"No… no… it has to work… at least for us. I… I can't live without my son… or my kingdom. I… I can't accept it. I'd rather die than accept it!"
Still in the flashback—
Kuradome's voice cracked and splintered against the cold air. It wasn't a roar of a king; it was the ragged whisper of a father whose hands could no longer keep the world from falling apart.
His balled fist slammed into the marble floor. The dull, heavy sound carried no authority—only frustration and grief. His forehead pressed to the stone, its chill biting into his skin. His jaw locked until his teeth ached. His throat felt raw, as if each breath was scraped from the inside. Lips trembled. Shoulders shuddered.
It was as though the crown he bore had liquefied into molten iron and poured through his veins, weighing down every muscle, pinning him under the weight of his own bloodline.
Kyoren's condition was worsening.
It wasn't just pain now—it was panic. His breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, chest heaving in uneven jerks. Every inhale rattled, the sound of air fighting through a narrowing passage. His mouth opened wider, like an animal trapped underwater, searching for air that refused to come.
And then Kuradome saw it—the royal mark.
It twitched and twisted, warping into the shape of an eye for a heartbeat before snapping back. A bad sign. A terrible sign.
"Kyoren—no!"
The words left his mouth like they were torn out.
The boy's voice came in broken sobs, but they weren't born of sadness—they were gasps disguised as cries. His hands clawed at his own chest, nails digging deep enough to leave crescents of blood. Kuradome's own chest burned, the same phantom pain they had always shared, an invisible tether drawing his suffering into his father's body.
"Stop—stop hurting yourself!" Kuradome barked, but the order carried no authority, only fear.
He lunged forward—or rather dragged himself, because his limbs felt carved from lead. The long spill of his silver robe made him glide over the marble, hair clinging damp to his neck and brow. His crown ribbon fell from his forehead and slid sideways by his movements , one sharp movement away from falling—a silent omen of what might follow.
By the time he reached Kyoren, the boy's trembling had pushed him to the edge of the bed. His body, no longer able to resist gravity, fell forward—straight into Kuradome's arms.
The impact was light, yet it nearly crushed him. Burn wounds flared in his palms, but instinct ignored them. One hand braced Kyoren's upper back, the other cradled the back of his head. It was the hold of a man who had held this child from the day he first drew breath—and refused to stop now.
"Please… please work… only this time… only this time…"
The plea was barely a sound, breaking apart in his throat. Sometimes thin and sharp like it might cut him on the way out, sometimes thick and clotted like it might choke him.
His palms pressed against Kyoren's back, Kagetsu Jutsu flaring through him like molten glass. Once. Twice. Again. Again. Until the lines between attempts blurred. His flesh scorched, the heat chewing into skin and sinew. If he stopped, even for a heartbeat, the wounds began to knit, but he never stopped long enough for full relief.
The healing was poison to him now. His lungs strained against the panic, pulling air in quick, ragged bursts.
Kyoren's movements slowed. His breath faltered. His heartbeat—the rhythm Kuradome had known since it was no more than a flutter in a crib—was fading.
His mind went white. Time constricted to this moment alone.
Through the haze, another image intruded—tiny Kyoren, no more than an armful, clutching his father's arm in the dark. Tears streaking his cheeks as he whispered, "Dad… don't leave me… it's dark here… you're my mom and dad… m… moms don't leave in the dark…"
That small, frightened boy was fading again. And this time, it wasn't darkness that threatened to take him—it was death.
"No… no, you don't leave me… I can't… I can't live without you here… Come back… I won't scold you anymore for being a hopeless king like me… You can go anywhere you want… no heavy crown ribbon… you don't need me because… you're grown now, not tiny like before… I'm the one tiny here… hopeless… loveless… I've only this golden roof… Please… please don't leave me alone…"
His teeth found Kyoren's shoulder without thinking, a soft bite, the same habit his son had inherited. Fangs left faint crescents of red on pale skin. The contact was grounding and shattering all at once—reminding him of what he still held, and what he was seconds from losing.
And somewhere inside, Kuradome felt like a child again—crying for the parents who had never stayed, never chosen him over the throne.
The Kazomaki bloodline had always been drunk on rule. So drunk they forgot their families existed. His father had done it. Kuradome had sworn not to… but the curse was in him too. The blood always won. Until now.
Because now—nothing else mattered.
Without hesitation, Kuradome chose. He would give half his life force. Even if it killed him, it would be worth it. The kingdom could rot. The titles could burn. Let the curse tear through Bayakuya.
"Fuck that kingdom… and fuck that title… I'm not Kuradome Kazomaki… I'm… just Kuradome. And you… you're not that either."
His voice was faint, but his will was iron.
The golden light swelled in his chest, climbing up his throat, burning like a dragon's fire pressed behind his teeth. Then—mouth to mouth—he passed it into his son. The glow spread through Kyoren's body, golden veins racing under his skin. And for once, it didn't twist into agony.
When half his life was gone, he tore himself away. Every muscle trembled from the weight of the boy in his arms. His eyes, once red, now looked almost black—like he'd given away not just his light, but his very fire.
Then—the room shifted.
Gravity loosened. Objects rose faintly into the air. His hair's red edges deepened. And before him—two figures stood.
They wore his face. Kyoren's face.
Shadow clones.
It meant… the last attempt had worked. Somehow.
The figures bowed, movements precise, too precise. Eyes more silver than red or gold. The bow felt mocking, though they spoke with calm:
"We'll go… to handle the ceremony. You may stay here."
And they left.
Kuradome didn't call after them. Didn't ask if they would truly see it through. For once, he didn't care. The selfless king was gone.
[Flashback Ends]
In the present, Kuradome shifted at last. Every joint screamed in protest. A cough wracked him, black blood thick on his lips.
But he saw it—Kyoren's skin was warmer, color returning. Breath steadier. It was enough. More than enough.
He lowered his son back onto the bed, his body moving like a man lifting a mountain with the wings of a bird. A weak growl escaped him at the effort.
Three fox tails wrapped protectively around Kyoren. Kuradome's arms followed, cocooning the boy in both fur and flesh. One hand brushed his cheek, sliding into his hair.
He kissed each closed eyelid—red returning where pale had lingered—then his cheek, then his temple.
"My sweet… boy…"
It was a sigh, a prayer, a confession.
Kuradome lowered his face into the hollow of Kyoren's neck, as if hiding from the world. His eyes dimmed, lids heavy.
Wrapped in the fragile rhythm of his son's pulse and breath, the king—no, the father—drifted into the first peaceful sleep he had known in years.