Takashi stumbled through the village, his steps unstable and his breath shallow, gulping gasps. The night was heavier than usual, the silhouette stretching to pull him under his weight.

  The grip of his katana hung loose in his fist, its erstwhile blazing sunfire extinguished. His sight was blurred, the blood and flame that he'd left in the elders' chambers flashing in his mind's eye.

  What have I done?

  The question weighed on him like a stone, crushing his chest and tightening his throat. His mind churned with images of Hakari’s twisted face, of Mizuki’s frightened eyes, and of Hikari’s trembling hands. He thought of the shattered vases, the broken traditions, and the blood that now stained his hands.

  His heart raced, each beat like a hammer against his ribs.

  I was meant to protect them. I was meant to be more than this.

  He stumbled once more, his knees buckling beneath him as pain cut through his chest. He clutched at his heart, gasping for breath, but it was like the world had chosen him as its enemy.

  His body protested, and his mind spun. No one will save me. No one cares. Not after all the things I've done.

  The katana in his grip felt heavier than it should, its steel slick with blood that steamed in the cool air. His knuckles ached from how tightly he had clutched it, how viciously he had swung it. The elders' chambers were behind him, their halls a ruin of flesh and flame, the weight of his vengeance dragging behind him like chains.

  But he already kill the elder.

  They had deserved it. They had deserved all of it.

  His mind throbbed with images of Hakari—his son, trembling in the elders’ grip, beaten down for speaking the truth. A boy with too much knowledge, too much defiance, and for that, they had tried to break him. Tried to erase him.

  So Takashi had done what needed to be done. He had answered them with steel.

  The memory surged hot in his mind—bodies cleaved open, their screams cut short, the halls painted red with judgment. Everything relic was there he destroyed it.

  But something... felt wrong.

  The blood on his hands was cold now, dark and thick like ink. And the scent—it wasn't right. Not iron. Not the raw stench of death.

  He blinked.

  The blood was gone. Dissolve like an mist.

  His hands were clean. His blade dry.

  Takashi’s breath hitched. He turned sharply, his vision blurring. The path behind him, where bodies should have lain in twisted, broken shapes, was empty.

  No corpses. No severed limbs. No ruin of relic, no fire.

  Only untouched walls, undisturbed earth. The chambers stood whole, silent, the torches flickering as if nothing had ever happened.

  And the exhaustion sinks in. He never touched them. They’re still out there, unbroken, unpunished. You were swinging at phantoms, drowning in a war waged inside your own skull.

  His chest seized, nausea twisting in his gut. No. No, I did it. I did it. He had seen it—felt the flesh part beneath his sword, heard the bones snap under his strikes.

  He had seen their faces contorted in agony.

  Hadn’t he?

  Takashi staggered, his heartbeat deafening in his ears.

  The pain grew stronger, spreading like fire through his veins. His vision grew cloudy, and he collapsed to the ground, panting as the cold earth seared into his skin.

  This is it, he raged with bitter remorse. This is where everything ends. A tool broken by its own hand.

  All around him receded to darkness.

  ---

  This is where it ends.

  There was a warm warmth rousing him, gentle and soothing to the chill that had claimed his body. Takashi opened his eyes, his gaze muddled and his head reeling. He struggled to get up, his muscles weighed down, his chest hurt with every feeble gasp.

  "Takashi," someone called quietly, shaking and worried.

  His gaze focused slowly, and he saw Mizuki kneeling beside him, her silver hair glowing faintly in the dim light. Her hands hovered over his chest, a soft, greenish light emanating from her palms as she worked to heal him. Sweat beaded on her brow, her expression tight with concentration and worry.

  “Stay still,” Mizuki whispered, her voice cracking. “You’re going to be alright.”

  “M-Mizuki,” Takashi muttered, his voice weak. “Why.”

  "You fainted," another voice spoke, stronger but tinged with concern.

  Takashi shifted his head a little, his eyes blurring as he watched Hikari crouch beside her mother, her judgment beads softly aglow. Her hands shook as she put them on his arm, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.

  "You are lucky we got here in time father, " Hikari exclaimed, trembling. "What were you thinking, walking away like that? What if we hadn't—"

  "Hikari," Mizuki stopped her gently. "Let him rest."

  Takashi's gaze jumped between the two women, his mind scrambling to keep up with what was occurring. Mizuki's hands flew up with more intense light as her healing magic coursed into him, easing the pain in his chest.

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  “Y-you... shouldn’t be here,” Takashi murmured, his voice barely audible.

  Mizuki’s hands stilled for a moment, and she looked into his eyes. Her own were filled with worry, exhaustion, and something deeper—something he couldn’t name.

  “Don’t say that,” Mizuki whispered, her voice trembling.

  “You shouldn’t waste your strength on me,” Takashi muttered, his gaze flickering to Hikari. “Not after. what I’ve done.”

  Hikari’s grip on his arm tightened, her beads flaring faintly. “Don’t talk like that, Father. You’re still—” Her voice caught, and she looked away, biting her lip.

  Mizuki’s voice softened as she placed her hand over his. “You’re still here, Takashi. That’s all that matters right now.”

  For the first time in what felt like years, Takashi felt something other than guilt. The warmth of Mizuki’s touch, the faint glow of Hikari’s beads—it wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something close.

  His vision swam again, his body too weak to fight the pull of unconsciousness.

  Morning sunlight seeped into windows of the household home, its golden rays shining on spare furniture pieces. The house felt chillier than one would imagine for all its light.

  Hikari sat by the low wooden table in the center of the room, judgment beads set before her on its surface. She regarded them calmly, her hands sliding over the cool surface as though seeking advice from them which they could never offer.

  In the background, Haruka kept herself busy with an activity that was less an activity than a ruse for continuing to move around. She refolded and folded again a pile of robes, her hands trembling slightly as she moved. The tension between the two sisters was thick, the only noises the soft rustle of the fabric and the creak of the boards every now and then.

  "He still hasnt woken up," Haruka replied finally, her voice low and hesitant.

  Hikari didn't raise her head. Her fingers froze on the beads, but she remained silent.

  "Mizuki was with him last night," Haruka continued, putting the robes down. She glanced towards the door, her face serious with worry. "She hasn't eaten. She hasn't slept. If it continues like this, she'll—"

  "Haruka."

  Hikari spoke softly but firmly, interrupting her sister's words. Haruka's eyes met hers, her face drawn into a tense mask of frustration and fear.

  "What?" Haruka said sharply, more sharper than she had meant to sound. "Sit around and do nothing? He's our father—"

  "And what would you have us do?" Hikari spat, finally lifting her gaze. Her eyes were red, dark circles underneath betraying a lost night of sleep. "We can't heal him. We can't reverse what has been done. Mizuki's doing everything she can. All we can do is wait."

  Haruka grimaced, fists clenching on either side. For a moment, the sisters glared at each other, the burden of their shared inadequacy weighing between them.

  At last, Haruka turned away, her shoulders sagging forward in dismay. "I hate this," she whispered. "I hate sitting here."

  Hikari sighed, leaning back against the wall. "Me too," she said, her voice softer. "But playing dumb won't help him. It won't help us either."

  The silence in the room was heavy again, the unspoken reality of their father's condition hanging over them like a storm cloud.

  Mizuki was sitting at the bedside of Takashi, her hands resting delicately in her lap, exhausted healer's camp. The tent was still apart from the faint sound of cloth rustling as the other healers went about their work.

  Takashi lay still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His face was pale, his body a shadow of the unyielding man who had once stood at the head of their family. The faint glow of Mizuki’s healing magic still lingered on his skin, but the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed how much it had cost her.

  "Stubborn," she whispered, pushing a lock of silver hair back from her face as she looked down at him. "Even now, you refuse to lie still."

  Her hand trembled as she picked up the cloth in a bowl of water on the bedside table. She squeezed it out with tender care before placing it on his forehead, her touch light.

  For a moment, Mizuki allowed herself to close her eyes, her own exhaustion lapping at the fringes of her own command. But she pushed it away quickly, her eyes flashing back to Takashi.

  "You don't get to leave us," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Not after everything. Not now."

  The gentle hum of noises outside the tent reminded her of the world outside their fragile veil of silence. But for now, she had her gaze only on the man before her, her silent prayers filling the space between them.

  The weight of the morning hung over the stillness of the house, punctuated only by the creaking of the floorboards and the gentle hiss of the wind caressing the walls. Hikari stared at her judgment beads, the subdued, polished gleam catching the morning light as she trailed her fingers over them absently.

  On the opposite side of the room, Haruka perched on a low stool, a basket of herbs beside her. Her hands moved methodically as she sorted and bound them, her brow furrowed with worry.

  "Haruka," Hikari spoke softly, her voice breaking the quiet.

  Haruka's head lifted, her hands suspended in the air. "What is it?"

  Hikari hesitated, her eyes on the beads in her lap. "Do you. do you remember what Hakari explained to us about magic?"

  Haruka's face creased in a slight frown as she set her herbs aside. "Hakari said a lot of things about magic," she told him, her voice cautiously.

  "No," Hikari replied, shaking her head. "I mean that other time. when he told us about judgment." She spread her beads, the dim light glinting in her tired eyes. "He told us judgment power... was magic too. He told us it was. light magic.".

  Haruka's expression softened, and she moved slightly to the side, her hands folded in her lap. "Hmmm... I remember," she said slowly. "He was certain of it. He always was when it came to magic."

  Hikari's hold on the beads grew firm. "He told me it wasn't a miracle," she breathed. "He told me it was magic. But Father." Her words trailed off and she gazed up at Haruka, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Do you remember how Father got angry?"

  Haruka nodded, her lips twisting into a tight line. "He came into the room before Hakari could even get the words out," she whispered. "And he said no. Refused. Told him judgment wasn't magic, that it was a miracle that had been bestowed on the chosen few."

  "And Hakari argued," Hikari breathed, her voice trembling. "He said to him it didn't work. That it was light magic—organized, practiced. Something that anyone could be taught to do if only they knew the way."

  Haruka let her gaze fall to the ground, her shoulders slightly slumping. "Hakari always knew more about magic than either of us," she spoke softly. "More than anyone ever gave him credit for. He. he was smarter. More talented.".

  Hikari’s hands tightened around the beads, her knuckles turning white. “Then why wasn’t he chosen?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Why me? If he understood so much more. if he was so much better. why did the beads choose me?”

  Haruka’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with alarm. “Hikari, don’t—”

  "It doesn't make any sense," Hikari continued, her voice growing louder, more insistent. "He's always been the stronger one. The smarter one. I dont even know anything at that moment. Everything I know about judgment, about magic—I learned from him. But I'm the one who's been chosen. He really confident he even stand up when they start choosing who Held the beads. Why... Why it has to be me?"

  Haruka stand up, pacing across the room and falling to her knees in front of Hikari. She took her sister's hands tightly, forcing her eyes upward. "Hikari," she said sternly, her own voice steady even as her hands trembled. "Stop. Don't do this to yourself. Maybe—"

  "But it's true," Hikari whispered, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes. "He deserved it more than I did. They say the beads choose based on judgment—but if that’s true, then why does it feel so... arbitrary? Like it was never about worth at all."

  Haruka's eyes became soft, and she held onto Hikari's hands. "Maybe he did," she murmured. "But that does not mean that you don't deserve it either. The beads chose you for a reason. Whatever the reason is, you must believe in it. Rmeember you are the kanshisha... They choose you wisely."

  Hikari's lip quivered, and she turned her face away, weeping with tears streaming down her face. "Do you think... Hakari hates me?"

  Haruka’s heart ached at the question. She shook her head, her grip on her sister’s hands tightening. “No,” she said firmly. “Hakari’s angry, yes. He’s confused and hurt. But he doesn’t hate you. He never could.”

  Hikari’s tears fell freely now, her shoulders trembling as she clung to her sister’s words. Haruka pulled her into a tight embrace, her hand gently stroking Hikari’s hair as she whispered soothingly.

  In the silence of the instant, the gap of Hakari hung between them, unspoken but felt.