The body was heavier than his own.
His balance felt off, like the ground tilted slightly beneath him, the missing arm threw everything out of rhythm, every step was slow and incomplete.
Kazuya sat on the dusty floor, the bandages tightening around his ribs with each breath.
"Toma… Toma Arakaki," he whispered, the name rising from a haze of memories not his own. It wasn't something he remembered, but It was as if he'd always known it, an unsettling familiarity embedded deep within.
Toma had fought in the same war as Kazuya, but from a different side of the battlefield.
Kazuya stumbled to his feet, grabbing the edge of a cabinet to steady himself, as he stood, memories came flooding back, how Toma fought yesterday and how he lost his arm.
On a shelf near the mirror, photographs caught his eye, one showed Toma with two friends, arms around each other, all wearing The Verdict's uniform, another showed a boy no older than fifteen standing beside Toma, his younger brother.
A knock broke the stillness, followed by a woman's voice from the other side of the door.
"Toma? Are you awake? I brought you some food."
Kazuya hesitated, he didn't know how Toma would speak, how he'd move, how he'd even look at her. Still, he opened the door slowly.
The woman standing there was Toma's wife, Aya. Her eyes were tired but kind.
"You're lucky to be alive, dear. I heard a lot of your unit didn't make it." she said, her voice laced with gentle concern.
Kazuya nodded, unsure if silence was what Toma would have given her. Aya handed him a bowl of thin soup and walked away without waiting for a response.
Closing the door, he sat on the bed, the soup trembling in his hands.
Kazuya fought for The Verdict, he'd believed in their cause, and thankfully he hadn't lost anyone, but now, in Toma's body, feeling his grief, carrying his pain, everything felt different.
Was fighting The Shroud even worth it if victory meant this? If what awaited the victors was only sorrow and loss?
The thought shook him, and his fingers trembled.
He drank the soup slowly, placed the bowl aside, and stepped outside into the cooling air.
The village was small and quiet, wrapped in evening gold.
Faces turned as he walked past. Kazuya didn't recognize them, yet Toma's memories did, his bonds echoing faintly through every glance and nod.
"Thank God you're alive."
The voice came from an old man standing by a well. Kazuya slowed. He knew this man through Toma, he was the father of one of Toma's fallen friends, the man's eyes were wet, but his smile was genuine.
"Thanks." Kazuya replied softly, unsure if it sounded like Toma.
The old man's gaze dropped to Kazuya's shoulder.
"Oh God… it must hurt, losing your arm. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay, I'm lucky to be alive..." Kazuya said, then paused, lowering his head.
"...and… I'm sorry, that I couldn't do anything about your son."
The old man stepped forward and gently rested a hand on Kazuya's good shoulder.
"Don't worry about that, my boy died fighting for what he believed in, and he would've been happy to know you made it back."
Kazuya's breath caught, the warmth in the man's voice, the acceptance in his face, it was too much.
How can he smile? Kazuya wondered. How can he say he's happy his son died in battle? Doesn't he feel hate for The Shroud? For me? For not saving him?
The questions burned in his mind, without answers.
Kazuya felt his eyes sting, moisture gathering not just from his own rising emotion, but from Toma's own pain welling up inside him. The body remembered, it remembered the ache, the guilt, the sorrow.
He nodded with a faint smile to the old man, unable to find any more words, then quietly turned and made his way out of the village, heading toward the woods that bordered the far edge of town. His steps were hurried, almost like he was running away from the scene, the agony inside Toma's body was too much, so heavy that Kazuya found himself instinctively trying to flee, as if distance could silence the grief pressing in on all sides.