The forest east of the village had always been dense, but now… it felt wrong.

  The trees loomed taller than before, their bark warped and slick like something rotted from the inside. The air was thick—too still. No birds. No wind. Just the creak of twisting branches, like bones straining under weight they weren’t meant to bear. Yuki, Yoru, and five handpicked soldiers moved cautiously through the underbrush, eyes sharp, weapons ready.

  Even the sunlight seemed pale and cold, dimmed by something unseen.

  Shinkurō rested at Yuki’s waist, but with every step, it felt heavier. Like the blade didn’t want to be carried—it wanted to be used. A low thrum pulsed against his hip, growing louder the deeper they walked.

  They reached the ridge just before noon.

  What they found in the clearing stopped them cold.

  The missing scouts—three men—lay in broken heaps among the roots. Their armor was scorched black. Their eyes wide open. No signs of a fight. No time to scream.

  And at the center of it all—a summoning crest.

  Etched into the earth in spirals of ash and clawed symbols, the crest pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The moment Yuki stepped near it, Shinkurō blazed red at his side.

  His breath hitched. His knees buckled slightly.

  “More…” the voice whispered.

  “Feed me more.”

  “Yuki!” Yoru was at his side instantly, steadying him with both hands. Her violet eyes were wide, searching his face.

  He didn’t answer. His hand had already gone to the hilt.

  The sword wasn’t just glowing—it was alive.

  Yuki’s breath grew ragged. He staggered back from the glowing crest, clutching at his chest as if something inside him was clawing its way out.

  “Yuki?” one of the soldiers called, concerned, stepping closer.

  But Yuki didn’t hear him.

  The thrum of Shinkurō against his waist was deafening now—each pulse sending a spike of heat through his body. His vision blurred. His knees hit the ground. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Burn them… protect them… kill them…”

  The voices screamed in his mind, overlapping, distorted, pulling at the corners of his sanity. His fingers trembled as they hovered near the hilt of the blade.

  Yoru rushed to his side, her expression tight with fear. “Yuki—! Look at me!”

  She dropped beside him, gently grabbing his shoulders and guiding him onto the grass. He gasped, chest heaving, cold sweat covering his skin.

  “I—I can’t stop it,” he choked out. “It’s like it’s inside my head. The sword—it won’t shut up—!”

  Shinkurō glowed brighter still, casting crimson light across his face like firelight. The crest on his back, hidden beneath his tunic, burned like a brand. Yuki curled into himself, teeth clenched, the grass beneath him trembling from the heat radiating off his body.

  Yoru placed a hand on his forehead. “You’re overheating. Yuki, breathe with me—okay? Just breathe.”

  For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind moving through warped trees and Yoru’s voice trying to ground him.

  But in Yuki’s mind, something else stirred—darker, deeper.

  A memory?

  A shadow?

  A reflection of himself standing in a mirror of blood and fire, holding Shinkurō with eyes not green but red, whispering:

  “You were never meant to protect. Only to destroy.”

  Yuki stood frozen.

  The scorched ground before him still smoked, the air heavy with the lingering scent of burned earth and ozone. His trembling hands hung by his sides, and Shinkurō pulsed dimly where it lay in the grass—like a beast settling after a roar.

  The soldier Yuki had nearly struck remained still, eyes wide. For a moment, no one moved.

  Then Yuki stepped forward—still shaking—and bowed deeply.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I… I lost control.”

  His forehead hovered just above the forest floor. His arms quivered. The weight of shame hung over him like a lead blanket.

  No one spoke.

  Then, the soldier—expression unreadable—brushed dirt from his uniform and stepped back.

  “…We have to report this to His Highness,” he muttered, turning away with a stiff voice.

  Yuki didn’t rise. The other soldiers followed the man, glancing back only once before disappearing into the woods.

  Still, Yuki didn’t move. His bow deepened.

  Only when Yoru stepped forward—quiet as falling leaves—and placed a hand gently on his head, did he flinch.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice soft, her fingers trembling slightly. “No one was hurt.”

  Yuki slowly straightened, but didn’t meet her eyes. “We should head back,” he murmured.

  He reached down, picked up Shinkurō, and slid it back into its sheath. The blade was warm—almost pulsing. It still wasn’t silent.

  Without another word, Yuki turned and began walking through the woods.

  Yoru followed him quietly, her gaze heavy with concern.

  Neither of them spoke on the way back.

  But the silence between them was not cold. It was a quiet promise:

  She was still with him.

  Even if he didn’t know how much longer he could stay with himself.

  Back in the village, the soldier who had witnessed Yuki's loss of control entered the command tent, dust still clinging to his cloak. He saluted with tension in his jaw.

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  “Your Highness. Generals. We… we have something to report.”

  Prince August looked up from the table of maps and dispatches. “Go on.”

  “It’s Sir Yuki. During the investigation, the crest reacted—violently. He lost control for a moment and… nearly struck another soldier.”

  The room stilled. A few generals exchanged uneasy glances.

  General Rhaegor Valen, leaning against a support beam with arms crossed, snapped his head up. “I knew it.”

  August frowned. “Let him finish.”

  The soldier hesitated, then continued, “He regained control. No one was harmed. But… it was close.”

  Rhaegor stepped forward, face taut with scorn. “And that’s the man you entrust with our lives? A boy barely able to stand, carrying a cursed blade that speaks to him?”

  August’s eyes narrowed. “Yuki’s done more for this village than any of us.”

  “And yet he nearly brought a blade down on one of ours,” Rhaegor spat. “What happens next time? When he can’t pull back?”

  No one answered. The air was thick with growing unease.

  Yuki said nothing.

  By the time the conversation shifted to troop movements, he was already gone.

  Back in the clearing where he had first trained alone, Yuki stood before a thick tree. Shinkurō lay untouched beside a mossy rock.

  He didn’t need the sword tonight.

  Instead, he raised his fists.

  And struck.

  Over and over.

  The bark split. His knuckles did too. Blood smeared the wood. Pain bloomed with each impact—but he welcomed it. Needed it.

  Visions flickered in his mind like lightning.

  Himself—eyes glowing crimson, surrounded by broken bodies. Friends. Villagers. Strangers. Yoru’s name echoed in the silence.

  “Burn them…”

  “Feed me…”

  “Kill.”

  “No,” he whispered.

  He hit harder.

  “No—!”

  Another strike.

  His breath came in gasps. His vision swam. The phantom screams rang louder in his head, and the image of Yoru’s lifeless body haunted his thoughts.

  He punched again until he collapsed to his knees, trembling, blood dripping from his fists onto the roots.

  And still—Shinkurō lay watching.

  Unmoved.

  Waiting.

  The sun had long dipped beneath the hills, casting the woods in dim, restless shadows. In the clearing behind the training hall, a dull thud echoed again and again.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Yuki’s fists slammed into the trunk of an old tree, knuckles raw and bleeding. Bark scattered with each strike, and his breath came in short, broken gasps. Blood dripped from his hands, soaking into the dirt at his feet.

  But he didn’t stop.

  Not even as his arms trembled.

  Not even as images flashed in his mind—flashes of crimson eyes, scorched earth, and twisted, lifeless bodies.

  His own hands drenched in blood.

  “I’m losing myself…” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t stop it…”

  Behind him, the grass shifted.

  “Yuki—” Yoru’s voice caught in her throat.

  He froze.

  Slowly, he turned to see her standing at the edge of the clearing. Her eyes widened as they fell on his hands—torn open, caked in blood and sap. Her mouth parted in shock.

  “You…” she took a step forward, ears flat against her head. “Your hands…”

  “I’m fine,” Yuki said quickly, hiding them behind his back.

  “No, you’re not.” Yoru moved closer despite the sharpness in her eyes. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “I had to do something,” he muttered. “I couldn’t train with Shinkurō. Not when it’s whispering to me. Not when I see those visions. So this… this was all I could do.”

  Yoru knelt in front of him, gently taking one of his hands before he could pull away. Her fingers trembled slightly as she inspected the damage.

  “I didn’t know it had gotten this bad…” she whispered.

  “I didn’t want you to know,” Yuki said, voice almost inaudible.

  Yoru looked up at him, her deep purple eyes shimmering with something deeper than sadness—grief, and fear, and care.

  “Yuki,” she said softly, “you don’t have to carry this alone.”

  “I can’t let anyone else get hurt because of me.”

  “And hurting yourself is better?” she asked, almost pleading.

  He said nothing.

  So she did the only thing she could—she pulled out a cloth from her pouch, tore it into strips, and began cleaning his wounds, even as her hands trembled.

  “Let me help you. Let me be here—for you,” she said, voice barely more than a breath.

  Yuki stared at her, stunned. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not in this world. Not in the last.

  And for a moment… the whispers went quiet.

  He watched as she tied a bandage around his fist, slow and gentle.

  Then she looked up at him again. “You’re still you, Yuki. As long as you can feel this pain and regret… that means you haven’t become what you fear.”

  As the wind settled and Yuki’s ragged breaths softened, Yoru gently wrapped his injured hands with fresh bandages she had tucked in her satchel. Neither of them spoke for a long time. The sky above was dimming, and the trees whispered secrets of a world growing more uncertain by the day.

  Yoru finally broke the silence, her voice soft but resolute.

  “Just… promise me you won’t shoulder this alone.”

  Yuki didn’t answer immediately. But as her purple eyes met his, he gave a faint nod. Not out of strength—but because her presence gave him the strength to try.

  Later that night, while Yuki rested at the edge of the training grounds, Yoru found herself drawn to the village library once more. Something had been nagging at her since the last battle—the way the crest pulsed, how the sword seemed to call to Yuki, and how even his will was beginning to falter.

  The Ember’s Burden, the old, weathered tome she had studied once before, sat waiting on its usual shelf like it had always known she would return. She flipped through the pages with urgency, guided by instinct.

  And then—

  She found it. A faded page tucked between the margins. A passage that hadn’t been there before… or perhaps one she hadn’t understood until now. Her eyes widened.

  Meanwhile, in the war room lit by flickering lanterns, the fallout of Yuki’s recent outburst had begun to fester.

  Rhaegor Valen, third son of the influential House Valen and commander of the 4th Royal Battalion, slammed his gauntleted hand against the table.

  “I warned you all! He’s dangerous. You saw it for yourselves—the way he lashed out. That wasn’t just panic. That was power without control.”

  Prince August sat quietly, eyes narrowed, but said nothing yet.

  Rhaegor pressed on, his tone sharper. “If we keep following a boy who can’t even control his own blade, it’s not the demons who will destroy us—it’ll be him.”

  The tension in the room thickened, the words heavy, the air brittle.

  And far from the murmurs of politics, Yoru’s voice barely whispered into the night as she stared down at the old text.

  “…This crest… it’s not just a mark.”

  Her hands trembled slightly as she traced the ancient symbols.

  “It feeds of the wielders soul “