The sword came down—
until it didn't.
Mid-arc.
Frozen.
Not slow. Not delayed.
Just… stopped.
Dust hung in the air like shattered glass suspended in time.
Vance's cloak twisted mid-motion, stiff with silence.
Even the light—it felt stuck. Dim, unnatural.
I blinked.
Nothing moved.
Not Kaito.
Not the sword.
Not even me.
My legs wouldn't answer.
It was like the world had been paused…
but not gently.
Like something had slammed its hand on the cosmic remote
and cracked the screen.
I reached—
but my arm didn't lift.
Instead, something inside me did.
That same break.
Not in muscle. Not in will.
In soul.
The one I felt the night I died.
A soundless tear,
like the thread of who I was
getting yanked backward by something old.
No flash. No pain.
Just falling—
away from the moment.
Away from the battlefield.
Away from Kaito.
Into the dark.
No wind.
No floor.
No sky.
Just dark.
And me—falling through it.
Weightless.
Directionless.
Unmade.
I couldn't scream.
Didn't need to.
There was nothing here to hear it.
Only the feeling—
the tearing again.
Like a zipper unfastening my mind from my body.
Not pain.
Something worse.
Familiar.
And then—
impact.
No crash.
No violence.
Just… arrival.
Like hitting a floor that didn't exist until I touched it.
I lay there—chest heaving.
Except I wasn't breathing.
There was no air.
But I was alive. Aware.
I stood slowly.
If "stood" even made sense in a place with no light, no gravity, no time.
Stillness wrapped around me like a shroud.
Then—
a shape.
Faint at first. Distant.
A door.
No frame.
No walls.
Just there, waiting.
No handle. No hinges.
But as I approached, it breathed.
Not literally. But it felt alive.
I reached—
It opened.
No sound.
No pressure.
Just space parting.
And inside…
wooden floors.
Dusty beams.
A single mat in the center of an old dojo—lit by a narrow shaft of fading light.
It hit me before I even stepped in.
I knew this place.
Knew the way the boards creaked.
The way the air felt—warm, earthy.
The scent of worn leather and sweat.
This wasn't a vision.
It was a memory.
Not mine.
Not Akira's.
Renji's.
From before I died.
Before I was pulled into this second life.
Before I became someone new with the weight of someone old.
And then I saw him.
Standing in the middle of the room.
Strong posture. Worn gi.
Hair streaked with gray, not age—experience.
The man I once called Father.
I stepped forward—
voice cracking in my throat.
"D…Dad?"
He didn't move.
Didn't look at me.
Instead—
He smiled softly past me.
"Renji," he said.
"You ready for training?"
I turned—
And saw him.
Me.
Twenty-four.
Alive. Whole. Oblivious to how little time we had left.
He stepped forward, nodding, wooden sword in hand.
And I just watched.
Ghost in my own life.
The past didn't shimmer.
It didn't blur.
It didn't feel like a dream.
It felt real.
The dust on the floor.
The low groan of the boards under his — my — steps.
The way the light bent around his shoulders, just enough to make him look younger than he was.
Twenty-four-year-old Renji bowed, casually, sword low.
His father chuckled.
"No focus in your eyes. You planning to win this with charisma?"
"I was hoping," Renji smirked. "Might be my only edge left."
They squared off.
Wooden blades—not for safety, but tradition.
Renji held his loose. His father gripped his tight.
Then—
The first step.
That shuffle forward. That familiar clack of foot on wood.
They began.
I watched it all from the edge, unseen, unheard.
My throat dry. My heart locked somewhere in the past.
They moved like rhythm—
each strike a sentence, each parry a reply.
No wasted motion. No theatrics.
Just the music of memory, played by two men who'd done this for years.
Clack. A block.
Tap. A pivot.
Swish. A near-miss.
Then the sting of a strike across Renji's ribs.
"Still dropping your left shoulder," his father said.
Renji winced. "I thought you were too old to see that."
"I'm old enough to know better. You?"
He pressed forward—gentle but firm.
Another hit.
Renji stumbled, caught himself, reset.
They both smiled.
And watching it—
I felt it.
That warmth I forgot I had.
That version of me who still believed the world could be simple—
A place where pain was just bruises and failure was something you fixed with practice.
I took a step forward.
My mouth opened—
"Dad…"
—but nothing came out.
He didn't hear me.
Couldn't.
I reached for him anyway.
A half-step. A half-hope.
Just to touch his sleeve. To remind myself he was real.
But my fingers passed through him—like smoke.
And with it, that fragile hope collapsed.
I was too late, even in memory.
I wasn't here to change the past.
I was here to remember it.
To feel it again.
And maybe… to lose it again.
Because just as Renji lunged forward—
The light dimmed.
The room stilled.
And once again—
everything froze.
Everything stopped.
Not slowly. Not with warning.
One moment the spar was alive—feet shifting, wooden swords flashing—
and the next, the world snapped silent.
His blade still mid-swing.
His father, mid-step.
Even the dust hung motionless in the air like ash frozen mid-fall.
I turned—instinct, panic, confusion—
but there was nothing behind me. No walls, no doors, no exit.
The dojo had become a photograph.
My chest tightened.
Not again.
Then—
that voice.
Not divine.
Not cruel.
Just… still.
"You loved him so dearly…"
It didn't come from behind me. Or beside me. Or within.
It came from everywhere.
"…yet you lost him."
The floor cracked.
A fracture in the wood, sharp and sudden—running beneath my feet like a fault line in my soul.
Then I fell.
Not into darkness this time.
Into light. Blinding.
I slammed into pavement.
Not Spectra stone. Not dream-soaked void.
Just real, cold asphalt.
I recognized it before I even looked up.
The buzz of neon over a convenience store.
The hum of vending machines half-working.
The smell of oil and tired cities.
Tokyo. Late. Before everything.
This was that night.
"No…" I whispered. "No, not this."
My pulse spiked. My body tensed—if I even still had one.
"Don't show me this," I begged the void, the memory, whatever god was watching.
"I know what happens—I lived it. Isn't that enough?"
But the world didn't care what I wanted. It never had.
My heart tightened before my mind caught up.
And then I saw us.
Him and me—Renji and his father—walking home.
Just after grabbing water and those cheap steamed buns he always hated but bought anyway.
We were laughing.
God, I forgot how much I used to laugh.
I watched myself as if through a window I couldn't break—24, smiling, loose for once.
Then: a voice.
"No—please—let me go—!"
I turned, just like I had back then.
Two grown men. One kid. Pinned to the alley wall.
Panic. Real panic. That kind that tears the air in half.
And I—he—Renji—stepped forward.
I remember the heat in my chest. The outrage. The instinct.
But from behind, Dad grabbed my shoulder.
"Stay," he said. Calm. Unshaken.
I mouthed the words with him.
"You're too hot-headed. You'll escalate it."
"I can help," I said in the memory.
I whispered it now too. "I wanted to help…"
"I know," he told me, "but not like this."
And he walked ahead.
"No—please—don't—" I whispered, stepping forward.
"You don't have to do it again. I already saw this. I already paid for it."
I shook my head now. "No, no, no—Dad—"
I moved to run to him, but my body didn't exist here.
I was a ghost. A useless ghost.
He spoke to them. Easy. Controlled.
A steady hand, a practiced voice.
And for a second—just one—it worked.
Then memory-me moved.
And I screamed at myself:
"Why did you move?"
He rushed in. Fists raised. Heart louder than thought.
He landed one blow—just one.
Then the pipe hit.
I watched myself hit the concrete like a dropped puppet.
"Please get up. Please get up," I begged. "You have to stop it—!"
But the man had a knife now. Raised. Shaking.
He turned toward the kid.
And Dad—he didn't hesitate.
He dove in.
Grabbed the knife arm. Disarmed him.
But the second one—
One stab.
Deep. Sharp. Unforgiving.
Straight into his side.
"NO!" I screamed. "NO—!"
He didn't cry out.
Didn't even curse.
He just turned—jammed an elbow into the second man's jaw.
They both ran.
He staggered once.
Then dropped.
Memory-me scrambled to his side.
"Dad—! Dad, stay with me—!"
I said it too. I couldn't stop.
"Please stay—don't do this again—don't die again—"
I knelt beside myself, hands over hands. Blood soaking every inch.
He looked up at me. At him. At us.
"You've got strength," he rasped.
"But that's not enough…"
"One day… make sure it is."
He reached up. His hand on my cheek.
My old self sobbed.
I sobbed with him.
And then his eyes—
dimmed.
Still.
Gone.
The street didn't pause. The world didn't shatter.
It just kept going.
Cars. Lights. Distant voices.
Like none of it mattered.
I couldn't stop shaking.
"I let him die…" I whispered.
"I had power—I was fast—I thought I could—"
I stared at my hands.
The blood wasn't there anymore.
But I still felt it.
They trembled.
That helplessness.
That guilt.
That truth.
I backed away from the memory—staggering. Heaving.
And then I said it.
Not as Renji.
As Akira.
"How could I forget…
The world doesn't care if your heart's in the right place…
If you're weak…
You lose."
My voice cracked on the last word.
And the void responded.
My hands glowed.
Faint at first—like a pulse beneath skin.
Then brighter.
Green.
Then violet.
Then red.
Flickering. Overlapping. Surging and breaking.
Like three storms trying to own the same sky.
I stared at them—my fingers trembling, twitching.
I tightened my grip
Too tight.
Crack—
Pain shot up my forearm, but I didn't stop.
Didn't care.
The power burned now. Like it hated being held.
And something inside me—
some line I never noticed—
snapped.
I screamed.
Not out of pain—
But out of failure.
I dropped to my knees.
Then slammed my fist into the pavement—
Hard enough to split it.
Cracks webbed out beneath me.
Dust rose.
Spectra surged up my arm like fire trying to escape.
I kept my head down.
Sweat and tears mixing on my skin.
The world didn't answer.
But something did.
"You couldn't save him."
My breath caught.
"But you still can save the one kneeling now."
Kaito.
Time had stopped—
but not forever.
I lifted my head.
Kaito's face burned behind my eyes.
Not his strength.
Not the way he stood.
But his helplessness.
That split second before the blade fell.
Just like before.
Just like him.
My father.
I grit my teeth—
the pressure in my chest threatening to shatter me.
Green.
Violet.
Red.
Still flickering—wild, volatile.
Each color a scream.
One born of instinct.
One of growth.
One of loss.
I slammed my fist to the floor.
The void trembled. Cracked.
I wasn't strong enough.
Not then.
Not now.
And yet—
a warmth spread behind me.
Not fire. Not heat.
Just presence.
It didn't touch me.
Didn't invade.
Just reminded me I wasn't alone.
The voice returned.
Soft. Steady.
"Spectra doesn't reflect power."
"It reflects purity."
"Not what they made you."
"But what you are—when no one's watching."
I stared at the red—still alive in my hand.
Burning. Twisting. Begging me to use it.
To break something.
To make it hurt.
And for a second—I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
The red flickered violently now—
and for one terrifying moment, it answered.
A whisper bled into my mind:
"This is what strength looks like when it doesn't break."
I flinched.
And suddenly, it was gone.
Just the void again.
And Kaito's face.
Kneeling. Bleeding. Alive.
I grit my teeth. Closed my fist.
Not to crush the rage.
Just to stop it from choosing for me.
"Not this time," I whispered.
"Not like this."
I let go.
Not of the pain.
But the need to make someone pay for it.
If I was going to stand for something—
it wouldn't be that.
And in that silence—
"You carry pain," it said.
"But you carry hope too."
The light around me shimmered. Shifted.
The red dimmed.
And something steadier took its place.
Green—resilient.
Violet—clear.
Red—quiet now. Sleeping.
And finally—only one remained.
Violet.
Not by instinct.
Not by luck.
Chosen.
And this time—
I wasn't afraid of what that meant.
I breathed again.
Not deeply. Not calmly.
But with purpose.
The voice began to fade.
One final whisper:
"Then go."
"And save him."
Time returned with a breathless shiver.
Like the world had been holding its breath—
—and just let go.
The dust fell again.
Vance's blade started to drop.
Kaito hadn't moved.
Still on his knees. Still broken.
Still within reach of death.
But now…
So was I.
I didn't think. Didn't calculate.
The floor cracked beneath my foot as I launched.
A flash of violet lit the air behind me.
I didn't remember activating it.
I barely remembered breathing.
But I was moving.
Faster than I had ever moved.
The silence shattered as my body cut through it—like glass.
One heartbeat.
Two.
I closed the distance.
Vance turned, just slightly. Surprise in his eyes.
Too late.
I didn't reach for the blade.
I reached for him.
My fist slammed into his ribs—every ounce of Spectra, memory, and grief behind it.
Something cracked.
He flew.
Backwards. Off his feet.
Crashing into the far wall with a heavy, brutal thud.