The wind shifted, threading through the pine branches above them. The late afternoon sun had started its slow descent beyond the jagged peaks in the distance, casting long shadows across the courtyard's stone paths. The shrine in the garden stood still, offering no blessing, no judgment.
Tatsuya stood just beside him, still unsure whether to sit down or keep standing.
"Kiome."
His voice was soft—barely more than breath—but it carried enough weight to shift something in the air.
For a few seconds, Kiome didn't react. His posture didn't change. He didn't look over, didn't speak. It was as if the name hadn't reached him—or worse, as if he'd heard it and decided it wasn't worth responding to.
But then—
"…Tatsuya."
His voice came low and steady. A tone that used to hold conviction. Now, it just sounded… suspended. Like a sword held in mid-air, never swinging forward, never returning to its sheath.
Tatsuya moved slowly and sat down beside him, leaving just enough distance between them that neither of them would feel caged by the other's presence. The grass was cool beneath his hands. He could feel the unevenness of the stone through the soles of his shoes. It all felt oddly grounding.
He glanced sideways.
Kiome's face was unreadable.
Not because it was hiding anything—but because there was nothing there left to read.
No flicker of expression. No furrow in his brow. Just that quiet stillness he wore like armor.
Tatsuya opened his mouth, unsure what to say next.
He hadn't planned this out. He didn't come here with a speech in mind. He had no answers, no healing words, and no inherited wisdom from Paul or Micah to lean on. Just this moment, this shared silence, and this ache in his chest that wouldn't let him walk away anymore.
He wanted to say, "I know how you feel."
But he didn't.
Because he didn't.
Not exactly.
Because the way Kiome had looked at Micah was different from the way Tatsuya had. Because their bond had been layered, lived-in—formed across missions, late-night talks, shared ideologies and silences too intimate to explain. Kiome didn't just lose a friend. He'd lost something deeper. Something rooted in trust.
And what could Tatsuya offer against that?
The silence stretched again.
Still, Tatsuya didn't move.
He had learned something from Luna, Sometimes words don't matter. Sometimes just being there does.
He lowered his gaze to the garden ahead. The wind passed through the grass in waves. The shrine's bell twitched faintly on its rope, but didn't ring.
Then, after a long pause, Kiome finally spoke.
"Do you ever think about what you didn't say?"
His voice was quieter now. Less controlled. Not broken—just frayed at the edges, like a thread pulled too thin.
Tatsuya looked at him.
Kiome's eyes remained on the ground, unmoving.
"I keep wondering," he continued, "what would've happened if I had told him not to go. If I had stepped forward instead of him. If I had said anything… anything at all that night."
His fingers tightened over his own knee, knuckles whitening.
"I thought I was protecting him. Letting him make his own decisions. That was the kind of friend I wanted to be. But maybe… maybe all I did was leave him alone."
The quiet hung between them.
And in that silence, Tatsuya felt a strange heaviness. It wasn't grief. Not entirely. It was the weight of Kiome's self-loathing. Something deeper and more enduring than sadness. Something that dug its roots in when no one else was looking.
He remembered Kiome standing motionless, stiffed by shock and disbelief.
Tatsuya didn't speak right away. He didn't offer a rebuttal or try to correct him.
Instead, he asked quietly:
"Do you think he blamed you?"
This time, Kiome looked at him.
For the first time, their eyes met—and in Kiome's expression, Tatsuya didn't see rage or denial. He saw a boy lost beneath the surface of a calm lake, still reaching upward, waiting for someone to notice the silence wasn't stillness. It was drowning.
"No," Kiome said softly. His voice was rough now, like dry bark breaking in his throat. "He didn't blame me."
His gaze turned back toward the garden, but his eyes were unfocused. Looking somewhere else.
"He smiled. Even at the end."
Tatsuya didn't need to ask what he meant.
He already knew.
The image burned behind his own eyes, too—Micah's broken body, blood like ink staining the earth, his voice fading like a forgotten prayer. The way he looked toward them. Toward the tree. Toward them. And smiled.
That smile had cut deeper than the sickle ever could.
"I watched him die," Kiome whispered. "And I didn't move."
His hands curled into fists.
"I didn't scream. I didn't run to him. I didn't even blink. I just stood there, frozen. Like if I didn't move, maybe none of it was real."
Tatsuya's throat felt tight. The ache sat in his chest like a stone, pressing harder with every breath Kiome took.
"Micah was the one who wrote everything down," Kiome continued, voice growing more strained. "He kept track of our missions, our memories, our dumb jokes—everything. Said he wanted to make a book someday. Said it didn't matter if no one read it, just that it existed."
He swallowed.
"And now he's not here to finish it."
His fingers reached toward his side, pulling something from his kimono—a crumpled, bloodstained scrap of parchment. He unfolded it slowly, like handling glass. The writing was faint, smeared in places, but still there.
Tatsuya recognized the handwriting instantly.
Micah's.
Kiome's voice lowered again.
"He wrote this the before the mission. At the village he gave it to me. It's not a report. It's not even structured. Just… thoughts. Messy and unfinished. But they're his. And I've read them so many times that I can't tell if I'm remembering him or just remembering these words."
Tatsuya reached out but didn't touch it.
He let the silence answer instead.
Then, Kiome exhaled.
"…Do you want to know what his last words were?"
Tatsuya nodded once.
Kiome's eyes didn't blink. His voice became flat—too steady. Too rehearsed.
"'I really… thought I had more time.'"
The wind paused.
Tatsuya looked down.
He remembered now—Micah collapsing, clutching his own stomach like he could force life to stay. The way Rukai had knelt beside him with something like reverence. Like admiration for how beautiful a dying thing could be. Tatsuya hadn't been close enough to hear his final words back then, but now he could feel them—
—and they hurt.
"I think he accepted it," Kiome said, eyes empty. "In those last seconds… he smiled. He looked right at me. I think he knew I wouldn't come."
Tatsuya couldn't hold his breath anymore. His fingers gripped the stone beneath them.
He remembered what he had said to Micah, a day before that mission:
"You can be both."
And Micah had believed him.
Micah had believed in all of them.
"I didn't come for him," Kiome whispered again, barely audible now. "He always waited. And this time, I didn't come."
Something in him cracked—just slightly. The smallest tremor in his throat.
It was the sound of someone who hadn't forgiven himself.
Tatsuya finally spoke, his voice low.
"You weren't the only one who didn't reach him."
Kiome turned.
Tatsuya met his gaze fully.
"I screamed. I ran. I tried. But I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. I watched him die, too. And it's not your fault."
The words sounded hollow at first—like he was trying to convince himself.
But then he said it again.
Firmer this time.
"It's not your fault."
Kiome looked at him like the sentence was in another language.
"Then whose is it?"
Tatsuya didn't flinch.
"Theirs."
He meant the Demon Cult.
He meant Rukai.
He meant the monsters that had turned death into poetry.
And he meant himself, too—quietly. Always.
Kiome's hands loosened slightly. He stared at the parchment in his lap for a long moment. The wind moved again.
Then, slowly, he placed the page back inside his coat and folded it close to his chest.
"I still see him," he said softly. "It still feels like it isn't real. I see him smiling… and I hate that I can't tell if it's real, or just what I want to remember."
Tatsuya didn't respond. There was nothing to say to that.
But he stayed beside him.
Didn't move.
Didn't leave.
And somehow, in that silence, something eased.
Kiome exhaled again, deeper this time.
Then he looked at Tatsuya—not with emptiness, but with something tentative. Fragile.
Like someone ready to grieve.
"Thank you," he whispered.
And for the first time since Micah's death…
He meant it.
Part 2
The stone beneath Tatsuya's feet was cold.
He sat cross-legged in the morning mist, his wooden sword laid flat across his lap. The training field hadn't yet come alive with clashing blades and sweat-slick groans. Only the occasional bird dared to make noise, chirping once, then silencing itself—perhaps in respect for the woman standing a few paces ahead.
Aoi.
She stood like a pillar carved from stillness, arms folded beneath the flowing light grey sleeves of her kimono, her eyes closed. Her presence alone quieted the world around her.
She was assigned to Tatsuya to act as a guide or mentor, not anyone who's new gets one. For some reason he was an exception.
Probably have to do something with why Tokagame was sent to train me? Or was that just because Yatsu asked for it? Who knows?
Tatsuya was just happy to have a guide who helped him in a place where he knew no one.
He could see Aoi as his big sister or more a Paul type mentor monster… He didn't know yet.
The training field was empty, no other corps members could be seen. Don't tell me Aoi is also someone who waked up early to train?
"To the light that shields the weak, we offer our blades.
To the one that grants us courage, we entrust our hearts.
Grant us silence in fear, and clarity in storm, amen."
Tatsuya waited patiently for Aoi to finish his prayer, then when she was finished he asked.
"Why do you say that prayer? Tokagame did the same when he trained me."
"It's a prayer we do for protection before every training session," she replied. "Taking about the swordsman's corps tradition. What do you know about the ranking system en such?"
Tatsuya shifted, already regretting his posture. "Tokagame didn't really explain much before I… came here."
Aoi opened her eyes. Violet, sharp. She turned to him slowly, like the rotation of the moon—measured, inevitable.
"Then I will explain. Listen carefully."
Tatsuya swallowed. Nodded.
She extended a single finger toward the ground.
"Rank One. Ashigaru," she began. "The Unblooded. They are the foundation. Those who have not yet tasted battle, or purpose. Their days are filled with drills, chores, and silence. They train with wooden blades only. They live under curfew and eat at fixed intervals. Most never rise beyond this."
Tatsuya blinked. "That sounds… strict."
Aoi's gaze didn't waver. "It is. Because it must be. Before the blade finds purpose, the body must learn humility."
That sounded like a motto. One likely drilled into recruits until it was indistinguishable from their heartbeat.
She lifted a second finger.
"Rank Two. Deshi. The Student of Steel. This is the true beginning. A Deshi studies under a senior—usually a Kensei or Chūdan—and is permitted to carry a real sword, though still under regulation. Their first lessons in spiritual discipline begin here."
Tatsuya frowned. "So… when does someone get to fight?"
Aoi didn't answer right away. Instead, she raised a third finger.
"Rank Three. Kensei. The Sword Disciple. Named aspirationally after legends of old. Here, the swordsman chooses their Art—Wind, Fire, Water, Earth, or Lightning. They begin to understand the blade as not merely a tool of death, but a mirror."
Tatsuya's throat tightened. A mirror…?
"Technique without heart," Aoi continued, "is a dull blade. A Kensei wears the mark of their chosen Art and begins to learn real-world protocol. Escort missions. Supply runs. Silent operations. They are not yet soldiers, but they are no longer students."
Tatsuya remembered that in the fight against Rukai, Kiome and Micah used the Sword art of water and wind. So that must mean they are atleast, Kensei?
Aoi raised a fourth finger.
"Rank Four. Chūdan. The Centered Blade. Those who reach this stage are considered fully qualified swordsmen. Balanced. Steady. They are permitted to name their blade, if they pass the ritual. Some begin developing their own techniques. Others become teachers."
Tatsuya noticed her voice softened—not in tone, but in gravity. As if the rank held personal weight.
"I… think I've never people with named swords," he muttered. "Not even Tokagame, is it really that big of a deal?"
Aoi turned to him fully.
"When you name a blade," she said, "you bind yourself to its truth. Your soul shapes the steel—and in turn, the steel reflects what is inside you. To name it is to confess something you cannot hide."
Tatsuya fell silent. He didn't like the sound of that. He'd spent too long burying what was inside him.
Finally, Aoi raised her fifth and last finger.
"Rank Five. Jōnin. The Silent Fang. These are the blades you never see coming. Field operatives of the highest level. They operate with full autonomy. They command squads. They interpret missions without oversight. Some never return."
To clarify The sword art also had a ranking system but this is outside the swordsman corps.
Beginner,
Elementary,
Intermediate,
Advanced,
Master and Grandmaster.
These ranks are only considered when trained in kingdoms under knights. For some reason the kingdom of Aluria wouldn't give them the same ranking.
Ashigaru could be seen as Beginner , Denshi, Kensei and Chūdan are Elementary until Advanced. And Jōnin is Master or Grandmaster but mostly Master.
Tatsuya exhaled slowly. "That sounds like a death sentence."
"It is," Aoi said. "And they accept it willingly. Because by the time their blade is heard…"
"…It's already too late," Tatsuya finished. The line felt familiar, as if it had been etched into every stone of the fortress.
Aoi lowered her hand.
"Each rank has trials. Physical. Mental. Ethical. Some are written. Some are witnessed. None are meaningless."
He nodded. Then looked down at the bokken across his lap.
"So I'm an Ashigaru now," he said, more to himself than her.
"Yes," Aoi replied. "Unblooded. Untested. Unmade."
The words should've hurt, but they didn't. Not coming from her. They felt… honest. Like stone underfoot. Cold, but steady.
He looked up at her, the question forming before he could stop it.
"Which one are you?"
Aoi didn't answer immediately. Her eyes narrowed slightly, then glanced to the horizon.
"…It does not matter what I am," she said. "Only what you choose to become."
And then she turned, her grey kimono brushing the dust as she walked toward the field.
Tatsuya followed in silence, the wooden blade in his grip suddenly feeling heavier.
I wonder what type of Sword art she studies? Tatsuya thought while looking at the back of her Kimono. Maybe wind? Or something wild like Fire?
"What are you going to teach me master?"
Tatsuya asked.
Aoi didn't turn around. But still spoke, "first, please don't call me master. It makes me feel like an old lady."
"Yes, ma'am…"
Aoi turned around before Tatsuya could finish his sentence.
She helt her finger in front of Tatsuya's nose like a teacher scolding their student for not paying attention in class.
"That's even worse!" She raised her voice, "I am still in early adulthood! Don't call me ma'am."
She pouted her face and turned around again. "Just call me Aoi, okey?"
"Yeah sure." Tatsuya said, chuckling under his breath he tried to hold.
She was a storm in stillness. A leader forged in silence. A queen not of crowns, but of gravity. But as it comes to her age, she turns into a half baked Tsundere.
"For what I'll be teaching you is completely up to you. I'm advanced at all of them." Aoi said.
"But my specialty…." She stopped halfway through her sentence. And in an flash, the air around her turned into a thunder storm, the next thing Tatsuya knew Aoi was gone.
At lightning speed she crossed at least 50 meters. Tatsuya looked at the ground where she stood seconds ago.
Two footprints where the only thing what was left of her. Was that the sword art of lighting? It looked like the same technique Paul used… wait!
Tatsuya realized something, "hey, Aoi!" He screamed, the sound almost not reaching her ears.
Aoi helt her hand behind her ear's and made a wait sign with her hand.
She ran towards Tatsuya, her pace rather slow.
The moment when she reached Tatsuya she panted like she just run a 10 kilometer run.
With her hands resting on her thighs, sweat dripping from her face. Tatsuya asked, "are you okey?"
"Yes, perfectly fine."
Pant…
Pant…
"My mana capacity is really low, so that means after one technique of the Sword art of Lightning I am already worn out."
"Then why don't you use a different Sword Art?"
"Don't question my life choices!"
"Now choose your Sword Art," she continued. "We don't have all day." She finished with a wink.
"Then I'll choose The Sword art of water."
I know a little bit of the basic so I think enhancing will be the best move.
Part 2
The sword clattered to the ground before Tatsuya even realized he'd dropped it.
"Again," Aoi said flatly.
She didn't yell. She didn't sigh. She didn't tilt her head in disappointment or narrow her eyes in judgment. But the way she stood there, perfectly still with her blade unraised, made Tatsuya feel like he had just insulted her ancestors.
His shoulder ached from the last failed parry.
More and more members gathered on the training field, Chika and Kizutoro where among them, only Kiome was absent.
Dust still hadn't cleared from where Kizutoro had crashed into the training post behind them, grumbling curses as he brushed off splinters like they'd personally betrayed him.
Chika was kneeling by the edge of the sparring ring, her kitsune mask pushed up over her hair, nursing a bruise on her arm with a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She'd already been through three duels this morning and still insisted on staying.
"Your footing was wrong," Aoi said. Her voice was smooth and crisp like fresh ink on parchment. "Your blade wavered. And your eyes—"
She stepped forward without finishing the sentence. Her violet gaze, sharp as drawn steel, locked onto Tatsuya's and held it there like she could dissect him just by looking.
"Do you want to be here?"
"I—" Tatsuya flinched, unsure if his words would betray him. His throat was dry. "I'm… trying."
A pause. Aoi's head tilted slightly.
"Trying and doing are not the same. And right now… you are doing neither."
Tatsuya felt that one land deep in his gut. A clean cut. No blood, but the pain lingered.
He bent to pick up his sword. The wood felt heavier than it should've.
The sparring field wasn't particularly large—just a flattened patch of stone inside the inner courtyard, bordered by faded banners that flapped tiredly in the wind. A single tree stood at the far corner, its shade casting long lines across the ring like prison bars.
That tree used to have two people under it.
Now it only had one.
"Kiome's late," Chika said softly. She was speaking to no one, but everyone heard it.
Kizutoro scoffed, spinning his blade once before slinging it over his shoulder.
"Tch. Figures. Gets all moody and now he's skipping drills?" he muttered, though there was less bite than usual in his tone. "What's next? Gonna ghost us during a mission too?"
"Shut up," Chika snapped. Her words were immediate, not loud—but firm enough that Kizutoro didn't follow up.
Aoi didn't comment. She didn't have to.
Kiome used to be right beside Chika. Always together but he wasn't there now.
No neat posture. No gentle corrections. No soft-spoken analysis. Just an empty spot on the field and the echo of someone who should have been.
Aoi's voice broke the silence. "Again."
Tatsuya raised his blade.
And this time, when she struck, he didn't just stumble—he fell.
Flat onto his back, winded. His sword skittered across the ground.
The sky blinked overhead. White clouds wandering aimlessly.
Much like him.
Aoi stepped back, lowering her blade. She didn't offer a hand. That wasn't her way. But she didn't walk away either.
"You're not grounded," she said. "Your center is fractured. You react, but do not move with intent."
"I'm trying to learn," Tatsuya muttered through clenched teeth.
A beat passed.
Then, something unexpected.
"Then learn with your whole self."
Aoi turned, her kimono catching the wind like wings. "Not just with your sword. Not just with your grief."
Tatsuya sat up slowly, blinking. But Aoi didn't turn back.
Kizutoro snorted. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"She means," Chika said quietly, "you can't fight like a ghost if you want to live like a person."
"Let's take a break," Chika continued, pushing herself to her feet. She wiped her brow and tucked the kitsune mask back over her face. "I'll check the library."
Aoi stood with her arms folded, staring into the horizon.
Kizutoro sat against the wall, muttering something about how this was a waste of good sparring time.
And Tatsuya watched her walk off. Wondering what she would do.