Day after day, week after week, month after month, year-
No, that's too fast.
It's been exactly five months since Senjuro was born.
In those five months, Shinjuro had rarely taken any missions. At most, two in a month; sometimes none at all.
And honestly, Kagerou couldn't have been happier.
These months had been a rare peace.
And during this time, though Kagerou thought it was still a bit early, Kyojuro began learning the Flame Breathing Technique.
At first, Kyojuro refused. He insisted he wanted to learn Smoke Breathing first, before Flame Breathing.
But Kagerou, with his usual calm persuasion, promised that he would teach Kyojuro Smoke Breathing later, once he mastered his father's Flame Breathing.
Since then, Kyojuro had thrown himself into his training with unwavering focus.
Shinjuro wasn't exactly pleased with the reason behind his son's sudden eagerness, but family tradition came first. So, setting aside his grumbles, he taught Kyojuro everything he knew about the Flame Breathing technique.
As for Kagerou, just a month ago, he had finally completed the seven forms of his own Smoke Breathing.
The sixth and seventh forms were especially powerful, designed as finishing attacks. Yet he rarely used them, as they placed an immense burden on his body.
Still, with seven completed forms, his Breathing Style finally felt whole. At least for now. Deep down, Kagerou knew this wasn't the limit. There was still more, something waiting beyond the smoke.
That was the good news.
Now for the bad.
Ruka's condition.
Over the past five months, her health had been slowly deteriorating. Not to the point that she had to remain in bed, no, but the vitality in her face had begun to fade.
Both Shinjuro and Kagerou noticed it. They tried to hide their worry, to smile as if nothing had changed. But watching her strength wane little by little…
It felt as though something inside them was being eaten away, quietly, relentlessly from within.
Shinjuro had summoned famous healers more times than Kagerou could count, but each visit ended the same way: puzzled faces, bowed heads, apologies that scratched at the ribs like salt. No one could name Ruka's illness. No one could point to a cure. Each failed attempt carved another hollow under Shinjuro's eyes and another sleepless hour into Kagerou's chest.
Pathetic... The word lived in Kagerou like a stone. He should have been the one steadying the household, the son who protects, who reassures.
Instead, the sick one soothed them both.
Ruka, with fever-thin cheeks and a voice that trembled but did not break, would cup their faces and tell them to sleep. It felt wrong, humiliating in a way he couldn't accept.
That afternoon, Kagerou sat on the engawa.
The sun had slipped low enough to paint the tatami with warm gold, but his hands were cold around the smooth wooden railing.
From the corner of his eye he watched the gate: another healer bowed deeply to Shinjuro, said the ritual "I'm sorry" that had become a refrain, then turned and left. Shinjuro's reply was a small, clipped nod; his hand patted the healer's shoulder with automatic courtesy, but his shoulders sagged as if burdened by a night of battle.
They watched one another in silence. The yard breathed with ordinary life, the distant clatter of a koi bowl being filled, Kyojuro's bright laugh as he played guardian with Senjuro, but the house felt like a wound.
When Shinjuro finally approached, his steps were slow, the heavy tread of a man who had carried too much for too long.
"…Father," Kagerou said at last, the single word a brittle thing. "... Should we just... Give up?"
Shinjuro froze. For a heartbeat, anger flared in his eyes, sharp, fierce, the kind that could have cleaved a man in two, but it was quickly tamped down.
This was his son, he knew him better than anyone. Age aside, Shinjuro understood that behind every word Kagerou spoke, there was always a deeper meaning.
"…Explain yourself, Kage," Shinjuro said after a measured breath. "You'd better say something that makes sense. Otherwise, even if you're my son... I'll show you I can put you in your place, believe me"
Kagerou met that gaze and felt the rawness beneath it: not only anger, but the grief of a man who could not protect what he loved most. He let the silence stretch a moment longer, then spoke in a voice quiet but steady.
"…How many exactly?" he asked quietly. "Nine? Ten? We've called every renowned healer we could find, and every time, the result's the same... no cure, no answers. Maybe… maybe this is just a disease that has no cure. We have to accept that, Father. We have to learn to make peace with it. Sometimes… letting go is the only right answer"
Shinjuro's face crumpled in a way Kagerou had rarely seen, fear and denial warring with a tenderness that threatened to break him. He pressed his palms flat against his knees, as if to hold himself together.
"Kage… you- Then what do we do? Watch her fade?" Shinjuro's words were nearly a whisper, raw and breaking. Tears trembled at the edge of his lids but would not fall. "I can't. I won't watch her go. Tell me, tell this foolish father what to do. Tell me, Kage... Please"
The plea hung between them, fragile as a moth's wing. Outside, Kyojuro's laughter drifted in on the breeze, bright, innocent, and unbearably distant. It twisted something deep in Kagerou's chest, a cruel contrast to the heaviness that weighed on their hearts.
He drew a slow breath before speaking, his voice calm but laced with quiet sorrow.
"Letting go doesn't mean we give up, Father," he began softly. "But if we keep calling healers, who do you think suffers the most?"
Shinjuro looked up, eyes shadowed with disbelief and grief, but Kagerou didn't flinch.
"It's Mother," Kagerou continued. "Yes, we've tried everything we can. We've done what any family should do. But look at the truth, nothing's worked. And every time we fail, who do you think feels it the hardest? Us?" He shook his head slowly. "No. It's Mother"
He turned his gaze toward the paper door leading to her room, where faint sunlight filtered through. His words came quieter now, but firmer, as though he were forcing them past the lump in his throat.
"Every time we call a new healer, even if she hides it, there's a spark in her eyes… hope. And every time it fails, that hope dies a little more. There's no pain deeper than that, believing you might live, only to realize you won't. And we're the ones who give her that hope. Indirectly, we're the ones hurting her"
He stopped for a moment, letting his words sink in. The sound of cicadas filled the silence that followed, gentle, distant, mournful.
"Rather than hoping for something uncertain," Kagerou said finally, his voice almost breaking but steady, "isn't it better to make the time she has left… her best days? To give her peace instead of false hope?... That's what I think, Father"
Shinjuro didn't move, didn't speak. His broad shoulders trembled slightly as he stared at the floorboards, fists clenched on his knees. And for the first time, the man who had faced countless demons seemed smaller, human, helpless before something no sword could cut.