The silence after Juro's words wasn't just silence—it was judgment. The air thickened with unspoken comparisons: his logic against my brutality.
And for the first time, I saw doubt in Genji's eyes. Daigo avoided my gaze altogether.
That was unacceptable.
I had carried them through blood, torn through beasts they couldn't even look at without breaking. And yet here was Juro, loud and righteous, painting me as the villain.
Maybe I was.
But I wouldn't let him speak as if his truth outweighed my survival.
I moved.
The steel of my blade whispered as I drew it, its edge catching the firelight like a tongue of flame. Gasps broke out, but Juro didn't retreat.
Of course he didn't. His defiance was his armor.
"So this is what you are," he said, voice steady. "Not a leader. A tyrant."
His words stung. But stings fade. Flesh tears.
I swung.
The blade kissed his face—not cleanly, not mercifully. It carved a diagonal scream across his brow, splitting skin and bone. Blood poured hot and fast, blinding one eye.
He stumbled but didn't cry out. His hands clutched the wound, crimson spilling between his fingers.
The survivors recoiled in horror. Someone whispered his name.
Juro's knees buckled, but still he glared at me through his remaining eye, fire burning in the ruin of his face.
> "You… prove me right," he rasped. "Every strike… every drop of blood… proves I was right to fear you."
I stepped closer, my blade still dripping.
"Fear is survival," I whispered, only loud enough for him to hear. "Hate me. Curse me. But remember—you live because I choose it. Speak against me again, and I'll peel the rest of your face until nothing's left to argue with."
I grabbed his collar and shoved him back, hard enough to send him sprawling in the dirt. His blood pooled, steaming in the night air.
The survivors didn't move to help him. Not yet. They were frozen—by fear of me, by the weight of what I'd just done.
And that was the point.
My curse pulsed in my veins, exulting in the violence, feeding on the terror. For a moment, I felt the raw, intoxicating certainty of control.
Then I saw it: Genji's expression cracked, his lips parted as if to speak but no words came. Daigo's jaw was tight, his eyes darting between me and the bleeding Juro.
They were questioning me. Doubting me.
But none of them spoke.
That silence was mine.
I turned my back on Juro, lifting my blade for all to see. "This is what survival costs," I said. "Not rumors. Not hope. Flesh. Blood. Pain. If any of you think otherwise—step forward. Take his place."
No one moved.
The fire crackled. The night pressed close. Juro's labored breaths were the only sound against the hush.
And though I'd won, the taste of it was bitter. Not because of what I'd done to Juro—but because, for a heartbeat, his words had echoed louder than my blade.
That could not be allowed.
I tightened my grip on the sword and told myself the lie I needed to breathe: I am not bad. I am not cursed. I am survival itself.
But in the corner of my mind, the curse laughed.
And somewhere behind me, Juro's ruined eye stared like an accusation carved into the night.