The final clash had ended. The wooden echoes of the sparring ring slowly faded, replaced by soft murmurs and the rustle of shifting feet as the gathered trainees relaxed. What remained in the air was not just tension—but a kind of lingering awe.
Shin stood silently at the edge of the ring, still holding the bokken loosely in one hand. His crimson eyes, calm as always, flicked to the faint sting on his shoulder where Shizuku's strike had landed. He wasn't frustrated. Instead, there was something else behind his gaze—something harder to place.
From the side, Koichi let out a small breath, then turned to Old Man Shuu with a rare smile."Good match," he said, arms crossed. "Shizuku did well."
Old man Shuu let out a low chuckle. "Heh, Shizuku already improved this much. She learns to read the flow faster than most adults I've seen."
Koichi gave a short nod, pride clear in his eyes. "Still... that boy too—he's got something. Maybe you brought a monstrous talent here again father."
As if on cue, Kouki approached, wiping the sweat from his brow. His expression was light, his voice casual."Nice work, Shizuku. You've gotten better again."
He glanced toward Shin. "And… good job, Shin."
It was a compliment, but his tone carried a note too breezy, like an afterthought. He turned his full attention back to Shizuku as he spoke.
Shin didn't seem to mind. Or perhaps, he simply didn't hear. His gaze had drifted back toward the center of the ring, eyes slightly unfocused. He stood in stillness, bokken loosely held at his side. That moment—the instinctive parry toward his blind spot—echoed in his thoughts. He'd trusted his reflexes without question, as if they'd always been part of him. And yet… they had failed him. Now, in the quiet hum of the aftermath, he found himself replaying the match—frame by frame—searching for the gaps, the subtle tells, the flaw in his timing. He wasn't frustrated. But something in him had stirred. A quiet will. A need to refine.
The clatter and footsteps of others dispersing broke the moment. Most of the spectators had begun to leave, the dojo gradually returning to its earlier calm.
"Oi," came Old Man Shuu's voice. He was standing a short distance away, hands behind his back. "Still thinking?"
Shin looked up and walked over.
Shuu eyed him for a moment, then spoke plainly."Well, what did you think of the dojo?"
Shin was silent for a few seconds. Then, after a breath, he spoke."…If I have time this summer, I wouldn't mind coming."
The old man raised an eyebrow, then let out a short laugh. "Good answer."
Together, they stepped out into the hallway.
Outside, Shizuku and Kouki were already waiting. Both had changed out of their practice clothes and were chatting idly. When they spotted the pair emerging from the interior corridor, they turned.
"Oh, Ojii-chan. Shin-kun too," Shizuku said, blinking. "Done talking?"
"Mhm," Shuu answered, glancing at Koichi nearby. "We've decided. Starting this summer, the boy's joining us here at the dojo."
Shizuku's eyes widened, then sparkled with interest. "Really? That's great!"
Kouki blinked as well, a touch of surprise on his face. But there, just for a brief instant—was something else behind his smile. A tightness around the eyes. A flicker of shadow in his gaze.
"…Huh. Well, that's a surprise," Kouki said, voice light. "Guess we'll be training together then."
Shin stepped forward, his posture as composed as ever. He gave a small, respectful bow.
"Please take care of me during the summer," he said, voice low but clear.
Koichi nodded approvingly. "Good to have you with us, Shin-kun."
As the four stood talking, Shin—still formal as ever—addressed them both by surname.
"Thank you, Yaegashi-san. You too, Amanogawa-san."
Shizuku tilted her head and smiled. "You don't have to be that formal, you know. It's gonna get confusing with my family if you keep calling me Yaegashi-san."
Shin paused for a moment, then nodded slightly.
"…Understood. Then… Shizuku-san."
The small change brought a genuine smile to her face. "That's better."
Not to be left out, Kouki chimed in with a grin. "Well then, you can call me Kouki too, Shin."
Shin blinked. "…Alright. Kouki-san."
With that, something in the atmosphere seemed to loosen. The three fell into easy conversation—about the match, about summer training, about the awkward moment Kouki got disarmed. Laughter came from Shizuku. A small, amused snort from Kouki.
Shin didn't laugh. But he listened. And that was enough.
As the sun began to dip lower, casting long beams of gold across the dojo walls, Shin finally excused himself and took his leave—promising to return once vacation started.
From the walkway, Shizuku watched him go. Kouki stood beside her, arms folded, watching as well.
Shizuku said nothing—but her eyes held a quiet spark, a subtle curiosity that hadn't been there before.
Kouki, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes. That strange twinge in his chest again. He didn't understand it. Not yet.So he called it what he could.
But deep inside, something more complicated stirred.
_____________________________________________
The sun had dipped low, painting the sky in warm amber hues as Shin stepped through the gates of Takagi Orphanage. The cicadas still buzzed faintly outside, but within the old halls, the calm routine of evening had settled in.
Dinner, as always, was a quiet affair.
Tonight's menu: karaage—crispy and golden, served with shredded cabbage and warm miso soup. Shin moved with practiced ease in the kitchen, working side-by-side with the others. His hands were steady, motions familiar… yet something was different.
Subtle.
A quiet shift in the air around him.
Though the clatter of utensils echoed softly in the dining room, Sakuya—the orphanage's caretaker and dorm manager—watched Shin carefully. She had seen Shin grow since he first arrived, and tonight, she noticed something off. Something distant behind those usually calm eyes.
After dinner had been cleared and the others dismissed to their rooms, she called softly from the hallway.
"Shin, can you come to the office for a bit?"
He obeyed without question.
__________________________________________
The small room smelled faintly of dried flowers and old wood. A single lamp illuminated the desk where Sakuya sat, her usual warm smile tempered with a hint of concern.
Shin stood quietly in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze steady—but not entirely present.
"You've been quiet tonight," Sakuya said, her voice gentle. "More than usual."
Shin blinked, then lowered his eyes.
"I lost," he said simply.
Sakuya tilted her head. "At the dojo?"
Shin nodded. "To Shizuku-san."
There was no bitterness in his voice. No sulking. Just fact. And yet… a faint edge of something lingered in his tone—a small ripple beneath the surface.
Disappointment.
Sakuya smiled softly and rose from her seat. She approached him and, without hesitation, reached out and placed a hand atop his head.
Shin blinked, surprised—but didn't pull away.
"You're allowed to feel disappointed sometimes," she said, her hand lingering a moment longer. "Especially when something matters to you more than you thought."
A quiet pause passed between them. Then, she gently asked, "So… what will you do?"
Shin's crimson eyes looked up to meet hers.
"I'll train. At the dojo. This summer… I want to get better."
It wasn't said with fire. Not with desperation. But it was real. Honest.
Sakuya gave a slow nod and stepped back. "Then that's what you'll do. I'll let Akiha and the others know to handle cooking when you're away."
"No," Shin interjected quietly, but firmly. "I'll cook bento for the others' lunch."
There was no room for negotiation in his voice. Not out of obligation—but choice. Something within him refused to let go of that routine. That anchor.
Sakuya blinked, then smiled faintly, a touch of warmth behind her eyes. "Of course. I should've known."
A small pause followed.
"Go rest, Shin. You've had a long day."
He bowed lightly before leaving the room.
____________________________________________
The room was dim, the window open to let in the night breeze. Shin lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-closed.
But sleep didn't come immediately.
In the quiet, his mind wandered—returning to the dojo floor. To the feel of the wooden blade. To the sharp arc of Shizuku's final strike.
He didn't resent it.
But even now, the moment replayed itself over and over—angles, timing, footwork.
I could have blocked that… if I had turned a little faster.
Eventually, without realizing it, his thoughts dulled and slowed.
And with the echo of wood on wood still lingering in his memory… Shin drifted into sleep.
_____________________________________________
In the void of Shin's subconscious, the silence was profound. Not heavy. Not light. Just still.
Floating within that darkness was the mirror frame—massive and ancient, ornate yet incomplete. It stood without glass, yet carried an undeniable weight… like a door waiting for a key, or a soul waiting for itself.
Around it, the fragments orbited. Quiet. Unrushed.
The first shard—the largest—gleamed with a golden hue. Its edges were no longer jagged, but smoother than before. Within its surface, the reflection of a knife shimmered faintly… clearer than the last time. As though memory, or truth, was coming into focus.
The second shard, half the size, glowed with a darkish blue tint. Inside it, the faint flicker of turning pages and script danced like whispers caught in water.
Beside it, the third shard, smaller and coated in a dull green gleam, pulsed slowly—rhythmic, like a seed waiting to bloom.
And then—
A ripple passed through the void.
From beyond the shadows, a new fragment appeared. Slender. Cold. Its light shimmered silver, faint but distinct. It floated hesitantly, then slowly began to orbit alongside the others—drawn into the cycle as if it had always belonged.
The four shards—gold, blue, green, and now silver—continued to revolve around the empty mirror frame, as if pieces of an identity gradually remembering itself.
___________________________________________________
Somewhere beyond the boundaries of time, space, and dimension—a place untethered by gravity, unlit by stars—stood a towering black citadel, swallowed in shadows and half-formed constellations.
Within, atop a dais of fractured obsidian, a figure sat upon a colossal throne carved from the roots of dead worlds. His form was obscured—constantly shifting, cloaked in divine haze—but his presence was unmistakable. It pressed down like a divine edict made flesh.
His voice echoed—not shouted, not whispered—but absolute.
"Any trace of the soul?"
Each syllable fell like stone into the void, anchoring the silence.
A servant—faceless, draped in shadows—knelt low at the base of the steps.
"N-no, my lord… we have lost it again."
Silence.
Then—pressure. Reality strained.
"I told you," the figure said, voice fracturing like ice, "we should have extracted it directly. But instead, you relied on the constructs—those artificial shells you named 'systems.'"
The servant trembled but did not reply.
"You insisted they were optimal. That embedding them into mortal incarnations would draw the fragments out. That the soul would yield willingly through their guidance."
The figure leaned forward slightly. Power coiled behind every word.
"And yet now, those very systems..." he growled, "have begun to covet the soul. Some even rebelled—abandoning their protocols, turning feral—mad with desire for the primordial relics that lie buried in that soul."
The servant's voice came out smaller than before.
"W-without the systems, we… can't reach the inner shards. It's like they're buried in a separate dimension—sealed beneath karmic locks. The soul's rejection is absolute..."
The figure exhaled. Not in exhaustion—but contempt.
"Excuses."
The chamber groaned—walls rippling inward, as if the very laws of reality recoiled from the displeasure.
"You told me everything was aligned: every rebirth mapped, every incarnation guided. The containment fields. The karmic anchors. Flawless, you said."
His voice hardened.
"Then why—every time—does the soul slip through your fingers?"
The servant's forehead touched the cold obsidian.
"M-my lord… if we force it now, the karmic lattice could collapse. Even the Great Seal might not withstand the backlash—"
"Enough."
The word crashed through the throne room like a collapsing star.
"Don't lecture me on karmic consequence. It was your cowardice that allowed this farce to persist. And now?"
He stood. Slowly. The black stone beneath his feet cracked.
"The very systems meant to control the soul now seek to possess it. You haven't just failed..."He stepped forward. "...you've birthed new enemies."
A single finger rose—long, claw-like.
"That soul will awaken again. And when it does..."He lowered his hand, voice dropping to a rumble."...if even one of you falters— and fail me again one more time—I will unmake you."
Far below the citadel, hidden beyond warped space, a soft ticking echoed.
A clock with no hands.
A countdown with no beginning.
And no end.