"Thank heavens he didn't go to his usual tree house."
The gates creaked open as the guards stepped aside, revealing the mansion's serene courtyard. Sunlight filtered through the trimmed branches of slender trees, scattering soft, dappled patterns across the stone path. Small fountains gurgled quietly at the edges, encircled by beds of vibrant flowers and creeping ivy that clung gently to the old stone walls.
Zuzu's eyes widened, his voice dropping into a reverent whisper. "This place… it reminds me of the palace garden. The symmetry, the restraint… everything placed so deliberately minimal but elegant—"
A sharp side-glance from Daita cut him off mid-sentence. Zuzu quickly cleared his throat. "I mean… nice garden. Pretty flowers."
Daita rolled his eyes and strode ahead without a word.Just then, soft footsteps echoed from the corridor, followed by a gentle voice. "Arisu?"
A graceful woman in her early forties appeared, her hair swept into an elegant bun, calm composure wrapped around her like silk. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Arisu.
"There you are," she said with a fond smile, walking over. "I was beginning to worry. You said you'd be back after teaching your friend. What took so long?"
"Mother, what was the need to worry? I told you I'd return before anyone woke up," Arisu replied, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
Her mother crossed her arms, one brow arching. "Still, I don't trust you or your friend. The two of you together could stir up anything."
Arisu opened her mouth to protest, but her mother took her wrist gently, slipping on a delicate pearl bracelet.
"Forget it," she murmured. "Look at this….I made it for you. Thought it would match your pale pink dress."
Arisu blinked, surprised, then smiled brightly. "It's beautiful, Mother. Thank you!"
Her mother tucked a loose strand of hair behind Arisu's ear, her voice softening. "Anything for my little squirrel."Arisu, cheeks tinged pink, and she turned to Daita and Zuzu. "These two came from far away. They want to meet Grandfather, they're seeking treatment."
The woman's gaze shifted to the men, her expression gentle yet observant. "You're welcome in our home," she said kindly. "Please, head to the backyard he's tending to his plants there."
Then, looking back at Arisu, she added, "And you, come with me first. I made your favorite dishes. You haven't eaten anything since last night."
Arisu groaned playfully. "You always know." She turned back to the guests. "Daita just head straight, you'll find him by the old fig tree." Daita gave a nod, his eyes trailing thoughtfully over every detail of the house.
As soon as Arisu and her mother disappeared down the hallway, Daita turned sharply to Zuzu. Without a word, he reached into his robe and pulled out a delicate hairpin—ornate and glinting faintly in the sunlight.
Zuzu blinked. "Uh… why are you handing me a hairpin?" He took it hesitantly. "And more importantly, why do you even—?"
"Shh," Daita cut in, his tone firm. "Don't ask. Just listen."
Zuzu blinked again, then leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Alright, alright. I'm listening."
Daita lowered his voice. "Find out who this belongs to." Zuzu stared at the pin, clearly puzzled. "How in the world am I supposed to find that out? It's not like it has a name engraved on it or something…"
Daita stepped in closer and whispered something in Zuzu's ear just a few short words.
Zuzu's expression shifted instantly. His brows raised, then furrowed. His mouth opened to question but instead, he nodded once, serious now. Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, not even sparing a glance back.
After he left Daita straightened his posture. Then, without pause, he turned and began walking steadily toward the backyard.
Daita stepped into the backyard, the quiet hum of nature surrounding him. The scent of moist earth and fig leaves drifted through the air. Sunlight filtered gently through the large canopy of a fig tree at the center of the yard.
Beneath it stood an old man, dressed in crisp white robes that shimmered faintly under the sun. His snow-white hair was combed neatly back, and a pair of round, silver-framed glasses sat low on his nose. He was peering up into the branches, squinting hard, as if trying to spot something hidden among the leaves. A long wooden stick rested firmly in his right hand, and his grip on it was steady authoritative.
Daita's steps slowed. His usual confidence wavered slightly, like a candle flame flickering in the wind. He approached cautiously, the gravel crunching under his feet.
"…Grandpa," he called out softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man's ear twitched, and in an instant sharp as lightning he turned.
"Who?" The word struck the air, laced with cold steel. His tone was cutting, far from welcoming.
Daita froze. His lips parted, but no sound came.
The old man squinted harder, and before Daita could take another step, the long stick was suddenly raised and pointed right at him.
"Stop right there."
His voice echoed in the stillness. A quiet gust passed between them, brushing fig leaves and robes alike.
Daita halted, his feet obeying before his mind even caught up.
The old man began to walk slow, deliberate steps his stick tapping rhythmically against the stone path. Tap. Drag. Tap. Drag. He circled Daita like a hawk observing prey, measuring the weight of his presence.
Daita stood still, eyes forward, chest rising with a quiet breath. He didn't lower his head. He didn't raise it either. Only watched And waited.
After circling him like a silent storm, the old man finally stopped. He planted both hands firmly on his stick, leaning forward slightly, his piercing eyes never leaving Daita.
Daita held his breath, unsure whether to speak or wait. His fingers twitched by his side.
Then, at last, the old man spoke.
"…How come you are here?"
His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. Like a blade sheathed but still deadly.
Daita's heart thudded once. Did he… recognize me?
He tried to steady his voice. "Grandpa, I came—"
But the old man cut in swiftly, stepping in just a little closer, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
"You are perfectly fine, young man." He sniffed lightly. "Strong legs, clear eyes, steady breath. You walk without aid, speak without stammer. No scent of illness clings to you."
His gaze locked with Daita's.
"Yet you wished to see me for treatment?" A beat passed. "What treatment does a healthy body need?"
Daita sighed inwardly, the tension loosening just a little from his shoulders. He stayed silent for a moment, then cleared his throat and offered a light smile.
"Grandpa… the problem's not with me. It's actually my friend. He has some memory issues, so we came here in search of treatment."
The old man arched a skeptical brow. "We?" His eyes scanned the courtyard. "I only see you."
Daita blinked, then turned slightly, realizing Zuzu was already gone. He opened his mouth to explain, but the sharp crack of the old man's stick hitting the ground made him flinch.
"He—he went somewhere. He'll be back soon. You could… give me the cure in the meantime?"
The old man snorted and cut him off sharply, "How can I give medicine to the shadow when the body isn't here?" He shook his head slowly, tapping the ground once more with his stick. "That's like pouring tea into an empty cup that's not on the table."
Daita hesitated, then replied as calmly as he could, "I'm from the southern village. We're traveling and like I said we came in search of a cure—"
Before he could finish, the old man's eyes narrowed. His stick shot up and pointed directly at Daita's chest.
"You haven't changed at all!" he snapped. "Still trying to lie to my face?"
Daita flinched, caught off guard not just by the outburst, but by the familiarity and weight in the old man's tone.
His thoughts scattered. Did he figure it out already…?
The old man's voice was lower this time, but colder still. "Tell me who sent you this time to drag me back?"
A moment of silence passed before Daita sighed, his stance relaxing as the truth hung unspoken between them.
"Grandpa….If you already recognized me… and knew why I came then why ask?"
The old man's grip loosened on the stick. He lowered it with a quiet exhale, his expression softening.
"It even took me a moment to recognize you," he murmured. "After all… the last time I saw you, you were still a child. Full of mischief and too much pride."
The old man adjusted his stance, tapping his stick against the ground once. "So then… who sent you this time—and why?"
Daita met his gaze steadily. "Akira. He sent me personally… to invite you to the ceremony."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "He wants you to be there this time."
The old man's brows furrowed. "The crown prince?"
Daita gave a small nod. "Yes. He said your presence isn't just formality. He wants you there… like before."
For a fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered in the old man's eyes. A soft crack in the mask. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold scowl. He shook his head slowly.
"He's trying to fix what's broken… but what's the use? Nothing will change."
"You can't expect things to change if you keep turning your back," Daita said, his voice firm, yet not unkind.
The old man's glare sharpened. "Don't talk to me about this matter. It's long forgotten. He can never fix it."
Daita took a step closer. "How can I talk about it if I don't even know what happened? What did Akira do that could never be fixed?"
"I know nothing about it now," the old man muttered bitterly. "And I don't want to."
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
Daita broke it, his voice steady. "Grandpa… I'm not here to talk about the past. I'm here to invite you—personally. And I want you to agree to return to the palace. Just this once."
The old man's jaw clenched. His scoff was sharp, bitter. "Blood turns to ash in the hands of the palace. I'm not going back there."
He shifted the weight of his stick and continued, voice low and grave.
"What was taken… cannot be returned.
What was broken… cannot be rebuilt."
Daita tried a different angle softer this time. "Grandpa, I don't understand what you're saying… and maybe I don't need to. But I know Akira. He would never do something wrong. I believe in that. he asked me to bring you back to make you agree. So I will. No matter what."
The old man didn't reply at first. He simply turned his face away, his expression unreadable.
"Daita," he said at last, "you're the same boy who once stole my inkstones just to draw on the courtyard walls. Tell me are your eyes still blind from the ink, or is it the wall ahead that you can't see a thing?"
Daita looked down, jaw tightening. "Grandpa, what—"
"Enough." The old man's voice cut through the air, low but firm. "Go back. Tell him I won't return to the capital. Not for any crown. Not for any ceremony."
"But why?" Daita asked, his voice almost breaking with frustration. "You owe me at least an explanation—"
"I owe nothing," the old man snapped. "And it's not something I'll ever discuss. Not with you. Not with anyone." His tone grew colder, final. "No one from that palace should come here again. And no one should ever ask me to return."
He turned his back slowly, the long white sleeves of his robes catching the light as he walked toward the shadows of the fig tree.
Daita stood there in silence. His fists clenched at his sides, his breath caught. He swallowed hard, his shoulders dropping with a heavy sigh. "Fine, Not today….. But I'm not giving up that easily. One way or another, I'll make you agree." With a quiet breath, he turned on his heel and walked away just for now.