The snow had stopped falling.
Only silence now cradled the ruined gate, violet embers drifting like forgotten prayers.
AIRA's spectral interface blinked once before vanishing.
And standing near the fractured remains of the Gate, Zakuro exhaled one final breath not of pain, but peace.
He turned to Asvara, the violet still faintly glowing in his eyes.
"So… this is what clarity feels like, huh?" Zakuro said, voice dry but calm.
Asvara nodded slowly, the blade of Sensō no Uta now resting against his shoulder, its aura no longer flaring.
"Clarity," he said, "and redemption."
Zakuro gave a faint smirk. "Still poetic even after stabbing my soul, huh."
"You were never the enemy," Asvara replied. "You were just… diverted."
For a moment, the air between them was still.
Kenji and Riven watched in silence.
Zakuro took one step back toward the gate, now nothing more than a collapsed shimmer. His body glowed faintly, soul particles rising like fireflies in the dusk.
"Kenji," Zakuro called softly, "Don't screw it up, yeah?"
Kenji nodded, holding back something heavy in his throat.
"Asvara… if we ever meet again—"
"We'll fight side by side," Asvara interrupted. "As it should have been."
Zakuro grinned one last time. "I'll hold you to that, General."
And with a shimmer of soul-light, he was gone, scattered into starlight beneath the Aomori moon.
Later that night...
Mori Clan Residence – Aomori Hills Estate
The gates were already open when the trio arrived.
Torches lined the pathway, their flames burning blue, a tradition unique to the Mori Clan, symbolizing the eternal pact between blade and soul.
The mansion's architecture was a hybrid of Edo-era elegance and modern minimalism.
Sliding doors, polished sakura wood floors, and above all there's soothing silence.
The kind of silence that came not from absence, but respect.
A servant bowed as they entered, guiding them into the banquet hall.
At the center sat Ishikawa Mori, he stood the moment he saw them, sharp eyes settling first on Asvara, and he bowed.
Not just a polite incline but a full, formal bow.
One only reserved for legends.
"Asvara-sama," he said firmly. "Welcome home and congratulation for succesfully neutralize the gate."
Asvara blinked. "You didn't have to go that far, Ishikawa-chan."
Kenji almost choked on his breath. "Okay, again, did you just—?"
"Everyone in your clan gets a -chan now," Asvara explained. "It's how I keep things friendly."
Riven snorted. "Yeah, friendly until he reorganizes your war history."
The banquet began, a spread of seasonal dishes, rare Aomori wines, and hand-prepared Kaiseki courses.
Despite the opulence, the air wasn't celebratory in the typical sense.
It was ceremonial. Sacred.
"Do you know," Ishikawa began, lifting his cup, "how old I was when I first heard the name Asvara Regalia?"
Kenji tilted his head. "You never told me."
"Six. My father told me about the man who stood beside Masamune and made demons kneel."
He looked directly at Asvara.
"You're the reason our swordsmithing exists. The Sensō no Uta wasn't made for just anyone. It was for you."
Asvara gave a faint smile. "And yet, you all maintained the lineage perfectly."
Ishikawa looked at his son. "And that's why I raised Kenji the way I did."
Kenji shifted in his seat, both embarrassed and annoyed. "You mean borderline abuse?"
"Discipline," Ishikawa corrected. "Because I knew one day he'd fight beside you."
"Not as a servant. Not as a replacement. But as a sword that wouldn't break."
Asvara remained silent, gaze resting on Kenji who now stared at his plate, caught between pride and pressure.
Riven leaned back, arms folded behind his head.
"You ever gonna tell Kenji how long you've been watching him?" he asked, teasing.
Asvara placed his cup down carefully. "He already know it, I've told him I was there the day he was born."
Silence fell like a blade.
"And you also know I asked your father to train you hard, because your soul was linked to Masamune's legacy. A soul that could host many… or be consumed by them."
Kenji still surprised by the word, almost half-terrified. "I'm still suprised that you've been… guiding me this whole time while pretending to be a son of my father's friend?"
"More like… nudging fate where it needed to go," Asvara said softly. "I wanted you to grow up not knowing who I was really are, so you could become who you are."
Kenji nodded slowly. "Thanks… I think."
After dinner, Ishikawa led them to a private room filled with relics: old scrolls, sheathed blades, a worn portrait of Masamune with Asvara beside him.
Riven whistled. "You seriously don't age. Like, at all."
"Immortality comes with skincare perks," Asvara joked dryly.
Ishikawa turned serious again.
"Asvara… the Mori Clan is yours. You don't have to ask for anything. Just speak, and we act."
Asvara smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's kind of you, Ishikawa-chan. But I didn't survive this long to lead. I survived to correct what once went wrong."
The night ended with one final toast.
Not to victory. Not to glory. But to remembrance.
"To those who fell," Ishikawa said.
"To those who stood back up," Kenji added.
"To those who still walk forward," Riven muttered, sipping jam tea for no reason.
Asvara raised his cup last.
"And to those," he said, "who still dare to believe… in something greater."
And outside, the snow began to fall again not as a curse, but as a soft reminder that even legends need nights of peace.
The Aomori air was crisp that morning, soaked in the scent of snowmelt and pine.
Even as the sun climbed slow over the distant ridge, the Mori clan estate remained still, solemn, as if unwilling to let the moment pass too quickly.
Outside the private gate of the regional terminal, a black car waited silently.
Ishikawa Mori stood before it, arms folded, not as a clan leader but as a father.
Kenji stood in front of him, shoulders squared, suitcase by his side, and the old bamboo training sword slung on his back.
"You're not taking that into battle, are you?" Ishikawa asked, nodding toward the weapon.
Kenji blinked. "Uh… I mean, it's just habit."
Ishikawa held out his hand. "Give it to me."
Kenji hesitated but slowly took the bamboo sword off and passed it over.
Ishikawa inspected the blade, worn at the handle, dented near the center, and then placed it down beside him.
From his robe, he pulled out something unexpected: a wooden sword, darker in grain, engraved with ancient kanji that glowed faintly violet under the sun.
"This," he said, "was carved from the heartwood of a sakura tree struck by lightning the day you were born."
Kenji's eyes widened.
"It's not a blade for sparring. It's not even a blade for war. It's a reminder.That you were never meant to just follow the path… but to carve one of your own."
He placed the wooden sword into Kenji's hands, the weight surprisingly balanced and its weight is really light, but firm.
"Walk with it until you earn the weight of steel."
Kenji swallowed something thick in his throat. "I will, Father."
"I know," Ishikawa replied.
Riven yawned from behind them, carrying nothing but a backpack stuffed with canned peach jam.
Asvara stood beside him, staring silently at the clouds beyond the tarmac.
"You ready?" Riven asked.
"Always," Asvara replied.
They boarded the jet silently, with Ishikawa watching until the ramp closed.
He didn't wave.
He only bowed — once, deeply — toward Asvara.
And Asvara, from behind the glass, bowed back, the smallest tilt of his head, but enough.
The ride back was uneventful, at least on the outside.
Inside, Riven snored with his mouth open, and Kenji was practicing sword patterns in the aisle like an overexcited toddler.
Asvara sat alone, fingers tapping against the window.
"They respected you like you were a living kami," Kenji said finally, sitting beside him.
"I'm not a god," Asvara replied.
"No. But you were once a myth," Kenji said, half-joking.
Asvara's smirk was distant. "Aren't we all… in someone's story?"
Husein Sastranegara International Airport – Bandung
It was a humid contrast to the snowy Aomori chill.
As soon as the trio stepped into the terminal, the crowd parted slightly not from recognition, but from presence.
And waiting at the end of the terminal, wearing a sunhat and sipping boba, stood Lyra Anandita.
"Welcome home, heroes," she said with a teasing smile.
Kenji waved. Riven nodded. Asvara just blinked.
"Let me guess," Lyra continued, "You saved Japan, punched a god, and had a snowball fight with destiny?"
Riven answered first. "Close. Except the snowball was a sword and destiny was a manipulative war goddess with bad fashion sense."
Lyra laughed. "So a regular Tuesday, then?"
Asvara stepped forward. "You're well?"
"I've been babysitting the school with that ridiculous Air Conditioner remote that you call said it is device to close the gate," she said. "As requested, General."
He raised an eyebrow. "So you got the boba I left in AIRA subspace storage."
"Drank it within ten minutes."
"Tactical success," Asvara said solemnly.
Dormitory Nightfall – Liberium International
The dorm halls buzzed faintly with returning students.
Most had no idea a Gate had opened.
No idea that a goddess had been outplayed.
No idea they shared a school with ghosts, blades, and anomalies.
In Riven's room the lights flickered briefly as the door opened.The scent of old books, tea leaves, and… peach jam, filled the air.
Asvara entered first. He set his bag down.
AIRA's hologram flickered on in the corner, sitting on a floating cube with her usual calm expression.
"Welcome back, Master."
"Report," Asvara said, instantly serious.
AIRA's eyes dimmed, data scrolling behind her.
"No infiltration attempts detected in your absence."
"But…" she paused.
"There's… residue."
Riven perked up. "Leftovers?"
"Not edible," AIRA clarified.
"Energetic residue. Not from Minerva. Not from the Gate."
Everyone froze.
"Then from what?" Kenji asked.
"I do not know yet," AIRA replied. "But it moves. Slowly. As if searching."
Asvara narrowed his eyes, senses sharpening.
"Keep tracking. If it's something from Isorropia, we purge it."
AIRA nodded. "Acknowledged."
The night grew quieter, but the air inside the dorm no longer felt calm.
It hummed low, steady, and oddly… expectant.
And somewhere far from the dorms, in the dark beneath the school archive,an old book fluttered open.
Its pages flipped by unseen wind, stopping at a single sentence:
"Balance is not justice. It is power rearranged."
And the shadows… watched.