Weeks passed. Seol-an watched the snow begin to thaw.
The sect returned to its quiet rhythm.
How cruel it felt, gazing at the snow roses.
As if whenever Kōin stirred, chaos followed in his wake.
Fortunately, no one blamed his existence. Just as the Grandmaster never blamed her for hers.
Kōin remained asleep, his wounds only partially healed.
Spring was coming.
She imbued a snow rose with chi, twirling it gently before letting it drift away.
A wish for recovery.
Seol-an stayed seated on the sect's porch.
She smiled, exhaling softly as she watched the first-years already practicing the third form of Sky Heaven Tiger Claw Fist.
She wished he were here.
Meanwhile.
Splosh.
Splosh.
Splash.
Kōin fell into a vast sea of blood, his body floating as he turned his head to the side, barely avoiding drowning.
The sea of blood.
Kekkai 血海.
He saw a pair of feet.
Blackened. Crusted with dried blood.
The figure pressed a foot onto Kōin's head.
His breath shattered. He began to hyperventilate.
"You… are not… Absolved."
The foot pushed down.
The world inverted, and Kōin was forced into a sea of blood.
He tried to fight back. His body refused him. From the neck down, nothing answered. His lungs burned as blood flooded in, thick and suffocating. He choked, spasming, clawing at nothing.
"Blrgh… grhhh… brhhh!!"
The red swallowed everything.
His vision drowned first. Then his thoughts. A single bubble escaped his lips before his body went still.
...
Kōin's eyes snapped open.
Pain slammed into him, followed by a dead, heavy numbness. It felt like a massive bruise had been carved into his back. His limbs barely responded. Even breathing hurt.
He stared blankly at the ceiling.
Blinking was all he could manage.
Turning his neck sent agony rippling through his body.
A hand brushed through his hair.
His crimson eyes followed it, already finding Seol-an as if he had known it would be him.
"How is it? Are you feeling well?"
Senior Brother Seol-an.
Kōin tried to move his mouth, to answer, but only a weak wriggle came out.
The pain was exquisite.
Pain had never bothered him before.
His body, however, was locked tight, muscles cramped and sealed, denying him any motor function while it recovered.
So he could only blink, slow and deliberate, hoping his senior brother would understand.
He stared at him, blinking again.
Worried, Seol-an stepped closer. Kōin's heartbeat spiked.
Too close.
"Are you alright?"
Seol-an cupped his cheek. Kōin's red eyes tracked the movement, never leaving his hand.
Kōin squirmed his mouth as Seol-an continued to rub his face, gentle and careful.
His hands were smooth for a martial artist.
Kōin blinked again, faster this time, shorter intervals.
Heat crept up his face.
Then his ears.
They burned red.
Kōin tried to form letters with his eye movements, slow and deliberate, but it only made Seol-an more anxious.
"Can you move?"
His eyes shifted left and right, frantic, a clear no.
Seol-an frowned, trying his hardest to read him, to make sense of the signals. He lifted his hand slightly, testing.
Those crimson ruby eyes followed immediately.
Sharp. Focused.
Alive.
"…Good," Seol-an murmured, relief threading into his voice. "You're conscious. That's good."
He moved his hand again, slower this time. Kōin's gaze tracked it without fail.
Not paralyzed.
Just locked.
Seol-an leaned closer, lowering his voice as if afraid to startle him.
"Alright. Then listen to me. You don't have to speak. Just blink once for yes. Twice for no."
He waited, watching carefully.
"Do you understand?"
One slow blink.
"Can you move?"
Kōin blinked twice.
Seol-an's expression hardened.
He glanced left and right, then placed his palm carefully against Kōin's abdomen.
Barely a stomach at all.
He closed his eyes and focused, sensing inward. What he felt made his breath catch.
Chaos.
Luckily it wasn't damaged but it was tangled.
Like threads knotted together after being violently yanked apart and forced back in the wrong order. Chi didn't circulate. It stalled, twisted, collided with itself, then dispersed uselessly.
"…Damn it," Seol-an muttered under his breath.
No wonder he couldn't move.
His body wasn't dead. It was waiting for a command it physically could not receive.
Seol-an withdrew his hand slowly, careful not to cause pain.
"Alright," he said quietly, steadying his voice. "That explains it."
Kōin's eyes flickered, anxious.
Seol-an met his gaze, firm but gentle.
"You're not paralyzed. Your body's just… locked out."
He raised a finger in front of Kōin's eyes.
"Blink once if you can feel my touch. Twice if you can't."
He rested two fingers lightly against Kōin's wrist.
Kōin blinked once.
"Good," Seol-an said quietly. "Then your spine isn't damaged enough to paralyze you from the neck down."
He rolled up his sleeves.
"I'm going to try to untangle it. It will hurt. Bear with me for five minutes."
Both of his palms settled on Kōin's abdomen.
"Forgive me…"
Chi surged.
It wasn't gentle. It plunged straight into Kōin's body like molten metal poured into frozen veins. Heat ripped through his nerves, sharp and invasive, spreading outward from his lower abdomen.
His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched.
It burned.
It seared.
It felt like his insides were being grabbed and twisted by force.
And yet.
…Is that all?
Kōin's eyes rolled slightly, unfocused, not from shock but from familiarity.
This pain was white hot.
But..
Compared to flayed nerves. Compared to bones reset without anesthetic. Compared to drowning in blood that wasn't even his own.
This was nothing.
His breathing stayed shallow but steady.
Seol-an felt it.
The lack of resistance.
The absence of panic.
His brows furrowed.
Most disciples would have screamed by now. Or thrashed. Or passed out.
Kōin didn't.
He endured.
Chi pressed deeper, threading through the tangled pathways of the unawakened dantian, forcing circulation where none wanted to flow. Knots resisted. Some snapped. Others loosened reluctantly, like old scars being torn open.
Kōin's vision swam, but he didn't look away.
Pain washed over him again and again.
And he let it.
Because pain, at least, was familiar.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound crawled back into existence.
Kōin's pupils dilated, sharp and wide like a cornered beast's.
The sea of blood was there.
Not visible. Not yet.
But he could feel it, sloshing just beneath the bed, thick and endless. The iron scent coated the back of his throat. A dull red glow licked the ceiling, as if reflected from something far, far below.
It always came like this.
Pain. Danger. Distress.
Engagement.
Triggers.
Seol-an didn't notice. His focus was absolute, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple as he forced the chi through tangled channels that fought him like living things.
"A little bit more, Junior Brother Kōin."
His voice strained.
"I'm almost there."
He pushed harder.
Seol-an was the one who looked like he was hurting now.
Seeing that seeing his senior brother's brows knit, his shoulders tense something in Kōin anchored him. The blood didn't surge. It didn't rise.
It waited.
Seol-an glanced at his face, expecting tears, panic, anything.
Instead, Kōin's expression was… calm.
Too calm.
A crooked smirk tugged at Seol-an's mouth despite himself.
"Y-you're calmer than I am," he muttered. "Most of us pass out from this."
Kōin's lips finally moved.
Just a little.
A faint, tired smile spread across his face.
As if to say...
I've had worse.
Seol-an grit his teeth.
"A little bit…"
His hands trembled as he forced the last knot loose.
Then it snapped open.
The pressure vanished in an instant.
Seol-an dropped back on his heels, lungs burning as he exhaled hard.
"Heaaaahh…" He wiped his brow with his sleeve. "It never gets easier with this art. How does Master make it look effortless…"
He stood, legs still unsteady, and turned back to the bed.
Kōin was still lying there, eyes open, breathing shallow but steady.
"So," Seol-an said, voice gentler now, "how is it? Are you okay?"
Kōin tried to answer with action.
He shifted.
His fingers twitched. His arm lifted an inch.
He could move.
But the sensation was wrong.
His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Every nerve screamed at once, a crawling storm of pins and needles rushing through muscle and bone. Blood felt too fast. Or too slow. Or both.
He grimaced.
Seol-an was at his side instantly, hand pressing him back down.
"Easy," he said firmly. "Don't push it. You're still recovering."
Kōin obeyed, sinking back into the futon.
The numbness throbbed, unpleasant and overwhelming, but beneath it there was something new.
Flow.
Chaotic, weak, barely formed but there.
His chest rose and fell. The pain was real. The bed beneath him was real. The warmth of Seol-an's presence was real.
Not the sea.
Not the blood.
Seol-an watched him closely, eyes sharp, ready for any sign of relapse.
"…It worked," he said quietly. "Your pathways are open. Not stable yet, but open."
Kōin blinked once. Slowly.
Relief flickered across Seol-an's face before he hid it behind a tired smile.
"You did well," he said. "Most would have broken long before that."
Kōin's lips parted, voice barely more than breath.
"…Thank you."
Seol-an froze for half a heartbeat.
Then he chuckled softly.
"Took you long enough to say it."
Kōin flexed his fist slowly, testing the sensation as the pins and needles faded.
"…Does this mean I've opened my dantian?"
Seol-an smiled, then shook his head.
"Not yet," he said honestly. "Your chi is there now, but you can't use it. Think of it like a door that's unlocked, but you're still standing outside."
Kōin nodded, lips curling into a faint smile.
Unlocked was still better than sealed.
He would get through this awakening. He had to.
Then the thought crept back in, cold and unwelcome.
Is it going to be like that every time?
The sea. The watching thing.
Seol-an spoke before he could.
"Don't rush it," he said quietly. "You don't want to face that thing again, right?"
Kōin's smile faded.
His gaze dropped to his hands.
Because of him, Senior Brother Seol-an had seen it.
Had felt it.
"…I'm sorry," Kōin said, voice low. "You had to see that. Because of me."
Seol-an's expression changed instantly.
The teasing warmth vanished. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening with something sharper.
"…Don't," he said.
Kōin looked up, startled.
Seol-an stepped closer, close enough that Kōin could feel his presence like a wall.
"That wasn't your fault," Seol-an said, voice firm, almost harsh. "Not the sea. Not that thing. Not what I saw."
His fists clenched at his sides.
"You didn't choose it. You didn't summon it. And you didn't ask me to look."
He exhaled slowly, forcing the edge out of his tone.
"So don't apologize like you committed a sin."
Seol-an met Kōin's crimson eyes, unwavering.
"If anything," he added more softly, "I'm glad I was there."
Kōin blinked.
"Because if you had faced it alone," Seol-an said, "you might not have come back at all."
The room fell quiet.
Then Seol-an reached out and rested two fingers lightly against Kōin's forehead.
"Next time," he said, almost a promise, "you won't face it alone either."
Kōin's lips twitched first.
Then, despite everything, he smiled. A crooked, faint thing, but real.
"Are you sure?" he murmured. "You looked like you saw your end right in front of your eyes when you saw it."
The air froze.
Seol-an stared at him.
For a long second, there was no reaction at all.
Then—
Thunk.
Two fingers flicked Kōin's forehead, sharp and precise.
"Idiot," Seol-an said flatly.
Kōin hissed, more from surprise than pain. His body still protested, nerves screaming, but he didn't regret it.
Seol-an straightened, arms folding across his chest.
"You nearly died," he said. "And that's what you have to say?"
Kōin shrugged weakly.
That made Seol-an pause.
His shoulders dropped just a little.
"…You're right," he admitted quietly. "I did see it."
He looked away, jaw tightening.
"For a moment, I thought I was already dead. Like my body just hadn't realized it yet."
Then he glanced back at Kōin, eyes sharp again.
"But don't get it twisted. Fear doesn't mean I'd run."
He leaned closer, sapphire eyes level with crimson.
"If that thing shows itself again," Seol-an said, voice low, steady, "I won't look away."
Kōin studied his face.
No bravado. No lie.
Just resolve, heavy and earned.
"…You're strange," Kōin muttered.
Seol-an snorted. "Coming from you?"
A beat passed.
Then, quieter, almost reluctant:
"…Get some rest. You survived today. That's enough."
Seol-an turned toward the door.
"And Kōin," he added without looking back, "next time you tease me like that—"
"Yes?"
"I'll flick harder."
Kōin smiled.
As Seol-an walked away outside,
he covered his mouth, heat creeping up to the tips of his ears.
That boy can tease?
My goodness… I almost chuckled.
He moved through the courtyard, steps heavier than usual. Too heavy.
Thump.
Thump.
The sound drew attention.
Disciples paused mid-practice, exchanging looks.
"…Is Senior Brother Seol-an annoyed?"
"The hell do I know?"
"I've never seen him even close to mad before."
Seol-an didn't notice. Or didn't care.
He straightened his posture, puffed his chest a little too much, like steam might burst out of him if he didn't keep moving.
Ridiculous.
He turned toward Grandmaster Ji-ho's quarters, intending to report on Kōin's recovery.
Composed. Professional.
Absolutely normal.
Yet the faint red at his ears refused to fade.
Behind him, the courtyard buzzed quietly, disciples whispering in confusion as the usually unshakable senior strode past like a storm contained in human form.
Meanwhile.
Kōin sat on his bed.
He closed his eyes, trying again. Alone. Unsupervised. Stubborn.
He needed to know if there was even the smallest chance.
A crack.
A path where peace existed without drowning.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
Drip.
Drip.
It was always there.
The blood never forgot.
Never forgave.
The sins carved into him, pressed into his bones, demanding repayment.
Or surrender.
Join us.
Become whole.
Like Kagemiya Kōin.
His body began to shake.
The moment he tried to focus, the pressure crushed him.
YOU KILLED US
JOIN US
MAKE US WHOLE
JOIN US
LIKE HE DID
Kōin gasped and forced his eyes open.
Too late.
Blood surged up around him. Hands formed from thick, coagulated red reached for his skin, clinging, pulling, familiar.
He lurched forward with a strangled breath.
The vision shattered.
The sea vanished.
He was back on the bed, soaked in cold sweat, fingers digging into the sheets, chest heaving.
"Kuhh… damn it…"
His hands trembled.
No matter how many times he tried, the answer was the same.
There was no quiet waiting for him in the dark.
Only judgment.
He lowered his feet to the floor and exhaled slowly.
His clothes clung to him, damp with sweat. He pulled them loose, letting air seep in, but even then the cold felt wrong.
Not winter-cold.
Corpse-cold.
Kōin stared at his hands.
Hands that had only ever learned one language.
Kill.
No matter how far he ran.
No matter if he lived or died.
No matter how many lives came after this one.
The weight would follow.
Passed down like a curse pretending to be fate.
Ashuramaru.
It could not hold.
It could not give.
It could not protect.
It only took.
Lives.
Breath.
Everything.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until light burst behind his lids.
He was tired.
Tired of blood.
Tired of drowning.
Tired of being haunted by sins that were never his choice, yet always his responsibility.
And when the world finally gave him a chance to change, to step onto solid ground—
He failed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His shoulders slumped.
Not in anger.
Not in fear.
But in a quiet, exhausted bitterness that hurt worse than pain.
"…I'm so sick of this."
Kōin tried to stand.
His legs gave out instantly.
His forehead struck the wooden floor with a dull crack—
SPLASH.
The world inverted.
Wood vanished.
Air vanished.
He plunged into the Sea of Blood.
He pushed himself up, blood dripping from his brow, mixing seamlessly with the crimson beneath him. The surface rippled outward in slow, lazy circles, as if the sea itself had been waiting.
In front of him stood a pair of feet, half-submerged.
Still.
Unmoving.
Kōin froze.
He did not look up.
He already knew that face.
The one he once wore.
Kagemiya Kōin.
Kōin remained where he had fallen, body low, posture broken, not in submission but in exhaustion. Above him, the other Kōin looked down.
Silent.
As always.
Because words had never mattered.
Only results.
Only bodies.
All we ever do is kill.
The thought did not need a voice.
Then why are we seeking absolution?
You know we can't be cleansed of these sins.
Kōin clenched his fingers into the blood-soaked ground.
Slowly, against every instinct screaming at him not to, he lifted his gaze.
Hollow eyes met his.
Eyes that reflected nothing.
No rage.
No pride.
No sorrow.
Not even bloodlust.
Just expectation.
Expectation that this life would end the same way as the last.
Expectation that escape was a lie.
Expectation that the curse would be obeyed.
Kōin swallowed.
"I am not you."
The words were quiet, but they landed heavier than any blade.
For the first time, the sea stilled.
The other Kōin did not move.
Then the answer came—not spoken, but pressed directly into his mind, cold and absolute.
That is not for us to decide.
The blood began to rise.
Kōin and Kagemiya stared at one another.
Just remember.
You are not absolved.
Kōin blinked.
The Sea vanished.
Drip.
Drip.
He lowered his gaze.
Blood fell onto the floorboards.
From him.
His fingers brushed his forehead where he had struck the floor. Wet. Warm.
Blood.
His ears twitched.
Footsteps.
"I told you not to use that technique without my supervision, Seol-an. If you diverge from the path even a little, you could paralyze that boy forever."
The door slid open.
Light spilled in.
Seol-an and Grandmaster Ji-ho stood there, both staring down at him.
Not even ten minutes.
That was all it took.
Ji-ho rubbed his face, long and tired. Seol-an was already kneeling beside him, hands hovering, afraid to touch and afraid not to.
"Not even an hour," Seol-an muttered. "Come on. Try not to die. Please."
Kōin forced a smile.
It came out wrong. Too sharp. Too empty.
Ji-ho sighed.
"Opening your dantian," the Grandmaster said quietly, "seems to be the least of our problems, Kōin."
A day later.
Morning came while the sect still slept, before the sun even thought of rising.
Kōin was already in the courtyard.
Sleep barely touched him.
Seol-an noticed.
She should have helped him sleep again.
Ji-ho had told Kōin plainly. If you cannot force your mind into peace, then you must discipline it.
It was brutal.
Ji-ho ordered him to run around the sect ten times. A task even senior disciples struggled with.
Kōin did not even look tired when he passed twenty-two.
Ji-ho had momentarily forgotten.
This was the reincarnation of a man who slaughtered hundreds without rest.
Unsurprising.
So the condition changed.
Run until you cannot move your feet.
Kōin was barely healed.
Seol-an watched from the side as he kept running.
At first it was shocking.
Then it became painful to watch.
His breathing grew uneven. His steps lost rhythm. Sweat soaked his robes despite the cold. His face twisted, not in fear, but in something worse. Desperation.
She was not impressed.
She was afraid.
Her own record was thirty-six laps. Kōin passed it without slowing.
Forget records.
He looked like he was going to die.
But Kōin did not stop.
He would rather die than stop.
"Isn't this too much, Grandmaster?" she asked, unable to keep it in.
Ji-ho closed his eyes, a faint smirk on his face.
"Too much?" he said calmly. "I doubt this even comes close to what his past life endured."
Ji-ho clapped his hands sharply.
"Move faster, boy."
Kōin's teeth ground together.
"Grrr—raahh—AAAAGHHH!"
His voice tore out of him, raw and ugly, nothing disciplined about it anymore.
Seol-an bit her lip hard, a sharp hiss escaping her breath as she watched him force his legs to move again.
"Grandmaster!"
"Until he drops to his knees, Seol-an."
Her hands curled into fists.
Kōin's steps faltered.
Once.
Twice.
His vision blurred, the courtyard warping at the edges. The sound of blood rushing in his ears drowned everything else. Every breath felt like it scraped his lungs raw. His healed wound screamed, nerves lighting up in protest.
Drip.
Drip.
That sound again.
Not real.
Don't listen.
Don't look.
Run.
He ran.
His foot caught the stone.
His body pitched forward.
He did not even have the strength to brace himself.
His knees hit the ground hard.
Crack.
The sound echoed through the empty courtyard.
Kōin stayed there, trembling, palms pressed to the earth, breath coming out in broken gasps. Sweat dripped from his chin, soaking into the dirt. His whole body shook like it might tear itself apart.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Ji-ho lowered his hands.
"That's enough."
Seol-an moved instantly.
She was at Kōin's side before the words fully left Ji-ho's mouth, dropping to her knees, grabbing his shoulders.
"Kōin. Hey. Look at me."
His head hung low.
She tilted his face up gently.
His crimson eyes were unfocused, glassy, but still there. Still him.
"Breathe," she said firmly. "In. Out. Stay here."
His chest hitched, then slowly followed her rhythm.
Ji-ho watched in silence.
After a moment, he spoke, voice quieter now.
"Did you notice, Seol-an?"
She didn't look up. "Notice what."
"He didn't enter it."
Her breath caught.
Ji-ho continued. "No sea of blood. No loss of control. No intrusion."
Kōin's fingers dug into the ground.
He hadn't realized it.
He was too busy not breaking.
Ji-ho turned and walked away.
"Carry him to rest," he said over his shoulder.
Seol-an took Kōin to his room and laid him carefully onto the futon.
Only then did he kneel beside him.
Kōin's breathing was still uneven, shallow pulls of air like his lungs had forgotten how to work properly. Sweat clung to his hairline. His hands twitched now and then, fingers curling as if still running.
Seol-an watched him quietly.
"…Heh," Kōin rasped at last. "I'm sorry. I can't… go past what the Grandmaster wanted."
Seol-an lifted a hand and covered his exhausted eyes, thumb brushing gently over his brow.
"I'm sure you've already gone far beyond what he wanted," he said softly. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
Kōin frowned, jaw tightening despite the fatigue.
"I need to," he said. "I need to make this chance count."
Seol-an's hand stilled.
"There is always a chance, Kōin," he replied. "Why are you trying so hard? This isn't okay for your body. Or your mind."
Kōin swallowed.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then his voice came, low and stripped bare.
"Because if I stop," he said, "the blood catches up."
Seol-an's eyes sharpened.
"When I rest, it's there. When I close my eyes, it's there. If I slow down, if I hesitate, if I let myself be weak… I hear it telling me to come back."
His fingers clenched into the bedding.
"I don't know how long this place will accept me," Kōin continued. "I don't know how long you'll look at me like I'm still human. So if this is my one chance to be something else, I can't waste it."
Seol-an inhaled slowly.
"You think you need to earn being here," he said.
Kōin didn't deny it.
"I was made to kill," Kōin whispered. "Running, training, hurting… it's the only thing I know how to do without drowning."
Seol-an leaned forward and pressed two fingers lightly against Kōin's wrist, steady and grounding.
"Listen to me," he said. "Strength isn't only moving forward. Sometimes it's knowing when not to."
Kōin's eyes flickered toward him.
"But if I stop…"
"You don't disappear," Seol-an said firmly. "You don't turn into him. You stay Kōin. Right here."
Silence settled between them.
Kōin's breathing slowly evened out.
"…You really believe that?" he murmured.
Seol-an answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
Kōin's eyelids grew heavy smiling knowing there is at least a faith of hope.
Seol-an stayed kneeling there long after Kōin finally drifted into sleep, hand resting lightly on the boy's wrist, feeling each fragile heartbeat.
And for the first time since meeting him, Seol-an understood.
Kōin wasn't running to become strong.
He was running so he wouldn't vanish.
There, beneath the rising sun, Seol-an looked toward the horizon. She sighed and let her hair tie fall, black strands spilling loose.
"You're the only one of us who's more afraid of himself than we are of facing our own demons, Kōin."
She leaned closer, her face near his.
His skin was pale, almost bloodless. Ash-gray hair clung to his brow with sweat. Gently, she brushed it aside.
Seol-an had taught many juniors who stood at her side. Saikan, and others like him.
But…
She did not know why, or when, she began to care this much for this particular disciple. It felt as if Kōin was the only one she could not look past, like staring into a mirror that refused to lie.
She knew that feeling.
Being the illegitimate daughter of the alleged Heavenly Demon Sect, born a girl and unwanted, was never an acceptable fate. Her father abandoned her without hesitation.
She was found by Grandmaster Ji-ho, and for that alone she was forever indebted.
Yet even then, she was forced to live disguised as a man.
Because the Blood Demon Branch was searching for her.
Because they had realized what she possessed.
Her body.
She hated it.
The Celestial Demon Body.
It was her demon. She was the perfect vessel of the Demon God.
And now, looking at Kōin, the vessel of Ashuramaru…
She gave a faint, bitter smile.
She had once believed that she alone carried something so dangerous it could doom the world.
But she was wrong.
There were always others.
Always people suffering more than oneself.
To think someone else would be cursed with the same fate.
To harbor monsters within, and still be expected to stand.