The day was fading, and the shadows of the ruined buildings stretched slowly across the central square, as if the village itself was trying to disappear into the darkness, escaping its own fate. The last rays of the sun spilled over the cracked stones, casting a pale gold light over the weakened survivors, Ryota's men, and most of all—her.
Mei knelt beside a man whose labored, wheezing breath revealed the poison still eating away at his body. She never stopped. Not for a moment, not for a blink of an eye, not for a sigh of exhaustion. She was a force of nature refusing to yield, refusing to be tamed, refusing to let this village fall without a fight.
Ryota, leaning against a decaying wooden post, had been watching her for long minutes without a word. He had seen healers at work before, men and women breaking under the weight of suffering they could not heal, well-intentioned souls faltering before the futility of fighting death.
But her... she was different.
For the first time, he looked at her—not through the lens of the challenge she posed, not as part of the strategy he was weaving around her, but simply as she was.
And what he saw was a woman of unsettling beauty, a fascinating anomaly unlike anything he had ever known.
Her long, black hair fell in light waves over her shoulders, sometimes slipping across her cheeks when she leaned over a patient, only to settle back into place like a living veil. The firelight flickered against her strands, giving them an almost liquid shine, an enchanting contrast to the otherworldly paleness of her skin.
Her eyes—so dark, so deep they seemed to hold secrets no one would ever unravel—were constantly in motion, always alert, always sharp, as if she could read in every weakened body a truth that others failed to see.
Ryota had always believed himself to be a master observer, but with her, he felt unarmed, unable to grasp exactly what she saw when she looked at him.
And then, there was her presence...
Her simple kimono did little to conceal the generous curves beneath the flowing fabric. The delicate slope of her shoulders, the way the obi cinched at her waist, the subtle arch of her back when she bent to apply a remedy—everything about her was balance, a perfect harmony between gentleness and strength, between femininity and independence.
She did not try to seduce. She did not try to draw attention.
And yet, Ryota knew he was not the only one captivated by her unsettling presence.
His men were watching too—some with admiration, others with curiosity, and a few with barely concealed desire.
But he also knew none of them would dare approach her.
Mei was not a woman to be possessed.
She was a woman to be earned.
"Do you ever sleep?" Ryota asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled as Mei applied a final layer of balm to an elderly man's frail chest.
She did not lift her head immediately, as if she considered his question unworthy of her time. Then, after a brief pause, she straightened slowly, dusted off the folds of her kimono, and turned her deep, knowing eyes toward him.
"I sleep when there is no one left to save," she answered simply.
A faint smile ghosted over Ryota's lips.
"This village cannot be saved, Mei."
She met his gaze head-on, arms crossed over her chest in a posture that emphasized the graceful line of her neck and the quiet strength in her shoulders.
"Perhaps. But that will not stop me from trying."
He took a step forward, and she did not retreat, did not flinch, did not attempt to either avoid his presence or challenge it—simply stood, unwavering in her refusal to bend.
"You know I won't leave without you."
She held his gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable, before murmuring:
"I know."
A chill ran down Ryota's spine.
She knew... and yet, she did not tremble. She knew... and yet, she remained as free as an untamed wind.
"You have no chance of convincing me," she added, deliberately omitting any honorifics.
Ryota arched a brow, amused by her audacity.
"Convincing is not necessary. I only have to wait for reality to force you to see what you refuse to admit."
Mei narrowed her eyes slightly.
"And what, in your mind, is this reality?"
He gave her a calculated look, taking in every line of her face, every subtle reaction, every tension hidden beneath her perfect control.
"That your fight here is already lost. That these people, sooner or later, will either die or leave. And when that day comes, there will be nothing left for you to hold onto."
She did not answer right away, but for the first time, he saw a shadow flicker across her eyes. A brief, fleeting hesitation.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"And when that day comes, we shall see if you were right," she said, her tone regaining its usual measured detachment.
She inclined her head slightly—not in submission, but as a queen might grant a nod to a worthy adversary. Then, she turned away, returning to her patients, ending their exchange as if Ryota himself were merely another detail in this dying village.
He watched her leave, noting the fluidity of her movements, the effortless grace with which she moved from one person to another, like a benevolent spirit hovering over a battlefield.
Daichi, who had been silently observing the exchange, stepped closer, a smirk playing at his lips.
"You're no further than you were yesterday, Ryota."
Ryota didn't take his eyes off Mei.
"No. But I am patient."
Daichi chuckled, shaking his head.
"She resists you like no other."
A slow smile curved Ryota's lips, one that held no softness.
"She still believes she has the power to resist."
Daichi said nothing, but he knew.
Mei had yet to realize how inevitable Ryota Yamazaki truly was.
The night stretched long, marked by agonized murmurs and labored breaths, the cold wind slipping through the deserted streets, carrying dust and ashes in its silent wake. Yet as dawn painted the horizon with its first pale light, something imperceptible shifted in the air—something fragile, uncertain, but real.
One of the sick—an old man whose parchment-thin skin clung desperately to frail bones—slowly opened his eyes. His once ragged breathing had steadied. His fingers, weak but conscious, gripped the thin blanket draped over him, searching for an anchor, proof that he was still among the living.
Mei, kneeling at his side, immediately placed a hand on his wrist, measuring the rhythm of his pulse. She felt the change at once.
"His fever is breaking," she murmured, her voice breaking the tense silence that had held since the night before.
Another patient, a middle-aged woman, whimpered softly before fluttering her eyelids open, blinking against the growing morning light. She turned her head slowly, seeking out Mei, as if the mere sight of her confirmed that she had not yet crossed to the other side.
A ripple of relief passed through the village square—a whisper of hope among those who had spent the night waiting for inevitable death.
Daichi, who had been watching from a distance, straightened slightly, arms crossed, his gaze assessing.
"This is the first time I've seen something that resembles a miracle," he murmured.
Ryota said nothing at first, his gaze fixed on Mei—the way she moved among the survivors with absolute mastery, as if their recovery had never been uncertain, but a certainty only she had foreseen.
He was seeing her.
Really seeing her.
And then, finally, he spoke.
"This is no miracle."
Daichi turned his head slightly, brow raised.
"No?"
Ryota's eyes never left Mei as she worked.
"It's her."