The wind stirred dust across the courtyard of the ruined temple.
Stone pillars leaned half-collapsed, strangled by vines. The scent of moss, ash, and old incense lingered beneath the twilight.
Kyoto stood still.
The city's samurai and commoners watched from behind roped barriers, silent as ghosts. Even the crows dared not caw.
At the center, two men stood opposite each other—divided by distance, by years, by blood and burden.
Ishikawa, the rogue ronin, scarred and hardened by vengeance.
Shun Takamura, the Pale Tiger of Kyoto, still and immaculate in his ivory robes, his white hair braided tight, eyes calm and pitiless.
He had raised Ishikawa once. Forged him in fire.
Now, he would end him.
"I offer you one chance," Shun said. His voice was wind over blades. "Drop your swords. Leave the girl. Disappear into the mountains."
Ishikawa unsheathed Kurayami, black as midnight, and Kurasa, gleaming with the last light of dusk.
"I don't run from ghosts," he said.
Shun sighed. "Then this ends with your death."
Asaki tried to step forward.
"I can fight too!" she shouted. "You don't have to—"
Ishikawa stopped her with a glance.
"This is between student and master."
She clenched her fists.
The temple bell rang once.
They moved.
---
Shun's style was perfect.
The White Fang flowed like water, then struck like steel. His movements were elegant, mathematical—his footwork a whisper, his cuts like the parting of silk.
Ishikawa parried with fury. His style was a storm—raw, direct, honed in blood and battlefield chaos.
Kurasa and Kurayami danced, their edges clashing like thunder.
But Shun was faster.
He stepped through Ishikawa's guard and landed a shallow cut across the ribs.
Another across the thigh.
Another—
Kurasa shattered.
The blade split down the middle, broken by Shun's precision parry.
Ishikawa staggered back, chest heaving.
Blood soaked through his side.
"You've improved," Shun said, voice like frost. "But you lack the stillness."
Ishikawa stared down at Kurasa's ruined hilt.
He dropped it.
His left hand trembled.
And then—he did the unthinkable.
He bit into his thumb.
Drew blood.
And traced the mark on his chest—the old, forbidden sigil.
The Ketsuen-no-Kami.
His veins pulsed black. The ground shivered.
Shun's eyes widened. "No."
---
Red wind howled.
The broken temple stones lifted from the earth, swirling like leaves in a storm.
Ishikawa's lone blade, Kurayami, glowed crimson.
His hair whipped wildly.
The mark on his chest ignited.
He was ready to burn everything.
And then—
"Stop!"
A small voice cut through the storm.
Yumi.
She stumbled into the courtyard, eyes wide with horror, golden fire curling at her heels.
Her birthmark blazed like a sun.
"Ishikawa—don't!" she cried.
He turned toward her, breath ragged, one foot into madness.
"I have to—he'll kill us—"
"No, he won't," she said, stepping between them.
"You'll kill yourself. Like she did."
The name wasn't spoken.
But he heard it.
Tomoie.
Yumi raised her hand.
Golden fire pulsed from her palm—not wild, not angry, but calm.
It wrapped around him like a blanket, smothering the blood rage.
The sigil on his chest flickered…
And extinguished.
Ishikawa collapsed to one knee.
Kurayami fell beside him.
The wind died.
---
Shun staggered forward, eyes wide.
He stared at Yumi—not as a child, but as something older.
"The Phoenix…" he whispered. "You… you carry it."
Yumi nodded. "I don't want to."
Shun laughed bitterly. "Want is nothing. Destiny burns."
He raised his sword.
And stumbled.
Blood poured from his abdomen.
He fell to his knees.
Ishikawa had struck a final blow in the chaos.
Now, the Pale Tiger bled into the dirt.
Ishikawa rose, limping.
Stood over the man who had shaped him, shattered him.
Shun looked up.
"Do it," he said. "End me."
Ishikawa raised Kurayami.
The blade hung above his head.
Silence.
Then—
"No."
He lowered it.
"Your punishment," Ishikawa said, "is knowing I surpassed you… without falling."
He turned.
Walked away.
Yumi followed.
Shun remained kneeling.
And wept.
---
Later, in the crumbling hall of the temple, Asaki tended to Ishikawa's wounds in silence.
He winced as she tightened the bandage.
"Next time," she muttered, "you take me with you."
He chuckled. "Next time, we both run."
Sayaka watched Yumi sitting beneath a cracked statue of Buddha, staring into her palm.
She conjured a small flame.
It danced for a moment.
Then disappeared.
"She controlled it," Sayaka whispered. "She's learning."
"No," Ishikawa said. "It's remembering."
Outside, the bells of Kyoto rang.
The Pale Tiger had fallen.
But a fire greater than his still burned.
---