The Guild Hall felt louder than before
Not chaotic.
Compressed.
Metal boots struck stone in uneven rhythms. Overlapping voices formed waves of negotiation and argument. Viora devices hummed softly in glass casings. Blood and oil lingered faintly in the air.
It wasn't disorder.
It was survival, tightly packed.
Shura stepped to the counter.
Mio looked up.
She froze.
"…You're alive."
Shura blinked. "Was that… not the ideal outcome?"
She leaned over the counter and scanned him carefully—torn sleeves, dried blood at the collar, fresh bandages wrapped badly but confidently.
"You went alone," she said flatly. "Statistically, that ends in three outcomes."
"Let me guess."
"Dead. Missing. Or missing pieces."
Shura looked down at himself.
"…I appear mostly symmetrical."
She stared at him for another second.
Then she dropped back into her chair with a long sigh.
"I hate paperwork."
"That seems to be a recurring theme."
"Do you know how irritating it is to register someone and immediately file their death report?"
"…Sorry for surviving?"
She pointed her pen at him.
"Sit. Start talking."
He obeyed.
And for once, he didn't have to defend himself. Didn't have to breathe through pain.
He told her about the mine—the unstable floor, the Crawlers, the Beacon's violent flicker.
He admitted his hands shook afterward.
He didn't exaggerate.
He didn't dramatize.
Mio listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she tapped her pen once against the clipboard.
"And the idiot blocking the door?"
"…Handled."
Her lips twitched faintly.
"Good."
He hesitated.
"And Zenkyou."
Mio's pen paused mid-air.
"She trains like she's testing whether I'm disposable."
"That sounds accurate."
"She threw me at monsters."
"That also sounds accurate."
Shura frowned.
"…Should I be concerned?"
"Very."
He sighed.
"And Master Juro…"
That made her posture change.
Slightly.
"He lives in a forest of obsidian bamboo," Shura continued. "He cut the entire thing in one swing."
Mio stared.
"Then he made us clean it."
Pause.
"He flexed," Shura added helpfully. "The forest disagreed with him."
Silence.
"…Yes," Mio said slowly. "That sounds like him."
Shura smiled faintly.
"He's terrifying. But he's not fake."
Something passed through her eyes at that.
"…He saved my family," she said quietly.
Shura stopped smiling.
"Sealed zone breach. We were trapped."
Her fingers tightened around the clipboard, knuckles pale.
"He came alone."
She didn't elaborate.
She didn't need to.
The Guild noise continued around them, indifferent.
"…I think we're friends now," Shura said awkwardly.
Mio looked at him.
Really looked at him.
Then she smiled.
"Yeah," she said softly. "I think we are."
She hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
But he was already standing.
"I need to go before Juro decides punctuality is a life lesson."
She laughed lightly.
"Fair."
He left.
Mio watched him until he disappeared into the stone corridor.
Her smile lingered.
Then slowly faded.
—
The dojo was quiet.
Too quiet.
Juro sat on the porch, holding a cup of tea that smelled aggressively medicinal.
"You're late."
"I was socializing."
"Dangerous habit."
Shura stepped forward.
"She's good," he said. "The Guild. The people. It feels… alive."
Juro grunted.
"People are alive. That's what makes them inconvenient."
Shura hesitated.
Then spoke before thinking.
"This city… it feels like the Country of Light."
The teacup stopped midair.
"…The what?"
Shura felt the air thin.
Words spilled.
The surface. The sky. The sun. The Great Tree. The lie.
He didn't know why he was saying it.
He just did.
When he finished, silence settled between them.
Not empty.
Heavy.
Juro stared at him.
Then—
He laughed.
Softly.
Without humor.
"You have a vivid imagination."
Shura swallowed.
"It wasn't imagination."
Juro waved a hand.
"Memories are unreliable things."
His gaze lingered just a second too long.
Then he sipped his tea.
"We'll forget that conversation."
"…We will?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I'm old. I specialize in pretending."
Shura blinked.
"…That's not reassuring."
Juro smirked faintly.
"Where is everyone?" Shura asked carefully.
"Mission."
"Dangerous?"
"Yes."
"To fight something monstrous?"
Juro shook his head.
"They're harvesting wheat."
Shura stared at him.
"…That's not a mission."
"It is if the wheat bites back."
"…Does it?"
"No."
Juro's shoulders shook slightly.
Then he laughed properly this time.
The tension thinned.
A little.
When the laughter faded, Shura asked quietly,
"You're very old."
"Regrettably."
"Where is your family?"
The air shifted.
Not violently.
But decisively.
Juro's smile disappeared.
"Training," he said.
Shura immediately regretted the question.
"…I shouldn't have asked."
Juro stood.
"Again."
Shura grabbed his sword without protest.
They stepped into the yard.
Steel met steel.
The clash rang sharp in the quiet night.
Some questions were heavier than swords.
And some answers were buried for a reason.
Shura didn't ask again.