Deep beneath the earth, where no sunlight has ever touched, the village of Lumora breathed in slow pulses of blue-green light. Crystals the size of trees hung from the cavern ceiling like frozen tears, casting soft halos over hanging gardens and silent walkways. Water trickled somewhere far away, the only sound besides the faint hum of the seals that kept the forbidden things sleeping.
In the deepest chamber, behind seven concentric wards that only three living souls could open, a pedestal of black stone stood empty.
The Katana of Death was gone.
Sixteen years had passed since that night.
Kanashimi knelt on the cold crystal floor of the training hall, sweat tracing thin lines down his bare back. The cursed blade rested across his thighs, wrapped in layers of prayer seals that glowed faintly whenever his pulse quickened. He kept his breathing shallow, measured, the way Master Yoriichi had drilled into him since he could walk. One slip, one spike of anger or longing, and the seals would burn. Or worse—the blade would answer.
Across from him, Yoriichi stood motionless, silver hair tied high, eyes like winter steel. He held no weapon; he never needed one when watching Kanashimi.
"Again," the master said, voice quiet enough to cut bone.
Kanashimi rose without a word, drew the katana in a single breath, and began the thirty-seventh form of the binding sequence. Each swing precise, each step perfect. The blade sang softly, a hungry note that only he could hear. It liked the movement. It always liked the movement.
Halfway through the form, his mind wandered—just for a heartbeat—to the stories whispered by the few children who hadn't been warned away from him. Stories of the surface. Of wind that didn't smell like stone. Of crowds where no one watched your every breath, waiting for you to become the disaster they feared.
The seals flared white-hot against his palms.
He froze, forcing the thought down, locking it behind the walls he'd built year after year.
Yoriichi's gaze never wavered. "You hesitated."
"I didn't," Kanashimi answered, voice low, steady. A lie small enough to survive.
The master stepped forward, placed two fingers beneath Kanashimi's chin, and tilted his face up. The touch was clinical, brief, but it still sent something raw through the boy's chest—something he crushed before it could bloom.
"You felt it," Yoriichi said. Not a question.
Kanashimi met his eyes. "It felt me."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy as the dark above.
Then, faintly, from the upper tunnels: the low toll of an alarm bell. Once. Twice. The signal for an unscheduled return.
Someone had come back from a hunt.
Someone carrying news.
Yoriichi's hand dropped. "Clean the blade. Stay here."
He turned and left without another word, robes whispering over stone.
Kanashimi remained kneeling long after the footsteps faded. The katana pulsed once against his leg, almost gentle, like it was comforting him.
Or promising something.
He closed his eyes and tried not to wonder what news would be bad enough to ring that bell in the middle of training.
A small figure toddled into the training hall, barefoot on the cool crystal, eyes wide with the fearless curiosity only a four-year-old could carry in a place like Lumora. Yuta—one of the few children whose parents hadn't yet taught him to flinch at the sight of the cursed boy—plopped down cross-legged right beside Kanashimi, close enough that his tiny shoulder brushed the sealed katana.
"Hey, Kanashimi," he whispered, loud enough for the whole cavern to hear, "how do you keep doing that since morning? Don't your arms get tired?"
Kanashimi's blade paused mid-arc, the deadly edge catching the blue light for a heartbeat too long. He lowered it slowly, sheathed it with a soft click, and turned to the child. For the first time that day, something gentle cracked through the mask he wore like armor. He reached out, fingers careful, and ruffled Yuta's messy black hair.
"They get tired," he said, voice quieter than usual, almost warm. A rare, small laugh escaped him—short, surprised, like he'd forgotten he knew how. "But I'm not allowed to stop until Master says so."
Yuta beamed, utterly unbothered by the warning glow of the seals or the stories the older kids whispered. To him, Kanashimi was just the big boy who sometimes snuck him extra sweet-root from the gardens.
Master Yoriichi watched from across the hall, arms folded, expression unreadable. After a moment he spoke, calm and final. "Enough. Sheathe the blade. We move to taijutsu."
Kanashimi straightened instantly, the softness vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "Yes, Master."
Yoriichi's steel-gray eyes shifted to the child. "Yuta. Sit at the edge. Do not disturb Kanashimi again."
Yuta puffed his cheeks, but hopped up and scampered to the side of the hall, settling on a low crystal ledge with his legs swinging. "Yes, Master," he chirped, though his gaze stayed glued to Kanashimi like he was the most fascinating thing in all of Lumora.
Kanashimi stepped into the open circle, rolling his shoulders once. No weapon now—just fists, feet, breath. Yoriichi moved opposite him, stance perfect, waiting.
The master didn't speak the command. He simply attacked.
The first strike came lightning-fast, palm aimed at Kanashimi's throat. Kanashimi blocked, redirected, countered—every motion drilled a thousand times until it lived in his bones. Their bodies blurred in a dance of controlled violence: strikes pulled just short of breaking, sweeps that whispered across skin, grapples that tested balance without cruelty.
Yuta watched in wide-eyed silence, tiny hands gripping the edge of the ledge.
Minutes stretched. Sweat beaded on Kanashimi's brow again, but his breathing stayed even, his eyes locked on Yoriichi's. There was no anger here, no hatred—just absolute focus, the only language he and his master had ever truly shared.
Finally, Yoriichi caught Kanashimi's wrist mid-block, twisted, and sent him to one knee with effortless precision. He held the hold for a breath, then released.
"Better," Yoriichi said. One word. Rare as sunlight.
Kanashimi stayed on his knee a moment longer, chest rising and falling, then rose and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master."
From the side, Yuta couldn't contain himself anymore. He clapped his small hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet hall. "That was amazing! Kanashimi, you almost got him that one time!"
Yoriichi glanced at the boy, the faintest crease between his brows. But he said nothing. Perhaps even he couldn't bring himself to scold such honest awe.
Kanashimi allowed himself one more glance toward Yuta. The child grinned back, waving both hands like he'd just watched a festival performance.
And for a single, dangerous second, Kanashimi felt something stir deep inside—something brighter than fear, warmer than duty. He crushed it quickly, turned back to his master, and waited for the next command.
But the katana, resting sealed on the rack, pulsed once. Soft. Almost approving.
The session ended as abruptly as it always did—Yoriichi stepping back, folding his arms, and delivering judgment in that cool, quiet tone.
"Enough for now. Forty-five minutes. Hydrate. Meditate. Do not leave the hall."
Kanashimi bowed from his kneeling position, forehead almost touching the ground. "Yes, Master."
Yoriichi turned and walked away, robes whispering like a fading breeze. The heavy doors sealed behind him with a soft thud that echoed through the cavern.
Only then did Kanashimi let himself collapse.
He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, arms splayed out like a broken doll. The crystal ceiling swam above him in ripples of pale light, beautiful and indifferent. Every muscle burned, every bruise from the taijutsu throbbed in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat. Sweat cooled against his skin, carrying away the heat of effort and leaving only the familiar ache of being alive in a body the village wished had never been born.
Yuta, who had waited with remarkable patience for a four-year-old, finally scampered over the moment the master was gone. He dropped to his knees beside Kanashimi's head, peering down with that upside-down grin only little kids can manage.
"You're all shiny," Yuta announced, poking one finger into Kanashimi's damp forehead. "Like the big crystals when they wake up."
Kanashimi huffed a tired breath that might have been a laugh. He lifted one heavy arm and draped it gently over his eyes, blocking out the light—and maybe the world for a moment.
"Shiny means I worked hard," he murmured.
Yuta flopped down beside him, lying on his belly, chin propped in his hands. "Does it hurt?"
"Some."
"But you're strong. Stronger than anyone." The child said it like it was the simplest truth in the world, no fear, no hesitation. "When I grow up I wanna be like you."
Kanashimi's arm slid away from his eyes. He turned his head just enough to look at Yuta. The boy's face was open, earnest, lit by the soft glow of the hall. For a heartbeat, something sharp and tender twisted inside Kanashimi's chest—something he had no name for and no permission to feel.
He reached out slowly and ruffled Yuta's hair again, softer this time. "Don't say that," he whispered. "You deserve better things to want."
Yuta just wrinkled his nose. "Nuh-uh. You're nice to me. And you have the cool sword."
The cool sword.
Kanashimi's gaze drifted to the rack where the sealed katana rested. Even from here he could feel it—quiet now, but watching. Always watching.
He closed his eyes.
Forty-three minutes left.
In the silence, Yuta hummed a little tune and kicked his feet in the air, content to share the floor with the village's bad luck charm.
Kanashimi let the quiet sink in, let his body rest, let the pain settle into something almost comfortable.
But somewhere deeper in Lumora, footsteps were approaching the training hall—heavy, hurried, more than one set. Voices murmured low and urgent beyond the doors.
The news from the alarm bell was coming.
And the break was almost over.
The doors to the training hall sighed open again, softer this time. A woman stepped through—Aiko, Yuta's mother, her dark hair braided simply, gardener's dirt still faint under her fingernails from the hanging vines. In Lumora, where most eyes slid away from Kanashimi like water off stone, Aiko's family was one of the rare few who didn't. They never stared too long, never offered empty kindness, but they didn't cross to the far side of the path when he passed, either.
She paused at the edge of the circle, bowing her head slightly in quiet respect to the space. Yuta spotted her instantly and scrambled to his feet, bouncing over with a delighted squeal.
Aiko knelt, opening her arms, but her gaze lifted to Kanashimi still sprawled on the crystal floor. Her smile was small, genuine, the kind that didn't ask for anything in return.
"Thank you, Kanashimi," she said softly, "for watching over him. He slips away the moment my back is turned."
Kanashimi pushed himself up on one elbow, then to sitting, brushing damp strands of hair from his eyes. The movement was slow, careful, like every motion had to be weighed before it was allowed. He met her gaze for only a breath—long enough to be polite, not long enough to invite more.
"There's no need to thank me," he answered, voice low, almost rough from disuse outside of training commands. "He found me. I just… didn't send him away."
Aiko's eyes softened further, a flicker of something tender and sad passing through them. She didn't push. She never did.
She turned to her son, tapping his nose gently. "Say goodbye properly, little sprout. Kanashimi needs his rest."
Yuta spun back toward Kanashimi, cheeks puffed in protest, but he obeyed. He ran the few steps back, leaned down, and wrapped his tiny arms around Kanashimi's neck in a fierce, clumsy hug that smelled of earth and sweet-root.
"Bye, Kanashimi! See you tomorrow!" he declared, as if it were a promise the world had to keep.
Kanashimi froze for the length of a heartbeat, arms half-raised, unsure where to put them. Then, carefully—like handling something fragile and forbidden—he let one hand settle lightly on Yuta's back. Just once. Barely pressure.
"Goodbye, Yuta," he murmured.
Yuta pulled away beaming, took his mother's hand, and waved with the other until they disappeared through the doors. The soft thud of the seal falling back into place echoed longer than it should have.
Kanashimi remained sitting, staring at the empty doorway. The hall felt larger suddenly, colder. The warmth from that small hug lingered on his skin like a brand he didn't know how to carry.
Twenty-eight minutes left in the break.
He drew his knees up, rested his forearms on them, and let his head drop forward. Hair curtained his face, hiding whatever expression tried to surface.
In the quiet, the katana on the rack pulsed again—slow, patient, tasting the faint crack in his walls.
Footsteps approached once more from the corridor outside. Heavier. Multiple. Urgent.
The hunters had reached the inner wards.
The news was here.
The doors opened again, quieter this time, with the deliberate grace of someone who never needed to announce her presence. Princess Yōsei stepped into the training hall, still in her academy robes—deep indigo trimmed with silver threads that caught the crystal light like starlight on water. Her long hair, the color of midnight frost, was loosely braided from the day's lessons, a few strands escaping to frame her face. At seventeen, she carried herself with the poise expected of Lumora's future leader, but her eyes always softened the moment they found Kanashimi.
She came straight from the upper academies, as she often did when her schedule allowed—slipping away from tutors and protocol to visit the one place most others avoided. In a village built on fear and distance, Yōsei and her father, Lord Eldrin, were anomalies. The head of Lumora had declared years ago that Kanashimi was not a curse, but a blessing in disguise: the only soul strong enough to hold the Katana of Death without being devoured by it. Good luck, he called the boy. A living seal. The words had spared Kanashimi outright exile, but they hadn't spared him the isolation.
Yōsei crossed the hall without hesitation, her steps light on the crystal. She carried a small woven basket—fresh moon-pear slices and a flask of chilled spring water, the kind gathered from the highest caverns.
"You're still on the floor," she observed, voice warm with gentle teasing as she knelt beside him. "Did Master Yoriichi finally manage to exhaust you?"
Kanashimi sat up straighter, suddenly aware of how disheveled he must look—sweat-damp hair, training bruises blooming across his collarbone. He bowed his head slightly, not quite meeting her eyes. "Only for a moment, Princess. The break isn't over yet."
"Yōsei," she corrected softly, the same correction she always gave. "Here, it's just Yōsei."
She set the basket between them and nudged it toward him. "Eat. You'll cramp if you don't."
He hesitated—always hesitated—then took a single slice of pear. The sweetness burst cool on his tongue, a rare treat from the upper gardens she had access to. "Thank you… Yōsei."
She settled gracefully beside him, tucking her legs beneath her robes, close enough that the faint scent of night-blooming vines clung to her hair. For a while they sat in comfortable quiet, the kind only she ever offered him—no demands, no watchful judgment.
"You were smiling earlier," she said eventually, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. "I saw it from the doorway. When Yuta hugged you."
Kanashimi's fingers tightened around the flask. "It was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "You deserve more of those moments, Kanashimi. Not just stolen ones."
He looked away, toward the sealed katana on its rack. "The blade doesn't agree."
Yōsei followed his gaze, her expression clouding for a heartbeat. "My father says you're the reason the seal has held this long. That without you, the katana would have claimed dozens by now. He believes in you."
Kanashimi's laugh was soft, bitter. "Belief doesn't change what I am."
She reached out—slowly, giving him time to pull away—and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Her touch was feather-light, but it burned warmer than any training strike.
"It changes what you could be," she whispered.
The doors at the far end of the hall creaked again. Voices—low, urgent—filtered through from the corridor. The hunters had arrived at the inner circle. Whatever news they carried, it was moments away from spilling into this fragile quiet.
Yōsei's hand lingered near his cheek for one more second, then withdrew. "Whatever they're about to say," she murmured, "you won't face it alone."
Kanashimi finally met her eyes—storm-gray meeting midnight blue—and for the first time in years, he didn't look away.
Kanashimi's gaze dropped to the half-eaten pear in his hand, his voice barely above the faint hum of the crystals. "You say things like that… like you love me."
Yōsei blinked, then let out a soft, surprised laugh—light and genuine, the kind that echoed warmly in the vast hall. She tilted her head, midnight braid slipping over one shoulder as she studied him with fond exasperation.
"I'm not mad enough to fall in love with you, idiot," she teased, nudging his arm with her elbow. "If I were, I'd have lost my mind years ago. You're stubborn, quiet to the point of torture, and you brood like the caverns owe you rent."
A faint flush crept up Kanashimi's neck, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the closest he ever came to a real smile around anyone but Yuta. "Then why do you keep coming here? Why bring food, why say I deserve things… it sounds like—"
"It sounds like I care about my friend," she cut in gently, eyes steady on his. "That's allowed, you know. Caring doesn't have to mean love poems and secret kisses. Sometimes it just means I hate watching you carry everything alone when you don't have to."
Kanashimi looked away again, fingers tightening around the flask. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable—the silence of two people who had known each other since childhood, who understood the shape of each other's walls without needing to climb them.
"But the situation is like that," he murmured finally. "Everyone else keeps their distance for a reason. Even if you don't fear me… you should."
Yōsei leaned back on her palms, gazing up at the glowing ceiling as if the answer were written in the light. "Maybe. Or maybe I just refuse to let an old ghost story decide who I'm allowed to sit next to." She glanced sideways at him, voice softening. "You're my friend, Kanashimi. Not a blessing, not a curse. Just you. And friends don't abandon each other because the blade on the rack might get jealous."
He didn't reply right away. The words settled between them like dust motes in the crystal glow—simple, dangerous in their kindness. Finally he exhaled, shoulders easing a fraction.
"…Thank you," he said, quiet and rough. "For not being mad enough."
Yōsei grinned, bright and mischievous. "Anytime. Though if you keep being this dramatic, I might start charging admission for my visits."
Before he could answer, the far doors groaned open fully this time. Three hunters strode in—robes stained with ash and something darker, faces grim beneath the hoods. The leader, a scarred woman named Reina, bowed curtly to Yōsei before fixing her gaze on Kanashimi.
"Princess. Kanashimi." Her voice carried the weight of bad news. "Lord Eldrin requests you both in the council chamber. Immediately."
Yōsei rose smoothly, brushing off her robes. She offered Kanashimi her hand—not a command, just an invitation.
He stared at it for a heartbeat, then took it, letting her pull him to his feet. Her grip was warm, steady, friend to friend.
Together they followed the hunters out of the training hall, the sealed katana watching from its rack as the doors closed behind them.