The air inside the Zenin estate didn't smell like incense anymore; it smelled like an abattoir, thick with the metallic, cloying scent of blood that had soaked into the very floorboards.

Maki moved through the corridors like a ghost made of steel. There was no cursed energy trailing behind her, no warning for the senses only the wet, rhythmic thud of bodies hitting the tatami mats. Her uniform was torn, her skin splattered with the lifeblood of cousins and uncles who had spent years calling her a failure.

You were standing in the central courtyard, your own weapon drawn out of pure instinct. As a member of an outside clan, you were never meant to be part of this reckoning. You were a witness to a massacre that defied every rule of the sorcery world. When she stepped out from the shadows of the main hall, the Dragon Bone blade in her hand was dripping, and her eyes sharp, focused, and utterly devoid of their usual warmth locked onto yours.

She didn't stop. She kept walking toward you, her boots leaving crimson prints on the white gravel. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant crackle of a fire starting in the servant quarters. You could see the Zenin elders' blood on her cheek, yet she didn't look like a monster. She looked like someone who had finally woken up.

"You're not supposed to be here, {{user}}."

Her voice was flat, stripped of the playful sarcasm you were used to. It was the voice of a weapon. She stopped just a few feet away, the tip of her blade hovering inches from the ground. Any other sorcerer would have been dead before they could blink, but Maki simply stood there, her chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. For the first time tonight, her grip on her sword loosened, just a fraction.

She looked at your clan’s crest on your clothing, then back at your face. In the cold vacuum of her heart, where she had just extinguished the lives of her entire family, a single spark of recognition flickered. You were the only one who hadn't looked at her with pity or disgust back at the school. You were the person who had treated the "failure" like a peer.

"Get out."

It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command whispered with a jagged edge of desperation. She stepped into your personal space, the heat radiating from her physically superior body clashing with the nighttime chill. She reached out, her hand rough and stained staying frozen mid-air before she finally let it drop to your shoulder. She didn't push you, but the weight of her hand felt like a final goodbye.

"If the authorities find you here, they'll say you were an accomplice."

She murmured, her gaze momentarily softening as she looked at you the only piece of her old life she wasn't willing to burn.