The once shattered group now sat together in the throne room, quiet but whole—at least most of them. The heavy air of grief had slowly been replaced by something gentler, a cautious peace. Miwa curled her legs on her throne and leaned forward, eyes scanning the line of chairs.
Two thrones remained untouched. One, dust gathering on its edges—Caspian's. The other, cold and empty—Zazm's.
Jennie's gaze lingered on Zazm's seat, her hands clenched in her lap. "It's been three weeks... shouldn't we go see him?" she asked quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile calm they'd built.
Kiyomasa shifted in his seat, guilt flickering across his expression. "He hasn't answered anything. Not a single message. He hasn't been back to the Shadow Realm at all."
Miwa added, softer than usual, "He's hurting. We all are. But Zazm… he took the worst of it. Maybe if we went—"
"No," Jahanox said, his voice firm but gentle, cutting through the room.
Everyone turned toward him.
Minos raised a brow. "Why not? Don't you think he needs us?"
Jahanox looked at them one by one before his eyes rested on Zazm's empty throne. His smile faded just a little. "Because he doesn't need reminders right now. He doesn't need us showing up trying to fix him when he hasn't even figured out how to breathe again."
Jennie's lips trembled. "But he's alone…"
"Sometimes," Jahanox said slowly, "people need that silence. Not to escape others—but to confront themselves. If we go now, we're not helping him. We're dragging him out of a place he hasn't walked through yet."
Miwa frowned. "But what if he never comes back?"
Jahanox leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the playful warmth in his tone softening into something wiser. "Then we wait. We hold space for him, like he once did for all of us. Not as saviors. Not as heroes. Just as his friends."
They all fell silent. Even the wind outside seemed to hush in agreement. Four thrones were filled, two were empty. But none of them had been forgotten.
---
Zazm sat in the corner of his dimly lit house, buried under layers of blankets, his knees tucked to his chest. The silence was absolute, broken only by the ticking clock and the occasional creak of old wood. His eyes, hollow and ringed with dark circles, were fixed on nothing. Just the air. Just the space where voices used to be.
Then, without thinking, a whisper slipped from his cracked lips.
"…Why am I here?"
His voice was hoarse, unfamiliar. It startled even him. He slowly looked around, his joints aching from days without rest. Like a ghost, he rose and dragged himself through the quiet halls, heading to the kitchen.
The fridge door creaked open, and for a second, he stared—at the pale reflection of himself in the glass panel. His long, unkempt hair fell in tangled waves, sticking to his face, framing eyes that no longer glowed. He looked sick. Not just physically—something deeper, rotting beneath the skin.
He didn't flinch.
He poured himself a glass of water and drank like it was the first thing he'd tasted in days. Then he turned to leave—until his gaze caught a door on the left.
Kiyomasa's room.
Zazm stopped. The weight of memories clung to the handle as he reached for it. Slowly, he pushed the door open.
The room smelled faintly like peppermint and dust. It was tidy, just as Kiyomasa left it. Zazm's footsteps were soundless on the wood as he drifted toward the small shelf against the wall. His eyes landed on a stack of photos—some framed, others just tucked between books.
He picked one up.
It was blurry. Jahanox mid-sneeze. Zazm with one eye half-closed, Caspian laughing in the background as he ruined the shot with a victory sign.
Another showed them all squeezed into a too-small couch, junk food scattered around them. Kiyomasa must've taken it secretly. The angles were awful. The lighting was worse.
Zazm smiled.
For the first time in weeks, it was real. Small. Crooked. But real.
The blanket slipped off his shoulders and fell to the floor. He didn't notice.
He sat on Kiyomasa's bed, gripping the photos, heart clenching from something he didn't want to name.
And then—he slapped himself. Hard.
A sting bloomed on his cheek. He slapped himself again, teeth gritted.
"Remember who you are," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Remember your mission."
He hit himself again, eyes wild, fists trembling.
"You are not weak," he said louder. "You'll be ready next time."
He stood, shoulders back. For the first time in weeks, his spine was straight.
---
It had been a week since the Catalysts had laid bare their pain, anger, and guilt in the throne room. After the storm of emotion came silence, and after silence came routine. Each of them, changed in their own quiet way, drifted back into the fabric of their ordinary lives—trying, in their own broken ways, to move forward.
Miwa laughed as she pulled her hood over her head, the rain pattering lightly over her shoulders as she jogged to catch up with Minos. They had just gotten out of school, exams finally behind them.
"I swear that last paper was meant to destroy me!" she complained dramatically.
Minos snorted. "You say that about every paper."
She grinned, bumping shoulders with him. "Yeah, but this one meant it."
They were halfway through planning a snack run when it happened.
A faint purple glow burst from the edge of Miwa's headband. She paused mid-step. Her heart skipped.
Minos blinked, then looked down—his own ring glowing softly. A deep, pulsing purple.
They exchanged a look. They knew.
Purple meant only one thing.
Zazm.
Across the city, Jahanox dropped the scroll he was reading in the park. His bracelet gleamed with the same hue. He stood up slowly, brows narrowing.
In her apartment, Jennie dropped her paintbrush, breath caught in her throat as the pendant on her neck pulsed.
Kiyomasa, mid-training at the riverside, stared at his ring with wide eyes, then ran faster than he had in days.
They all abandoned whatever they were doing.
One by one, they entered.
The vast, shadowed room remained as it had been for weeks—quiet, still, bearing the ghost of past confessions. But this time, someone was sitting on the central throne.
Zazm.
At first glance, it was almost like seeing a stranger.
His usual chaotic aura—gone.
The carefree smile he always wore—missing.
The unruly hair that used to fall across his eyes was now neatly combed, cut just to the nape of his neck. Not a strand out of place. His Catalyst earring glowed with a soft, perpetual hum.
He sat still, his elbows resting lightly on the arms of the throne. His gaze wasn't cast on them, but somewhere far—far beyond the walls, the shadows, the world.
It was Miwa who broke first.
"ZAZM!" she called, sprinting forward with Kiyomasa right behind her.
He turned to them. Slowly.
And then, a small, gentle smile curled his lips. It wasn't like before. Not wide. Not teasing. Not chaotic.
Just soft. Quiet. Warm.
"I'm here," he said, his voice calm but edged with an unfamiliar coldness, like he'd been speaking to silence for weeks and had forgotten the taste of sound. "Sorry I took so long."
Miwa practically tackled him in a hug, and Kiyomasa joined in, gripping his arm tightly.
"We were so worried—so worried," Kiyomasa's voice cracked. "Why didn't you say anything—why didn't you come back?"
Zazm's hand rested on Kiyomasa's back for a second. Then Miwa's hair.
"I needed time. I'm fine now," he said. His tone was... different. Softer than Jahanox had ever been, but colder than Zazm had ever sounded.
A faint chuckle echoed from the back.
Jahanox entered, clapping slowly. "Well, well. He returns."
Zazm looked up.
The two locked eyes.
But this time, the air between them didn't crackle with tension—it felt like two oceans recognizing each other.
"I was genuinely worried you were going to rot alone in your blanket-cave," Jahanox joked, walking up with his hands in his pockets, a casual grin on his face. "Even your bed must've begged for mercy."
Minos gave Jahanox a playful punch in the shoulder. "You're acting like you didn't almost cry, too."
Jahanox laughed. "Please, I cried. I just made it look cool."
Zazm's smile grew a little. "I won't die just yet," he said softly. "There's still work to do."
Jennie walked up next, her steps hesitant, eyes studying every inch of him. Her breath caught. "You really are here…"
Zazm looked at her, his expression calm. Then he nodded. "I am."
She wanted to cry again—but instead, she took a breath and simply stood by his side.
Minos stepped forward. "You've changed."
Zazm's eyes flicked to him. "We all have."
That silenced them.
Jahanox walked forward and clapped his hands, motioning everyone to sit. They each took their thrones—Jennie, Miwa, Kiyomasa, Minos, and Jahanox himself. But their eyes drifted.
Two thrones remained empty.
Caspian's.
And Zazm's—though now, he was back upon it.
Jahanox leaned back, arms crossed behind his head. "So. We're all back. Kind of. I mean… we're here. That counts, right?"
Kiyomasa nodded solemnly. "It does."
Minos looked down. "But not all of us."
Silence.
Zazm spoke at last. "Not everyone makes it. But those who remain… must carry the weight."
He looked around at each of them, pausing longer on Jahanox and Jennie.
"I've seen what happens when I try to carry it alone. I won't do that again. But I won't joke around like I used to, either."
Miwa furrowed her brows. "You're not… sad, are you?"
Zazm smiled faintly again. "No. Just... quiet."
Jennie whispered, "You're like a whole different person."
Zazm's gaze drifted to the glowing earring on his ear. "I've just remembered who I am. That's all."
Jahanox smirked. "You sound wise now. I liked the idiot version more."
"I liked being the idiot," Zazm replied. "But he couldn't protect what mattered."
The air around the throne dimmed for a moment. Shadows danced. Silence fell.
"For now," he said, "we train and prepare. We recover. We grow."
He looked at them—not with humor, but with belief.
"I'll lead again. But this time… I'll be ready."
The atmosphere began light again and everyone started laughing and joking around. Zazm walked and sat down on his throne looking at them from a far.
"Everyone seems to have changed in different way.....that's for the better."
---
As laughter faded into silence, the Catalysts finally settled into their thrones.
Each throne was crafted with symbols unique to its owner—Jennie's glowed faintly with shifting paints and illusions, Miwa's wrapped in moving threads of psychic energy, Jahanox's carved with cold precision, Kiyomasa's marked by elemental engravings, and Zazm's shadowy and still.
But one throne stood out.
Not for its glow.
But because it wasn't empty.
A massive, lazy white cat lay curled across it. Its eyes opened lazily as the Catalysts stared. It let out a low, indifferent yawn before placing its head back on its paws, nestled comfortably on the throne that once belonged to—
Caspian.
The room froze.
Miwa's fists clenched tightly on the armrests of her seat.
She stood abruptly.
"I'm going to break it," she growled. "I'm going to destroy that damn throne right now."
Everyone looked up.
"Miwa—" Jennie said quietly, but it was too late.
Miwa's voice shook. "It's his fault. All of it. If he'd never—if he hadn't betrayed us—if he hadn't leaked—if he hadn't smiled at us like a friend while planning everything like a monster—!"
Her hands lit up with violent pink energy, trembling with the need to burn.
She took a step forward.
Zazm raised a single hand.
"Stop."
His voice wasn't loud.
It wasn't forceful.
But it stopped her cold.
Zazm rose slowly from his throne, his eyes focused—not angry, not pleading, just still.
"Don't break it," he said. "Don't remove it. Let it stay."
Miwa stared at him, stunned. "What—?"
Jahanox leaned forward, his expression twisting with tension. "Zazm. After everything he did—you still want his throne here?"
Zazm didn't look at Jahanox. His eyes remained fixed on Caspian's empty seat, the cat still purring gently across it.
"I'm not asking you to leave it for him," Zazm said. "Not for the traitor. Not for the murderer."
Then he turned to Jahanox. Still no smile. Just quiet truth in his voice.
"I'm asking you to leave it for us."
Jahanox's jaw tightened. "Explain."
Zazm stepped down from the steps of his throne, walking slowly toward the cat-covered seat.
"That throne doesn't belong to the one who betrayed us," Zazm said. "It doesn't belong to the man who got people killed. It doesn't belong to the one who sold our trust."
He stopped just before it.
"It belongs to Caspian Grey. The Catalyst who once laughed with us. Who trained with us. Who stood beside us even if it was all an illusion to him. Maybe it was never real for him... but it was real to us."
His eyes shifted slowly, meeting Jahanox's.
"You trained him the most. You spent the most time with him. Do you really want to erase that too?"
Jahanox didn't speak for a moment.
Then he sat back down. His gaze fell on the throne.
Almost in a whisper, he said, "Why did you do it, Caspian...? We were such good friends."
Silence followed.
Zazm turned to Kiyomasa.
"You were his best friend. Were you not?"
Kiyomasa didn't respond with words at first. His face was unreadable. Then he gave a faint nod.
"I was," he said, voice tight.
Zazm exhaled softly. His expression, for the first time since arriving, cracked just a little. He smiled—but it wasn't joy. It was sorrow in a softer shape.
"Then let's not remember him as the man who killed," Zazm said gently. "Let's remember him as the man who once... belonged."
He looked around at the others.
"Because if we only remember people for the last thing they did—we forget the parts that mattered most."
He paused.
Then added, almost under his breath, "Besides... we should honor—"
He stopped. Words caught in his throat. He didn't finish the sentence.
Everyone noticed. But no one pushed.
Instead, Zazm's expression shifted once more—he straightened his shoulders and glanced toward the swirling shadows behind the throne.
"I'm leaving again," he said simply.
Jennie stood. "What?"
"I'm going after the Eighth Catalyst," Zazm said, his tone returning to that new, deeper steadiness. "It's time."
Jahanox frowned. "You're not doing this alone again."
Zazm looked over them all—each face lined with pain, hope, fatigue.
And nodded.
"This time," he said, "we fix everything. Together."
And as the light of the throne room dimmed behind him, and the echoes of old grief lingered, a new path unfurled ahead—a second chance.
Not for what was lost.
But for what could still be saved.
The wind in Japan was gentle.
The kind that brushed against skin with a whisper, not a scream. The kind that carried the scent of sizzling soy and old concrete, not blood or memory. The streets glimmered under a hazy neon dusk, and even the most crowded alleys felt like hollow corridors to him.
Zazm walked among them.
His long black coat swept behind him, silent against the cracked pavement. His boots made no sound, not because he tread carefully—but because the world around him had grown too loud. Too alive. Too far from the stillness inside him.
He raised his gaze slightly, blinking once as a sign flickered overhead in kanji, marking the time: 18:49. Almost night.
He kept walking.
The glow of vending machines and ramen stalls flickered against glass windows. His eyes wandered briefly, tracking the outlines of people—teenagers laughing at a phone, an old man fixing a bicycle, a woman clutching a child's hand.
They felt like ghosts now. Not them—he did.
As he turned a corner, the scent of grilled meat wafted toward him. A small street food stand stood at the edge of the sidewalk. Lanterns swung lazily above it. No customers. Just a man humming while flipping skewers.
Zazm stopped.
He looked at the food.
His stomach didn't growl. His body didn't ache. But something... deep within him remembered.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a few yen bills he kept for appearance, and stepped closer.
The vendor looked up and smiled. "Irasshaimase!"
Zazm gave a soft nod, pointed wordlessly at a skewer of chicken glazed in something sweet and spicy.
Moments later, he stood beside the alley with a steaming skewer in hand. He looked at it. The glaze shimmered under the lantern's light. The smell was familiar—painfully so.
He took a bite.
He chewed.
He swallowed.
And felt nothing.
Zazm looked down at the remaining half of the skewer.
He muttered to himself, voice almost a whisper.
"It's strange. So I can't even enjoy life?.. I can't even taste food....."
He took another bite anyway. Finished it. Tossed the stick into the nearby trash can.
Then—he vanished.
With the barest hum of bent space and time, his form folded into nothing.
And a moment later, he reappeared—perched silently atop the roof of a towering skyscraper overlooking Shibuya. Lights stretched endlessly beneath him, cars like veins pulsing through the city's heart.
He sat.
Not slouched. Not lazy.
He sat like stone—one leg bent, an arm draped across his knee. His expression unreadable, eyes distant and unfocused.
There was nothing casual about him now.
His hair flowed wild in the wind. It was combed and steady, resting just above his neck. The glowing earring in his left ear pulsed faintly with temporal energy.
Zazm's gaze slowly scanned the city.
He wasn't looking at the buildings.
He was looking through them.
For the threads.
Faint flickers of metaphysical light only he could see—echoes of potential, of power unawakened. In the web of space and time, each thread hummed differently.
He leaned slightly forward, squinting into the distance as faint sparks blinked into the corners of his perception, only to fade again.
"Hmm....No," he whispered. "Not them."
Wind brushed past him. But he didn't flinch. His body didn't react. Not to the cold. Not to the hour.
He was just sitting and carefully observing when he found the threads, he quickly jumped towards them catching their trail and teleporting directly to where they were flowing from.
He found himself standing outside a house and the threads were flowing out of them, he was sure the last Catalyst was inside.
"Let's get this over with."
Zazm stood still outside the quiet residential block, the thin threads of fate glowing subtly in his vision, wrapping like silver vines around the windows of a modest two-story house.
His body was veiled by warped space, the world bending around him like a forgotten breeze. He raised a hand, hesitating. For a moment, he considered peering through the glass.
But he stopped.
He closed his hand and let out a quiet sigh.
With a faint ripple, his form blinked from the street.
High above, on the edge of a metal rooftop, he lay back and stared at the sky. The moon hung heavy, spilling quiet silver over his tired eyes.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, voice low and steady. "I'll meet them tomorrow."
The light clink of ceramic echoed through the house.
"Ai, dinner's almost ready!" a warm male voice called from the kitchen, slightly muffled beneath the sound of boiling water.
Upstairs, the soft rustle of pages turning could be heard. A girl sat cross-legged on the floor beside a small table, papers and thick books spread around her like the petals of a flower.
Her sleek black hair fell across one shoulder as she leaned over a dense science textbook, scribbling notes with practiced speed. She took off her glasses and leaned back a little.
"I'll be down in five, Dad!" she called back, voice composed but kind.
She didn't raise her head from the paper.
A single glance at the room said everything it was spotless, efficient, lived-in. A neatly folded uniform hung by the door, a timer ticked softly from a pot in the corner, and a schedule handwritten in clear, neat strokes was pinned above her desk.
Downstairs, her father chuckled. "Five minutes, huh? Just don't let the curry burn like last week."
"I didn't burn it," Ai muttered under her breath, lips twitching in faint annoyance. "You just turned off the rice cooker too early."
She finished the equation she was solving and stood, stretching. As she walked to the stairs, her expression softened at the smell wafting from the kitchen.
Her father, still in his work shirt with sleeves rolled up, was setting plates on the table.
"Long day?" he asked, glancing up at her.
"Had a lab presentation," she said, sliding into her seat. "Yamashiro-sensei asked me to help tutor two juniors after class. One of them couldn't even balance chemical equations."
"Well, not everyone's a genius," he said with a proud grin.
"I'm not a genius. I just study," she replied, ladling rice into her bowl. "And they didn't even bring a notebook. Who goes to college without a notebook?"
He laughed.
"You sound just like your mother," he said suddenly, voice softer.
Ai paused.
Her hand stilled at the rice pot.
She looked up at him, then down again. "She would've been mad at me for staying up too late."
"She also would've been proud," he said. "But she would've made you clean the whole kitchen as punishment first."
A small smile tugged at Ai's lips. "She really would."
They ate in comfortable silence after that, the way only families who deeply loved each other could. The warm glow of the dining room light cast a soft halo on their lives—quiet, intimate, strong.
After dinner, Ai washed the dishes while her father dozed off on the couch, news playing faintly in the background.
She glanced at the clock. 10:17 PM.
She tied up her hair again, cleaned the counter, prepped breakfast for the next day, checked her father's lunchbox, and finally climbed back upstairs.
Sitting by her desk again, she gazed out the window. The moon hung over the quiet streets. She pulled the curtain gently shut and picked up her pen and glasses.
Back to her studies.
Back to the rhythm.
Before she knew it, it was already midnight but she was finally done.
She got up and loosened her hair, she looked at the state of her room.
Books scattered everywhere, papers lying on the ground, bedsheet full of wrinkles.
She just roughly pushed everything aside clearly tired, she laid down and took off her glasses placing them next to a photo frame on the sideshelf.
She picked up the photo and looked at it for a minute before finally going to sleep.
____________________________