The clash of katana against shadow echoed through the corrupted village remnants of Kurohana. Takashi moved like a force of nature and rigor, his blade carving through Hakari’s wild shadow onslaught with precision begotten of years of discipline. But no matter how his body fought, his mind was elsewhere, clouded by the weight of regret, memories long buried.

  Shadows conflicted once more, and Takashi had to parry, his movements reflexive as a ghost memory of the past claimed him.

  The practice courtyard was lit by the waning light of late evening, lanterns casting long, waffling silhouette on the parched earth. Hikari, little more than seven years old, sat cross-legged on the ground, her small hands clasped around her judgment beads. Their soft light illuminated her face, her eyebrows knitted in intense concentration.

  Hakari waited near, his practice sword belted loosely at his waist. He was twelve, and already tall, but the hunch of his shoulders made him seem smaller than he was. His face was sulky, his eyes riveted on Hikari as she talked to herself in soft focus.

  Mizuki watched them both from the edge of the yard, her silver hair glinting softly in the light of the lanterns. Her own hands, clasped tightly in front of her healer's robes, were the only indication of her nervousness.

  "Why does she get to learn something special?" Hakari spoke out suddenly, his voice bitter and low. "All I get is just a wooden sword. And also, don't forget the sparring, train, sparring, train, sparring, train and also. sparring."

  "Hakari..." Mizuki’s breath hitched at the question. She hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, her bare feet whispering against the ground. “Because... because the beads chose her,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. “Just as the sword chose you. Your paths are different. but they’re both important.”

  Hakari gazed at her, his face hidden in the illumination of the lantern. "So why does hers sound more matter now?"

  Mizuki's fist tightened on the material of her robe. "It's not that hers matters. It's... it's simply different. Judgment beads have their own weights, Hakari. Hikari had no choice here any more than you did."

  Hakari's hand clenched on the sword, his knuckles white. "But all the others treat her like she is special. The elders, the people in the village, even Father. He demands more of me than anyone, but if she's present, I might as well not be."

  Mizuki edged closer, his arm going around her shoulders as he placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. "Hakari, your father... because he believes in you. He knows that you have a potential... At using sword."

  Hakari pushed her hand away, his voice escalating. "Or maybe he just expects me to be perfect or I am not good enough. Maybe that is why he talks to me in a different way than he talks to her."

  Mizuki flinched, her shoulders sagging as she struggled for the right words. "H-Hakari, that's not—"

  “It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, his voice flat. He turned away, his shadow stretching across the dirt as he walked toward the edge of the yard. “If he doesn’t believe in me, then I’ll just have to prove him wrong.” he said as he walk away, leaving his mother.

  "H-Hakari..." She call his name but, she uncertain. Mizuki stood frozen, the lantern light casting a faint glow on her pale face. Her hands trembled as she watched Hakari disappear into the night, his words echoing in the quiet stillness. While Takashi just watching from the window inside.

  The memory shifted, a new scene rising unbidden in Takashi’s mind.

  It was midday, the sun hammering down on the courtyard as Hakari stood before him, sweat streaming from his brow. His stance was firm but not steady, his wooden practice sword trembling in his hand.

  "Again!" Takashi yelled, his voice gruff and unyielding.

  Hakari attacked, his strikes swift but untamed. Takashi sidestepped easily, counterattacking with a strike that sent the boy tumbling to the ground.

  “Sloppy,” Takashi said coldly. “You’re not thinking. Pick up the sword and do it again.”

  “Takashi.”

  Mizuki’s voice, trembling but resolute, cut through the tension. Takashi turned to find her standing at the edge of the yard, her silver hair shimmering like molten moonlight. Her pale hands clutched the folds of her robes, her knuckles white.

  "That's enough," she said, taking a step forward. Her voice trembled, but her eyes were resolute.

  "He needs discipline," Takashi told her, his tone icy. "If he doesn't learn now, he'll never survive out there."

  Mizuki shook her head, her expression pained. “You’re not teaching him discipline, Takashi. You’re teaching him fear. Look at him—he’s exhausted, humiliated. How can he learn anything if all he sees is your disappointment?”

  "He'll learn because he has to," Takashi snapped back, anger rising. "The world is not going to wait for him to catch up, Mizuki. He needs to drive himself, or he's going to fall behind and lose everything."

  She shook her head, moving closer, and her voice broke with emotion. "And what will it cost him now, Takashi? His heart? His passion? For you? For himself?

  Takashi stiffened, his gaze flying to Hakari, who spoke not a word, shoulders bowed and head lowered.

  "He's just a child," Mizuki interrupted, her voice trembling. "He needs your strength, yes, but your mercy too. If you give him only your wrath, what will he bring into the world if you keep doing this? Takashi. Stop this right now."

  Takashi opened his mouth to say something but there were no words. He turned his back, his grip on his practice sword tight.

  "Get the sword. Get it," he snarled.

  Hakari slumped over to pick up the sword, as though it hurt him to do it. His movements were slow and reluctant. Mizuki said nothing, watching, her shaking hands clutched around herself.

  The memory shattered as Hakari’s laughter rang through the ruins, mocking and venomous.

  "You can't stop me, Father," Hakari growled, his voice distorted by the mask's power. "Not with rules, not with your sword. You never could."

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  Takashi was silent. His katana cut the darkness with lethal precision, but his thoughts were a whirlwind of regret and doubt.

  The boy who had once looked to him for approval now stood as his greatest failure. And no amount of skill or discipline could silence the haunting question in Takashi’s mind.

  Had he been the one to push Hakari into darkness?

  Hakari’s corrupted energy surged again, the shadows twisting and writhing like living creatures. Takashi’s body reacted on instinct, his katana flashing as he deflected another tendril aimed at his chest. But his focus wavered, his thoughts consumed by a single, haunting question:

  Is this my fault?

  The words cut deeper than any blade, a painful memory in his mind. He had trained so many, built so many soldiers who'd fought well and honorably. And with his own son, he'd failed.

  Hakari's maniacal laugh sliced through the air, cold and derisive, as he chased after his father. "You're slowing down, old man," he taunted, venom dripping from his voice. "What's the matter? Finally realizing that you're not so perfect after all, as you let everyone think you were?

  Takashi dodged another blow, but his grip relaxed slightly. The blade of his katana sliced the shadow a fraction too slowly, and a searing tendril seared his shoulder, tearing a jagged gash in his robes. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but it was not the wound that unsettled him—it was the doubt.

  Did I push him too far? Did I forge this fury? This hatred?

  And another flashback forced its way into his mind: Mizuki's trembling voice, her white-knuckled hands grasped on the hem of her healer's robes as she pleaded with him to understand what he was doing to their son.

  "He's not your son, Takashi. He's a boy who respects you for guidance, for love."

  He had rejected her then, dismissed her words as weakness that would destroy Hakari. And now... with his son's tainted eyes he gazed into, he felt the weight of the decision like the blade stuck in his throat.

  Hakari attacked once more, the cursed runes on his arms ablaze as a wave of darkness was unleashed on Takashi. He blocked it, but the force of it pushed him backward, his feet scraping against the ruined earth.

  "You can't even keep up anymore," Hakari sneered, his smirk wide and unpleasant. "You always thought you were better than me, but look at you now. Weak. Hesitating."

  Takashi clenched his fist on his katana, trying to slow his breathing. Yet his son's words stung. Was that what Hakari perceived when he looked at him? Not a father who was trying to teach and protect him, but a man who criticized and ordered without ever offering comfort?

  "All I see is a boy who's learning to hate himself—and you."

  Mizuki’s voice again, like a ghost whispering in his ear.

  “Stay focused,” Takashi muttered to himself, shaking his head as though to dispel the memories.

  But his momentary distraction was not left unpunished. Hakari charged forward, the darkness around him churning into whipping, claw-like tendrils. One of these struck quicker than Takashi had opportunity to defend himself against and slammed into his ribs, sending him stumbling off balance. He crashed to the ground, the weight of his own culpability pressing down on him.

  "Hmm. You're pathetic," sneered Hakari, his voice a revolting mix of glee and rage. "You've spent your whole life teaching me the importance of discipline and strength, and for what? Now... Look at you, barely able to stand."

  Takashi gritted his teeth, pulling himself onto his feet once more. His side hurt from the blow, and his hand on his katana wasn't as secure as it should have been. He locked eyes with Hakari, and for a moment, he saw boy Hakari as he had been—the boy who had looked for approval from him, and found only scorn.

  Is this what I have made? A monster? Is this all i want?

  The memory came close to undoing him, his shaking hands as he brought his knife up again. But another one came into his mind, one that calmed him.

  It was years ago, when Hakari's bitterness had not yet taken root. Mizuki sat on the porch with Hakari, her silver hair cascading down her back as she braided a wreath of wildflowers. Hakari, a boy of ten at the time, watched her hands with silent wonder.

  "Mom, will Father like it?" Hakari asked, his voice small but hopeful.

  Mizuki smiled, her hands never pausing. “Of course he will. He just doesn’t always show it, but he loves you, Hakari. Never doubt that.”

  “Then why doesn’t he say it?” Hakari’s question was so soft it was almost lost in the breeze.

  Mizuki's hands clenched, her eyes falling for a moment. Then she reached out, cupping Hakari's cheek with a gentleness that was as if she held the weight of the world. "Because sometimes... the people we love most are the very people we find it hardest to show it to. And the person is you Hakari."

  The scene back at Hakari and Takashi now

  "No," he whispered, his voice low but resolute.

  Hakari stopped, his sneer falling away. "What?"

  Takashi raised his head, his eyes burning and unwavering. "You're right, Hakari. I wasn't perfect. I messed up. But I never fell out of love with you. Not then, and not now.".

  " What are you talking about." Hakari a bit confused his father suddenly speak like that. The words seemed to catch Hakari off guard, his corrupted aura flickering for a split second. But then the mask at his belt pulsed, and the shadows surged again, more violent and erratic than before.

  “No. You’re lying!” Hakari spat, though there was a faint tremor in his voice. “You’re just trying to make me hesitate!”

  Takashi steeled himself, his katana steady once more. "I don't need to make you doubt. I am still your father, Hakari. And I will stop you—even if it's saving you from yourself."

  The fight had continued, but this time the strides of Takashi had more vigor. Nonetheless, he questioned whether all of this was his fault, but now the blame spurred him hard. He couldn't undo the past, but he still could fight to recover what of his son's humanity remained.

  The battle raged on, each strike of Takashi’s katana meeting Hakari’s shadowy tendrils with an ear-splitting clash. The clearing around them was a tempest of movement—shadows coiling like living serpents, the gleam of steel slicing through the air, and the ground itself trembling beneath the force of their blows.

  Hakari, however powerful he might be, couldn't help but become more and more enraged. His father moved slowly, smoothly, and annoyingly practiced. Each step, each riposte, was something Hakari had seen before in all his years of training under the old man's merciless tutelage.

  He darted to the side, summoning a jagged spear of shadow and hurling it at Takashi with brutal force. Takashi’s katana flashed, slicing through the attack effortlessly. Hakari surged forward, his corrupted arm glowing with cursed energy as he swung it toward Takashi’s chest.

  But Takashi was already in motion. He turned around, dodging the attack by a whisker, and counterattacked with an accurate swing of his sword that pushed Hakari back.

  "How?" Hakari snarled, his own breath coming in tattered gasps as he bared his teeth at his father. "How are you still standing? You're old, you have no magic, no cursed power—and you're keeping up with me?"

  Takashi did not answer, his expression calm and inscrutable as he changed foot. But within him a maelstrom raged.

  It was noon, the training ground ringing with the sharp snap of wooden swords as Takashi sparred with Hakari. The boy, twelve then, had been hitting harder, his strikes fast but untamed, his technique crumbling under the pressure of his anger.

  "You're exposing yourself again!" Takashi growled, deflecting Hakari's strike with a swift, economical motion. He struck, his own practice sword smashing into the boy's wrist and sending his own sword flying out of his hand. "How many times must I tell you? Precision! Discipline! And focus!"

  Hakari rocked back on his heels, clutching his wrist. His eyes burned with unshed tears that he refused to let fall, his chest heaving with the effort. "I'm trying, Father!"

  "Not hard enough!" Takashi roared, his voice ringing up. "Do you think that's effort enough when your killer comes for you? Do you think they'll wait if you're tired, if you're scared? They'll cut you down where you stand!"

  "Takashi!"

  Mizuki’s voice, trembling and now raise her voice, interrupted him. Takashi turned to see her standing at the edge of the yard, her silver hair catching the sunlight like a halo. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her healer’s robes fluttering in the breeze.

  “That’s enough,” she said, stepping forward. Her voice quivered, but her eyes were steady, meeting Takashi’s gaze with quiet determination. “He’s done for today.”

  "No, he isn't," Takashi replied abruptly, turning back to Hakari. "Take up the sword."

  "He's tired!" Mizuki cried, her voice somewhat louder but still shaking. "Can't you see what you're doing to him? He's just a child, Takashi. He doesn't need this—"

  "He does need this!" Takashi shouted, the sound making him jump almost as much as it made her. He whirled around to face him, his eyes blazing. "Do you think the world is going to care if he's tired? Waiting him till he up again? Do you think it's going to cut him some slack because his mother makes him get sleep? If I don't push him now, it'll be his life that's on the line later! Enemy did not wait nor show mercy to its oppenent!"

  Mizuki flinched, her hands trembling as she took a step back. Her silver hair framed her pale face, her eyes wide with something that might have been fear. For a moment, the training yard was silent, save for the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

  “You’re scaring him,” Mizuki whispered, her voice breaking. “And you’re scaring me.”

  Takashi glared, his rage trembling at the sting of her words. His gaze flicked to Hakari, still looming there, eyes downcast, slight frame trembling at the violence of his father's anger toward his mother.

  In response, however, Takashi spun on his heel and strode away, jaws locked tightly together. "Take up the sword," he growled, voice empty.

  Hakari obeyed, but reluctantly and slowly, his spirit good and duly broken. Mizuki had nothing else to say as she turned on her heel and left, her footsteps quiet but her hand is shaking.

  The flashback struck Takashi like a blow, his chest tightening as the battle continued around him.

  Had that been the moment? The turning point where his son’s admiration turned to resentment? Where his wife’s love for him became shadowed by fear?

  Another strike from Hakari’s shadow blade forced him to snap back to the present. Takashi blocked the blow, but his movements were just a fraction slower, his mind too preoccupied with the weight of his guilt.

  Hakari detected the slip instantly. "You're slipping, old man," he taunted, his tainted aura flaring. "What's wrong? Realizing at last that you're not so invincible after all? Not great enough? Pathetic. You should notice it before you Were born!"

  Takashi clenched his teeth, forcing his body to continue moving even as his aching limbs and racing heart protested. His katana sliced through another wave of darkness, but Hakari struck with growing strength, his attacks more brutal, more ruthless.

  The boy had learned well, Takashi thought bitterly. He had drilled these movements into Hakari’s body over years of relentless training. Now, that very training was being turned against him.

  Was this my fault? The question lingered, sharp and unrelenting.

  Another tendril struck, raking across Takashi's side and tearing through his robes. He stumbled but recovered easily, his katana rising to parry the next attack. But Hakari saw the hesitation, the weakness, and his smile widened.

  "Always thought you were better than me," Hakari growled, his attacks growing more vicious. "But you're not. You're a relic clinging to his tradition. Didnt know what real power are!"

  Takashi's hand tightened on his katana, his breath coming in ragged but steady gasps. He didn't answer Hakari's jibes—not with words. He couldn't.

  For in his heart, he was afraid that his son was right. He is bound by tradition.