The ditch didn't have answers. Just his reflection.
Kaito stood up, wiped the muddy water from his fingers, and turned south—away from the voices, the stares, the stories already starting to spread. "Flame demon," that woman had whispered. That was all it took in the outer districts. A nickname, a curse, a rumor with legs.
The slums bled into scrubland, then into broken road. Each step was harder than it should've been. His boots dragged. His left shoulder ached from where the sword strap bit into the skin, and the mark on his chest was beginning to burn again—not sharp, just steady. Like it was reminding him he was never alone anymore.
He hadn't eaten in a day. Maybe two. Didn't matter.
Up ahead, the scent of salt drifted in from the border lakes. Cold wind rolled down from the cliffs beyond. For a moment, it felt like the world had taken a breath and left him behind.
"Do you feel it?" Yami purred in his mind.
He didn't answer.
The voice continued anyway, smooth as silk over steel. "This place. This edge. Where Rukongai ends and the wilderness begins. I like it."
Kaito adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "Good for you."
"No. Good for you. There's less law out here. Less watching. You burn better when you're not pretending to be human."
He stopped walking.
The road was quiet. Dry. No travelers. No patrols. Just grass that never seemed to grow past ankle height and a crooked wooden sign that had long since lost its words.
Kaito looked down at his hand again. Black up to the wrist. Veins glowing faintly. He pulled his sleeve over it.
He didn't want to see it.
The sky started darkening near the ridge. A few clouds caught the sun just right, turning blood-orange across the horizon. It would've been beautiful, maybe, if it didn't feel like something was watching him.
And then he heard it—just one flap of wings too large, too wet, too deliberate.
He dropped to a crouch.
Overhead, the silhouette of a winged Hollow passed across the sky, low and hunting. Not a scout. A feeder.
It screeched once, doubled back, and dove.
Kaito was already moving. Not fast enough.
The Hollow's wing grazed the edge of his coat, ripping it. He tumbled sideways, rolled, and came up on one knee, blade in hand.
He could barely hold it steady.
The Hollow circled again, massive claws dragging over the grass. Its mask was shaped like a stretched raven skull, with four eye holes, but only two eyes. The other sockets bled mist.
Kaito exhaled.
"I'm tired," he muttered.
Yami stirred. "Then let me help."
"No."
"You'll die."
He raised the blade. "Better than listening to you all day."
The Hollow came again.
Kaito moved forward this time—not to dodge, but to meet it.
The Hollow dove like it knew him.
Its wings spread wide, black and leathery, flaring against the dying light as it dropped, claws out, shrieking like it had been starving for years.
Kaito didn't flinch. He stepped forward and swung the sword—not with skill, not with grace, just raw force.
The impact knocked him sideways anyway.
His blade caught one claw, scraped bone, but the Hollow's body slammed into him like a falling boulder. He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, skidding in the dirt. The sword tumbled out of his grip, bounced once, then slid into the grass a few feet away.
Kaito groaned, rolled onto his back, and sucked in air like he'd nearly drowned.
The Hollow circled above, wheeling to come back.
His fingers twitched toward the blade. Not close enough.
"You'll die like this," Yami whispered. "You're not even swinging it right."
"Shut up," he hissed.
"You don't even know what it's called."
The Hollow shrieked again. Closer this time. Lower. Bloodthirsty.
Kaito forced himself to stand, body screaming. His knees shook. The wind was sharper now, cutting across the plain. He could hear the trees behind him rattling like bones in a box.
The sword was still just out of reach.
The Hollow dove again.
Kaito turned toward it—half-ready, half-accepting. He raised his arm—
And then his burned hand flared red.
Not fire. Not light.
Just heat. Pressure.
Reiatsu.
It leaked out of his skin like steam, and the Hollow hesitated mid-dive. Just for a blink. That was enough.
Kaito ran.
Three steps. Four. The sword came into reach. He grabbed it, pivoted, planted his foot—and swung upward with everything he had.
Steel met mask.
A clean hit. Dead center.
But it didn't break.
The Hollow screeched in his face. Its breath reeked of carrion and wet smoke. One claw slashed across Kaito's chest, shallow but hot. He staggered backward.
The sword trembled in his grip. His hand stung from the vibration.
Yami's voice was quiet now. Closer than ever. "Swing me like you mean it."
"I don't even know what the hell you are."
"Then guess."
The Hollow landed in front of him this time—low, stalking, its wings folding against its back. Its clawed hands dragged across the dirt. It moved like a beast that remembered being human.
Kaito gripped the hilt tighter. His knuckles went white. Blood trickled down his side.
The blade pulsed.
Just once.
And something clicked in the back of his skull.
Like a whisper, not from Yami, but from the steel itself.
He inhaled through his teeth.
"Not yours, huh?" he said, glancing at the sword. "Didn't think so."
The Hollow lunged.
Kaito stepped sideways—not cleanly, not with Shunpo, just fast and desperate. The claws scraped his ribs. He turned with the movement, twisted his whole torso, and drove the blade down into the Hollow's spine from behind.
This time it screamed.
The mask split.
Not all the way, but enough. It bled black steam. Its wings flailed, spasmed.
Kaito pulled the sword free and brought it around again. Sloppy. Fast. Just one more swing—
The mask cracked clean.
The Hollow dropped.
Silence.
Kaito stood there, hunched over, breathing hard, the sword still raised like he was expecting it to get back up.
It didn't.
The body began to fade. Not like Hollows usually did—peaceful, ghostly—but in sharp, violent flickers. Like it was being eaten from the inside.
Gone in seconds.
The air stank.
Kaito lowered the blade.
The weight of the moment finally caught up. His arms shook. His legs burned. And the wound across his chest was still open, soaking into what was left of his coat.
The sword pulsed once more in his hand.
He looked down at it.
Still nameless. Still cold in some spots, too warm in others. The edge was chipped now. That swing hadn't been clean. He didn't know what kind of steel it was. Didn't care.
It had worked.
Barely.
"It'll get heavier the more you swing it," Yami murmured in the back of his mind. "Because it remembers. Swords do. Especially the ones not meant for you."
He sat down in the dirt again, not even trying to hide how bad he hurt.
"Then I'll make it mine."
"Good," she said. "Because the next thing that comes… won't hesitate."