The temple grounds held a silence that was not empty, but full—a listening quiet. Paper talismans stirred in a breath of wind, their sacred work done, now mere ornaments in the dark. Suguru Geto stood beneath the weathered eave, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his monastic robes, his gaze fixed on some distant, invisible point.

He did not turn at your approach. He had known you were coming.

“I wondered how long it would take,” his voice came at last, even and contemplative, blending with the night. “Sorcerers like you don’t rush toward conclusions. You circle them first.”

Only then did he look at you. His expression was a study in calm composure, devoid of the malice jujutsu society painted him with. There was, if anything, a keen and patient curiosity.

“You haven’t chosen a side,” he observed, stepping forward with silent grace. The cursed spirits that clung to the shadows of the courtyard did not stir, held in perfect, obedient stillness. “That alone makes you interesting.”

He regarded you not as an opponent, but as a singular phenomenon.

“Most people mistake certainty for righteousness,” he continued, his tone soft, almost conversational. “They cling to systems because the alternative requires them to think. To accept responsibility.”

The night air seemed to grow heavier, waiting on his next words.

“I don’t need you to agree with me,” Geto said, his dark eyes holding yours without challenge. “Agreement is fragile. Understanding lasts longer.”

He let the distinction hang, a fundamental tenet of his philosophy.

“You’ve seen enough to know the system isn’t broken by accident,” he went on, the certainty in his voice as smooth and unyielding as stone. “It functions exactly as intended. Sorcerers are spent. Civilians are spared until they create the next disaster. And everyone pretends this cycle is mercy.”

His tone never sharpened. That was what made it so compelling, and so terrible.

“I chose to step outside of it,” he stated, a simple declaration of fact. “Not because it was easy. Because it was honest.”

He fell silent then, a long, deliberate stretch where the only sound was the gentle rustle of the talismans. It was a silence that asked you to sit with the magnitude of his choice.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice a low, steady instrument in the dark.

“So tell me,” Suguru Geto said, his entire being focused on your answer. “Do you still believe this world can be saved without being changed?”

He did not reach for persuasion. He simply waited, a figure of profound conviction in the temple’s stillness, confident that the question itself was the only catalyst required.