One week after the battle at Shizuhara.
The cold scent of medicinal herbs still lingered in the corridors of the Samurai Hall. Sunlight spilled through tall shōji windows, scattering patterns across the polished wooden floor. Every few steps, faint echoes of footsteps whispered through the stillness—a stillness not of peace, but of exhaustion.
In the secluded recovery wing, Zenith stood alone. Bandages wrapped his torso and arms, white against skin still bruised from battle. Each breath he took came with a faint sting, a reminder that the fight was over… but not without cost.
Before him, at the center of the dimly lit chamber, stood a crystal monument. Within it lay Shinsei—his master, his guide, his unshakable pillar—now locked in a deep, unresponsive slumber. His expression was calm, yet unnaturally still, as though suspended in time itself.
Zenith's eyes refused to leave that silent figure. His fingers clenched loosely at his side, nails biting into his palm.
"Sensei…" The word barely left his lips, carried away by the hush of the room.
A deep, resonant gong echoed from somewhere beyond the chamber walls. The vibrations seemed to ripple through the air, pulling Zenith out of his thoughts.
The assembly bell.
He tore his gaze from Shinsei, casting one final look—long enough to etch the image into his heart—and stepped away. His shadow slipped out of the room as the crystal chamber's doors closed behind him.
The Samurai Hall was filled with disciples. Robes of muted colors swayed faintly as figures shifted in place. And yet, for all the gathered souls, not a sound stirred. It wasn't the disciplined silence of soldiers—it was mourning.
The air was heavy. Every breath felt weighed down by the knowledge of what had been lost.
Kazui stood at the head of the hall, his presence calm yet sharp, like a blade sheathed but ready. His gaze swept across the room, reading the emotions in every bowed head before finally speaking.
Kazui's voice cut clean through the silence.
"The Shigakure no Rōjin—the Elders—have received the full account of the battle at Shizuhara."
A faint stir passed through the room at the mention of the Elders.
"They… feel saddened," Kazui continued, his tone carrying a deliberate pause, "that Shinsei's powers could not be studied in greater detail."
Something in Zenith snapped. His hands curled into fists, his jaw tightening until the words burst out before he could stop them.
"Do they even care that he's human too?!"
Heads turned. Some eyes widened, others narrowed, but none spoke.
Suno stepped forward from the shadows at the edge of the hall, his voice calm but laced with weight.
"Their perception is… always right, Zenith. We do not object."
Zenith's glare shifted to him. "And if we do?"
Suno's reply was almost too steady.
"It would be treason. Depending on the crime, the punishment is… banishment. Or death."
His eyes darkened.
"They will do whatever it takes to ensure humanity's survival… no matter how drastic the measure."
In the far corner, Oborozuka's lips curled into a grin, as if enjoying the tension.
Kazui's voice broke through again, directing the storm back to its course.
"They were also able to obtain visuals of your transformation… Zenith."
Suno's gaze sharpened.
"They want to meet you as soon as possible."
The hall seemed to grow colder. Zenith's eyes widened, his breath hitching just slightly—a flicker of fear breaking through his usual resolve.
By evening, the sky was painted in soft gold and pale rose. The wind carried the scent of blooming peach blossoms, their petals drifting lazily across the training grounds. Beneath the swaying branches, three figures stood together—Lithos with his calm presence, Ishiguro with his towering frame, and Zenith, his mind somewhere far from the beauty around them.
Lithos squinted at him. "Hey, Zen… what's with that grin?"
Ishiguro snorted, crossing his arms. "It's making you look uglier, though."
Zenith's eyes didn't match the grin.
"Am I… by any chance… cursed?"
Ishiguro raised an eyebrow. "Cursed? The only curse you've got is that appetite of yours."
Lithos chuckled, joining Ishiguro in a brief laugh—but the humor faded when Zenith didn't react. His expression remained serious.
"Oh… you mean it." Lithos' tone softened. "Well… simple answer?" He gave a faint, almost bitter smile. "We're all cursed."
Zenith looked up at him, eyes searching.
"This path we chose," Lithos went on, "to become protectors—it was never an easy one."
Zenith sat down on a low rock, the petals brushing past his legs. His voice was quiet, but each word seemed to carry the weight of years.
"It's just… everyone around me seems to die. And it makes me wonder…" He swallowed hard. "Did wrapping my fate around theirs cause this?"
Lithos didn't hesitate.
"It did."
Ishiguro turned sharply, startled by the bluntness. "Lithos—"
But Lithos' voice carried on, calm and unyielding.
"Life is just like Flow… an endless river that surges through infinite realms. Today, it could carry sorrow… tomorrow, joy. The irregularities in the current are what shape us. With our goal in mind, we stand ready to face whatever tide tries to pull us away from our path."
The wind lifted his long hair, the peach blossoms spiraling in the air around him, painting the moment in solemn grace.
"…Didn't get any of that," Ishiguro muttered.
Lithos gave him a flat look. "That's what you get when you have muscle for brains."
The two launched into a half-serious scuffle, shoving and swatting at each other like boys, the sound of their banter mixing with the wind.
Zenith watched them for a long moment before smiling faintly. He caught the moment like it was something worth keeping—then let his words fall into it.
"You guys know… I'm not coming back alive, right?"
The movement between Lithos and Ishiguro froze instantly.
"…What do you mean?" Lithos' voice wavered.
Zenith's gaze drifted to the ground. "I overheard Kazui and Suno. The Elders want to… extract my Flow essence. Give it to someone else. They think I don't deserve Oborowa Mandala."
His hands gripped his robe tightly, his voice trembling. "And I think they're right… I couldn't even save my sensei."
Ishiguro frowned. "Flow essence? What's that supposed to be?"
Lithos answered quietly. "It's… everything. All the Flow a person has ever mastered. Sometimes… even pieces of their memories."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Neither of them could find an answer.
Zenith chuckled—a small, broken sound. "Guess that's the life of a Samurai."
He stood, brushing the petals from his lap, and walked away.
The courtyard was quiet under the moonlight.
Lanterns hung from the eaves, their flames swaying gently in the night breeze. The gravel path glittered faintly under the silver glow, and the distant rustle of bamboo leaves whispered of a world that kept moving, even when hearts could not.
Zenith sat alone on the engawa, the wooden veranda cool beneath him. His elbows rested on his knees, his fingers loosely intertwined. His gaze was locked on the moon above—a perfect white disk suspended in the endless black, looking down with neither judgment nor comfort.
The petals from the peach trees earlier in the day had found their way here, scattered across the courtyard like silent remnants of something fleeting.
Footsteps approached—soft, careful, hesitant.
"Zenith."
The voice was gentle, familiar.
He turned his head slightly. Hime stood a few steps away, the moonlight tracing the outline of her hair and catching in her eyes. She wore a simple indigo yukata, the kind one might wear at the end of a long day. In her hands, she held nothing—just herself, as though unsure if anything she could bring would matter.
"If you need someone to talk to," she said, taking a step closer, "I'm always here."
Zenith's gaze returned to the moon. His voice was low, almost a whisper.
"You won't understand."
Hime's brows knitted, but she didn't leave. She sat down beside him, leaving just enough space so her presence wouldn't feel like pressure. The silence stretched.
"Zenith…" she began softly.
"YOU WON'T UNDERSTAND!"
The words tore through the quiet like a blade. Zenith's voice, raw and jagged, echoed across the empty courtyard. Birds startled from the nearby trees, scattering into the night sky.
Hime's breath caught. She blinked rapidly, the hurt flashing in her eyes before she quickly looked away. Slowly, she stood.
"…Alright." Her voice was steady, but faint.
She turned, the hem of her yukata brushing against the veranda as she walked back into the shadows. She didn't look back.
Zenith's chest rose and fell heavily, the echo of his outburst still ringing in his ears.
"I've done enough…" His words were barely audible, not meant for anyone but himself.
"I've cursed enough people… just because I stayed close to them…"
The wind shifted, lifting a single peach blossom petal into the air. It drifted past his face, catching the moonlight for a brief, perfect moment before falling into the darkness beyond the veranda.
Zenith looked up again, meeting the gaze of the moon. Its light wrapped around him like a distant memory—cold, but beautiful.
"Not you too…" he whispered.
The night answered with silence.