Shin Jin stood alone in the cold garden, feeling the weight of six years pressing down on his shoulders.
He looked at the preserved blossom—perfect, unchanging, trapped in resin like Akane had been trapped in her failing body. A gift or a warning. A gesture of sympathy or a reminder that Mr. Ace knew exactly where to apply pressure.
With Mr. Ace, it was probably both.
Then he turned toward the cathedral, where Noir, Piers, and Soo Ah were preparing for their promised night out. Tea-stained tickets in hand. A heist already planned. A truth waiting in a restricted archive that Mr. Ace had deliberately made accessible.
Some ghosts don't stay buried.
Shin Jin knew that better than anyone. He'd spent six years trying to bury his own, visiting this garden, touching this stone, whispering apologies to silence.
But Akane's ghost wasn't the one he was worried about tonight.
It was the ghosts his students were about to dig up—the ones sleeping in Section 7B, in ancient case files, in the truth about what Crimson Seers really were and what had happened to every single one who'd come before Noir.
Mr. Ace had given them the map. Had armed them with knowledge. Had deliberately set them on a collision course with secrets Yuusha wanted to keep buried.
The question was: why?
Shin Jin looked one last time at the unmarked stone, at the preserved blossom catching the last rays of fading sunlight, and wondered if he was protecting his students or simply delaying their inevitable destruction.
Some choices, he was learning, couldn't be unmade.
Some doors, once opened, could never be closed again.
And some ghosts didn't wait to be summoned—they simply rose when the living forgot to keep watch.
...
Later that evening, in Yuusha's office.
The room was exactly as it always was—meticulously organized, every scroll and file in its designated place, the scales painting hanging behind Yuusha's desk with its eternal balance frozen mid-tilt. Soft light from blessed lanterns cast no shadows. Everything visible. Everything controlled.
Yuusha didn't look up when Mr. Ace entered. His pen continued its precise movement across parchment, documenting something in that elegant script he'd perfected over decades. "The students?"
"Resting in the medical wing. The basket was delivered as instructed." Mr. Ace's voice was flat, factual. "They examined the contents. Seemed appropriately wary of accepting gifts from the Head Priest after recent events."
"Good. Caution is the beginning of wisdom." Yuusha set down his pen with careful precision, finally raising his eyes to meet Mr. Ace's bandaged face. "And Noir specifically? Any signs of further manifestation?"
"None. Spiritual readings are stable. Residual trauma from the mission, but nothing unexpected for someone who experienced what he did." Mr. Ace's posture remained neutral, professional. "Shin Jin visited them earlier. Delivered educational materials. A folder of historical case studies."
Yuusha's hand paused halfway to picking up his pen again. "What kind of case studies?"
"Crimson Seer precedents. The Heian-kyō incident. Anomalous crystallization reports from Site 227. Standard supplementary training materials for advanced theoretical analysis."
Each word was true. Each word carefully chosen to obscure what mattered.
Mr. Ace didn't mention the page from the Codicil of Broken Cycles, the one detailing reincarnation rituals and soul anchoring. Didn't mention the hand-drawn map tucked between reports, showing a route to Section 7B that avoided the usual spiritual wards. Didn't mention that he'd personally added both items while the folder sat waiting in the archive office.
Yuusha nodded slowly, his suspicion easing like ice melting under warm water. "Shin Jin always did favor academic caution over practical urgency. Probably thinks if he drowns them in history, they'll be too educated to make rash decisions." He closed the file on his desk with finality. "Continue monitoring them. I want to know the moment Noir shows any instability—or any further awakening of what lies beneath."
"Of course."
Mr. Ace turned to leave, his movements precise as always.
"Ace."
He paused, his bandaged head angling back slightly without fully turning around.
"You don't approve of my methods," Yuusha said. Not an accusation. Not a question. An observation delivered with the confidence of someone who'd learned to read even the most inscrutable of subordinates.
"My approval is irrelevant. I serve the Order's interests."
"And yet you disapprove." Yuusha leaned back in his chair, studying the bandaged figure with academic interest. "I can hear it in the pauses between your words. See it in the way you report information. You think I'm too harsh. Too clinical. Too willing to sacrifice individual wellbeing for collective advancement."
Mr. Ace was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight it usually didn't.
"If you're asking whether fear and manipulation are effective tools for cultivating loyalty in a weapon..." He paused deliberately. "History suggests otherwise. Weapons forged under constant pressure tend to develop cracks. And cracked weapons have a tendency to break at critical moments."
Another pause, heavier this time.
"Or worse—they turn on their wielders."
He didn't wait for a response. Simply walked out, leaving Yuusha alone with his files and his certainty and the faint, lingering implication that perhaps he wasn't as in control as he believed.
...
Outside, in the silent corridor where blessed lanterns cast their shadowless light, Mr. Ace stopped.
From within the layers of bandaging around his right hand, he withdrew a small object—a talisman no larger than a coin, still faintly shimmering with residual spiritual energy. The same one he'd used earlier to subtly interfere with the medical wing's spiritual monitoring systems, ensuring that Noir's unstable readings after the void vision never reached Yuusha's surveillance network.
A small deception. A minor manipulation of data.
But enough to buy the students time. Enough to keep Yuusha's attention diffused just a bit longer while they stumbled toward truths they weren't ready for but needed anyway.
Mr. Ace crushed the talisman between his fingers. The delicate spiritual matrix collapsed instantly, releasing a brief shimmer of light before dissolving into powder. The evidence scattered across ancient stone, indistinguishable from dust.
Some weapons, he thought, should never be handed to men who see only power.
He walked on through empty corridors, each step silent, leaving no trace behind him.
Behind him, the talisman's remains settled into cracks between floor stones.
In the garden, a preserved blossom sat on an unmarked grave.
In his office, Yuusha studied files on transcendence.
The pieces were in motion.
And even Mr. Ace, for all his careful observation and deliberate manipulation, couldn't predict exactly how they would fall.
He only knew that when they did, the impact would crack foundations that had stood for centuries.
And that, perhaps, was exactly what the Order needed.