The smoke still lingered in the air, that charred tang of flesh clinging to the back of my throat. Survivors huddled in the shadows, whispering rumors of safe havens and letters from nowhere. False hope dressed up as destiny.
And Juro—of course it was him—decided to speak up again.
He wasn't content with whispering like the rest. His voice carried, sharp as broken glass.
> "We're walking in circles, clinging to rumors like starving dogs. Shitsubo, you lead us into blood, not survival. Tell me—what's the plan besides killing? Or is killing all you are?"
Gasps rippled through the group. Genji stiffened beside me, Daigo muttered a curse under his breath, but no one moved to shut Juro down.
They were waiting. Watching.
And that infuriated me.
I stepped forward, boots grinding ash. My shadow stretched long in the firelight. "The plan?" I said, my voice calm, too calm. "The plan is simple. Kill the things that hunt us before they tear us apart."
Juro didn't flinch. He never did. That was his trick. His voice was steady, even righteous, when he replied.
> "That isn't a plan. That's desperation. That's you lashing out like a beast. We don't survive by pretending we're gods swinging hammers of thunder. We survive by knowing when to run, when to think. You confuse strength with survival, Shitsubo. And one day it'll damn us all."
His words sliced deeper than I expected. For a heartbeat, I felt the survivors' eyes tilt toward him, weighing his truth against my presence.
The mask I wore—the unbreakable, unyielding figure—threatened to crack.
I couldn't allow that.
Not here. Not ever.
I closed the distance between us, every step deliberate. Juro's jaw tightened, but he didn't move. His defiance was a blade held flat against my throat.
"Strength is survival," I said, each word sharpened by venom. "Without it, you're nothing but meat for the Aggressors. You think your clever words will shield you when one of Dagon's hounds claws through your ribs? Tell me, Juro—when it comes, will you argue it to death?"
Laughter broke from a few throats, nervous, brittle. But others were silent, caught between us.
Juro's good eye burned with a clarity that cut me raw.
> "At least I'll die honest. Not cursed, not pretending the blood on my hands is salvation."
The world tilted for a second. His words weren't just aimed at me—they pierced me.
And in that silence, I felt it: the curse writhing under my skin, whispering hunger, reminding me I wasn't a leader, just a monster in borrowed flesh.
My hand twitched toward my blade. Not yet.
But soon.