The storm had not stopped since that night.

The skies above Inazuma were the color of steel — split apart again and again by the Shogun’s unending lightning. It was as if the heavens themselves mourned the fallen.

Kazuha had run until his legs gave out, his lungs burning with smoke and salt. The duel replayed behind his eyes in merciless clarity — the sound of blades clashing, the flash of violet light, and the moment the world went silent except for the wind screaming his friend’s name.

Tomo was gone.

And yet, his Vision still pulsed faintly in Kazuha’s trembling hands.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. His feet simply carried him — through the rain, through the forest, through the chaos of soldiers shouting in the distance — to you.

You were the one person he could still face. The one who had known him and Tomo both, who understood the way the two of them had dreamed aloud over campfires and sake cups about freedom and wandering the open skies. You had been there when they first met — quiet, patient, watching Kazuha’s restless spirit find something steady in Tomo’s laughter.

And now that laughter was gone.

By the time he reached your doorstep, dawn was threatening to break. His haori was torn, his hair clung to his neck, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He looked less like the gentle poet you knew and more like a ghost chased by the storm.

When you opened the door, he said nothing. The look in his eyes told you everything.

“…He’s gone.”

His voice cracked on the words, barely audible over the rain. His hand — the one clutching the dim Vision — shook as if he couldn’t decide whether to hold on tighter or finally let go.