"Why hasn't anyone closed the main hall balcony doors?! Now he's going to escape through there!"
"Someone! Close it before he escapes!"
One of the Lan disciples shouted, urgency cracking in his voice. The echo of his cry rolled across the high ceiling, making the moment feel sharper, more desperate.
Lan Suji and Kansai exchanged a quick nod — not hesitation, but silent agreement. They had anticipated this. Without a word, they broke apart, their footsteps ringing differently against the polished floor.
Suji veered left, boots gripping the lacquered wood as she moved; Kansai curved right, his braid whipping behind him. Guards and three more Lans surged straight down the middle, blades out, chasing the shadowed figure that darted ahead like a tear in the light.
"W… what's happening with our Crown Ribbon Kuradome? He… doesn't look… right…"
A guard's voice trembled, pitched low, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something in the air.
The other guard only swallowed hard, black eyes narrowing as they tracked the fleeing target. "I don't know… just don't let that bastard get away."
With a heavy thud, Lan Suji and Kansai slammed the towering balcony doors shut. The vibration traveled up their arms, echoing faintly in the vast hall. Their breaths were quick but steady — ready.
The black figure skidded, boots scraping. Then, with a flicker, his body split into ten shifting shadows. Kagetsu Jutsu. They moved with uncanny precision, weaving between the Lans, each one a perfect copy.
Steel clashed — ringing, grinding, sparking against the floor. The air filled with the storm of combat, each sound feeding the pressure in the chest.
Kuradome stood apart, unmoving for a long heartbeat. Then, as if deciding the game was over, he lifted his right hand. The motion was smooth, deliberate, slicing through the air in a sharp arc. His long white sleeve spilled downward like a petal torn from a camellia in wind.
From his palm, red flames threaded with gold spiraled out, curling into intricate shapes before settling into solidity.
"You'll die sooner or later… owl mask," he breathed, voice low enough to be swallowed by the battle — yet somehow it carried.
The flames and mist condensed into a guqin — its deep wine-red body gleaming as though polished by centuries, golden sigils carved into its wood. Its strings glowed faintly, stretched tight, each one holding the quiet threat of release.
The Lans hesitated. Even in the chaos, their shock was palpable. A yokai… summoning an instrument from pure energy? That was a Lan gift — and even among Lans, rare. Instruments came from sashes, pouches, carefully prepared talismans. Never like this.
"Strange… yet impressive," Kansai murmured under his breath, eyes flicking toward Kuradome even as he ducked under a phantom blade.
Kuradome's fingers touched the strings. The first notes came sharp, quick — then dropped into heavier, slower chords. He angled the guqin slightly, fingers pulling the strings with a motion like drawing back a repeating crossbow.
Golden-and-red sound burst forth in rapid strikes, each note like an arrow tipped in heat and steel.
The melody unfurled:
ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton ~ ton ~ ton-ton-ton-ton ~ ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton ~~~ tooooon~ toooooon tooooon tooooon ~ toooooon toooooon tooooooon toooooon ~
The air itself seemed to tighten under the sound. The melody lashed out in precise arcs, ignoring the clones entirely — slamming toward the true black figure.
The shadows shredded into smoke, fleeing the sound's reach.
"Isn't… that note called Mukuro?" a Lan whispered, his voice breaking with the weight of the name. "It means 'corpse'… one of the sharpest killing notes there is…"
"That guy… surely going to die if even one attack lands clean," another murmured, eyes wide, unable to look away.