Snow drifted lazily through the pale morning sky, carried by a wind so gentle it seemed almost shy. Each flake spiraled down toward the packed training grounds in front of the palace, where Toki ran in steady rhythm, his men following in a tight formation behind him.
Their boots pressed into the fresh snow with a soft crunch. Every exhale rolled from Toki's lips in a thin cloud, rising upward like faint ghosts that dissolved into the cold air. He breathed calmly, though his pace was fast enough to challenge even the hardiest of his troops.
Another day… another reminder that I'm still alive, he thought. Six months. It's already been six months since the last time I died.
"Commander, your speed keeps increasing…" someone grunted behind him.
"Try to keep up," Toki shouted back, not harshly—encouragingly. His voice carried clearly in the crisp air.
They pushed forward until Toki raised a hand and gradually slowed, stopping in the center of the snowy yard. His men halted behind him, panting lightly.
Toki turned to them with a sudden spark in his eyes.
"Let's do a duel."
The soldiers straightened at once, exchanging excited glances.
"But first," Toki added with a grin, "make snowmen."
A wave of confusion washed over them.
"Snow…men?"
"Commander, are you serious?"
"Is this training… or…?"
Toki shrugged. "If you want your commander to take you seriously in a duel, then show me your craftsmanship skills first."
Some of them groaned. Others laughed. But within seconds, the elite knights of the Fourth Division were kneeling in the snow, rolling spheres, shaping heads and torsos, carving crude faces with twigs for arms.
Ozvold was done first, of course. His snowman was intimidatingly symmetrical.
"You really made a warrior out of that thing…" Toki muttered.
Ozvold crossed his arms. "I take all challenges seriously."
When all the snowmen stood lined up—a row of lumpy figures watching silently—Toki clapped once.
"Now. Destroy your snowman using only one attack. Maximum efficiency. Maximum power."
A murmur rippled through his troops.
"And the winner," Toki added, "gets a special Snow Festival gift."
That made them straighten. Gifts from Toki were rare—but always meaningful.
One by one, they unleashed their strikes.
Mana blasts. Precision cuts. Compressed air slashes. Explosive kicks.
In the end, it wasn't even close.
Ozvold stepped forward, lifted his hand, and a thin ripple of near-invisible force sliced through the air. His snowman didn't explode—it simply ceased to exist, falling into powder like a collapsing dream.
The men groaned.
"Of course…"
"Again?"
"Can someone please beat him one day?"
Ozvold looked almost apologetic. Almost.
Toki sighed. "Well. A promise is a promise."
Still—his soldiers weren't satisfied.
"Commander! We want to see your attack!"
"Just once!"
"You haven't shown us your sword since the training with Sir Smith!"
"Commander, give us a real example!"
Toki rubbed his forehead. "You're all children, I swear…"
"Commander," Ozvold added softly, "they really want to."
Toki looked at their eager faces.
It's been months since I used my sword. Maybe… maybe it's time.
He finally nodded. "Fine."
A snowman was quickly assembled for him—this one surprisingly neat, considering how fast they worked.
Toki approached it slowly.
He drew his sword.
Steel whispered against the scabbard.
Snow reflected on the blade.
The butterfly motif—Utsuki's favorite—gleamed faintly along the polished steel.
Toki smiled without meaning to.
How long had it been since he held this weapon properly?
He aligned his stance, blade raised vertically, the edge dividing his face perfectly in two. The position brought back memories—unwelcome, but important.
He remembered the Tavern.
He remembered Nihon.
He remembered raising that fragile, cracked sword to protect Utsuki and Tora.
That blade broke that night.
But it had still drawn a line between life and death.
I didn't stop her… I let her escape. I was weak then.
But now—now he was different.
His mana cultivation had reached level two. Not much by normal standards, but stable. His Dark Division had advanced to level two as well, and unlike the others, he had mastered it in full.
At night, his eyes saw beyond shadows.
His reflexes were inhuman.
His spiritual sense was so sharp he could smell fear itself.
He could reach supersonic speed, though only briefly—his body still struggled to handle that kind of strain.
Still… he had grown.
He inhaled deeply.
Let's see how much.
He took one step and thrust the blade forward.
A pulse.
A flash.
A whisper of wind.
The snowman detonated into a white storm that blasted across the yard.
His men staggered back, shielding their eyes.
Toki lowered his sword, expression blank.
"…I wasn't focused," he muttered to himself. "Rusty."
His soldiers stared wide-eyed.
"R–rusty?"
"That was rusty?"
"What does he look like when he's not rusty?!"
A familiar voice cut through their awe.
"Toki," Bernard called, stepping forward with a grin, "don't you think you're a bit old to be building snowmen at this age?"
Toki smirked. "Bernard. What are you doing out here?"
Bernard waved a hand. "Nothing special. Just came to fetch you. His Majesty wants to speak with you. Immediately."
Toki's brows knitted.
"…The King?"
Bernard nodded. "Yes. And he insisted."
Toki turned to his men. "Return to patrol. Stay sharp."
"Yes, Commander!"
Toki, Ozvold, and Bernard made their way toward the palace. Snow continued to fall around them, settling on their shoulders and hair.
Inside, they ascended the marble steps and entered the great hallway leading to the throne room. But the moment they stepped inside, Toki stopped.
Something was wrong.
The royal guards were gone.
The chamber was empty except for three people:
King Mathias on his throne,
Smith on his right,
Felix on his left.
Toki's pulse quickened.
Felix is here. That means… this is about the divine divisions.
A cold realization slid down his spine.
Does the King suspect something? Does he know?
The King stood.
"Toki," Mathias said warmly, "I'm glad you came. I have a gift for you—a token of appreciation for your hard work."
He descended the steps, reaching into his cloak.
Before Toki could respond, the King placed a small glass vial in his hand. Inside: a swirling purple liquid that glowed faintly, like starlight trapped in ink.
Toki froze.
He glanced at Smith.
He glanced at Felix.
Both were smiling. Not nervously—amused. Like they already knew something he didn't.
"Toki," the King said softly, "did you truly think you could hide it from me?"
Mathias raised a hand and covered one of his eyes.
At once, dozens—no, hundreds—of spectral eyes materialized around him, floating in the air like living lanterns. They opened and blinked in eerie silence.
Toki swallowed hard.
Mathias's voice deepened, echoing slightly through the chamber.
"I see everything."
He stepped closer.
"You thought I knew nothing about the divine divisions. But I, too, possess one. The Emperor Division—a path only accessible to the bloodline of Rindal."
Bernard stiffened beside Toki.
Ozvold placed a hand on his sword.
Mathias waved them down gently.
"Relax. You are not in danger. None of you."
He smiled—warmly, sincerely.
"I will not ask how you reached level two so quickly. Others struggle for years, even a decade, to reach that stage. And as for your parents…" Mathias shook his head. "I will not pry. Your past is yours."
He tapped the vial in Toki's hand.
"This is the potion required for Level Three of your Dark Division. You will be the first knight in history to reach such a level."
Toki's voice was a whisper. "What will the Order say?"
Mathias chuckled. "Who said the Order knows anything? This will be our little secret."
Felix stepped forward.
"Toki, you have no idea how hard His Majesty worked to gather these ingredients. Some of them don't even exist in our kingdom." Felix rubbed the back of his neck. "And honestly, the potion was very close to exploding the first time I brewed it. Very close."
Smith coughed. "It did explode. Twice."
Felix glared at him. "Those were controlled explosions."
Smith ignored him and addressed Toki. "We do not know the activation conditions for your division. Nor the abilities of level three. But we do know that, unlike levels one and two—which resemble the Moon Division and the Star Division,in a way—level three shows faint similarities to the Division of Death."
Smith tilted his head.
"And for that reason, we needed help from the one person who knows more about Death than anyone."
Two hands suddenly wrapped gently around Toki's throat—from behind.
A soft, melodic voice whispered in his ear.
"Hello, darling."
Toki jolted.
Lorelay.
She slid forward, arms draped casually over his shoulders, her smile wicked yet amused.
"I'll be assisting your little… transformation," she chimed.
Toki stared at the King.
"Are you sure this is wise?" he asked quietly. "Veterans like Ozvold and Bernard trained for years to reach level three. Members of the Order like Smith, Lorelay, and Felix spent even longer to reach level four. And you want me to advance now?"
Mathias met his gaze with surprising kindness.
"Toki… I trust you. These are darkening times. We need people like you." His voice softened. "And don't worry about the Order. I will protect you."
He placed a firm hand on Toki's shoulder.
"The decision is yours. I cannot force you. But remember—sometimes, the only way to protect those we love… is to move forward."
A shadow passed across the King's face.
"I loved my wife more than life itself. But I still had to walk on… for the sake of my people."
Silence filled the chamber.
Toki looked down at the vial.
Grave-Digger.
The liquid shimmered strangely.
He clenched his fist.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said quietly.
He slipped the vial into his vest.
Bernard, Ozvold, and Toki bowed and left the throne room, leaving the others to continue their discussion.
Outside, Bernard excused himself with a wave and a yawn. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone."
Ozvold choked. "We are not—!"
But Bernard was already gone.
The two continued walking through the palace corridors and eventually out into the snowy streets. Night had begun to fall, and the sky darkened to a velvety purple.
Ozvold shivered slightly.
"Toki… wouldn't it be better to take a carriage? It's freezing."
Toki shook his head.
"No. I want to feel the snow under my boots."
Ozvold sighed. "…Of course you do."
As they walked deeper into the outskirts, Toki saw his men finishing their patrol. Many were trudging home. Snow forts and half-finished snowmen dotted the streets, but there were no children outside—the cold was too sharp, and dinner time had arrived.
The city felt peacefully quiet. Almost fragile.
Soon, almost without realizing it, the two reached the gates of the Maho Estate.
Toki paused.
A soft warmth stirred in his chest.
"This," he murmured, "is home."
Ozvold smiled faintly. "Yeah. We made it."
Snow drifted softly over the garden of the Maho Estate, blanketing the ground in gentle white layers that muffled every sound. From the distant forest, the wind sighed through the branches, carrying with it the icy scent of pine. It was evening—darkness settling over the estate like a velvet curtain—and in that half-light, a lone figure moved across the snow, disturbing its perfect surface with disciplined, repeated motions.
Toki noticed him before the boy ever realized he was being watched.
Kandaki stood near the shadowed edge of the trees, shirtless despite the freezing air. His breath came out in faint clouds as he swung a wooden staff in precise arcs, repeating the same movement again and again. Snowflakes clung to his hair, melting against the heat of his body. Each strike cut the air with a sharp hiss—clean.
He's improved, Toki thought quietly as he approached, his steps soundless on the snow. Much more than he realizes.
The boy's brows were knitted in fierce concentration, his young muscles taut, his posture straightened by stubborn determination. Every motion carried a quiet echo of Toki's own teachings—less pride, less noise, more intention.
Even so… one small lesson was in order.
Toki picked up a handful of cold snow, packed it expertly between his fingers, and with a flick of his wrist launched it through the air.
Kandaki sensed something—but too late.
He twisted sharply, slicing the first snowball in half with the staff.
"Good reflexes," Toki murmured to himself.
Then he threw four more.
They hit Kandaki squarely in the face, chest, and shoulder. The boy stumbled back, sputtering, snow falling from his hair like shattered frost.
"T-Maestre?!" Kandaki wiped at his eyes.
Toki stepped out from behind a tree, balancing another snowball lazily in one hand.
"Well?" he said, smiling faintly. "You've got decent reflexes, my disciple. But if you keep training half-naked in this cold, you'll get sick."
Kandaki straightened quickly and bowed so deeply his forehead almost touched the snow.
"I apologize, Maestre Toki. But training like this helps me feel every snowflake. Every shift in the air."
Toki blinked—then laughed softly.
It was exactly the kind of answer he would have given .
He stepped closer, brushing snow out of the boy's hair.
"Enough with the formalities," he said gently. "If you bow any further, your spine's going to snap."
Kandaki flushed with embarrassment but nodded.
Toki turned the snowball in his palm thoughtfully, then let it fall to the ground and asked, "Kandaki… what is a sword?"
The boy hesitated.
Once, he would've answered loudly and confidently. Once, he would have insisted he knew everything already.
Tonight, however, he lowered his gaze.
"…I don't know yet, Maestre."
Toki felt a small, approving smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Good. Very good. Humility looked much better on Kandaki than arrogance ever had.
"That is the correct answer," Toki murmured.
He drew his blade from its sheath with a slow, deliberate motion. Snow reflected along the metal, catching the engraved butterfly motif near the hilt.
A single snowflake drifted by, brushing against the blade.
It split perfectly in two.
Kandaki stared as Toki gently placed the sword's hilt into his hands.
"A sword can be anything," Toki said softly. "A symbol. A burden. A promise. A curse."
The boy carefully ran his eyes along the blade, reverent but nervous.
"But if you ask me," Toki continued, "a sword is the line we draw between life and death."
Kandaki swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the hilt as tears welled up behind his lashes—threatening to fall but held back by sheer force of will.
"Maestre… I—I don't deserve—"
"Hold it properly," Toki interrupted, stepping back. "Show me the stance I taught you."
Kandaki nodded, wiped his eyes, and raised the sword. His stance was straight. Grounded. Breathing steady. Every detail was in place.
Even Ozvold, watching silently from behind a cluster of snow-dusted shrubs, raised his brows at the sight.
I had a feeling you were about to ask him to cut something, so I prepared."
Two snowmen now stood several meters away—meticulously crafted. One tall, one short. Ozvold's instinct was impeccable.
Toki pointed toward the larger one.
"Kandaki. Cut it. One stroke."
"Yes, Maestre!"
The boy inhaled deeply. The world seemed to narrow around him—the snowman, the breath in his lungs, the sword in his hands.
Then he moved.
One clean arc.
One breath.
One line.
The snowman's head slid off its body and landed with a quiet thump.
Kandaki stood trembling—not from cold, but from something far greater. Pride. Relief. Awe.
Toki walked over silently and placed his own coat across the boy's shoulders.
"Very good, Kandaki. But I have one more lesson for today."
The boy looked up eagerly.
"From now until our next session," Toki said, "repeat that exact cut every single day. One hundred thousand times."
Ozvold sputtered behind him.
"One hundred thousand?! You'll turn him into a snow statue!"
But Kandaki didn't protest. Didn't question. Didn't hesitate. His eyes shone with pure determination.
"Yes, Maestre! I will!"
He's grown, Toki realized. More than I expected.
The boy stepped aside, excitement buzzing through him like electricity.
Toki exhaled. Snow slid down the back of his neck, cold but invigorating.
"My turn," he said quietly.
He took his stance. Closed his eyes. Let the cold seep into him. Let the world slow. Let the rhythm of falling snow sync with his breathing.
He could hear hearts beating in the distance.
Kandaki's rapid one.
Ozvold's steady one.
A deer deep in the forest.
His own—slow, controlled.
Focus, he thought.
On the tip of the blade.
He moved.
A sudden lurch—like the world had folded.
When he opened his eyes, the snowman was behind him.
Kandaki's mouth hung open.
Ozvold stepped forward, squinting.
Toki looked ahead—his blade had lightly carved a nearby tree, splitting its bark in a perfect diagonal line.
"What…?" he breathed.
Then Ozvold's expression changed.
"Toki—MOVE!"
Toki barely had time to shift before Ozvold slammed into him, pushing him aside. A split second later—
CRACK
The tree shuddered violently.
A deep fissure spread down its trunk… from the inside.
Then—
BOOM
It exploded outward, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. Snow rained down like shattered stars.
The three of them stared at the ruined tree, their breaths catching in disbelief.
Kandaki stepped forward.
"M-Maestre… I think… I think you passed through the snowman. You didn't hit it. Y-You went through it."
Toki stared at the untouched snowman.
Passed through?
That shouldn't be possible.
No… that wasn't just speed.
It wasn't the Division of Darkness either.
What did I do?
He glanced at the snowman again.
Impossible.
Or… is it?
Before he could think further—
"Boys! What have you done this time?!"
Utsuki's voice sliced through the cold air.
All three froze.
She marched toward them , her long hair dusted with snow and her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.
"It's freezing! Why are you outside half-dressed, Kandaki? And you two—why are you cutting trees and building snowmen at this hour?"
Toki coughed lightly, trying to look innocent.
"Well—"
"No excuses!" she scolded. "All of you, inside! Immediately! Before you catch pneumonia. And Toki—don't pretend you're immune. Your hair is literally frozen."
Ozvold leaned toward Toki whispering, "We're dead."
Kandaki whispered back, "Should we run?"
Toki muttered, "She'll catch us."
Utsuki narrowed her eyes. "I heard that!"
The three straightened instantly.
"Yes, Utsuki!"
"Yes, Mam!"
"Yes, Lady Utsuki!"
She pointed toward the house.
"In. Now."
The four trudged toward the warm light of the mansion, snow crunching beneath their feet. Kandaki kept glancing at Toki's sword. Ozvold kept glancing at the exploded tree. And Toki kept glancing at the vial hidden in his coat, feeling its weight like a heartbeat.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow I'll decide.
The door closed behind them with a soft thud, sealing the cold outside.