The morning after carried no warmth.
The sun filtered in like breath through cracked glass—soft, fractured, pale. It touched the corners of the room but avoided the center, where Mazanka lay still on the futon, chest rising in shallow waves beneath blood-crusted bandages.
The cloth around his eye had been redrawn, but the Ka'ro still pulsed beneath it—faint, like something inside him was still trying to speak.
Rakan sat nearby, knees drawn up, hands folded together tight.
Teruko stood at the far wall, her arms crossed, eyes not on Mazanka but on the floor beside him. She was still. But you could feel her mind moving—mapping, weighing, doubting.
Rakan's mother worked in silence.
She wiped Mazanka's brow, changed the compress, turned the bowl of herbal steam so it vented toward the side of his chest. She moved with care, but not tenderness.
More like she was tending a wound that had long since become part of her.
"He's still burning," Teruko said quietly.
Rakan looked up. "What do you mean?"
"That eye. It doesn't just leak Ka'ro—it bleeds it. Even now, it's like it's drawing power from somewhere deeper."
She stepped closer.
"When he used it, I felt the air shift. Not just pressure. Something else. Like something foreign was being pulled through him, through the Rift, and let loose in this world."
Rakan frowned. "You're saying it's corrupted?"
"I'm saying," she whispered, "it's feeding. Slowly. Constantly. And it's feeding on him. Killing him."
The words sat heavy in the space between them.
Mazanka stirred but did not wake.
His face twitched. His breath caught for a moment, then smoothed out again like a tide retreating from something it couldn't fight.
Rakan's eyes didn't leave him.
"Why would he keep using something like that?" he murmured. "If it's killing him."
"Because it lets him protect people like you," Teruko said.
"That doesn't explain everything," Rakan replied, turning now to his mother. "You knew him before. You hated him when you saw him. Not like a stranger. Like someone who broke something."
She kept wiping Mazanka's face.
Didn't answer.
A single memory. A necklace, his father's. That foreign yet weirdly familiar symbol.
"You knew him because of my father, didn't you?" he said.
That made her stop.
Just a breath.
Just long enough.
She wrung the cloth tighter than it needed.
"His name," she said softly, "was Ryozenji."
The name landed like snow on hot stone—quiet, and devastating.
Teruko looked up, startled.
Rakan froze.
Teruko blinked.
Then stiffened.
"Ryozenji Sakurai?"
She stepped forward.
"You dad was the One-Eye Ryozenji Sakurai?!"
Rakan's head turned sharply. "You've heard of him?"
Teruko didn't answer right away. Her face had gone pale.
She knelt slowly, her voice reverent, almost hushed.
"They call him… Kahōgami."
"Kaho—what?"
"Kahōgami," she repeated. "The God of the Overseal. One of the only Kenshiki ever recorded to seal unstable Aithērya into deathless stasis. They said his techniques could stop the Ka'ro of gods. Some even feared he could seal the Rift itself if he had wanted to."
She looked up at Rakan, stunned.
"He wasn't just powerful. He was a legend."
His mother exhaled softly, not from her previous tear but now from something entirely new as a small smile broke her face, like someone being barraged by sentimentality they'd long forgotten existed as she sat back on her knees.
"Your father…he wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't human. But he… tried. For me."
Her voice didn't tremble. But it remembered.
"He found this world beautiful. Not in its strength. But in how weak it was. How fragile. He said it made everything feel sacred."
She turned toward Mazanka now, her eyes sharp.
"Mazanka was his best friend. They trained together. Fought together. They were bound."
Something shifted in her expression.
"And when Mazanka found out about me," she whispered, "he didn't come with hate. He came with fear. And a warning. He told Ryozenji he was living in a dream. That dreams like this never last. That pretending peace is real doesn't make it true."
She drenched the wet cloth back into the water-filled bowl.
"They argued," she continued. "Not like enemies. Like people who loved each other and couldn't agree on what love meant."
Lifting of the cloth, the drained it before she placed it back on Mazanaka. "Then Mazanka left. And Ryozenji stayed with me one more week. Then he said he had to go back—to fix things. To make it right so we could have a future."
Her eyes went distant.
"He promised he'd return. But he didn't and…and I never saw him again."
Rakan looked down, throat dry.
"You think Mazanka…?"
"No," she said. "I don't think he killed him. But I think he let it happen. Or didn't stop it. Or watched it unfold and ran."
She looked at the man on the floor, so still now, his face pale and drawn.
"He's not a monster, Rakan."
Something flashed between her eyes.
"He's a pitiful ghost."
Mazanka stirred again.
His mouth opened.
"Brother…"
A rasp escaped. Not a word. Just the sound of something trying.
Rakan leaned over him.
"Mazanka. You awake?"
The man's lips pulled into a faint, pained grin.
"Told him… not to stay."
"What?" Rakan said.
A cough—dry, sharp. His body spasmed once, then eased.
"Didn't mean to leave him, Naoko. And he didn't mean to leave you."
Silence.
Teruko sat down now, quietly, on the other side of the futon.
They didn't speak for a long time.
The wind outside touched the edge of the open window.
Mazanka's breathing deepened. His Ka'ro dimmed.
And Rakan sat beside the man who had become both stranger and shield.
Time moved differently when someone you cared about was trying not to die.
It didn't pass. It didn't crawl. It simply lingered, heavy in the air, coating everything with a weight that couldn't be swept away. The wind outside was gentle, the light coming through the shoji screen was soft and dappled, but inside the house—it felt like a different world. One held in a long, silent breath.
Mazanka hadn't stirred since yesterday morning.
He lay under a light blanket, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the bandages over his chest rising with each breath like a slowly drawn tide. His corrupted eye was hidden once more, the cloth tied securely, pulsing with only the faintest flicker beneath the surface—like a coal too stubborn to extinguish.
Rakan sat on the floor, back leaned against the wall, knees loosely drawn up, arms draped across them. He wasn't sleeping. But he wasn't fully awake, either. Just… there. Watching.
Teruko stood by the window, watching the light fall across the tatami mats. She'd been like that for almost an hour—barely moving. Her hair had come loose slightly, a few strands curling behind her ear, catching the gold in the late afternoon sun.
The only sounds were the occasional creak of the old house settling, and the rhythmic, shallow breathing of the man they owed everything to.
"He hasn't said anything since yesterday morning," Rakan said, voice low. "Not even a groan."
Teruko didn't turn. Her voice came gently.
"He's recovering. His Ka'ro is still trying to stabilize."
"Is that normal?"
"No," she said. "But Mazanka's not exactly normal either, is he?"
Rakan gave a half-laugh. "That's one way to put it."
The silence that followed was less tense than before. More tired. The kind of silence that grows between people who've been through something together, even if they haven't spoken about it yet.
"You scared me," Rakan said after a moment.
She looked at him now.
"Back then. When your Ka'ro lit up. I thought you were going to hurt yourself."
"I almost did," she said plainly.
She crossed the room and sat down opposite him, folding her legs beneath her.
"I didn't mean to unlock it then. That kind of Ka'ro… it's supposed to be cultivated slowly. Gradually. Like training a heartbeat."
She pressed a hand to her sternum.
"But it just… bloomed."
Rakan looked down at his own hands, opening and closing his fingers slowly.
"Do you think I'll ever unlock something like that?"
Teruko tilted her head.
"I don't know. Everyone's Ka'ro manifests differently. Some people grow it like fire. Others like roots. Some crack open suddenly like stone under pressure."
She studied him a moment.
"But yes. I think you will."
"What do you think it will be like?" he asked. "My Ka'ro. My ability."
She didn't answer right away. Then—
"That depends on what you're willing to become."
Later that evening, they moved to the back room.
The small, sun-worn space with the crooked floorboards and ceiling lantern that buzzed faintly even when it was off. It had been a storage room once, but Naoko had cleared it years ago to give Rakan space to "be a boy." Now it was something stranger—a room between worlds, where one could practice Ka'ro drills while still hearing the clatter of kitchen pans in the next room.
Rakan crouched in the center, one hand planted on the floor, his other arm arched above his head as he tried to shape the starting form of a barrier glyph. It sparked—twitched—and fizzled.
"Too rigid," Teruko said behind him.
"I am rigid."
"Don't shape it like a wall. Shape it like breath."
"That's not helpful."
"Then be better at listening."
They moved slowly through exercises—controlled Ka'ro projection, spatial awareness drills, breath-linked sigil sketching. Nothing too demanding. Just enough to keep the energy moving while Mazanka lay in the other room, burning beneath the surface of sleep.
"The man who attacked us…" Rakan said between sets. "He didn't look like a Kenshiki. He fought like he already knew what we'd do."
Teruko nodded, correcting his wrist angle.
"Because he did. I hear the Shujikō don't train like us. They study. They analyze your history, your Ka'ro traces, your habits. They turn combat into an equation. They're like shadows, not people. That's how they're so powerful. You don't even know what you'll be up against."
"Is that how he countered Mazanka's techniques?"
"Probably. He didn't overpower us. He disassembled us."
"You've heard of them before?"
"Only whispers," she admitted. "Rumors about a group of former Kenshiki—or something worse—that operate from the shadows, loyal to no order. Corrupted, immoral, deadly. Most don't believe they exist."
"I do now," Rakan muttered.
A few hours passed by.
He tried the glyph again.
Still not right.
Teruko crouched behind him and guided his hand gently.
"Ka'ro isn't just force. It's identity. When you shape it, you're telling the world who you are."
"What if I don't know?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"Then your Ka'ro won't either."
Time shifted again.
Teruko looked down at her tea.
"There are Ka'ro paths that unlock things people were never meant to hold. Powers shaped by grief, by hatred, by betrayal. They burn too fast. They cut too deep. Some people chase them anyway—because they're strong."
Her voice softened, but something darker stirred behind her words.
"There are rumors—quiet ones—of certain users who've unlocked that kind of power. Ka'ro that doesn't reflect the soul anymore. It overwrites it."
Rakan's fingers curled around his cup.
"So it can kill you?"
"Yes," she said. "Even the cleanest Aithērya has limits. Push it too far, too often… and it tears you apart."
The call of Rakan's mother cut through the house.
The table was low, lacquered black and worn smooth along the edges. It had seen years of quiet meals, folded laughter, silent grief.
Tonight, it bore three bowls of warm rice, steamed vegetables, miso with floating slices of daikon, and grilled mackerel brushed in citrus glaze.
Rakan sat cross-legged on the left.
Teruko, still a little stiff, sat across from him, folding her hands together neatly before she reached for her chopsticks. Her movements were precise, learned. Her etiquette pristine—but there was tension behind it, like she wasn't used to being watched while she ate.
Rakan's mother sat to the side, her expression calm, distant, but not unkind. The weight in her gaze hadn't left. But it had softened.
For a while, they ate in silence.
Only the soft click of chopsticks. The shifting of sleeves. The steam rising quietly into the lamplight.
Then, without lifting her eyes, the older woman asked:
"So, Teruko."
The girl looked up slowly.
"Yes?"
"What are you?"
Rakan nearly choked on a bite of rice.
"She's—! I mean, she's not human, but she's not an alien, I mean actually maybe sort of, but she's not—"
His ramble was cut off by the a sharp kick on his shin from Teruko along with a glare.
Was this idiot serious? An alien?!
"I know she's not human," Rakan's mother said with an amused smile. "That much is clear."
Teruko placed her chopsticks down and sat up straighter.
"My name is Teruko Shidō. I was born in the southern branch of the Kenshiki ranks, trained under the Eastern Circle Council. I hold a mid-grade rank, and I've yet to awaken my full Aithērya. Until recently."
His mother raised an eyebrow, quietly impressed.
"So you're not just playing around with my son."
"No, ma'am."
A pause.
Then—
"…Though sometimes it feels like that."
Rakan rolled his eyes. "It's always back to that, huh."
His mother smiled, just barely.
"And your power? What is it?"
Teruko hesitated.
She didn't speak with pride.
She didn't boast.
"It's still… raw. I haven't named the awakened form. But when I channel my Ka'ro beyond its limit, it manifests as a kind of bloom. A violent one. Crimson petals laced with sigils."
"That sounds painful."
"It is. And it's not sustainable."
She glanced toward the hall where Mazanka lay.
"Aithērya is powerful. But it leaves cracks. In the soul. In the body."
"Like him?" His mother asked.
"…Worse."
Another long silence.
Then the older woman spoke again, quietly.
"And what about you and Rakan?"
Teruko blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, clearly you've fought beside him. You've probably protected him. You eat with him. That makes you…?"
"His comrade."
"That all?"
Teruko looked across the table.
Rakan met her eyes, cheeks slightly flushed.
She didn't smile. But her voice warmed.
"Maybe a little more than that."
His mother leaned back.
"Good. He needs someone. Even if he doesn't think he does."
Rakan groaned, slouching. "Ugh. You're making this weird."
"I'm your mother. That's my job."
Teruko reached again for her bowl, her voice softer now.
"Your son has more Ka'ro in him than most Kenshiki I've met. And more fire. But he doesn't know how to shape it."
"Yet," Rakan added quickly.
"Yet," she agreed.
Naoko looked at them both.
She didn't speak again for a while.
But something settled in her gaze.
A quiet recognition.
That these two were no longer just children.
And that something was coming that neither of them was ready for.