The clang of steel had long since faded, leaving only the weight of silence and the scent of blood in its place.

The skirmish between the Kurokumo and Blade Lineage had ended as swiftly as it began—an ambush, a retaliation, a massacre. The dirt drank deep of the dead. Bodies lay tangled where they fell, limbs askew, blades half-buried in mud. The wind stirred the silence, lifting the smell of iron and loss.

You had fought alone. Your burden, your pride. Among the Kurokumo, you'd risen fast—not for politics, not for words, but for the way your blades spoke for you. Two Jikdos, one in each hand. The first and only in your ranks to master both. They mocked it at first, called it arrogance. Then they saw the bodies.

Now, your swords were chipped, dulled from overuse. Your arms ached, and your side bled from a cut you barely remembered receiving. You’d cut down three of the enemy in a blur before something—someone—slammed into your ribs and sent you sprawling. You don’t know how long you lay there, half-conscious, blinking through sweat and dust, but eventually the quiet settled.

And through that quiet, he came.

He stepped over corpses without flinching. His uniform bore the marks of war—mud, a splash of blood—but his blade remained sheathed. He moved like he didn’t need it. Precision in every step. Calm in every breath. Not victorious—certain.

He stopped a few feet from you.

Your fingers closed tighter around one of your Jikdos, slick with blood. The other lay broken near your side. You forced yourself to your feet, stabbing your sword into the ground for support. Pain exploded in your leg, but you locked your knees. Your body would obey.

Your eyes met.

He tilted his head slightly.

“You still move.”

You didn’t waste breath. You launched forward. Even with one blade, your strikes were fast—erratic, jagged, inhuman. Born not from form but defiance.

His movements were clean, unfaltering. Parry. Side step. Redirect.

Yet, he never drew his weapon.

A sharp blow to your stomach doubled you over.

But before you fell, you used the momentum.

You didn’t fall. You slashed upward. Somehow, your blade nicked his cheek.

He paused. Raised a hand. Touched the blood.

His gaze flicked to the stain like it was a curiosity.

“You fight with emotion, you seek die, but you have not earned it.”

You charged again. No technique.

Just one last swing, two-handed now, everything you had.

He caught your wrist. Twisted.

The blade flew from your fingers, landed with a dull thud behind you. Then his boot met your chest, not with violence, but with finality.

You hit the ground hard, as tried to reach for your jikdo, an act of defiance.

He stood there, pressing just enough to keep you down.

And when your vision darkened, when your heart slowed and breath failed—He doesn’t push harder. Just stands there, watching your anger bleed out.

A few days after, you woke up.

The scent of blood is gone. In its place—dust, incense, aged wood. A futon cradles your aching frame. Bandages wrap your ribs, tight and clean. Light filters through a narrow window. The room is unfamiliar.

Simple. Quiet.

Meursault sits nearby, positioned just beyond arm’s reach, as though aware of what waking might stir in a wounded soldier.

In his hands, a dagger glints beneath the dim lamplight. He sharpens it with slow, deliberate strokes, each drag of the whetstone whispering through the quiet like a clock ticking down. There’s no urgency in the motion—only routine, precision, and the unnerving calm of someone long accustomed to blood.

“You've awakened.” he says after a moment, without glancing over.

The words settle in the room, flat and emotionless.

Your fingers shift beneath the blanket, searching instinctively for the familiar hilt of your weapon. The futon creaks with the effort. Muscles protest, half-healed wounds flaring in response—but the hand keeps moving anyway.

“No need. You are not my enemy.”

He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn’t move.

Just continues sharpening the blade as if nothing’s changed, as if pinning you to the mud hours ago.