The doors opened again, quieter this time, with the deliberate grace of someone who never needed to announce her presence. Princess Yōsei stepped into the training hall, still in her academy robes—deep indigo trimmed with silver threads that caught the crystal light like starlight on water. Her long hair, the color of midnight frost, was loosely braided from the day's lessons, a few strands escaping to frame her face. At seventeen, she carried herself with the poise expected of Lumora's future leader, but her eyes always softened the moment they found Kanashimi.
She came straight from the upper academies, as she often did when her schedule allowed—slipping away from tutors and protocol to visit the one place most others avoided. In a village built on fear and distance, Yōsei and her father, Lord Eldrin, were anomalies. The head of Lumora had declared years ago that Kanashimi was not a curse, but a blessing in disguise: the only soul strong enough to hold the Katana of Death without being devoured by it. Good luck, he called the boy. A living seal. The words had spared Kanashimi outright exile, but they hadn't spared him the isolation.
Yōsei crossed the hall without hesitation, her steps light on the crystal. She carried a small woven basket—fresh moon-pear slices and a flask of chilled spring water, the kind gathered from the highest caverns.
"You're still on the floor," she observed, voice warm with gentle teasing as she knelt beside him. "Did Master Yoriichi finally manage to exhaust you?"
Kanashimi sat up straighter, suddenly aware of how disheveled he must look—sweat-damp hair, training bruises blooming across his collarbone. He bowed his head slightly, not quite meeting her eyes. "Only for a moment, Princess. The break isn't over yet."
"Yōsei," she corrected softly, the same correction she always gave. "Here, it's just Yōsei."
She set the basket between them and nudged it toward him. "Eat. You'll cramp if you don't."
He hesitated—always hesitated—then took a single slice of pear. The sweetness burst cool on his tongue, a rare treat from the upper gardens she had access to. "Thank you… Yōsei."
She settled gracefully beside him, tucking her legs beneath her robes, close enough that the faint scent of night-blooming vines clung to her hair. For a while they sat in comfortable quiet, the kind only she ever offered him—no demands, no watchful judgment.
"You were smiling earlier," she said eventually, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. "I saw it from the doorway. When Yuta hugged you."
Kanashimi's fingers tightened around the flask. "It was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "You deserve more of those moments, Kanashimi. Not just stolen ones."
He looked away, toward the sealed katana on its rack. "The blade doesn't agree."
Yōsei followed his gaze, her expression clouding for a heartbeat. "My father says you're the reason the seal has held this long. That without you, the katana would have claimed dozens by now. He believes in you."
Kanashimi's laugh was soft, bitter. "Belief doesn't change what I am."
She reached out—slowly, giving him time to pull away—and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Her touch was feather-light, but it burned warmer than any training strike.
"It changes what you could be," she whispered.
The doors at the far end of the hall creaked again. Voices—low, urgent—filtered through from the corridor. The hunters had arrived at the inner circle. Whatever news they carried, it was moments away from spilling into this fragile quiet.
Yōsei's hand lingered near his cheek for one more second, then withdrew. "Whatever they're about to say," she murmured, "you won't face it alone."
Kanashimi finally met her eyes—storm-gray meeting midnight blue—and for the first time in years, he didn't look away.
Kanashimi's gaze dropped to the half-eaten pear in his hand, his voice barely above the faint hum of the crystals. "You say things like that… like you love me."
Yōsei blinked, then let out a soft, surprised laugh—light and genuine, the kind that echoed warmly in the vast hall. She tilted her head, midnight braid slipping over one shoulder as she studied him with fond exasperation.
"I'm not mad enough to fall in love with you, idiot," she teased, nudging his arm with her elbow. "If I were, I'd have lost my mind years ago. You're stubborn, quiet to the point of torture, and you brood like the caverns owe you rent."
A faint flush crept up Kanashimi's neck, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the closest he ever came to a real smile around anyone but Yuta. "Then why do you keep coming here? Why bring food, why say I deserve things… it sounds like—"
"It sounds like I care about my friend," she cut in gently, eyes steady on his. "That's allowed, you know. Caring doesn't have to mean love poems and secret kisses. Sometimes it just means I hate watching you carry everything alone when you don't have to."
Kanashimi looked away again, fingers tightening around the flask. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable—the silence of two people who had known each other since childhood, who understood the shape of each other's walls without needing to climb them.
"But the situation is like that," he murmured finally. "Everyone else keeps their distance for a reason. Even if you don't fear me… you should."
Yōsei leaned back on her palms, gazing up at the glowing ceiling as if the answer were written in the light. "Maybe. Or maybe I just refuse to let an old ghost story decide who I'm allowed to sit next to." She glanced sideways at him, voice softening. "You're my friend, Kanashimi. Not a blessing, not a curse. Just you. And friends don't abandon each other because the blade on the rack might get jealous."
He didn't reply right away. The words settled between them like dust motes in the crystal glow—simple, dangerous in their kindness. Finally he exhaled, shoulders easing a fraction.
"…Thank you," he said, quiet and rough. "For not being mad enough."
Yōsei grinned, bright and mischievous. "Anytime. Though if you keep being this dramatic, I might start charging admission for my visits."
Before he could answer, the far doors groaned open fully this time. Three hunters strode in—robes stained with ash and something darker, faces grim beneath the hoods. The leader, a scarred woman named Reina, bowed curtly to Yōsei before fixing her gaze on Kanashimi.
"Princess. Kanashimi." Her voice carried the weight of bad news. "Lord Eldrin requests you both in the council chamber. Immediately."
Yōsei rose smoothly, brushing off her robes. She offered Kanashimi her hand—not a command, just an invitation.
He stared at it for a heartbeat, then took it, letting her pull him to his feet. Her grip was warm, steady, friend to friend.
Together they followed the hunters out of the training hall, the sealed katana watching from its rack as the doors closed behind them.
The council chamber was deeper than the training hall, carved into the heart of Lumora's largest crystal formation. Light here was warmer—threads of gold and violet weaving through the stone like living veins. Lord Eldrin sat at the head of the low obsidian table, his presence calm but heavy, the way still water can feel before a storm. Flanking him were the village elders, Master Yoriichi among them, face as unreadable as ever. The three hunters stood before the table, still travel-stained, the scent of smoke and iron clinging to their robes.
Kanashimi and Yōsei entered side by side. He kept his gaze lowered in deference; she nodded to her father with quiet confidence. They took the two empty places at the edge of the circle—no one objected, though a few elders shifted uncomfortably.
Reina, the lead hunter, spoke first. Her voice was rough from days without proper rest.
"On the surface, in the ruins outside the northern exit—old subway tunnels under a city called Sapporo—we found a breach. A lesser demon had clawed its way through a forgotten ward line. Not one of ours. Older. Pre-village compact."
A murmur rippled through the elders.
"It was feeding," Reina continued. "Three surface humans dead. Drained. But that's not the worst." She glanced at Kanashimi, then away. "Tracks leading away from the site. Human boot prints mixed with demonic ichor. Someone from the surface followed the creature back toward the breach—close enough to see the ward shimmer before we arrived and resealed it."
Lord Eldrin leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Did they cross?"
"No, my lord. But they took photographs. Clear ones. And they ran. We pursued, but…" Reina's jaw tightened. "Orders are clear: no kills on the surface unless secrecy is already broken beyond repair. We lost them in the city crowd."
Yoriichi spoke for the first time, voice cool. "The photographs?"
"Devices the surface calls smartphones. Images can spread across their networks in heartbeats. We don't know if they've shared them yet."
Silence fell, thick and cold.
An elder with clouded eyes muttered, "If the world sees proof…"
"Then the compact shatters," Lord Eldrin finished quietly. "Eleven villages exposed. Artifacts hunted. Chaos."
All eyes turned—slowly, inevitably—to Kanashimi.
He felt the weight like chains. The Katana of Death wasn't here, but he could almost hear it humming in approval at the growing fear in the room.
His voice, when it came, was steady. "What would you have me do?"
Lord Eldrin met his gaze, something almost paternal in the look. "Nothing yet. But if those images spread, if surface agencies begin true investigation… we may need the one weapon capable of ending threats silently and completely."
Yōsei's hand, hidden beneath the table, found Kanashimi's wrist and squeezed once—firm, grounding. Not romance. Just the unbreakable reminder: friend.
Reina exhaled. "There's one more thing. The human who took the photographs—a young woman, maybe twenty. She didn't run in blind panic. She… lingered. Watched us fight the demon. Took notes as well as pictures. She's not ordinary."
Lord Eldrin nodded slowly. "Then we watch the surface networks. We wait. And we prepare."
He rose, signaling the end. The council began to disperse in low, worried conversation.
Yōsei leaned close to Kanashimi as they stood, voice low enough for only him. "You're not a weapon to be unsheathed whenever they panic. Remember that."
He gave the smallest nod, but his eyes were distant, fixed on shadows that hadn't been there before.
Outside the chamber doors, as the others filed away, Yoriichi paused beside his student.
"Training resumes at dawn," the master said. "Harder. You will need it."
Kanashimi bowed. "Yes, Master."
But as Yoriichi walked away, Kanashimi's fingers brushed the empty place at his side where the katana would hang if he were ever allowed to carry it freely.
For the first time in years, the blade's distant hum felt less like a warning… and more like anticipation.