My chest was still heaving. Sweat trickled down the side of my face, sticking my shirt to my back. Everyone else looked… fine. Not just fine. Comfortable. Like they'd walked a dog instead of fought for their lives.
Saiko leaned against one of the stone shelves, flicking her coin through her fingers, grinning like this was recess. "You were swinging like you were trying to beat the world's high score in punching air. Impressive stamina, zero technique."
"Zero technique?" I barked, still catching my breath. "I killed mine too, didn't I?"
"You kinda killed it. More like, it got bored of your face and decided to disintegrate out of pity." She smirked. "Hey, pity is progress."
Genkei's voice cut in, low and clipped. "You relied on sparks. Sparks die."
I snapped toward him. "You're saying that like I had options!"
His eyes flicked shut as if I wasn't worth looking at. "Options come from control. Not excuses."
"You're a great motivational speaker," I spat. "Real inspiring. Write a book."
Saiko snorted. "Title it 'How to Be Cryptic and Alienate Friends'."
Genkei ignored her. Of course he ignored her. He was the type who ignored everything except the point of his blade.
Meanwhile, Miu adjusted her glasses, watching me with that half-smile that somehow felt heavier than Genkei's silence and Saiko's mockery combined. "You're angry at him because he's sharp. You're angry at her because she's loud. You're angry at me because I didn't move. Maybe you're just angry."
"I'm not angry," I snapped. Then added, too fast: "I'm frustrated."
Saiko grinned wider. "Oh, frustrated? Cute word for angry."
"Angry is sharp. Frustrated is dull," Miu corrected, voice soft, paradox already twining. "Sharp cuts once. Dull cuts a thousand times. Sometimes dull hurts more."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You talk like you're trying to be a haiku and a fortune cookie at the same time."
"I told you already." She tilted her head, her smile shifting into something unreadable. "I'm serious when I'm joking, and I'm joking when I'm serious. If you hear nonsense, maybe you're listening too seriously."
Saiko laughed. "Or not seriously enough."
Genkei muttered under his breath, "Both."
"Both what?" I demanded.
He didn't answer.
"Of course he doesn't answer," Saiko said, flopping back against the shelf. "He thinks mystery makes him hot. Spoiler: it doesn't. It just makes him sound like a broken vending machine."
Genkei's eye twitched. Barely. Which only made Saiko grin brighter.
I looked between them—Genkei, silent and sword-straight, Saiko, all fire and noise, and Miu, riddles wrapped in politeness—and wondered how the hell I was supposed to fit in with any of them.
While we threw barbs and banter, Arata had wandered toward the Head. The two stood just far enough away that their conversation was a low hum, but close enough I could see Arata's hands gesturing wildly, his grin unchanging. The Head listened like a mountain listens to the wind—immovable, inevitable.
Saiko nudged me with her elbow. "Bet you five coins Arata's trying to talk himself out of paperwork."
"Bet you he's trying to get us killed faster," I muttered.
Miu's voice slipped between us like smoke. "He is both trying to avoid and accelerate. He jokes to survive seriousness, and he's serious about surviving jokes."
"That—doesn't even—" I started. Then stopped. Because she wasn't wrong.
Finally, Arata clapped his hands once, sharp enough to make the lanterns flicker. "Alright, children, playtime's over. The Head's got a bedtime story for you."
The Head stepped forward, gaze sweeping over us, weighing us without effort. "There is a spirit loose. Not here in the Benikaen—outside. A wandering spirit or ghost that resists rest. You will learn how Onmyōji approach such things. Not with blades first, not with flames first. With words."
I frowned. "Words?"
"Onmyōji tradition begins with dialogue," the Head said calmly. "We do not bind spirits. We do not weaponize them. We speak. We reason. We remind. Only if that fails do we cut. A spirit, no matter how twisted, was once human. And humanity is not erased so easily."
Arata's grin widened. "And lucky you, kid—your first bedtime story's about one nasty little bedtime ghost. The Aka Manto."
The name itself felt like a chill draft.
"Aka Manto?" Saiko repeated, tilting her head.
Arata spread his arms, leaning into the performance. "Red Cloak. Old school, urban legend, bathroom stalker. Shows up in lonely stalls and whispers the question—red paper or blue paper? Pick red, you're flayed alive. Pick blue, you're strangled till your face turns that same pretty shade. No right answer. No mercy."
Genkei's eyes narrowed slightly. "Cruel."
"Cruel and smart," Arata corrected. "Ghosts like Aka Manto feed on hesitation. On the question. On the fear in the answer. If you refuse to play, you live. But humans don't refuse. They answer. Always."
The Head's gaze locked on us. "That is why you will confront it. To see if you can face fear without feeding it."
I swallowed hard, throat dry again.
Because facing spirits in a controlled cavern was one thing.
Facing a ghost in the real world—the kind that lived in whispers and bathrooms and childhood dares—was something else entirely.
And suddenly, I wasn't frustrated.
I was terrified.