Night settles evenly over the compound.
Not the kind of silence born from nature — but the restrained quiet of structure. Of rules. Of people trained to wake at the slightest irregularity.
Kato stops within the tree line, far enough to remain unseen, close enough to observe.
He doesn't crouch.
He doesn't tense.
He simply stands still.
Then—Detect Life.
The darkness shifts.
White lights bloom across his vision.
Scattered, and organized.
He doesn't move. He counts.
One near the outer gate — steady pacing. Patrol.
Two farther inside — slower movement, intersecting routes.
A cluster deeper within — resting. Dormitories, most likely.
Another grouping — too orderly to be coincidence. A central building.
He measures distances. Overlaps. Blind angles.
No chaos.
No carelessness.
This is not a village.
It's an institution.
He exhales slowly.
"I only want the sword."
To earn one formally, they would have to pass the selection. Which meant that before that, standard blades had to exist — weapons issued to trainees so they could survive long enough to qualify.
At least for those who did not study directly under a Pillar.
He had considered joining.
Briefly.
Two problems made it unviable.
First — he was not a warrior. Not truly.
All his effective offense came from magic.
He had killed the small troll with a mace, yes. It had been weak — manageable.
But the demon was different.
Faster. Stronger. Regenerating.
And even then, it had not been a solitary victory.
If the Knight had not been there… He does not finish the thought.
To function here, he would have to rely on magic.
And if they saw him use it—if they labeled him as something inhuman.
The possibility of being treated like a demon could not be dismissed.
"I don't want to confront them," he murmurs under his breath. "And I don't think I could."
His gaze shifts again, tracking the rhythm of patrol patterns.
A gap forms along the eastern corridor every forty-five seconds.
Brief. Narrow.
Enough.
"I could use invisibility."
The thought lingers.
"I've barely tested it."
Relying on unstable control inside an organized compound would be careless.
"And if I'm exposed…"
He might not be given the chance to explain.
He recalculates.
Entry. Exit. Elevation.
Minimal contact equals minimal risk.
Then, something different.
Among the steady white lights, one draws his attention.
Not because it burns bright.
Because it doesn't.
A single white glow.
Faint, and unmoving.
Strangely stable.
And yet—it is fading.
So slowly that it would be invisible without deliberate focus.
"How can someone who is dying look so calm?"
He narrows his focus.
No other lights nearby.
Isolated.
"That doesn't match the pattern."
A thin flame refusing to go out.
Prudence tells him to ignore it.
Stay on task. Find the sword, and get out.
But his gaze lingers.
And for a reason he does not bother to name—
He adjusts his path toward the faint light.
He moves.
Silent.
Measured.
The compound does not react.
The white lights continue their patterns, unaware.
The faint light remains ahead.
Waiting.
Kato slows as he approaches the structure. The building differs from the others — quieter. Fewer overlapping movements. No patrol routes crossing near it.
At the entrance to the corridor, he pauses.
White lights continue their distant patterns behind his vision. Steady. Predictable.
He scans once more.
Left.
Right.
Above.
No one is approaching.
No irregular shifts in rhythm.
Satisfied, he exhales — and the pressure behind his eyes eases.
The white lights dim. Then disappear.
The world returns to darkness.
For a moment, he stares at the door before him.
"Why did I come here?"
The question lingers without urgency.
He pushes the door open.
The room inside is still.
The air smells faintly of medicine. Of stagnation. Of something slowly wearing thin.
His gaze settles first on the body.
Too thin.
The outline beneath the blanket is sharp, fragile — bones pressing against fabric. Her skin, where visible, is pale to the point of translucence. Lips colorless. Breathing shallow but steady.
Not violent.
Not dramatic.
Just… fading.
He steps closer.
Only then does he truly see her.
Even diminished, even unmoving, she carries something unmistakable. Not strength — not in this state. But presence.
The quiet maturity of someone who has endured much and endured it gently.
A mother.
The word surfaces uninvited.
And the room shifts.
—
It is no longer dim.
The soft light of dawn spills through the windows.
A younger room.
Smaller.
Warmer.
A boy stands near a bed, holding a bowl carefully in his small hands.
"Eat a little," he says quietly.
The woman on the futon smiles faintly and obeys. Just a few bites. Enough to make him believe it helps.
When she finishes, her hand brushes his hair.
"I'm fine," she whispers.
She isn't.
She lies back down.
The boy waits until her breathing evens.
Then, carefully, as if afraid the moment might shatter, he reaches forward and touches her cheek.
Warm.
Too warm.
But alive…
—
Back in the darkened room, Kato's hand rests against the woman's cheek.
Her skin is cold.
He doesn't think about it.
The woman on the bed stirs.
Not sharply.
Just enough.
Her eyelids tremble.
The warmth on her cheek deepens.
It does not fade.
Her breathing catches.
Slowly, deliberately, she opens her eyes.
The first thing she sees is a boy.
Not clearly — her vision is heavy — but she sees his eyes.
There is no malice in them.
No coldness.
Only something gentle. Something careful.
Her eyes close again.
Her breathing evens.
Kato does not notice.
He is still somewhere else.
His hand lingers a second longer — then lowers.
He turns toward the door.
Pauses.
Very softly: "Bye, mom."
He steps into the corridor.
Detect Life returns. And he does not look back.
(POV Shinjuro — 1 Day Earlier That Night)
The crow's wings vanish beyond the treeline.
Shinjuro lowers his arm slowly.
The clearing still smells of ash.
The sisters sit several paces away, wrapped in borrowed blankets. Too small for the night air. Too still for children who should be crying.
He approaches without speaking at first.
Up close, he notices the details others would miss.
No defensive wounds on the older one's hands.
The younger's sleeve is bloodier along the edge — but not by her own blood.
He kneels.
His knees protest the motion.
He ignores it.
"What did you see?" he asks.
His voice is not loud.
It does not need to be.
The older sister swallows before answering.
"There were two," she says.
He waits.
"One had armor. He didn't speak."
The younger grips the blanket tighter.
"And the other?"
Silence stretches.
"He…" the older begins, then hesitates. "He wasn't like the first one."
"Explain."
The girl searches for words and fails.
"He looked… normal."
That is not helpful.
"Did he use a sword?"
"I don't know."
"Did he breathe like me?"
She shakes her head.
"No. It was different."
Different.
Shinjuro studies her expression carefully.
Fear — yes.
Shock — certainly.
But not confusion.
She believes what she saw.
"The demon," he continues. "Describe its state."
"It kept healing," the younger whispers suddenly. "Even when it was burning."
Burning.
His gaze shifts briefly to the blackened tree line.
"The fire," he says. "Where did it come from?"
Both sisters hesitate again.
"From him," the older answers.
"From the boy?"
She nods.
He says nothing.
He stands.
The movement is slower than it should be.
His back aches. His shoulders feel weighted.
The flame crest on his haori feels heavier tonight.
He walks a few steps away, staring at the scorched earth.
Demons regenerate.
Slayers required breathing.
Only demons could create fire without it.
It is not surprising that demons fight each other for their food.
"But if he won, why not eat?"
He rubs a hand across his face.
He has not shaved.
Has not slept properly.
Has not entered her room long enough to stay.
Something moves in the forest — just wind.
Or perhaps not.
He looks once more at the girls.
"If you see him again," he says without turning, "you will tell me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
He does not correct the title.
He begins the journey back, toward his estate. The sisters follow close behind.
Each step feels slightly heavier than the last.
Not from the battle.
From something else.
He does not dare to name it.