"A wound left open does not heal; it learns to live, and in its breathing, shapes a new fate."
— Letter from Hotaru no Yakusha
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The night was a living thing — cold and watching, waiting for pain to stir beneath the surface.
Shindō lay on the rough earth, fingers pressed against a deep cut that bled slowly but surely, each heartbeat pulsing through the wound like a whispered warning.
The air tasted metallic, thick with the scent of blood and earth.
Every breath was a reminder that some wounds did not close — they breathed, they grew, and they shaped the man who bore them.
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Yuuki's voice, soft and steady, broke the silence.
"Pain is a language. Listen well, and it will tell you what words the heart cannot speak."
Shindō clenched his jaw, feeling the truth in her words.
He had spent years trying to silence the pain — to bury it beneath steel and ash.
But now, the wound demanded to be heard.
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In the dark, memories surfaced — faces lost, promises broken, the flicker of a childhood erased by fire.
The wound was more than flesh; it was the echo of everything he had lost.
And in that moment, Shindō understood: healing was not forgetting.
It was learning to live with the pain, to let it guide him through the shadows.
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The battle was far from over.
But beneath the bleeding wound, a fragile strength was growing.
"In every scar lies a story; in every story, a shadow that refuses to fade."
— Letter from Hotaru no Yakusha
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Pain, Shindō realized, was a cruel teacher — relentless, unforgiving.
Yet it was the only truth left in a world built on lies and shattered oaths.
The wound in his side pulsed, hot and stubborn beneath his soaked kimono.
Every heartbeat sent fresh fire through his veins, a reminder that even broken things could still burn.
Yuuki watched silently, her pale face serene despite the storm raging in his body.
Her presence was a quiet balm, the only thing steady in the chaos that swallowed them whole.
---
"Let the wound breathe," she whispered.
"Only then will it teach you what to fight for."
Shindō's fingers trembled as he traced the jagged edges of the cut.
He had fought to numb himself for so long — but now, surrendering to the pain felt like the first step toward something greater.
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Outside, the night deepened.
The wind carried distant cries, the clash of steel, the whispered prayers of those caught between life and death.
But within the silence between heartbeats, Shindō found a fragile truth:
That to endure, one must embrace the wound — not hide from it.
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The battle for his soul had only just begun.
And the wound was its battlefield.