The car stopped. The hum of its arcane engine faded into the morning haze, leaving only the soft crackle of mana wards along the street.
Ren's parents stepped out first. The night had drained them, their bodies stiff from long hours of tense conversation and little rest. The air of Zone Five was different from the upper districts. Less polished, less controlled. Here, the city breathed in uneven rhythm: vendors opening their stalls, neighbors calling across streets, the faint scent of coal and bread mixing with the distant hum of magical conduits.
The black car lingered only for a moment before pulling away, disappearing into the wider artery that fed into Elaris. Its departure left silence, and with it, the weight of responsibility returned to their shoulders.
They stood before their modest home. For a moment, neither moved. Last night's words, spoken in the glow of chandeliers and under the presence of the President himself, still rang in their minds. Duty, burden, and the quiet warning hidden beneath courtesy.
Ren's mother drew in a breath and placed her hand on the wooden door. Her knuckles rapped softly… once, then twice.
The latch turned quickly. Mira stood there, hair loose over her shoulders, eyes bright despite the early hour. Relief spread over her face when she saw them.
"You're back," she said simply, warmth in her voice.
The parents stepped inside. The familiar smell of their home greeted them. Aged wood, faint herbs, and the lingering smoke of morning tea. For the first time in hours, something felt real, solid.
The hall was not empty.
Ren sat upright on the sofa, posture straighter than his parents remembered, though fatigue lingered in his eyes. Watson leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with quiet sharpness. And Yato… calm, unreadable, occupied the far chair, his presence filling the room without words.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Ren rose to his feet.
"…You're home." His voice was quiet, steady, yet it carried something heavier like he had waited for this moment through the long night.
His mother's lips trembled, but she forced a smile. "Yes… we're home."
They met in the center of the room not an embrace of drama, but the simple, firm touch of a family confirming one another's existence.
"Sit," Ren said softly, as if he were the host instead of the child. He gestured toward the seats, his movements careful, polite, far older than his years.
They obeyed, settling across from him. For a moment, silence ruled the room, broken only by the distant clatter of the street outside. Their eyes moved between him, Yato, and the others.
Finally, Ren asked. His was voice steady but edged with tension:
"What happened… at the summons? What did the President tell you?"
The air tightened. His parents exchanged glances, uncertain how to begin. Their faces carried the fatigue of the night, the unease of knowledge too heavy for ordinary words.
The room waited. Mira's eyes flickered between them, Watson straightened slightly, and Yato remained still. His expression was unreadable, though something in his gaze suggested he already knew what would be spoken.
And in that silence, the morning light through the windows seemed colder.
Ren's father leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. For a long while he said nothing, as though arranging the words was more difficult than recalling them. His wife's hand brushed against his, steadying him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate:
"The President… spoke of your awakening."
Ren didn't move, but his eyes sharpened, waiting.
"He said the world is shifting. That your power… your darkness… is not something that can be left alone. He spoke of threats beyond the city, beyond the continent even. Wars of shadows, forgotten truths, and the kinds of dangers ordinary people cannot even imagine."
Ren's mother added softly, her words trembling between pride and fear:
"He told us the world is… fragile. That the balance of magic, of nations, even of people's beliefs, can shatter with a single truth revealed too soon. And you… our son….stand in the center of it."
The silence after her words was suffocating.
Mira's hands clenched at her knees. Watson's expression hardened, jaw tight, though he said nothing.
Ren sat straighter, the quiet in his gaze deepening.
"And then?" His voice was almost too calm.
His father exhaled heavily. "He asked us… to entrust you to him. He promised to guide you, train you, shield you from the storm until you could walk in it yourself. He said it was for the safety of the world."
The words lingered like iron in the air.
Ren lowered his gaze, lashes casting shadows across his face. His expression did not crack, yet a faint tremor touched the edge of his clenched hands.
His parents followed his silence, then. Slowly, they looked toward Yato.
The unspoken realization settled: he already knew.
Yato, seated in calm composure, did not flinch. His gaze met theirs evenly, neither apologetic nor defiant, simply unyielding.
Ren's mother spoke, her tone thin but resolute:
"You… knew everything the President said, didn't you?"
The question was not an accusation, but the weight behind it was undeniable.
Yato's lips curved slightly. Not into a smile, but into acknowledgment. His voice, deep and smooth, carried no hesitation:
"Yes. I did."
The room stiffened.
Watson's eyes darted between them. Mira leaned closer, her breath catching as though bracing herself. Ren's parents straightened, their fatigue forgotten, their focus sharpened.
For the first time since the conversation began, the burden of truth no longer rested solely on them.
It shifted.
Toward Yato.
And in that shift, the air itself grew heavier because now, the question was not just what the President had revealed, but why Yato had kept silent.