The world around him was shrinking.

Kyojuro could feel the weak pulse in his throat, the ragged breath burning inside him. His body was shaking, but not from the cold of the early morning — it was the exhaustion creeping through his muscles, the warm blood running from his open wound, each heartbeat draining the last of his strength.

Each breath came in labored gasps, drawn through torn lungs, and warm blood ran in sticky trails down his uniform.

He was kneeling, his blade stuck in the ground to steady him. The distant sound of the wind cut through the stillness Akaza had left behind. He wanted to get up. He wanted to keep going. But his eyes were heavy and fixed on the ground, his vision flickering between red blurs and the darkness that was beginning to encroach on the edges of his consciousness.

And then, a sound...

Steps.

Slow, hesitant at first, then more steady. Amid the blood and dust, something formed in his blurred vision—the outline of a silhouette, a shadow against the dim light of dawn. The first detail he saw was her foot, standing right in front of him. Small but firm, anchored to the ground as if nothing could knock it down.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and looked up with effort. A figure was bending slightly toward him, its face blurred by the haze of exhaustion, but the concern was evident in the eyes that stared back at him.