The wooden sword cracked against Shura's ribs.
"Again," Juro said.
Shura stumbled sideways, boots scraping across the dark soil. The obsidian bamboo swayed gently around them, whispering in dry, glasslike tones.
His arms trembled.
His breath came uneven.
He stepped forward anyway.
Swung.
The strike was honest.
And terrible.
Juro stopped it with two fingers.
Silence.
The bamboo hummed softly in the wind.
Shura lowered the blade.
"…Why?" he asked.
Juro didn't respond.
"Why did you help me?" Shura continued, voice unsteady now. "Why did any of you?"
He swallowed.
"I don't have a name here. No family. No proof. I just… fell."
The word lingered.
Fell.
"I talk about the surface like it's real. Like I'm certain." His grip tightened. "But what if I'm not? What if I imagined it? What if I'm dragging all of you toward something that doesn't exist?"
His hands shook.
He hated that they shook.
"I don't even know if I'm right."
A tear slipped down before he could stop it.
He looked furious at himself for it.
Juro finally turned.
He didn't look angry.
He didn't look shocked.
He looked older.
He walked over and took the wooden sword from Shura's hand, setting it aside.
Then he placed a heavy hand on the boy's head.
Solid.
Warm.
Real.
"You think too loudly," Juro said.
Shura blinked.
"You didn't fall because you were chosen," Juro continued. "And you're not being helped because you're special."
He tapped Shura's chest once.
"You're being helped because you stand back up."
The bamboo shifted around them.
"You doubt yourself?" Juro asked quietly.
"Good."
Shura frowned.
"Only fools don't."
A pause.
"As for whether the surface is real…"
Juro's gaze drifted briefly upward, toward the unseen Ceiling.
"…That's not today's problem."
Shura inhaled slowly.
"…Then I'll make it real," he said. "Or I'll prove it isn't."
His fists clenched.
"And if it is real—"
His voice steadied.
"I'm not going alone."
The air shifted.
Not violently.
But sharply.
A new presence entered the clearing.
"Well," Zenkyou said lightly, stepping out from between the bamboo stalks. "That explains your dramatic energy lately."
Shura froze.
Juro's hand slid off his head.
Zenkyou crossed her arms, eyes sharp but unreadable.
"You told him."
"Not much," Juro replied.
"Enough."
Shura panicked instantly.
"SO—where's Yura?" he blurted. "And Orin. And Ren. They're fine, right? I finished my quest, by the way. Alone. It was terrible. There were Crawlers. And a collapsing mine. Also I made a friend. Her name is Mio. She likes paperwork slightly less than dying—"
He ducked behind Juro mid-sentence.
Juro blinked.
"…Why are you behind me?"
Zenkyou smiled.
"Move."
"No."
Shura grabbed the back of Juro's robe.
"HEY!" Juro snapped. "Unhand me. I am not a shield."
Zenkyou took one step forward.
Juro took one step back.
They both looked at Shura.
Then at each other.
Then—
They ran.
Not away.
Just… moved very quickly in a chaotic circle around the clearing.
"STOP HIDING BEHIND ME," Juro barked.
"STOP ENCOURAGING HIM," Zenkyou shot back.
"I AM NOT ENCOURAGING—WHY ARE WE RUNNING?"
Shura yelled something incoherent as bamboo shattered around them.
They burst back into the center of the clearing and collapsed in an undignified pile.
Silence.
Leaves drifted down.
Shura slowly leaned forward and bumped his forehead gently against Juro's shoulder.
"…Sorry."
Zenkyou cracked her knuckles.
Her smile was dangerously bright.
"Oh, don't apologize," she said sweetly. "If this secret spreads, I'll just remove witnesses."
Shura went still.
Juro sighed.
"…I just repaired this forest."
Zenkyou glanced around at the snapped bamboo.
"…You're repairing it again."
Shura looked between them carefully.
"…Wait."
He narrowed his eyes.
"You both knew, didn't you?"
Juro didn't answer.
Zenkyou didn't either.
The wind moved through the obsidian stalks.
High above, unseen and unmoving, the Ceiling remained silent.
Juro stood.
"Again," he said.
Shura groaned but picked up the wooden sword.
Zenkyou stepped back into the shadows of the bamboo.
Watching.
This time—
Not amused.
Not mocking.
Assessing.
And as wood struck wood once more—
The question lingered between them.
Not spoken.
But alive.
How much had Juro already known?