"Let go of me… let go!"
Yoshitoki struggled violently against Taito's grip, roaring in fury. "Go stop Kito Toshitaka! That kid will die under his blade—cut apart like noodles! You're Mifune's student—how can you just stand by and let him die?!"
He glared at Taito with hatred blazing in his eyes.
Taito sighed helplessly and guided him back to the carriage, instructing the caravan master and the drivers to tend to his wounds and carry him inside. Yoshitoki continued shouting, his voice hoarse with anger, as if Taito had become a heartless villain who had abandoned a child to death.
Meanwhile, Taito sat down cross-legged on the ground, his sword resting against his chin.
His eyes gleamed with excitement.
A monster like Yoriichi… facing a bandit like Kito.
He had never seen a battle of this level before.
Even Mifune had never demonstrated true combat before them—he only guided them, forcing them to discover their own path through battle.
And now, Taito was witnessing something extraordinary.
Ōmisako stood frozen, mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an egg. She stared at the glowing boy standing before the towering bandit, as if watching a mouse confront a tiger.
How could this be?
Wasn't Yoriichi supposed to be someone Taito protected? A mascot of sorts? Like a treasured child hidden away by a noble family—cute, harmless, decorative?
How could he be the one standing at the center of the battlefield?
She suddenly felt like someone who had skipped class with friends, smoked cheap cigarettes, dreamed of becoming someone important—
Only to find out years later that one of those friends had been born into unimaginable wealth, living a life completely beyond reach.
And she was the only one who'd truly been pretending.
Yoriichi, the boy who had shared roasted fish with her just moments ago, was the real monster.
If that slash had landed on her, she would've been cut in half—guts spilling out before she even realized she was dead.
Yet Yoriichi didn't think that way.
To him, she was simply an older sister.
Someone who had been kind to him.
So he would protect her.
The massive black blade came crashing down again—but Yoriichi dodged with ease. At moments like this, being small wasn't a disadvantage.
Flames surged along his blade like a living inferno.
Kito, massive as he was, looked like a clumsy target in front of him.
Yoriichi could see everything.
The flow of blood.
The twitch of muscles.
The tightening of pupils.
Every movement was laid bare before his eyes.
Dodging Kito's attacks felt no different from a cat teasing a mouse.
"Damn brat!" Kito roared as another gash opened across his body. The pain only fueled his rage.
"I'll crush you and throw what's left into the sewer!"
"You're not a samurai," Yoriichi said softly. "A true warrior doesn't lose himself to anger so easily."
"To be honest… you're like a newborn child. When things don't go your way, all you can do is scream. You don't know how to solve anything."
Images flashed through Yoriichi's mind.
Warriors standing against demons, fighting until their final breath.
Even with broken limbs… even with their entrails spilling out…
They never stopped swinging their blades.
Like reefs standing firm against endless waves.
"Someone who only bullies the weak has no right to call himself a swordsman."
His hair lifted as if caught in a blazing wind.
Golden sunlight poured down upon him.
"Atrocities. Murder. Treating lives like dirt…"
"That makes you no different from a demon."
For the first time, fear flickered in Kito's eyes.
He instinctively looked away.
No one could stare into the sun.
—
"Sun Breathing – Second Form: Clear Blue Sky."
The slash came like a falling star.
Too fast to dodge.
Kito raised his weapon in desperation.
The impact was like a train crashing into him.
His body was hurled back, bones screaming, the twin blades glowing red-hot before exploding apart.
Silence followed.
The flames died down, leaving only scorched earth and shattered ground behind.
Kito leaned against a tree, blood pouring from his mouth. His weapon was ruined—one half shattered, the other embedded deep in his abdomen.
"You're… not a samurai…" he muttered.
Yoriichi said nothing.
He sheathed his sword and took two slow steps forward—
Then collapsed.
"Yoriichi!"
"Little brother!"
Taito and Ōmisako rushed forward. Taito caught him, checking his breathing.
Exhaustion.
Nothing more.
"Heh… hahaha…"
Kito laughed weakly, blood spilling from his lips. "So I win… you passed out first… you're still just a kid…"
Taito stared down at him silently.
That gaze.
That pity.
It enraged Kito.
"Don't look at me like that! Kill me! Take my head to those filthy nobles! Collect your reward and live in luxury! Isn't that what you all want?!"
Taito said nothing.
He simply watched.
Like one might watch a rabid dog—furious, desperate, pitiful.
Who doesn't want love?
Kito had once believed in it too.
But the deaths of his parents and brother had torn that belief apart.
"Don't look at me like that… don't… please…"
His voice cracked.
Tears streamed down his face.
"I beg you…"
Taito turned away, lifting Yoriichi into his arms.
"You're not worth it."
Ōmisako followed silently.
The caravan departed.
Kito could only watch them go.
"Come back… kill me… don't leave me alone…"
No one answered.
His vision blurred.
In his fading consciousness, he saw rain.
He was kneeling again.
Beside his brother.
Begging outside a clinic.
And then running—never looking back.
Maybe…
Just maybe...
He had already died that night.