POV: Yoshiya
The dawn came quiet, veiled in the thin smoke that still drifted from the ruins of Korvath. The air smelled of burned timber and wet ash, but beneath it, faintly, came the scent of bread from a newly reopened bakery. The city was learning how to breathe again — halting, uneven, but alive.
I walked through the streets with no particular direction, just listening. The sound of rebuilding had a rhythm of its own — hammers striking wood, buckets scraping stone, murmurs rising and fading like prayer. But every few corners, that rhythm faltered.
One side of the street had candles laid before a cracked wall — offerings for Kaito. Notes written in trembling hands: "He acted to protect us."
Across from them, a man shouted curses, tearing down the candles and scattering the melted wax with his boot. "You call that murderer a hero?" he snarled. No one answered him. They simply rebuilt what he had broken.
I kept walking. I didn't have the strength to choose a side anymore.
---
By the time I reached the training yard, the sun had lifted just above the rooftops, painting the broken ground in pale gold. Half the fence was gone, half the dummies were burned, but there were people again — young adventurers, new recruits, those who had lost everything yet still chose to fight.
They moved awkwardly with wooden swords, laughing when they tripped, clapping when they managed to land a strike. It wasn't the sound of skill. It was the sound of trying.
One of them, a boy no older than sixteen, looked up when he noticed me. "Sir Yoshiya," he said softly, "is it true what they say? That the man who betrayed us was once your ally?"
I paused, watching the dust swirl around my boots. "Both are true," I said finally.
He frowned. "Then… how do you forgive someone like that?"
"You don't," I replied. "You learn to live with what they left behind."
The boy nodded slowly, though I could tell he didn't understand. I envied him for that.
---
Omina arrived soon after, carrying crates of supplies. Her hair was tied back, her sleeves rolled, her face marked with soot. She looked less like a healer and more like a builder of something new.
"You're out early," she said, setting the crates down beside me.
"Couldn't sleep," I admitted. "The city feels… half-awake."
She nodded, eyes scanning the sky. "You can rebuild walls in a week," she murmured, "but hearts take seasons."
We watched the recruits for a while in silence.
"I heard about Kaito's sentence," she said eventually. "Suicidal missions. Freedom through death. That's Iroko's justice for you."
"It's fair," I said, though the words didn't sit right. "He did what no one else dared. But… maybe that's the tragedy."
Omina's gaze softened. "We stand between two collapsing worlds, Yoshiya. Peace and vengeance. If we lean too far toward either, everything we've built will crumble again."
Her words hung in the morning air — a truth too heavy to answer.
---
Lia found us by midday. Her steps were quick but her face was pale, exhaustion drawn under her eyes. She carried a folded parchment — a list, long and weathered.
"I need your help," she said simply.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Names," she replied. "Of everyone who died here — soldiers, civilians, even those who turned against us. I want to hold a memorial tonight. For all of them."
Omina frowned. "Even the traitors?"
Lia didn't flinch. "If we only mourn those we agree with, peace will never mean anything."
I saw the tremor in her hand as she gripped the parchment. It wasn't just an act of mercy. It was survival — for her, for us, for this city that refused to stay broken.
"Then we'll help," I said. "All of us."
---
By dusk, the square of Korvath glowed with a sea of lanterns. Candles flickered in bowls, their reflections trembling in pools of water. People gathered quietly — soldiers with missing limbs, children clutching flowers, merchants still covered in dust.
No speeches, no fanfare. Only names.
One by one, Lia read them aloud. The voices of the dead filled the night in sequence — friends, enemies, strangers. Some names drew tears, others drew silence.
Then came the last one. Kaito Mugenrei.
The murmurs stilled. Someone whispered a prayer. Someone else turned away.
I stepped forward, holding a single lantern. I set it by his name. The flame flickered weakly before steadying, its light catching the edge of the memorial stone.
Maybe this is what redemption really looks like, I thought. Not for him, but for us — the ones who stayed behind.
---
When the last name was spoken, the crowd began to hum — a soft, wordless tune that drifted upward like the lantern smoke. The city no longer sounded like mourning. It sounded like breathing.
I stood beside Omina and Lia, watching as the night settled over Korvath. The lanterns shimmered like constellations born from ruin.
Children laughed somewhere in the dark. A hammer struck wood in rhythm. The air was still heavy with ash, but now it glowed.
"The dawn didn't erase the ash," I whispered. "It just gave it color."
Omina glanced at me, then at the city beyond. "Maybe that's enough," she said.
And for the first time in months, I believed her.