The water wasn't warm—it was cold. It was cold, and heavy, and it clung to his body like fingers pulling him into the abyss. His limbs floated just beneath the surface, twitching with each shallow ripple as the lake swallowed more of him.
Why… does my body feel so light?
His blood. He'd lost too much of it. That had to be it. Somewhere between consciousness and collapse, the pain had blurred into numbness. He could no longer tell whether he was floating, or falling, or simply ceasing to be.
The surface shimmered above his half-lidded eyes, a mirror smeared with light—hazy streaks of orange, pink, and bleeding yellow painting the sky in the warm colors of a world that was continuing without him.
Evening.
Evening had fallen. The sky was proof enough.
They were supposed to be back by now—supposed to—a word that sounded so pointless now.
Would they even notice if I wasn't there?
Would they search for him? Would they ask questions?
Would they care?
Tatsuya's chest ached. Not from his wounds. Not from the cold. It was a dull, low pain, coiling in his heart like a snake that had found a familiar nest to return to.
I'm tired.
His eyelids fought against him, weighted like lead, each blink longer than the last. His body screamed for rest, for reprieve, for release. But more than anything, he feared that if he gave in—if he surrendered to the velvet dark behind his eyes—he'd never open them again.
And maybe… that wouldn't be so bad.
He let his head drift backward, hair fanning out into the lake like ink spilled into still water. He watched the last few glimmers of sunlight dance upon the waves.
How am I supposed to keep walking forward… when every step just proves that everything I believed in was a lie?
The thought, unbidden, tasted bitter on his tongue. Like ash. Like failure.
He had wanted to try.
He really had.
He had wanted to be their friend. Sora, Itsuki, Misuki, Nisuki, Luna, Ruza, even Yatsu in his strange way. Tatsuya wanted to laugh with them. To speak without fear. To be… accepted.
And yet.
He had failed.
Not because of Sora's distrust.
Not because of the magic she turned against him.
But because he had believed—even for a moment—that someone like him could be liked.
Tch… how pathetic.
Ruza had been the first to offer him something different. A hand through the dark. A smile not stained with pity. She cracked open the shell he had built around himself. Gave him a glimpse of what it meant to matter.
But he hadn't held onto it.
He let it slip through his fingers.
And now… the shell was back.
Thicker. Heavier. Colder.
Why did I think it would be different this time?
Why did I believe the story would change just because I wanted it to?
The real betrayal hadn't come from Sora.
It had come from himself.
Tatsuya was someone who at his hart craved for connections, deep down he wanted to be seen, to be the center of attention.
A single breath shuddered from his lips, bubbles drifting toward the surface.
The devil always drives us into despair… because depression is Satan's utmost joy.
He didn't know where he heard that. It echoed like scripture, like something Paul might've said to him back in the old days when Tatsuya still clung to faith with both hands.
And yet, as the numbness spread, it made sense. In this moment, with his vision narrowing and the lake closing in, it felt like despair was the only thing real. The only thing left that he could still feel.
He let his eyes close.
Just for a moment.
Just for a second.
His lungs clawed for air, and his body convulsed—but he didn't resist. It felt familiar. Too familiar. Like an old friend, whispering welcome.
So this is what it means to die…
No one was calling his name.
No hands were reaching for him.
No one was coming.
And in the silence of that truth, as the darkness embraced him, Tatsuya realized—perhaps the most terrifying thing of all wasn't the end itself.
It was the fact that this might be the only connection he'd ever truly had.
Death.
Part 2
There was no sound.
No rushing of water, no gasping for breath, no thunderous roar of blood in his ears.
Only the faint whisper of wind rustling through trees, like distant lullabies sung by a forest that had long forgotten the presence of men.
Tatsuya stirred.
His lungs pulled in air—slow, shaky, but real.
Air.
A breath.
His fingers twitched against damp earth. Cool moss cradled his palms, and the scent of dew and loam filled his nostrils. He coughed, and pain bloomed across his chest, a raw reminder that he was not dreaming.
His arm—his right arm—throbbed with a low, hollow ache. Not sharp. Not unbearable. But dull and deep, the kind of pain that lingered long after the scream had passed.
He blinked up at the canopy above.
Emerald leaves danced overhead, filtering sunlight in fractured beams that lit the clearing in patches of gold. Birds chirped in the distance. Life pulsed around him.
I'm… not dead?
Slowly, shakily, he pushed himself up.
He expected his vision to swim. For his limbs to buckle. But they didn't. His muscles were sore, and his joints ached with the stiffness of someone who had nearly drowned—but the bone.
The bone.
The fracture was gone.
There had been blood, so much blood. He remembered the sickening crack, the sight of ivory piercing through flesh, the surreal way the water turned crimson around his leg.
But now?
The wound had vanished—sealed with precision and care, leaving behind a faint mark of fresh scar tissue, still pink but closed.
"…You're awake."
The voice was gentle. Quiet. A low tone spoken with no urgency, no alarm, but not indifference either.
Tatsuya turned.
Sitting a few feet away on a large, flat stone near the pond's edge was a man. Older than Tatsuya, but not by much, Tatsuya judged him to be in his twenties. His hair was dark blue and tied back in a neat ponytail. He wore a black kimono patterned with faint white florals—modest, but dignified. A katana rested across his lap, though his hand was nowhere near its hilt.
He looked up at Tatsuya with calm, weathered eyes. There was no hostility in his gaze. Only observation. And beneath that… perhaps, pity.
Tatsuya tried to speak. His throat burned.
"You saved me," he rasped.
The man inclined his head ever so slightly.
"I did what I could," the man said. "Though I fear it may have been reckless. You were losing a lot of blood."
Tatsuya looked again at his leg, then at his chest, where torn fabric hinted at other wounds that were now closed.
"…You healed me."
"I tried."
His words carried no pride.
"I know a few techniques passed down through our line. Old arts. They're less about magic and more about… returning the body to a state it should not have left. The flow of life… when nudged gently, will often correct itself."
He bowed his head, as if ashamed to speak even that much of himself.
"My name is Takashi Tokagame," he said finally. He paused, then added with quiet seriousness:
"I don't mean to sound cruel, but you were not easy to save. I almost didn't find you in time."
Tatsuya swallowed. His throat ached. His thoughts raced.
Why… did he save me?
Strangers didn't help people like him. Not without reason. Not without expectation.
And yet, Takashi looked at him with no demand in his eyes. No condescension. Just a quiet steadiness that made Tatsuya feel more exposed than the water ever had.
"I fell," Tatsuya said, voice hoarse. "I… I couldn't fight back. I—"
"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Tokagame interrupted gently.
He stood, slow and deliberate, as though not to startle. The way he moved, the way he breathed—everything about him was calm, controlled, practiced. The mark of someone who had fought many battles, but no longer needed to announce it.
"I am not your judge," he said, brushing moss from his sleeves. "Only the one who happened to be here when death passed by and left you behind."
Tatsuya's lips trembled.
"…Why?"
Takashi looked at him then—not past him, not through him, but at him.
"Because someone once pulled me from the river too."
Silence settled between them again.
There was no sermon. No long speech. No grand lesson.
Just a swordsman, humble and still, and a boy who had come back from the edge.
"…Thank you," Tatsuya said at last, voice barely above a whisper.
Takashi gave the faintest smile. Not out of satisfaction, but acceptance.
"You're welcome."
He turned toward the trees.
"If you can walk, I'll take you to the village. But if not, I'll carry you. I don't believe you should be alone right now."
And somehow, that kindness cut deeper than any blade.
Tatsuya looked at his hands. Still shaking. Still alive.
Someone pulled me back.
Again.
Part 3
Tatsuya's legs trembled beneath him as he tried to stand, using the base of a nearby tree to brace his balance. His breath still came in shallow bursts, and each motion threatened to throw him back into unconsciousness. But he pushed through.
It was better than floating.
Better than drowning.
Better than the cold.
He looked up at the man standing just ahead, his silhouette framed by drifting leaves and pale light.
"Wait…" Tatsuya managed between gasps. "We shouldn't return… not yet."
Tokagame turned, his expression unreadable.
"There are these demon beasts," Tatsuya continued, his voice thin. "They're… they're fast. Strong. They attacked me before I fell in."
He didn't mention the eyes. The low growl. The massive jaw that had nearly clamped down on his leg before the waters swallowed him.
Tokagame let out a quiet breath.
And then, a smile.
Not smug.
Not condescending.
Just… a gentle, knowing smile, as though Tatsuya had said something inevitable.
"I know," Tokagame said softly. "Why do you think I'm here?"
His voice wasn't proud, but certain. A man speaking not of duty, but of understanding.
Tatsuya stared. "You mean…"
Takashi didn't answer. He simply turned, his dark kimono whispering against the grass, and motioned with a nod.
"Come. If you walk slowly, you'll manage. And if danger finds us… I'll handle it."
Tatsuya didn't understand what that meant—not yet.
But he followed.
The walk was slow. Painfully so.
Each step sent shocks up Tatsuya's half-healed limbs. Though Takashi offered to carry him more than once, Tatsuya refused. Pride, maybe. Or stubbornness. But something in him couldn't bear the thought of being a burden again—not when this man had already done so much.
The forest darkened with every step.
The sun dipped beyond the treetops, and the air turned cold again. The trees grew thicker, the brush more tangled. A silence settled around them. Not peaceful—watchful.
And then—
A sound.
A low snarl.
The underbrush trembled.
And out of the shadows, it emerged.
A demon dog.
Its fur was ashen and matted, mottled with patches of hardened scale. Its eyes gleamed crimson with rage and hunger, and black smoke hissed from between jagged fangs. Muscles rippled beneath its hide as it circled low, fangs bared, targeting the weaker of the two—
Tatsuya.
His heart seized. Legs froze.
He couldn't run. Couldn't fight.
He knew that. He knew it with absolute certainty.
But the moment the beast lunged, jaws gaping wide, a figure moved between them.
And in that instant—Tatsuya witnessed power.
Shhhrrrk—!
A single motion.
A step forward.
Steel drawn from its sheath in one continuous line.
"Sword art of water—Azure Draw."
The swordsman channeled his mana through his blade using Manaflux. A flow of mana made him faster, strike sharper, and react before a single heartbeat can pass.
That was the power of Manaflux, you couldn't see it with the naked eye. Only someone who know and understood it could see it.
Tatsuya knew what it was, he had learn it from Paul but he hadn't had the knowledge to see it yet.
The attack came, It was not just a sword strike.
It was a wave.
The katana left behind a trail of shimmering liquid light, as though the blade had cut through the very air and drawn water from nothingness. The arc of the slash bloomed out in a crescent, striking the demon beast mid-air with a hiss of steam and sound.
The force cleaved through the beast's side with surgical grace.
Blood splashed the forest floor. The demon dog let out a strangled, wet cry—then collapsed, body twitching, foam trailing from its maw.
Silence followed.
Only the faint ripple of water lingering in the air like mist remained.
Tatsuya's breath caught in his throat.
He had seen combat before. He had seen magic.
But not like this.
The man before him stood without tension, katana gleaming faintly with residual mana that still dripped from the edge like falling rain. There was no trace of rage in him. No triumph. Only purpose.
Tokagame exhaled.
Then, sheathed the blade in a smooth, whispering motion.
"…Forgive me," he said without turning. "I should have been more cautious. That beast was hunting. You were right to be wary."
Tatsuya opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Eventually, Tokagame turned to face him again, his expression calm.
"I am a member of the Swordsman Corps," he said. "A lesser known order, these days. Our purpose is simple—travel the borders, defend the outer lands, and pass along what little swordsmanship we've mastered to the next generation… if they're willing to learn."
So this is a members of the swordsman corps? Tatsuya thought. If I want to learn swordsmanship Yatsu had told me I needed to ask the swordsman corps, right?
But can I ever reach that level of strength?
His speed and precision are undoubtedly faster than Ruza and Sora wouldn't even be fair to compare her with him.
I don't judge him to be faster then Paul though.
Tokagame placed a hand on the hilt of his katana—not with pride, but reverence.
"We walk where others won't. We sleep in forests where monsters crawl. Most forget we exist. That is fine. We do not act to be remembered."
He bowed his head slightly.
Tatsuya stared. Not in awe. Not quite.
But in realization.
This man, this quiet, humble swordsman who spoke as if his actions were the most natural thing in the world, had just saved his life again.
"…You didn't have to help me," Tatsuya said, his voice thin. "Why go so far?"
Tokagame looked at him.
Eyes filled not with judgment, but weight.
"You were in pain," he said simply. "And I had the strength to ease it."
Then he turned toward the direction of the village, which now, finally, lay just over the next ridge, its lanterns flickering through the trees like fireflies.
"Come. Let's return."
Part 4
The path to the village seemed shorter this time.
Maybe because the weight in his legs had been replaced by a weight in his chest. Maybe because every step forward only seemed to tighten the knot of dread twisting inside his stomach.
The lights of the village flickered like stars just before dawn. Hearths glowed behind wooden walls. Smoke from chimneys curled gently into the sky. Everything looked… ordinary.
But nothing felt that way.
Tatsuya's eyes scanned the crowd of villagers milling near the central square, searching—no, hoping—for a familiar face.
Misuki… she's the only one who wouldn't know what happened. If I find her first, I can explain...
Before the memories caught up.
Before Sora's voice could reach her first.
Before the truth was drowned in blood and confusion and—
"There he is!"
The voice pierced the fog in his thoughts.
Tatsuya blinked, looking up just in time to see a boy running toward him. Tom. The same wide-eyed kid Tatsuya had pulled from a circle of bullies what felt like a lifetime ago.
The boy's expression was filled with relief and excitement. "Tatsuya! Come on! Everyone's waiting—you need to come with me!"
Tatsuya's feet froze.
Not because of the boy.
But because of what he was running toward.
The chief's home.
His gaze flicked toward the man beside him—the quiet, composed swordsman who had saved him not once, but twice now.
"Are you going inside too?" Tatsuya asked, the question heavier than it seemed.
He didn't want to admit it, but the thought of facing Sora again made his body tense instinctively. Somewhere deep in his bones, his soul remembered the fire of her anger. The raw magic. The judgment in her eyes.
And if she were there again—if she tried something—
Takashi could stop her.
But the man shook his head. "No. I haven't finished my duty yet," he said, glancing toward the shadowed treeline as though hearing something Tatsuya couldn't. "The forest's edge is still unsettled. I'll return there until I'm certain no other beasts remain."
"…Okay," Tatsuya said quietly, his voice carrying a faint thread of disappointment. "Be safe out there."
Takashi offered a small smile and raised a thumb.
"I will. Thank you… for your concern."
Tatsuya watched him for a moment longer before turning to face the house.
The front door felt heavier than it should have.
His fingers hovered just above the wood, hesitating.
If Sora's in there… will she try to kill me again?
The memory of her eyes—the absolute hatred in them—flashed through his mind like a wound being reopened.
But no, she wouldn't.
Not here. Not in the village. Not surrounded by people.
I need to focus on Luna.
He took a breath.
And opened the door.
The room inside was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of wood, candle wax, and something faintly metallic—blood?
A long table stretched through the room's center, where three people sat in silence.
The village chief, an old man with a long beard and sun-scarred skin.
The maid from the estate, her eyes cast downward as she wrung her hands.
And finally—Misuki's mother. A middle-aged woman whose stern features were now cracked by worry and exhaustion.
But Tatsuya's eyes found only one person.
"Misuki!" he called the moment he saw her, stepping forward.
She sat beside her mother, her shoulders hunched, hands resting in her lap, gaze empty.
"Misuki, Luna is injured! We need to"
"We know, Tatsuya…"
The interruption struck like a blade.
Misuki hadn't even looked at him.
And when she finally did raise her eyes.
They were lifeless.
Hollow.
Not the panic of someone just receiving bad news. No, this expression was something else entirely.
Like someone who had already cried everything away.
Tatsuya's heart dropped. The world tilted, spun. His mouth opened, dry and uncertain.
"Where's… where is Luna?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Misuki didn't speak. She just lifted one hand and pointed.
A door.
Simple.
Closed.
Ordinary in every way.
But to Tatsuya, it might as well have been the gate to hell itself.
He stumbled forward, breath shallow.
His hand reached the doorframe, fingers trembling. The wood beneath his palm felt cold. Hard. Unforgiving.
He hesitated.
What would he find beyond it?
What would he do if she was.
No. Don't think that.
He forced himself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
Please god, may she be alright.
If she died it would be his fault and he could never life with that.
Did he made the right choice?
Could he have done something else?
If he was stronger would thing be different?
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
He stepped inside.