A single hour had passed before Shiro finally arrived at Kori's infirmary. From the outside it looked like a modest house, small and almost fragile against the village around it. But once he stepped inside, he found it far larger than it seemed, the walls stretching into long halls and low lantern-light illuminating rooms filled with the faint smell of herbs and medicine.
His expression was unreadable as he crossed the threshold. Kori did not even notice him at first, not until his hand reached out and closed firmly around her arm. The sudden pull startled her. She turned sharply, ready to scold whoever had dared touch her, until she realized who it was.
The corners of her mouth twitched with irritation, but her words came calm. "I'll take you to him. But before that, let go."
Shiro released her instantly, his grip loosening with silent obedience. He followed her through the narrow wooden hall, each step heavier than the last. He hated to admit it, but for the first time in his life he felt… something unfamiliar clawing at him. Anger? Fear? He could not name it. Whatever it was, it pressed down on his chest until every breath came thick and labored. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a father.
When they reached the door, Kori turned toward him. Her clouded eyes seemed to read the turmoil beneath his stoic mask. "He is still recovering," she said softly, letting out a sigh. "He has been through much. Hold back your questions until he feels ready… Just—" her voice faltered slightly "just spend time with him. He needs comfort more than anything right now."
Shiro hesitated, he wasn't good at this, he knew it. But his son needed him, and if there was ever a time to try, it was now. He gave a single, slow nod. "I… understand."
Kori inclined her head and slid the door open.
Shiro's heart sank at the sight. Ao lay there on the bed, his small frame wrapped in bandages across his chest and head, his skin bruised and swollen in patches. Though most of the wounds looked treated, the image still seared into Shiro's mind. His son, his flesh and blood, reduced to this. His chest burned with anger, the kind that could set the world aflame, but he forced a breath deep into his lungs, willing it to still.
Ao's head turned at the sound of footsteps, his eyes meeting Shiro's. The boy's gaze wavered, carrying something Shiro recognized all too well: guilt.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They simply looked at one another, father and son, silent and heavy with thoughts that mirrored each other. Ao believed he had failed, failed to protect his mother, failed to carry the burden he had taken upon himself. And Shiro, for all his strength, felt the same: that he had failed as a father, for not being there when it mattered most. It hurt in a way few things ever had.
Kori gestured silently for Shiro to sit, then stepped out, closing the door behind her and leaving them alone.
Shiro lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. He looked down at his son, his hand hovering over Ao's head. Those hands… they had killed, broken, destroyed. To think of placing them on the very thing he cherished most felt like mockery. He hesitated, fingers trembling as if burned by the air itself. He almost pulled away.
But then Ao moved first. His small head nudged against Shiro's palm, pressing into the warmth of his father's hand despite the shiver that ran through him.
Shiro froze, breath catching in his chest. And then, slowly, his hand lowered fully, cupping the boy's head as if it were something fragile.
His son trembled against his palm, and in that fragile shiver, Shiro understood something he had never allowed himself to realize before. Ao wasn't just strong for his age, wasn't just "different" or "gifted." He was small. Fragile. A child. For years, Shiro had kept his distance, convincing himself that holding back was the way to protect his son. But now, with Ao pressed against him, clinging desperately despite the pain wracking his battered body, Shiro felt the truth strike him like a blade to the heart. Wow… It was all he could think, he was …his son.
Then, suddenly, Ao's arms tightened around him, latching onto him as if letting go would mean the end of everything. Shiro staggered at the force of it, caught completely off guard. "W–woah…" he breathed, steadying himself.
The words tumbled from Ao's mouth in a flood. "I'm sorry… I failed, I failed, I failed… I tried, I did my best, but there were too many. I wasn't strong enough to protect Mom, to protect Murasaki. I'm a horrible son! What did I even train for?!" His small body shook violently as the tears finally fell, tears Shiro had never seen from him before. Ao had always been the quiet one, the stubborn one, the boy who bit down on his pain and smiled through it. But here he was now, sobbing like a child and it tore something inside Shiro apart.
Shiro looked down at him, stunned into silence. This was new, utterly new. His son, the boy who never cried, who bore burdens twice his age with unshakable resolve, was unraveling right here in his arms. For a moment, Shiro felt the old instinct, to freeze, to let silence speak for him. But not this time. Not when his boy was breaking.
So he did the only thing he could. He pulled Ao against his chest, wrapping him tightly in his arms, and let his hand thread gently through his son's messy hair. His voice came low, softer than it had ever been. "Ao…"
The boy's sobs muffled against his shirt, trembling breaths breaking into hiccups. Shiro pressed his cheek against Ao's head, closing his eyes. For once, he didn't think about what his hands had destroyed, or about the blood they had spilled. Right now, they were only meant to hold his son, to be steady, to be safe.
Shiro's hand moved slowly across his son's back. He could say all the things a warrior might, promises of revenge, of blood spilled to balance the scales, of hunting down the bandits who dared harm his family. But why? That wasn't what Ao wanted. That wasn't what his son needed. The boy didn't crave vengeance; he only wanted reassurance. He only wanted to know his family was safe. And, for once, Shiro found himself silently agreeing with that simplicity.
He let out a faint exhale, a rare curve tugging at the corner of his lips. "You know… it's funny," he murmured, almost to himself.
Ao sniffled, his red-rimmed eyes peeking up from where his face was pressed against Shiro's chest. "W…what is?"
Shiro's gaze softened. "I've always looked at you as if you were already grown. You carried yourself with this weight, this presence… I almost forgot you're just a child." His arms tightened around Ao, pulling him close, and for the first time he noticed the tiny details he had missed before, the way Ao's shoulders quivered, how light he felt in his arms, how easily his frame fit against him. Things he had ignored by keeping himself distant.
Ao didn't answer. He didn't need to. His face buried itself deeper against his father's chest, the warmth and security of the embrace enough. And so they sat there in silence. The world around them faded, leaving only the rhythm of two heartbeats and the quiet, unspoken understanding between them. It wasn't words they needed now; it was presence. The silence itself became a balm, stitching a bond that had long been frayed.
The soft creak of the door broke the moment. Kori stepped back into the room. Even without sight, she navigated the infirmary with uncanny precision. In her hands, she carried two steaming cups of herbal tea. The faint aroma of mint and chamomile filled the air as she set them down on the small table beside the bed.
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "Good," she said quietly. With a small nod toward Shiro, she turned and left without another word, giving them the space they needed.
The door closed with a soft thud, and Shiro let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He glanced down at Ao, brushing a thumb against the boy's damp cheek. "Would you like to step outside? Just the two of us. Father and son." A rare chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Don't worry, I won't make you move far. Not with those injuries."
Ao sniffled again, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, his ears twitching faintly. He looked up, uncertain and nodded. "O…okay."
Shiro raised his palm, and a flicker of pale-white flame sparked to life. It spun lazily at first, curling around his hand, before spiraling outward into a glowing vortex. With each pulse it grew larger, until the air itself tore open into a swirling portal. Without hesitation, he bent down, scooping Ao into his arms as though he weighed nothing, and stepped through.
Ao held on tightly, his face pressed into his father's chest, but his eyes widened in awe. This was one of the rare times he had seen Shiro's element firsthand. The white flames weren't harsh or consuming like fire should be; they were vibrant, alive, like light and warmth woven together. Beautiful. For a moment, he forgot everything else, lost in wonder. So this is Father's power…
The scenery shifted in a blink. Grass whispered beneath the wind as they emerged into a wide meadow. Before them stretched a cliff's edge, the valley below vast and alive. Forests swayed endlessly in the distance, their crowns catching golden sunlight. A waterfall spilled from the mountains above, its roar a steady hymn that shook the earth and sparkled in the light, feeding into a river that cut through the valley below. The smell of damp moss and wildflowers filled the air. Ao swore he had seen this land before, the forest near their home, perhaps? But from here, it looked endless. Boundless.
Shiro lowered himself to the grass, settling Ao in his lap. One large hand rested atop his son's head, steadying him, grounding him. "Want to tell me what's been eating you? Go on. Vent all you can. Just me and you. And I promise…" He ruffled Ao's hair softly. "…I'll never leave you. No matter what."
Ao's chest tightened at those words. He wanted to believe it, needed to. His throat bobbed as he wiped his face with trembling fingers. Maybe this was the chance he needed. To let go of the guilt burning holes through him.
"I… Dad…" He said, softly, whispering almost. "…I killed someone."
The words tasted like bile, and just saying them made him want to vomit again. He expected Shiro to recoil, to scold, to change, but his father's expression didn't waver. Calm as the waterfall. Still as stone.
"He… he didn't deserve it. Even if he tried what he did, I know I killed him. There was so much blood. I just… I did it." Ao's eyes dropped to his hands, staring at his small palms as if they still dripped crimson. "I feel so bad. What's wrong with me?"
Shiro said nothing, his gaze fixed on the waterfall's unending plunge, giving Ao the space to pour out the storm.
"I'm not normal… I'm not." Ao's voice rose, raw and trembling. His small chest heaved. "I'm this—this thing." He gestured at himself, as his ears pressed against his head. "No child is like me. And I killed. I'm bad. I'm… a terrible person for it." His words trailed into sobs. "I wanted to protect people… not kill them. And I lost the potions, too. I did all of this for Mom and Murasaki—and I failed. What good am I if all I do is mess everything up?"
He wiped his face on his arm, but the tears kept coming. "I work so hard… every day… but it never even matters."
The valley stretched endlessly below them, but the silence that followed Ao's words weighed heavier than mountains. Shiro's hand never left his head, and for once Ao waited, desperately, for what his father might say.
Shiro sat in silence, his gaze lifting to the sky. The white sun blazed overhead, its light fractured by seven luminous rings spinning around it like interwoven event horizons, as if to say that even the heavens were bound by strange laws.
At last, he spoke. "My child, let me tell you something." He shifted Ao further onto his lap, holding him close, forcing the boy to meet the rhythm of his heartbeat. "Loyalty to yourself is the greatest loyalty. Loyalty to others, if it comes at the expense of yourself, is betrayal. And why do I say this? Because you fear that what you've done is wrong. You fear you went too far."
He tilted his head, eyes reflecting the blaze of the white sun above. "But don't. Don't waste your breath worrying. There will always be those who go further, who cross lines without hesitation. Humanity is cruel, Ao and you must learn to meet cruelty with cruelty. This world is filled with idiots, shackled by their own morals, their emotions, their so-called rules. They let themselves be bent and broken by what society tells them to be. And when they see someone who is not shackled, someone who dares to walk free? They attack. They sneer. They cling to moral superiority as though it gives them power."
Opening his palm, Shiro summoned a flicker of white fire. It twisted in the air, burning without heat, a flame that seemed more alive than destructive. "Many of these people have strength, greater strength than most. Some are blessed with talent, bloodlines, riches. But it means nothing. Because their mindset has already condemned them. What stalls a person's growth isn't a lack of talent, it's their own weakness of thought."
The flame shifted in Shiro's hand, morphing into the tiny figure of a man. Ao's eyes widened, captivated, as the figure ran across Shiro's palm, wielding a flame-forged sword. Then chains of fire snared its legs, dragging it down. The little figure fell, struggled, broke the binds, and rose again to keep running. Only to fall again. And again.
"All they care about is the finish line," Shiro continued "Not the struggle. Not the bruises, the falls, the blood you cough up on the way. They don't care how much pain you suffer, they only care whether you stand victorious at the end. Just like a race. Trip, bleed, crawl, it doesn't matter. They'll only remember the winner. So, no matter how hard the world tries to chain you, make sure you reach your goal."
Shiro's white pupils finally lowered to meet Ao's eyes. Cold fire lived in them, but beneath the sternness was something rarer, conviction. The kind of conviction that wanted his son to endure, to rise.
Ao's throat tightened. The sight of the flame figure struggling, falling, clawing its way forward, mirrored him so clearly that he felt it in his bones. The words lodged in his chest, and though his tears still blurred his vision, for the first time since the fight… he felt like maybe he could breathe again.
Ao's wide eyes lingered on his father. To him, Shiro wasn't just a parent—he was a fortress of strength, a man who seemed untouchable, someone who could split mountains with fire and still stand calm in the aftermath. And yet, that man was his father. The realization stirred something heavy and proud inside Ao's chest.
But then, memory intruded. The fight. The blood. The faces of the men he had beaten down. Guilt clawed back, wrapping around his heart. He swallowed, voice shaking. "But Dad… they suffered too. That's why they wanted the potions. They—"
Shiro's head moved in a quiet refusal. "Everyone suffers, Ao. Suffering is not just, nor unjust, it simply is. To waste your breath justifying another's cruelty with their pain is foolish. To excuse your own choices because of suffering is worse. All you do is blind yourself."
Ao froze.
Shiro continued. "If you dwell on the past, on guilt, on memory, you are shackling yourself. The past doesn't exist. It is gone, no more real than a daydream. What remains is the present, and the choices before you. You were attacked, and you fought back. That is all. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He lifted his hand, resting it on the boy's trembling head, pressing his palm down gently. "Push forward, Ao. Use your strength. Protect your mother. That is where your focus belongs—not in chains made of ghosts."
Ao went silent, his gaze sinking down toward his hands. Shiro's words replayed in his mind like a mantra, oddly simple. Was life truly that straightforward? On the surface, it sounded almost effortless: don't dwell, don't bind yourself, just act. But in practice, it wasn't so easy. The guilt gnawed at him, the memory of blood and broken faces. To not feel bad for what he did seemed impossible. Yet maybe… maybe that impossibility was the very shackle his father spoke of.
Humanity's chains.
Maybe that was why it was so hard, because the world itself wanted him burdened, restrained, taught to bow under the weight of shame and doubt. But if he was meant to grow strong, then he couldn't allow those bindings to hold him. He had to accept the truth: certain things needed to be done, no matter how much they hurt. His family had to come first. Always.
The rest of the world came second.
Anyone who threatened them, who dared to take from them, had already chosen their place. They would be destroyed before they could destroy him. That was the simplicity his father spoke of. Not because it lacked weight, but because it stripped away the lies that softened reality.
Ao's chest tightened. He looked again at his small hands. They weren't strong enough yet. They couldn't carry the weight his father spoke of. But they would. No matter how long it took, he would grow into that strength. He would not let anyone else decide his path, not the world, not its rules, not its self-righteous morals.
Even so… the logic felt strange, heavy, almost frightening. Would Mother agree with this? Would she smile at such words? No. Koi would never speak this way. She believed in kindness, in healing, in shelter. Yet… Father had a point. Life wasn't so merciful. And if anyone knew, it was Shiro—his father had lived enough, bled enough, fought enough to carve those truths from fire and ash.
Ao clenched his fist tightly, his nails digging into his palm as he lifted his head. His voice trembled, but his resolve had begun to harden. "Alright, Dad… I'll make sure… to do just as you said."