The road was quiet beneath the carriage wheels.

Morning light stretched thinly across the land, pale gold spilling over fields still damp from the night air. The sky above was clear, almost cruelly so, as if the world had decided to look peaceful after everything that had happened near the ocean. Birds moved between distant trees. Grass bent under a soft wind. The road ahead rolled gently through the countryside, the same road that should have felt familiar now, the same road that had once carried Illumina toward the Coastal Kingdom with uncertainty, excitement, and the kind of fear that still allowed room for jokes.

Now, no one joked.

The driver sat at the front, reins held with careful hands. He had been the one who brought them toward the Coastal Kingdom, though back then the carriage behind him had been full of voices. He remembered laughter leaking through the walls, arguments about food, questions about the ocean, someone leaning too far toward the window until another voice told them to sit down before they fell out. He remembered thinking they sounded young. 

Now he drove them home and thought of them as heroes.

He did not say that aloud.

He had barely spoken since the journey began. There was nothing useful he could offer from the driver’s seat, no comfort strong enough to reach the inside of the carriage. So he kept his eyes on the road, guided the horses as gently as he could, and pretended not to hear the silence behind him.

Inside the carriage, Yoshinori sat with his hands folded tightly together.

His knuckles had gone pale hours ago.

Aiko sat across from him near the window, her face turned slightly toward the passing fields. She had not slept much during the journey. None of them had. Even when exhaustion pulled their eyes shut, sleep came in broken pieces, full of sharp movements and sudden waking. Every creak of wood sounded too much like cracking stone. Every shift of the carriage made their bodies remember the battlefield. Every patch of quiet gave the mind room to go somewhere it should not.

Itsuki sat beside Yoshinori.

She had not said a word since they left the coast.

Her hands rested in her lap, her blue eyes fixed forward.

Yoshinori had tried speaking to her on the first day.

Then again on the second.

This morning, he had not tried yet.

He hated that.

Silence had taken over the carriage too easily. The empty seats made it worse: no Shunjiro, no Tetsuo, no Ryuji, and no answer for what Yoshinori was supposed to do next. 

Most of all, he hated that he did not know what to do.

Shunjiro would have said something.

The thought came before Yoshinori could stop it, and his jaw tightened.

No. That was not fair. Shunjiro was not here. None of them knew where he was. None of them knew if he had been taken somewhere close, somewhere impossible, somewhere no one could reach in time. Yoshinori could not keep measuring every silence by what Shunjiro might have done. That would only make the emptiness larger.

But it was hard not to.

The carriage rolled over a shallow dip in the road, and Aiko shifted slightly, her injured body protesting in ways she refused to show. Her fingers touched the edge of the window frame. Outside, the fields began to change. Small homes appeared in the distance, their rooftops bright beneath the morning sun. Smoke curled from chimneys. A narrow path broke away from the main road, leading toward a cluster of houses gathered around farmland and low stone walls.

Yoshinori saw Aiko recognize it at the same time he did.

Suncrest Village.

Shunjiro’s home.

The carriage did not stop. There was no reason for it to. The village rested off the road, peaceful and untouched, its people beginning their morning as if the world beyond their fields had not split open. A man carried a basket toward one of the houses. Two children chased each other near a fence. Someone was hanging laundry in the sun. The village looked small beneath the sky, ordinary in a way that made Yoshinori’s chest ache.

Aiko’s gaze stayed fixed on it.

Itsuki’s fingers curled faintly against her skirt, tightening for one breath before going still again. Yoshinori saw it. So did Aiko. That tiny movement hurt more than a sob would have. 

Yoshinori looked out at the village until the first houses began slipping behind them.

“That is where he grew up,” he said.

His voice sounded rougher than he expected.

Aiko did not answer immediately. Her eyes followed the village through the window as long as she could. “Yeah.”

The carriage continued forward.

Yoshinori swallowed. “It looks peaceful.”

“That makes it worse.”

He looked at her.

Aiko’s expression had not changed much, but her voice carried a quiet edge that had not been there before. She kept staring out the window even after Suncrest began to disappear behind the trees. “I keep thinking about how he came from there. A place like that. Small houses, fields, people who probably knew him before any of this. Before dungeons. Before guilds. Before corrupted monsters and whatever else keeps happening to us.”

Yoshinori looked down at his hands. “He talked about it a lot.”

Aiko finally turned away from the window. Her eyes were tired, but not empty. There was anger in them, though Yoshinori knew it was not aimed at him. Aiko’s anger had nowhere clean to go, so it stayed inside her, sharp and restless.

“He should be in this carriage,” she said.

Yoshinori closed his eyes for a moment.

“He should,” Yoshinori said.

Aiko’s fingers tightened around the sleeve of her coat. “I keep going back to it. Every time. I keep thinking there had to be something else I could have done.”

Yoshinori opened his eyes. “Aiko.”

“No, let me say it.” Her voice trembled once, but she forced it steady. “My whole ability is moving people. Swapping people. Getting someone out before they die. That is what I do. I take the wrong position and fix it. I move someone away from danger. I make impossible openings. And when it mattered most, I could not bring him back.”

Yoshinori leaned forward slightly. “You were hurt. Everyone was hurt.”

“That does not make it better.”

“I know.”

“I saw him disappear,” Aiko said, and her voice lowered until it was barely above the sound of the wheels. “I saw the space close, and I still keep thinking if I had just reacted faster, if I had just saved a little more energy, if I had forced my ability one more time, then maybe he would be here. Maybe Tetsuo would be sitting there complaining about how bumpy the road is. Maybe Ryuji would tell us to stop blaming ourselves. Maybe Itsuki would…”

She stopped.

Itsuki’s face did not change.

Aiko looked away.

Yoshinori felt the same guilt twist deeper inside him. He had been trying to hold it down since the coast. Trying to be steady. Trying to keep watch over the carriage because someone had to. But Aiko’s words made the thing inside him rise.

“I keep thinking I should have been stronger,” he said.

Aiko looked at him, surprised by the honesty.

Yoshinori stared at the floorboards. “I am supposed to be one of the strongest in our guild. That meant something when we first started. It made me feel like I could stand in front when things went wrong. Like if something attacked us, I could be the one who stopped it long enough for everyone else to move.” His hands pressed together harder. “But when the battle reached that point, it did not matter. I could not protect Tetsuo. I could not protect Shunjiro. I could not protect any of us from falling apart.”

“You were fighting too,” Aiko said quietly.

“That does not make it easier to carry,” Yoshinori answered. 

Aiko had no reply to that.

The carriage rolled onward, leaving Suncrest Village behind completely. The road ahead stretched between rows of trees, the leaves flickering in the morning light. For a while, the only sound was the wheels turning and the horses breathing.

Then Yoshinori turned slightly toward Itsuki.

She remained still beside him.

“Itsuki,” he said carefully.

Aiko’s gaze moved to him at once, uncertain.

Yoshinori’s throat tightened, but he continued. “I do not know if you can hear me. Maybe you can. Maybe you cannot. But I need to say this anyway.” He drew in a slow breath. “It was not your fault.”

Yoshinori’s voice became quieter. “You fought harder than anyone. You did something none of us could have done. You gave everything you had. More than everything. Whatever happened after that, whatever happened to Shunjiro, to Tetsuo, to the others… that is not yours to carry alone.”

Itsuki gave no sign that the words had reached her. She only sat there, breathing softly, so far away that Yoshinori almost wished she would cry. 

Aiko looked at her for a long moment, then spoke softer than Yoshinori had ever heard her. “He is alive.”

The words were fragile.

Yoshinori looked at Aiko.

She did not sound certain. She sounded like she was choosing the words because the alternative would destroy her.

“He has to be,” Aiko said. “Shunjiro is too stubborn to die somewhere we cannot even find him. He would complain about that. He would say it was inconvenient.”

Despite everything, the corner of Yoshinori’s mouth moved faintly. “He would.”

“He would probably apologize for making us worry and then somehow make it worse by saying he got distracted.”

“That also sounds like him.”

Aiko’s eyes shone, but she blinked the tears back before they could fall. “So until someone proves otherwise, he is alive.”

Yoshinori nodded slowly. “Alive.”

The word settled between them, not proof or comfort, but something they could hold onto. 

Yoshinori looked toward Itsuki again. “We are going to find him.”

Aiko’s voice became firmer. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. We have to get back first. We have to know what happened to Tetsuo, Ryuji, Roki, Ryota, Sora…” Her voice caught on the names they were not saying and stepped carefully around the one that hurt too differently. “We need answers before we run into another disaster blind.”

Yoshinori agreed even though every part of him wanted to turn the carriage around and search every road, forest, and ruin between the coast and Radiance. “We need to know who can move. Who needs healing. What Kaito and the others learned. What Shadis decides.”

“And then,” Aiko said, looking back out the window, “we go.”

No plan had formed yet, but the shape of one entered the carriage anyway: they would not leave Shunjiro missing. 

The road sloped gently downward as morning deepened, and the sound of water reached them before the river came into view. It began as a low murmur beneath the wheels, then grew into a steady rush that filled the spaces between their breaths. The trees thinned, opening to a wide stone bridge that crossed the River Aria.

The driver slowed the horses slightly before the bridge.

Sunlight scattered across the water below, turning the surface into ribbons of silver and gold. The river was wide and calm from above, but its current moved with quiet strength, carrying the water toward the lands beyond Radiance. On the far side of the bridge, the road rose toward the final stretch home.

Yoshinori remembered crossing it on the way out.

Back then, Shunjiro had leaned toward the window with an expression too eager for someone heading into danger. He had looked down at the river and said something about how crossing it made the mission feel real, like the moment they passed the water, they were no longer just talking about being adventurers. They were actually going somewhere. Tetsuo had told him that was obvious. Ryuji had smiled. Aiko had called both of them noisy. Itsuki had laughed softly from her seat.

The memory hurt so sharply that Yoshinori had to close his eyes.

Aiko must have been remembering too, because she whispered, “This is where he said it felt official.”

Yoshinori opened his eyes. “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember.” Her gaze stayed on the river. “He looked ridiculous. Like he thought the whole world was waiting for him just because we crossed a bridge.”

“He was excited.”

“He was always excited.”

Itsuki’s eyes shifted.

They moved toward the window, not fully, not with the strength of someone choosing to look, but enough that the light from the river touched the blue of her eyes.

Yoshinori saw it and held his breath.

Aiko saw it too.

Neither of them said anything.

The carriage crossed River Aria slowly, wheels rumbling over old stone. Water moved beneath them, steady and bright. For a moment, the sound filled the carriage completely, washing over silence, grief, guilt, and the promise none of them had spoken loudly enough to become real.

Then they reached the other side.

The final road to Radiance waited ahead.

As the morning stretched toward noon, more signs of the capital began to appear. Watchtowers first, pale in the distance. Then patrol roads. Then banners hanging from roadside posts, red and gold fabric stirring gently in the wind. The land grew busier, but the closer they came, the heavier the air inside the carriage became. Home should have brought relief, and part of Yoshinori did feel it, but the carriage was too quiet and the people inside it were too few. 

By the time the white stone walls of Radiance came into view, Aiko’s breathing had gone shallow. Yoshinori sat straighter without realizing it. Itsuki remained still, but her eyes were open, fixed somewhere beyond the carriage wall as if even emptiness had become too tiring to look at.

Radiance rose ahead beneath the sun.

Gold-capped spires caught the light above the walls, and the great gates stood tall and familiar, guarded by Radiance Knights in polished armor. The city beyond those walls held everything they had wanted to return to when the mission first began. Beds. Healers. Guild halls. Familiar streets. People who would know what to do.

And people who would look at them and understand that something terrible had happened.

The driver guided the carriage toward the gate.

The knights were already waiting.

They knew more carriages were coming. The Aurelhorns had arrived before them, carrying the worst of the wounded ahead of the convoy. Radiance had already been warned by the sight of blood, broken armor, unconscious bodies, and faces too grim to explain everything at once. Even so, when Illumina’s carriage approached, the knights at the gate straightened with visible tension. One of them stepped forward, recognized the markings, then lifted his hand quickly toward the men above.

The gates began to open.

Yoshinori looked through the window as the massive doors parted.

Aiko looked down at her hands.

Outside, several knights watched the carriage with expressions caught between respect and sorrow. None of them called out. None of them asked where the others were. Maybe they already knew enough. Maybe they were afraid to hear the answer. The horses stepped forward, hooves striking the road with steady rhythm as the carriage passed beneath the shadow of the gates.

For a brief moment, the sunlight vanished.

The walls of Radiance rose around them on either side, white stone and gold trim swallowing the carriage in cool shade. Yoshinori felt his chest tighten as they crossed the threshold. They were home. After three days of roads, silence, and memories sharp enough to cut, they were finally home.

The carriage rolled into Radiance, and through the window, Yoshinori saw civilians turning toward them. Conversations slowed. Faces changed. People stepped aside as the damaged convoy entered the city, bringing the survivors of the Oceanside battle back through the gates.

Aiko lifted her head at last.

Yoshinori looked toward her, then toward Itsuki.

The carriage stopped in front of Radiance Castle.

For a moment, none of them moved. The journey was over. The waiting was not. 

Outside, the driver climbed down from his seat. He moved slower than he had on the way to the Coastal Kingdom. His shoulders were stiff from the long ride, and his face carried the tired look of a man who had spent three days hearing grief through wooden walls without knowing how to answer it. He opened the carriage door carefully and stepped back.

“We’re here,” he said.

Yoshinori nodded and rose first. His legs felt unsteady when his boots touched the ground, not from injury but from the strange shock of standing somewhere that was not moving. Aiko followed, jaw tight as she stepped down. Yoshinori turned and offered a hand to Itsuki. She did not look at him, but when he gently guided her forward, she moved. Her hand rested in his for only a second before slipping away, cold and light.

The driver watched them with something close to reverence.

It made Yoshinori uncomfortable.

He did not feel like someone who deserved that look. None of them did. They had returned alive, but too many people had returned broken, and some had not returned at all. The word hero belonged to stories told after the pain had been cleaned away. It did not belong to three teenagers standing in front of a castle, stained by a battle they still did not fully understand.

The driver removed his cap and bowed his head.

“Good luck,” he said quietly. His voice almost cracked, but he forced it steady. “And… thank you. For everything you did.”

Aiko looked like she wanted to reject the thanks outright, but the driver’s face held no ignorance. 

Yoshinori bowed his head in return. “Thank you for bringing us back.”

The driver nodded, then stepped away. He did not linger. Perhaps he knew that if he said anything else, it would only make the moment harder.

Two adventurers waited near the castle entrance.

Neither of them belonged to a guild Yoshinori knew well, but the Radiance markings on their cloaks were familiar, and their expressions changed as soon as they saw the three members of Illumina. There was recognition there, followed quickly by restraint. News had traveled faster than the convoy. The Aurelhorn carriage had arrived first, carrying the worst of them to the healers, and Radiance had already begun preparing for the rest.

One of the adventurers stepped forward. “Illumina?”

Yoshinori nodded.

“We were told to bring you directly to the healer hall. Mariah is expecting you.”

Aiko’s eyes sharpened. “The others are there?”

“Yes. The first carriage arrived ahead of you.”

“Take us,” Yoshinori said.

They followed the two adventurers through the castle entrance and into the bright corridors beyond. Radiance Castle had never felt so large. White stone rose around them, polished and beautiful, with gold trim catching the sunlight that poured through tall windows. Usually, the halls carried a sense of warmth, a royal brightness that belonged to Radiance itself. Today, the castle felt like a place holding its breath.

Servants moved quickly with cloth bundles and trays of water. Knights stood posted near intersections, speaking in lowered voices. A few guild members passed in the opposite direction, their eyes landing on Yoshinori, Aiko, and Itsuki before quickly moving away. Nobody stopped them. Nobody asked questions. Their restraint told Yoshinori more than words could have. 

The healer hall was near the guild hall, in a wide section of the castle built for emergencies large enough to involve multiple teams. The closer they came, the more the scent changed. Clean water, medicinal herbs, iron, sweat, and spiritual residue thickened in the air. The sounds grew clearer too: low instructions from healers, the scrape of stools, the rustle of sheets, someone groaning softly in pain before being soothed.

The two adventurers opened the doors.

Yoshinori stepped inside and forgot to breathe.

The room was wide and bright, but no amount of sunlight could make it feel peaceful. Beds lined the walls with enough space for healers to move between them. White curtains had been pulled back to keep the room open, allowing Mariah and the other healers to watch multiple patients at once. Bowls of clean water sat on side tables. Bandages, salves, and small instruments were arranged in neat rows. It was not chaos. Mariah and Yumi had made sure of that. The room moved under discipline, every healer working with purpose, every order given calmly.

That somehow made the damage easier to see.

Tetsuo lay in one of the beds near the center of the room, asleep beneath white sheets. Heavy bandages wrapped across the left side of his face. His chest was bandaged too, the fabric thick where the wound had been worst. He looked still in a way Tetsuo never looked still. Even when he slept, he had always seemed like he might wake up and say something stupid at any moment. Now he looked as if waking had become something his body could not afford yet.

Aiko saw him and stopped.

Yoshinori stopped beside her.

Itsuki only stopped when Yoshinori’s hand tightened gently around her wrist to keep her with them. They had known Tetsuo’s injury was bad. Hearing Mariah say it made the damage impossible to argue with. Yoshinori looked at the bandages over Tetsuo’s face and felt something hollow open inside him. 

Mariah looked up from a table where she had been speaking with another healer. Her face showed exhaustion, but her eyes remained sharp. When she saw them, she left the healer with a quiet instruction and crossed the room toward them.

“You made it,” Mariah said.

Aiko’s gaze remained on Tetsuo. “How is he?”

The question came out controlled, but the control was thin. Yoshinori could hear the fear underneath it.

Mariah glanced toward Tetsuo, then back to Aiko. She did not soften the truth by hiding behind vague words. “He is alive. He is stable. He will be fine, but he will likely remain asleep for a few more days. His body needs time.”

Aiko’s throat moved. “His eye?”

Mariah held her gaze. “He lost his left eye. The wound across his face will leave a permanent scar.”

They had known Tetsuo’s injury was bad. Hearing Mariah say it made the damage impossible to argue with. Yoshinori looked at the bandages over Tetsuo’s face and felt something hollow open inside him. 

Aiko’s eyes widened for one second, just one, before she forced herself to breathe. “But he will wake up?”

“He should,” Mariah said. “There are no signs that the damage reached his brain. His energy is weak, but present. He is exhausted and healing. That is all we can ask from his body right now.”

Aiko nodded once.

Mariah studied her, and her attention shifted to the left side of Aiko’s face. The burn mark from Reina Kusare ran from her jawline up toward the area beneath her left eye, raw and painful. The skin there was damaged in a way spiritual healing had not undone. It stood out against the rest of Aiko’s face, a harsh reminder carved into her.

“Speaking of scars,” Mariah said gently, “sit down.”

Aiko looked as if she might argue, then seemed to decide she did not have the strength to waste on it. She sat on the nearest empty bed. Mariah pulled over a stool and leaned close, her hands glowing faintly as she examined the burn. Yoshinori stood nearby, watching Aiko’s expression. She did not flinch, but he saw the tension in her shoulders. It still hurt.

Mariah worked long enough that Aiko seemed to understand the answer before it came. 

Finally, Mariah lowered her hands. “I can ease the pain. I can keep it from worsening. But I cannot restore the skin there. Not fully. The burn changed too much.”

Aiko’s face did not move. “I know.”

Mariah’s expression tightened with sympathy. “I can give you a bandage to cover it, if you want. Something light. Comfortable. You would not have to leave it exposed until you decide what you want.”

“No.”

Yoshinori looked at her.

Aiko’s voice was firm. Not loud, not bitter, not trembling. Firm. “I will live with it.”

Mariah studied her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Aiko’s fingers curled against her knee. “Reina did this. I am not hiding it.”

The name seemed to darken the air around them for a moment. Reina Kusare. The one who had left that mark on Aiko’s face, the reminder Aiko now chose to carry openly. Yoshinori wanted to say something, but no words felt right. He could tell from Aiko’s eyes that this was not about pretending it did not hurt. It was about refusing to let the pain become something she was ashamed of.

Mariah nodded slowly. “Then I will treat the pain and leave it uncovered.”

Aiko accepted that with a small nod.

Mariah turned to Yoshinori next. “Your turn.”

He sat where Aiko had been, though he almost felt guilty doing it. Compared to the others, his injuries felt too small. Bruises. Cuts. Strain. Pain that would fade. Mariah checked him carefully anyway, pressing glowing fingers against his shoulders, ribs, wrists, and chest, measuring what remained of his spiritual energy.

“You need rest,” she said at last. “Real rest. No training for a while, no missions, no trying to prove anything while your body is still recovering.”

Yoshinori almost smiled without humor. “That is all?”

“That is enough,” Mariah replied, giving him a look that told him not to argue. “You have no lasting injuries. Be grateful and do not turn that into guilt.”

He looked down.

Mariah saw too much.

“I will try,” he said.

“That is not the same as agreeing.”

“It is the best I can do right now.”

Mariah sighed, but she let it go.

Then she turned to Itsuki, and the room seemed to tighten. Physically, Itsuki looked untouched, the butterfly’s final healing leaving no wound behind, but she sat only after Mariah gently guided her down. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead. 

Mariah approached her slowly. “Itsuki.”

“I need you to sit down for me.”

Mariah took her gently by the arm and guided her to the bed. Itsuki moved because she was led, not because she chose to. She sat when Mariah pressed lightly at her shoulder. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead. Mariah’s professional calm remained in place, but Yoshinori saw the worry deepen in her face.

Mariah placed one hand near Itsuki’s wrist and the other near her shoulder. A soft glow gathered around her fingers as she searched.

The glow faded.

Mariah frowned.

She tried again, this time closing her eyes, reaching deeper with her own spiritual sense. Yoshinori watched her face for any sign of an answer. He found none. Aiko stepped closer without realizing it.

Mariah opened her eyes slowly.

“What happened to her?” she asked.

Yoshinori’s mouth went dry. “She used everything.”

Mariah looked at him.

“During the battle,” he continued. “She kept healing. Kept fighting. Then she fought Suzu. She poured everything into it. After that, her energy did not come back.”

Mariah’s eyes moved back to Itsuki.

Everyone in Illumina knew the truth of Suzu now. It was impossible to separate Itsuki’s silence from the fact that she had been forced to stand against someone she loved while the world demanded she survive it. Mariah knew enough as well, and Yoshinori saw the thought pass behind her eyes even if she did not say it.

Soul damage.

That was the fear she kept to herself.

Mariah touched Itsuki’s wrist again. “When someone loses access to spiritual energy, there is usually still a trace. Even if they are drained to the edge of death, even if their body cannot use it, something remains. A thread. An ember. A pressure.” She went quiet for a moment. “I cannot feel anything.”

Aiko’s face changed. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Yoshinori felt cold settle over him.

Itsuki sat between them like she had not heard.

Mariah drew in a careful breath. “I do not know why. I have never seen this before, not to this degree. It may recover with time. It may return slowly once her body and mind stabilize. But until we understand what happened, she is not allowed outside the kingdom.”

“She cannot leave Radiance?” Aiko asked.

“No,” Mariah said. “Not until her spiritual energy begins to return, or until we know why it disappeared. And I need you to understand something.” Her voice softened, but she did not hide the truth. “There is a possibility that it may never come back.”

The words hit harder than Yoshinori expected.

For Itsuki, healing had never been only an ability. It was part of how she protected people, and now even Mariah could not find its trace. 

Aiko looked at Itsuki, and the strength in her expression cracked for a moment.

Yoshinori had no idea what to say.

Then a voice called from one of the beds nearby.

“She will get it back.”

All three turned.

Ryuji sat propped against his pillows, bandages wrapped around his chest. His face was pale, and every breath looked like it tugged against broken ribs, but his eyes were clear. 

“Itsuki,” Ryuji said, speaking directly to her even though she did not turn toward him, “you will get it back. Maybe not today. Maybe not soon. But you will. And until then, we will be right beside you every step of the way.”

Itsuki gave no answer, but Ryuji only smiled faintly, as if his certainty had enough weight to stand on its own. 

He only smiled faintly, as if his certainty had enough weight to stand on its own.

Aiko crossed the space to him quickly. Yoshinori followed a step behind. When Aiko reached his bed, she hesitated for half a second, then leaned down and hugged him before he could warn her not to. Ryuji made an exaggerated sound of pain that was much louder than it needed to be.

“Ah. Broken ribs. Very wounded. Terrible choice.”

Aiko pulled back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

Ryuji smiled at her. “A little. But I wanted the hug, so I accept the consequences.”

Aiko stared at him for a second, then let out a breath that almost became a laugh and almost became a sob. “Idiot.”

“Probably.”

Yoshinori stood beside the bed, relief and grief tangling so tightly in his chest that he could barely tell them apart. “How bad is it?”

“Broken ribs,” Ryuji said. “A scar across the chest, apparently. Nothing dramatic.”

Aiko gave him a flat look. “That is dramatic.”

“Compared to everyone else, it feels rude to complain.”

Yoshinori understood that too well.

Ryuji’s gaze moved past them toward the door, then back. He did not ask immediately. He gave the question a moment to settle before speaking, as if he already knew the answer would hurt.

“What happened with Shunjiro?”

Aiko looked down.

Yoshinori’s expression tightened.

Ryuji nodded once, understanding before either of them said anything.

“We do not know,” Yoshinori said. “He disappeared.” 

Ryuji took that in, then nodded once. “Then we find out where he went.” 

Aiko looked at him. “You say that like it’s simple.” 

“It isn’t,” Ryuji said. “But Shunjiro is alive.” 

The confidence in his voice was not loud. It did not need to be. There was not an ounce of doubt in him, not even a crack where fear could slip through. Ryuji spoke Shunjiro’s survival like a fact the rest of the world had not caught up to yet.

He looked at Aiko, then Yoshinori, then toward Itsuki where she still sat silently beside Mariah. “Take it as a win that the six of us are alive.”

For one brief second, the words helped.

Then another voice entered quietly from across the room.

“Not everyone lived.”

The room went still.

Roki was awake in a bed farther along the wall, bandages wrapped around his chest, his beastkin ears lowered and his body half-turned toward them. A minor concussion had left him pale, and the chest wound still clearly hurt, but that was not what made his voice so heavy. His eyes were fixed somewhere low, not on anyone’s face.

“There were civilians,” Roki said. “A lot of them. And Hikari…”

His voice stopped on her name.

No one answered.

Roki was right. Survival did not erase the dead, and hope for Shunjiro did not change the cost paid by everyone who could not sit up in a healer room and speak for themselves. 

Roki did not blame them.

That somehow made it harder.

He looked like someone too kind to throw his pain at anyone, so he held it and let it crush him from the inside.

The silence stretched until the room’s other sounds slowly returned: cloth shifting, water pouring, a healer murmuring instructions near another bed.

Across the room, a sharper voice cut through the heaviness.

“Kaito Ishiro, if you turn your head away one more time, I am going to hold your nose shut until you open your mouth.”

Yoshinori looked over before he could stop himself.

Kaito Ishiro lay propped against several pillows, bandages visible beneath the loose medical robe someone had forced him into. He looked drained in a way Yoshinori had never imagined Kaito could look. The poison and exhaustion had stripped the color from his face, and though his eyes were open, there was a heaviness in them that spoke of a body still fighting to recover. Even so, he carried his stubbornness like armor.

Yumi sat beside him with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, glaring at him with pink eyes that had no patience left.

“I can feed myself,” Kaito said.

“You refused to feed yourself.”

“I was going to.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I was preparing.”

Yumi’s expression sharpened. “You were closing your eyes and pretending I would leave.”

“That was also preparation.”

Yumi shoved the spoon toward his mouth. “Eat.”

Kaito stared at it as if accepting the spoon would be a greater defeat than anything Tsubasa had done to him.

Yumi leaned closer. “Do not test me.”

After a long, dignified pause, Kaito opened his mouth.

Yumi fed him with the grim satisfaction of someone winning a war no one else had known was happening. For the first time since entering the room, Yoshinori felt the faintest breath of relief move through his chest. It did not erase anything. It did not fix anything. But seeing Kaito alive and being bullied into eating by Yumi made the world feel, for half a moment, slightly less broken.

Sora lay unconscious near the far side of the room, Yuki seated beside him like she had no intention of moving. The black veins were gone, and Mariah said there was no outward sign of corruption left, but no one knew what would happen when he opened his eyes.

Ryota stood nearby despite the healer’s clear disapproval, one hand resting against the scarred place across his chest. He could move now. Not comfortably, not without pain, but the wound was no longer life-threatening. His usual brightness had quieted into something dimmer. He looked at Sora, then away, then back again, as if afraid that if he stopped watching, something would change.

Mariah followed Yoshinori’s gaze. “The visible corruption is gone,” she said. “The black veins, the energy, all of it. There is no outward sign left.”

Yuki’s jaw tightened. “That does not mean he is safe.”

“No,” Mariah admitted. “It does not.”

Aiko looked toward Sora. “What happens when he wakes up?”

“We do not know yet.”

Yuki’s hand curled on the edge of the blanket. “They wanted to tie him down.”

Mariah’s mouth tightened slightly. “We considered restraints because we did not know if he would wake violently.”

“You brought knights,” Yuki said, her voice low and sharp.

“We had to prepare for every possibility.”

Yuki looked at her then. Her exhaustion became something dangerous. “And I told you that if anyone chained him to that bed, I would freeze their hands to the floor.”

Mariah sighed, not with anger, but with the strain of trying to keep fear from turning everyone against each other. “He is not restrained. But when he wakes, King Shadis will need to speak with him. So will the healers. Until we understand what happened, no one can assume anything.”

Yuki looked back at Sora, and her voice softened almost to a whisper. “I know.”

A castle official standing near one of the tables stepped forward then, as if waiting for a gap in the room’s grief before speaking. He held several written notes against his chest and looked uncomfortable being the next necessary voice.

“When everyone is stable,” he said, “reports will be required. For His Majesty and for the guild system. Not today, unless a healer clears you. But soon.”

Yoshinori turned toward him.

The word made the battle feel official in a way that angered him, turning blood, death, and disappearance into ink the kingdom could organize. 

“What about Shunjiro?” Yoshinori asked.

The official hesitated. “That will be part of the reports.”

“No.” Yoshinori’s voice hardened. “What about finding him?”

Aiko turned toward him, and the same thought sharpened in her eyes. Ryuji shifted against his pillows despite the pain.

Yoshinori stepped forward. “We need to start planning a search team.”

Aiko nodded immediately. “He could be anywhere. Waiting will only make it worse.”

“I am going,” Ryuji said.

Mariah looked at him. “You are absolutely not going anywhere.”

Ryuji glanced down at his bandaged chest. “Not today.”

“Not tomorrow either,” she said.

“We can figure out the details after.”

Yoshinori stepped forward. “We know him better than anyone. If he is hurt, hiding, or trying to get back, we can help.”

Aiko nodded immediately. “We are not leaving him out there.”

“No,” Kaito said from across the room.

The single word cut through everything.

Yoshinori turned.

Kaito had pushed himself a little higher against his pillows, though the effort clearly cost him. Yumi still held the bowl beside him, but she had gone silent. Her face showed no surprise. Only the weary understanding of someone who knew this argument had to happen and knew how it would end.

Kaito’s eyes were on Yoshinori.

“Illumina will not be leaving Radiance,” he said.

Yoshinori stared at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Aiko’s hands curled at her sides, but she did not speak. She let Yoshinori take the argument because his voice had already stepped into it.

“You cannot just decide that,” Yoshinori said.

“I can.”

“He is our guild leader.”

“And I am telling you that none of you are going after him.”

Yoshinori’s chest tightened with anger. “So we just wait? We sit here while someone else looks for him?”

“Shadis will decide who searches,” Kaito said. His voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it now. “A proper guild will be sent when we have enough information and when the kingdom can afford to move the right people.”

“A proper guild?” Yoshinori repeated, the words tasting bitter. “We are his guild.”

Kaito’s gaze did not soften. “You are children who barely survived one battle.”

The room seemed to flinch.

Yoshinori took a step forward. “That battle was not ordinary.”

“No,” Kaito said. “It was not. But it was not the worst thing waiting beyond Radiance either.”

Yoshinori had no immediate answer.

Kaito continued, measured and exhausted, each word placed carefully because he needed them to land. “You have not seen the true horrors of this world. What happened at the Oceanside was a glimpse. A terrible one, yes. One that cost too much. But only a glimpse. The Shadow Realm would kill you. Not because you lack courage. Not because you do not care enough. Because courage and love do not stop monsters that have been feeding on darkness longer than you have been alive.”

Aiko looked down, jaw clenched.

Ryuji’s eyes narrowed, but even he did not interrupt.

Yoshinori forced the words out. “Shunjiro would come for us.”

“Yes,” Kaito said.

That answer struck harder than denial would have.

Kaito leaned forward slightly, and Yumi moved as if to tell him to stop, but he kept speaking. “Shunjiro would come for you. He would run into the Shadow Realm with no plan, no rest, and no regard for his own life if he thought one of you needed him. That is exactly why you cannot do the same.”

Yoshinori’s anger faltered.

Kaito’s voice grew quieter, but no less firm. “Trust that Shunjiro survives. Trust the strength he has shown you. Trust whatever stubborn, reckless instinct has carried him this far. But do not make him fight his way home only to find that the friends he wanted to return to are dead because they tried to save him before they were ready.”

Yoshinori stood there with his hands clenched, his argument still burning but unable to leave his mouth, because every answer broke apart against the same terrible truth: Kaito was right. 

And that was what crushed him.

Kaito held Yoshinori’s stare a moment longer.

Then he said, “Do not let Shunjiro come home to corpses.”