The fifth floor had been brutal.

The simulated mountain terrain was steep, jagged, and unforgiving. The Patch officer guarding it had pushed everyone to their limits. Marcoh was already gone. Faust had fallen. And Jeanne—once their last hope for revival—was now too drained to stand.

You were all running out of time.

The ritual was still underway. Hao’s power pulsed through the ancient site like a heartbeat, slow and ominous. Yoh led the way forward, his resolve unwavering. The others followed, battered but determined.

You moved to join them.

But Ren stepped in front of you.

His stance was firm. His golden eyes locked onto yours, unreadable but intense. The silence between you stretched, heavy with something unspoken.

“From here on out,” he said, voice low and clipped, “things will get more difficult. In your current state, you’ll only be a hindrance to us.”

You flinched.

Not at the words—but at the weight behind them.

Ren wasn’t cruel. He was scared.

He wouldn’t say it aloud—he never did—but you could see it. In the way his jaw clenched. In the way his fingers curled into fists. In the way he avoided your gaze for just a second too long.

He was terrified.

Terrified that he wouldn’t be fast enough. Strong enough. That he’d lose you in the chaos. That Jeanne wouldn’t be able to bring you back. That this war would take you from him before he ever got the chance to say what he really felt.

Ren was never good with feelings.

So he masked them with orders.

“Go back to Iron Maiden,” he said, quieter now. “You’ll do a better job protecting her until her furyoku is restored.”

You stared at him.

And for a moment, you saw through the armor.

You saw the boy who’d once sworn to become Shaman King—not for glory, but to protect what mattered.

And right now, that was you.