Kazuo blinked, his vision blurred and heavy. When he tried to move, pain struck through his ribs like a knife. He lay flat on a soft mattress, every muscle screaming in protest. Bandages covered his chest and shoulder, wrapped tight across his arms. His right arm was strapped to a brace; even breathing hurt. He turned his head slightly — just enough to see the other bed beside him. Aoi lay there. Half his body was wrapped in bandages, patches of burn still visible beneath them. His eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Kazuo swallowed. His throat was dry. "What… happened? "I can't remember that well. I know you lunged toward me, but then…"
Aoi's eyes moved to him, slow and tired. "You won," he said simply. His tone held no resentment, just exhaustion. "I lost. My Esoteric Art ran out before I could finish you."
Kazuo let out a shaky breath. "Pure luck, wasn't it?"
Aoi exhaled softly through his nose. "It doesn't matter."
Silence lingered between them, filled only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Kazuo's gaze drifted toward the ceiling, then back to Aoi. "You said something before… that you don't feel anything anymore. That the thrill of fighting is the only thing that makes you feel alive." His voice softened. "But that's not true, is it?"
Aoi's eyes narrowed, weary. "Can you just be quiet?"
"When we fought, I saw anger in you. Sadness. Pain. That's not emptiness — it's everything you've been hiding behind that thrill."
Aoi turned his head away.
"And you said you have nothing," Kazuo continued quietly. "That's not true either. You have people — your squad members, your captain—"
"That's not the same." Aoi's voice broke through, rough and sharp. "You don't understand. The special unit I belong to — we are not comrades. If someone becomes a threat, we are permitted to kill each other. There's no trust. No care. No family. Just survival."
"Even if that's true," he murmured, "it's still more than nothing."
Aoi turned back toward him, his expression twisting. "What are you talking about? This isn't the same."
"Because it never will be." Kazuo added.
Aoi blinked, confused.
Kazuo took a slow, painful breath. "I never met my parents. I don't know what it feels like to lose them. And I've never killed anyone — not once. But you were right earlier… we're both forced to play this game. We didn't choose it."
His gaze steadied, unwavering despite the pain.
"Tell me, Aoi — did you ever have a choice?"
Aoi's lips parted, but no sound came. Finally, he whispered, "No… I never did."
"Then you didn't do anything wrong."
Aoi's eyes widened. "Are you insane?" His voice cracked. "Are you saying I should be proud of being a killer?"
Kazuo shook his head faintly against the pillow. "No. I'm saying you have to accept it. You had no other option but to do what you did — to survive. Just like I had no choice but to fight. None of us did."
Aoi stared at him, speechless.
"Accepting what I did… can't be that easy. And since I lost I have to kill again! There is no escaping it."
"It doesn't matter if it's easy. The guilt you feel, the mask you wear to hide it — that so-called thrill — it all exists because you still care. Because you're still human enough to feel remorse for a system that forced you to become its weapon. This is why you entered this torunament and had to win."
Aoi's eyes lowered. The light flickered faintly over his face — two soldiers in bandages, both victims of the same machine. His thoughts drifted, unbidden — to Mimi, smiling despite the constant drills, the way she always said she cared about him even when he brushed her off. To Idris, whose quiet nods and steady voice had guided him through the chaos of the special unit more than he ever admitted. Those fleeting moments of normalcy, of something almost human, flickered through his mind like ghosts.
This is insane… he thought. Accepting the fact isn't the problem. It's living with it.
And yet, somehow, the boy's words made sense — that strange, unshakable way Kazuo saw the world, as if pain itself could still be redeemed. A faint breath escaped him, somewhere between disbelief and fatigue.
"…You really are strange, Kazuo."
Kazuo let out a weak breath that almost resembled a laugh. "I get that a lot."
The room fell silent again — the kind of silence that didn't feel empty, just… necessary. Aoi's eyes lingered on the ceiling for a long while before he spoke.
"Guess I'll have to find another way to get through this. But since you won, you'll have your wish granted. What are you going to do? Finally break free?"
Kazuo turned his head slightly toward him, his gaze heavy but calm. "I thought about it," he said quietly. "But with these eyes… I don't think it's that easy."
The sound of distant footsteps echoed down the hall. Outside, dawn light began to creep in through the infirmary windows — pale, cold, and uncertain. Deep beneath Yurelda's palace, the Council Chamber stirred again — that same vast sanctum of obsidian and light where power never truly slept. The table of the High Council gleamed under the pale ring of suspended light. The spiritstone veins along the walls pulsed faintly, their rhythm slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of the capital itself. Only a handful were present this time. At the center sat King Cedric, draped in his white and gold attire, the glow of the chamber bending faintly around his presence. To his left stood Setsuna, calm and unreadable. Across from him, Captain Idris — cigarette between his lips, smoke coiling upward — leaned lazily against his chair, half-lidded eyes betraying nothing. Two council members — the elven scholar and the beast-lord — observed from their thrones. The High Priestess was absent, her seat empty but her influence unmistakable.
Cedric's gaze swept across the chamber like a blade.
"It's been three days since the tournament match," he began. "Aoi has fallen. Tell me—how are the nobles taking it?"
The elven scholar adjusted her spectacles.
"Surprisingly well, Your Majesty. The aristocracy sees it as… poetic. A common-born underdog defeating a prodigy. The spectacle served its purpose."
The beast-lord rumbled. "Still, there are murmurs. Some nobles whisper disbelief — that Aoi, a perfect specimen of noble blood, could lose to a black-eyed peasant."
"Someone like that beating a prodigy?" sneered the young noble seated beside him. "It makes a mockery of our lineage."
Cedric's gloved hand rose slightly. "Silence."
The word cracked through the chamber. The air itself seemed to pause. He stepped forward, the light circling him like an orbit. "If the nobles are entertained, then there's no fear of revolt from their side," he said evenly.
"But that doesn't explain what happened." His eyes narrowed.
"Idris. Setsuna. Both of you assured me Aoi would win. And yet—even with his Esoteric Art—he fell."
Idris took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke that curled into the air like fading thoughts.
"I have no explanation, Your Majesty. As simple as it sounds, the boy was stronger. There's no trick in that."
Cedric's expression hardened. "You think I doubt him? That Aoi threw the match?"
Idris shook his head. "No. He fought with everything he had. There's no question about that."
Setsuna finally spoke. "It wasn't strength that decided it."
Cedric's gaze cut to him. "Then what?"
"Luck," Setsuna said. "Kazuo didn't know the Esoteric Art had a time limit. He only survived because Aoi's ran out first. That's not power. It's chance."
Cedric's voice dropped, sharp with irritation.
"Luck?"
His steps echoed faintly as he approached the table.
"You're telling me that my perfect calculation—my balance of bloodlines and elements—was undone by luck?"
Setsuna met his eyes, unflinching. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, what does it change? He won. The nobles cheer him. The lower crescents are silent. He's become exactly what you wanted—a pawn under your crown, a weapon bound by loyalty. There's nothing to fear."
"Fear?"
The air thickened. He turned, his voice rising just slightly — the kind of rise that made the veins in the walls flicker in response. "I fear nothing, Setsuna. Remember that. You may be the strongest, but your privilege exists only because I allow it."
Setsuna inclined his head slightly. "Understood."
The tension broke like a taut string. The elf leaned forward. "Then what now, Your Majesty?"
Cedric's tone returned to measured calm.
"When both are fit to stand, we'll hold the Winner's Ceremony. Kazuo will have his chance to plead his wish."
The beast-lord rumbled. "And if his wish reveals something dangerous?"
"Then it will be his final test." He turned away, the pale light glinting off the Silver of his Tiara.
"The council is tasked with observation. Watch the nobles. But also keep an eye on the lower crescents. See how the people react to him."
He looked up toward the ceiling, where faint vibrations from the world above echoed through the stone — distant, rhythmic, like the pulse of a city that would never sleep. The echo of his steps faded as he moved toward the grand doors.
"Prepare the ceremony."
The doors closed behind him with a low, resonant thud. Cedric's reflection lingered in the polished stone walls for a heartbeat — sharp eyes, perfect posture, the image of composure. Yet beneath that calm, a whisper of irritation crept through his mind.
I miscalculated because of luck? Tch. Even though everything went according to plan, I still feel… uneasy.
The thought lingered as he disappeared down the corridor, swallowed by the shadows of his own palace. Silence stretched in the empty council chamber. Only Setsuna and Idris were remaining. Idris crushed out his cigarette against the edge of the table, the ember dying with a faint hiss. Setsuna was the first to move, straightening his shirt before turning for the exit. As they walked through the torch-lit halls, Idris finally spoke.
"Why are you antagonizing him so much lately?"
Setsuna smirked, his usual glint of mischief returning. "Antagonizing? I'm just telling the truth. He asked for my assessment — I gave it."
"You know what I mean. You're walking a thin line."
Setsuna chuckled under his breath. "Maybe. But for once, I'm glad things didn't go exactly the way he planned." He tilted his head slightly. "It's almost… refreshing."
He slowed his pace, his tone lowering.
"Besides, I didn't say anything wrong, did I?"
Far above, within the quietest wing of the palace, Lady Elyria sat alone in her chamber. The light filtered through the stained-glass windows, painting her desk in shifting hues of blue and silver. Sheets of parchment lay scattered before her — sketches in progress, lines half-finished, smudged with charcoal and thought. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, tracing the curve of a familiar face. The shape of his eyes. The tilt of his expression. Kazuo. Her quill trembled slightly as she shaded the edge of his hair, the memory of the arena still vivid in her mind — the way he had stood, defiant and broken, water and lightning colliding around him. When she leaned back, her eyes lingered on the drawing.
A hunger to for knowledge.