The night had fallen heavy, a hush that wrapped the forest in its silver cloak. The moon loomed above the clearing, quiet and cold, and beneath its pale light Toki held the box Bernard had pressed into his hand. His fingers trembled as he untied the ribbon and unfolded the note.
Already, before his eyes even touched the page, a fragrance rose—a breath of spring carried across miles. Utsuki's perfume. The faint sweetness of blossoms stirred a memory of mornings at the guesthouse, of her calm hands setting tea before him, of the warmth she brought to every room she entered. The scent pierced through the weight of his exhaustion, and for a heartbeat, he simply closed his eyes, letting it carry him somewhere gentler.
When he finally looked down, the ordered handwriting struck him—so careful, so deliberate, each character carrying the steady rhythm of Utsuki's voice. He traced the first line with his eyes:
**Dear Toki,**
*I don't know when you will open this letter, but if you have, it must mean you're not having a good day. I won't bore you with hollow encouragements—they won't help. You're a determined man, so if you've fallen into despair, then the situation must be very dire indeed. But still, I want to give you a message of consolation…*
Toki's breath caught. His thumb brushed the edge of the parchment, as though the words themselves were fragile and might tear. His mind, already frayed and weary, absorbed each line slowly, painfully.
*I was told you will return at the end of November. Two months of training is a long time, and I don't know what conditions you have there, but I hope you are well. I won't lie—everyone at the manor misses you. And your Division waits eagerly for their captain. They say you will return stronger than ever. Lady Lorelay supervises them, but they are determined not to bring you shame. They work hard.*
His heart twisted. He pictured the men of his Division—their sweat, their laughter, the way they stumbled but kept going because they had begun to believe in him. He had feared they would scatter without him, that his absence would unmake all they had built. But no—they were still working. Not just for themselves, but for him. Because they believed he would return.
*And all the people from the outskirts miss you too. They keep their fists raised for you. The Division works voluntarily on repairing the houses, as you asked. Everyone has been happier since you became general of the Fourth Division. Everyone tries to follow your example. Every time I go to the palace, the children from the outskirts ask about you.*
Toki pressed a hand against his mouth, trying to steady himself. His chest heaved, but the tears he had been holding back since sunset now blurred the ink on the page. He saw in his mind's eye the faces of the children, their hungry eyes turned toward him, their small voices asking: *Where is Captain Toki? When will he come back?*
He had been convinced he had failed them all. Yet Utsuki wrote otherwise. Could it be true—that his presence had kindled something in them strong enough to last, even in his absence?
*I don't want to put pressure on your shoulders. What I want to say is that the mere fact that you rise after every failure inspires so many people. Your kindness has warmed the entire outskirts. So I will not allow you to belittle yourself, when you inspire so many souls.*
Toki's hand shook violently. He whispered the words aloud, barely audible: "*I will not allow you to belittle yourself…*" As though saying them might anchor them in his heart.
*I'm sure Kandaki and Tora work hard to catch up with you. Perhaps I'm not there to give you an embrace, but let my words carry the truth you cannot see: Toki, you are the strongest man I know. Every time the situation has been dire, you always found a way. Remember—whatever happens, thousands of hearts beat in rhythm with yours. Perhaps I cannot help you, but I will always be on your side. Not because I know you will succeed, but because you always give your all when all odds are against you.*
His throat burned. Kandaki's bandaged fists. Tora's twisted ankle. He had seen only failure there, only his inability to protect them. Yet Utsuki's words reframed it: their persistence was not proof of his weakness, but of the fire he had passed to them. He had thought himself broken—but maybe the fragments of him had still sparked something in others.
*You taught me to believe in my dream. So whenever you fall, remember: is this really all I can give? I believe in my knight, so if you have no faith in yourself, then have faith in me, who knows you will succeed. I made some chocolate together with the others at the manor. Sometimes something sweet can lift one's spirit. We embrace you and wait for you eagerly. We're cheering for you!*
The letter ended there. The words clung to him like a lifeline, burning into his chest. His vision blurred so badly he had to press the paper against his heart and close his eyes. A laugh—bitter and tender at once—escaped him. "You fool, Utsuki… you don't know how much I needed this."
Slowly, he folded the letter and slipped it carefully into his inner pocket, as though it were the most precious treasure in the world. Then, with hesitant fingers, he opened the box.
Inside lay the chocolates. Misshapen, clumsy, their edges uneven, some cracked where the cooling had gone awry. They were far from perfect, but as his gaze rested on them, he felt his heart swell. They were human. Honest. The kind of thing made with love rather than skill.
He picked one up. Its surface was rough beneath his fingertips. For a moment, he only held it, trembling, afraid. Afraid that if he tasted it, it would crumble under the weight of the meaning it carried. Afraid that the sweetness would undo him completely.
But at last, he placed it in his mouth.
The taste was sharp—bitter, burnt in places. But the moment it touched his tongue, tears spilled freely down his cheeks. Because somehow, through that bitterness, a sweetness bloomed, stronger than anything he had ever tasted. The sweetness of care. The sweetness of home.
He pressed his palm over his eyes, shaking with sobs. "It's… the sweetest thing I've ever eaten…"
For a long while, he sat in silence. The moon bore witness as he devoured each piece, slowly, reverently, as if taking communion. With every bite, he remembered the faces of those waiting for him—their laughter, their hopes, their fragile dreams they had entrusted to him.
*Maybe I am weak,* he thought. . But Utsuki is right. My weakness isn't the end. I rise, even when broken. I endure. And if that alone inspires even one person… then I cannot give up.*
Toki stood before the massive tree, its bark rough and ancient, its roots buried deep in the soil like veins of the earth itself. His hands were already raw from the first attempts—skin torn, blood seeping into the creases of the bark. Yet his golden eyes burned with a fire that refused to die.
He pressed his fingers into the grooves, gripping as if he could rip the world apart with sheer will.
"Again…" he whispered, voice hoarse, his breath steaming in the cool air.
Muscles screamed, tendons strained. He pulled with everything he had, shoulders cracking, lungs collapsing inward from the effort. The tree groaned, a living protest—its trunk creaked like a beast caught in a snare, warning him to let go, to surrender. But surrender had long ago abandoned Toki.
No. I can't stop here. I will not.
Each attempt was a war. The forest echoed with the clash of his struggle—the ripping of roots, the thunder of his boots against the earth. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the streaks of blood. His chest rose and fell like a bellows.
The tree moaned again, and for a moment it was as though the night itself pitied him, begging him to yield. But Toki's eyes glowed brighter, gold flaring like twin embers refusing to die in the storm.
"One more," he growled, setting his stance, driving his heels deep into the ground. "I'll tear you out of this earth if it kills me."
He pulled. Every vein in his body surged like fire through his skin. His teeth ground together, jaw splitting with the pressure. His arms shook violently, but he did not let go.
The bark splintered. Roots tore. The forest thundered with the sound of nature being undone.
And then—
With a roar that split the silence, the tree ripped free, its roots screaming into the night sky as if the world itself had been overturned. The trunk flew past his shoulder, crashing into the earth with a shuddering boom. Dust and leaves exploded outward in a storm around him.
For a heartbeat, the forest went still, horrified by what had been done.
Toki stood there, chest heaving, hands trembling, staring at the carcass of the tree as though it were a fallen giant. His bloodied fingers hung at his sides, dripping scarlet onto the soil. Yet his lips parted into a smile, broken and fierce.
"I'll succeed," he whispered, almost delirious. "I'll become the star that shines above them all."
His voice carried into the night, mingling with the groans of the forest.
Dawn came reluctantly, prying its way into the world with pale light.
The cabin door creaked open. Smith, Bernard, Ozvold, and the children stepped into the clearing, the cool air brushing their faces. Bernard's eyes were sharp with unease, his hand lingering on the hilt of his blade as though the morning itself carried threat.
He glanced toward Smith. "Toki hasn't returned to the cabin." His tone was clipped, but beneath it was concern. "We need to find him."
Smith's brows knit together, guilt gnawing at the corners of his face. He nodded heavily, as though the weight of this failure had been waiting for him. "Aye. If anything happens to that boy… it'll be on me."
Together they moved into the forest, voices rising, each calling his name. The trees returned nothing but echoes, mocking in their emptiness.
Bernard led them deeper, retracing the path where he had last seen Toki. His stride quickened, his face pale. "Here," he said grimly, stopping at the edge of a clearing.
The sight froze them all.
Dozens of trees lay uprooted, their corpses scattered like bones across the earth. The ground itself was torn, clawed into great trenches. And across the broken logs… streaks of blood painted everything, sharp against the bark.
Smith's breath caught, his pipe slipping from his lips, forgotten in the dirt. Sweat streamed down his temple. He forced the words out, voice shaking. "H-he did it. He… he actually did it."
The children huddled close, eyes wide with terror. Tora whispered, "What kind of… monster… could do this?"
No one answered.
Bernard's face was stone, but his fists clenched. "This power… if it grows unchecked…" He glanced at Smith. "We need to find him before he destroys himself."
Ozvold's voice rang sharp. "Then move. If he falls too far, none of us will be able to bring him back."
They turned toward the cabin again. Smith hurried inside and seized his binoculars, hands trembling as he lifted them toward the mountain looming in the distance.
What he saw made his jaw go slack.
The binoculars fell from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His pipe slid out of his mouth and hit the wood with a dull knock.
"Impossible…"
Bernard grabbed the binoculars, pressing them to his eyes. His lips thinned to a line.
On the face of the mountain, a lone figure clawed upward. Toki. His fists slammed into the rock, carving cracks deep enough to grip, pulling himself higher with every brutal strike. His body was streaked in crimson, a long trail of blood dripping down the mountainside like a scar.
Bernard's stomach twisted. He's tearing himself apart… and he doesn't care.
They all stood frozen, watching him vanish into the clouds above.
An hour crawled by. Tension hung over the cabin like a shroud. None spoke. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
And then—the animals fled. Birds burst from the canopy in terrified flocks. Deer bounded through the underbrush, eyes wide with panic. The sound of branches cracking, of trunks splitting under pressure, echoed through the woods.
Smith raised his gaze to the treeline. His heart stopped.
In the darkness, a pair of golden eyes glowed.
The forest trembled as something massive moved.
A log exploded out of the shadows, spinning through the air before shattering against the ground in front of them. Splinters rained down like needles.
And then he appeared.
Chains clattered from his shoulders, the links snapping as if they had been no more than twine. His muscles swelled under torn clothes, veins pulsing with barely-contained fury. Sweat and blood slicked his skin, dripping from his face and fists. His steps boomed against the ground like thunder. Each breath that left him was a growl, raw and animal, as though a predator had stolen into the skin of a man.
The children stumbled back, trembling. Bernard's jaw tightened. Ozvold narrowed his eyes.
Smith alone… smiled. A sharp, humorless smile, full of awe and dread.
I was a fool,Even with the extra weight, he thought bitterly. To believe I could ever forge chains strong enough to bind this monster.
Toki stopped before them, chest heaving, golden eyes burning with unholy light. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then his voice cut through the silence, rough and low.
"It's time," he said, gaze sweeping over the children. "The real training begins now."
Their fear cracked under the weight of those words. A new fire sparked in their eyes, small but alive—hope.
Toki tilted his head back, eyes rising to the pale morning sky. The faintest tremor of a smile touched his lips.
"I owe you, Utsuki," he murmured. His voice was barely more than breath, but it carried. "For believing in me when I didn't. For giving me something worth clawing toward."