His sandals squelched against the mud as he raised his eyes, scanning past the trees, across the misty fields—and there, in the distance, his heart sank.
The rival dojo.

Even from afar, even with the rain clouding Hiroshi’s already blurred vision, its once-proud estate was nearly unrecognizable. Portions of the roof had caved inward, as though struck by a great force.

The outer walls were fractured and splintered, beams jutting out like broken bones. Lanterns inside flickered weakly in the storm, casting jerking shadows across the ruined frame. The destruction was unmistakable, violent and raw—something far beyond nature’s doing.

Hiroshi’s throat went dry. He didn’t need to see Hakuji amidst the wreckage to understand. The boy’s absence, the untouched buckets outside, and the ruined dojo across the way—all of it aligned into one undeniable truth.
His fears were confirmed.

Hakuji had gone, not for water—but for vengeance.

This time, the swordsman charged forward, not Hakuji. His steps shook the ground, his blade raised high, determination blazing in his gaze.

Hakuji drew in a slow breath, his stance lowering, every muscle taut with anticipation. He was braced—fully prepared for an attack.

The swordsman gritted his teeth as he rose, his beard dripping with sweat that mixed with the rain still clinging to his robes.

His aura flared brighter now—so hot, so intense, it seemed to warp the very air around him. It was not the erratic blaze of drunken fools, but a controlled inferno, a flame refined through decades of practice.

He leveled his sword, the tip gleaming under the dim lantern light. Then, with a thunderous roar, he charged.

But this time, his movements were different—sharper, faster, more impossible to track. Hakuji’s snowflake vision burst alive, every shard of its crystalline design igniting at once. To anyone else, the swordsman would have been a blur.

But to Hakuji, it was as though three swordsmen existed at once—one striking from the left, one from the right, and one head-on.

It was a technique designed to overwhelm, a style built to slice through openings no ordinary man could cover.

Steel came crashing from three directions. The glow of the sword arcs was blinding. Hakuji’s arms screamed as he blocked one strike, his shin cracked against the second, and his fist met the third head-on.

Sparks flew, ringing metal filled the hall, and the force sent tremors through the wooden beams above them.

He almost faltered. Almost.

The snowflake shone brighter, guiding him, showing him not the swordsman’s blades but the rhythm behind them. For every slash, there was a pause. For every strike, a fraction of imbalance.

And Hakuji seized it.

He absorbed the storm of cuts, his forearms sliced shallow, his robe torn in long, jagged lines, blood dripping but ignored. His eyes—icy, unblinking—never left the glowing weak point shimmering in the swordsman’s chest.

“Not this time,” Hakuji growled under his breath.

The next time the blade came crashing down, Hakuji caught it—not dodging, not flinching.

His calloused hand wrapped around the steel, blood instantly welling as the edge split into his palm. But he held on. His other fist crashed into the glowing opening with a crack like a thunderclap.

The swordsman staggered, but refused to fall. He spun, attempting another flurry, but Hakuji was already there. He unleashed a barrage—punch after punch, kick after kick, each one fueled by every ounce of rage and grief in his body.

The strikes pounded against the man’s torso, forcing the air from his lungs, shaking the bones beneath his flesh.

The swordsman’s aura burned as if to resist, his blade flashing desperately, but every strike grew weaker, slower, sloppier.

Finally, with one last roar, Hakuji’s fist connected dead-center with the glowing weak point. The impact launched the man backward, his body colliding with the far wall, splintering wood and rattling the beams of the dojo.

His sword clattered from his grip, embedding itself into the floorboards as he slumped, breathless, eyes wide with disbelief.

Hakuji stood still, chest heaving, his fists dripping red—blood not only from his enemies, but his own torn flesh.

The snowflake shimmered faintly before fading back into nothingness, leaving only the pounding of rain outside and the silence of the broken corridor.

The swordsman, formidable as he was, could not rise again.

For Hakuji, there was no triumph. No pride. Knowing that each and every one of them were gone, he was about to collapse at any moment, the rush of adrenaline, pushing him forward, fueling his rampage was over.

But he still had one single objective, this objective most prized to him, the one most cherishable to him.

He had to return to Koyuki, protect her, he must protect her….