The world of the River of Echoed Selves began to dissolve. The roaring waterfall softened to a whisper, the cerulean waters fading like mist under a morning sun. The oppressive, malevolent aura that had cloaked the Corrupted Kenta wavered and thinned, its form becoming translucent.
It stood there, no longer a monstrous doppelgänger, but a shadow, a reflection finally seeing its source clearly. The crimson glare in its eyes dimmed, not extinguished, but banked, like embers rather than a wildfire.
You… acknowledge me? its voice was no longer a venomous hiss, but a low, uncertain echo.
Kenta, still standing, his hand dripping blood onto the now-fading pebbles of the shore, met its gaze. The terrifying calm held. "I do. You are my rage at the injustice that took my family. You are my grief for Hikari. You are the part of me that refuses to be a victim ever again. I will not let you rule me, but I can no longer pretend you do not exist."
The shadowy figure considered this. The concept was alien to its very nature, which was built on conflict and domination. A partner… it mused, the word foreign on its psychic tongue. This… changes the equation.
"It does," Kenta agreed. "The fight is not over. It may never be. But it is no longer a war of annihilation. It is a negotiation."
A semblance of a true smile, devoid of mockery, touched the fading lips of the reflection. Then negotiate well, Kenta Yazuru. I will be… waiting.
With those final, genuine words, the form of the Corrupted Kenta dissolved completely, scattering into motes of dark light that were absorbed back into Kenta's own being. Not as an invader, but as a reintegrated, if volatile, part of the whole.
The last of the river's illusion vanished.
Kenta blinked, his knees buckling. He found himself kneeling not on a shore, but in the soft grass of the temple's secluded garden, the real, gentle sound of a small stream nearby. The entire confrontation had been a psychic battle projected by the river's power, but the wounds felt real. The blood on his hand was real. The exhaustion in his soul was profound.
A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Jokedone standing there, his expression unreadable.
"Interesting negotiation," the Jokedone said, his voice a low rumble. Then, without ceremony, he flicked a finger sharply against Kenta's forehead.
Thwack.
The pain was sharp and sudden, a final, physical shock that anchored him fully back in reality. The last vestiges of the psychic fugue state vanished.
"Welcome back," Jokedone stated. "You passed the river's test. Few do without losing a piece of themselves. It seems you may have even gained one."
Kenta took a deep, shuddering breath, the clean air of the garden filling his lungs. "How long?"
"A day. The longest of your life, I imagine," Jokedone replied. "And it marks the true beginning of your training. For the next month, you and Sarah will be parted."
Kenta's head snapped up, a protest forming on his lips.
"It is necessary," Jokedone cut him off, his tone leaving no room for debate. "You have just faced the enemy within. Now you must learn to live with the ceasefire. Sarah's presence, her light, would be a distraction in this next phase. You must learn to walk your path without using her as a crutch, just as she must learn to stand without the shadow of your struggle beside her. Your training regimens will be separate."
The logic was cold, but Kenta, in his newly clarified state, could not refute it. His dependency on Sarah, his fear of her abandonment, had been one of the corruption's sharpest weapons. He had to be whole on his own.
His gaze then drifted past Jokedone, to a spot a few feet away where the Corrupted Kenta had vanished. There, lying on the grass as if it had been there all along, was Yami no Hikari. The dark blade seemed quieter now, its hungry hum reduced to a deep, watchful thrum.
Slowly, Kenta pushed himself to his feet. He walked over to the blade, his steps steady. He did not hesitate. He did not flinch. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around the rough, dark leather of the hilt.
The moment he lifted it, a dark aura flared around him—a mantle of power that was both familiar and newly understood. It was not the chaotic, consuming inferno from before. It was controlled, a contained storm.
Jokedone's emerald eyes widened a fraction. He saw the dark aura, yes. But he was not looking at the power. He was looking at Kenta's eyes.
They were not the hellish crimson of the corruption. They were his own, deep brown eyes. But within them, resonating from the very core of his being, was a new light. It was not the pure, gentle radiance of Hikari. Nor was it the sorrowful, accepting darkness of the first Yami.
It was a steely, determined light, forged in the fires of self-acceptance. It was the light of a will that had stared into its own abyss and had not blinked. It was the light of a man who had acknowledged his shadow and, in doing so, had not been consumed by it, but had begun the arduous task of making it his own.
Those eyes… Jokedone thought, a rare, profound respect stirring within him. He has not chosen a side. He is building a bridge. Just like Hikari… and just like Yami… he has found his own resonance with the sword.
Kenta held the dark blade in one hand, feeling its power not as a threat, but as a tumultuous, newly-bound partner. He looked at Jokedone, his expression serene yet filled with unshakable resolve.
"I am ready," Kenta said, his voice echoing with the weight of his hard-won truth. "For whatever comes next."