Morning came with soup.
Or something bravely pretending to be.
The inn's old stable had been half-heartedly converted into a dining space—thick wooden beams bowed under years of neglect, patchy curtains flapped in places they weren't meant to exist, and the warped floorboards creaked if you looked at them wrong.
At the center, a crooked table slanted like it wanted to leave the room entirely.
And around it, sat five misfit survivors, each embodying a different level of exhaustion, suspicion, or delusion.
A single pot of steaming, vaguely brown stew rested between them, bubbling like it knew it had no business being edible.
It smelled like boiled guilt, distant mushrooms, and something that might once have been ambition.
Shugoh was already on his third bowl.
He slurped like he was trying to inhale joy through sheer molar friction. Bits of unidentifiable root clung to his cheeks. "I missed food that didn't pulse," he said with genuine, full-bodied gratitude.
Teruko sat across from him, arms crossed, glaring at her untouched bowl like it had personally insulted her ancestral lineage. "You didn't even look at it before shoveling it into your mouth."
"I trust my stomach," Shugoh said proudly. "It's very brave."
"It's clinically unsupervised," she muttered.
Rakan watched them from beside Teruko, sipping from a chipped ceramic cup. The steam from the drink curled up into his hair. He didn't say much.
But he looked… present.
Grounded.
There was something new in his posture. Not swagger. Not arrogance.
Rootedness.
Like his spine had grown deeper into itself overnight.
Mazanka noticed. He always did.
He lounged on the far end of the table, sleeves half-rolled, cup in hand—something suspiciously purple sloshing lazily inside. He hadn't said much either.
But his eyes flicked from Rakan, to Shugoh, to Teruko, and back again. Like someone quietly reading a script only he had memorized.
That was when—
Itomei stumbled in.
Sleep-mussed, shirt half-buttoned in a pattern that made no sense, bottle dangling from one hand like it owed him money. His cloak dragged behind him like it was trying to escape the man wearing it.
He stood there for a moment.
Just… staring at them.
As if the sight of this group sharing breakfast was the worst thing that had ever happened to him personally.
"You lot still alive?" he rasped, voice gravelled with hangover and apathy.
"Debatably," Mazanka offered, swirling his cup.
Itomei exhaled through his nose. It sounded like it hurt. He walked like a complaint toward the table and collapsed into a chair with the grace of a falling wardrobe.
"Don't answer," he groaned. "I don't care."
He sipped from his bottle.
Paused.
Then, with all the enthusiasm of a dying tree, muttered: "There's a village northeast. Few hours out. Word is there's been Kenshiki movement. Patrol. Maybe Rift-related. I didn't listen. Might've been a dream."
Another drink. A wince. "Might've been real. Hard to say."
Shugoh's head snapped up like he'd been struck with lightning.
"Wait—Kenshiki?!" he practically shouted. "It might be my team!"
His stool clattered backward as he sprang to his feet. His bowl sloshed stew across the table and half onto Mazanka, who barely blinked.
"We have to go!"
Teruko scowled. "You don't know it's your team."
"Which is why we go and find out!" he grinned, a little wild-eyed, already halfway to packing his nonexistent things.
"You're traveling with three fugitives," she hissed. "How exactly do you plan to explain that to your comrades?"
Shugoh waved a dismissive hand. "I'll say we're doing undercover Ka'ro outreach! Rehabilitative team bonding! Experimental field therapy! You know—science!"
Teruko's face twisted. "That is the dumbest thing—"
"It's called initiative, Teruko," he beamed. "Maybe you've heard of it."
Rakan laughed.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he laughed for real—a sharp, honest sound that cracked across the table like a spark through dry bark.
He leaned forward, grin wide, hair messy, eyes alive.
"We should go," he said.
Mazanka looked at him over the rim of his cup.
"You sure, kid?"
Rakan didn't even pause.
"Yeah."
Mazanka held his stare for a beat longer.
And then—just the smallest smile. A twitch. Real.
"Alright then," he said. "Northeast it is."
Itomei groaned like someone had stabbed him in the foot.
"No," he said. "Not me. I'm out. Done. Finished. I've had enough Kenshiki-related absurdity to last eight lifetimes. Go enjoy your jungle field trip without me."
"Oh come on," Mazanka said, smirking. "Don't you want to frolic through another cursed forest with some emotionally unstable children and a war criminal?"
"I'd rather enter a coma," Itomei muttered.
"You do look halfway there already."
Itomei side-eyed him. "You're still the same arrogant brat I despise."
Mazanka raised his cup. "And you're still a sleep-deprived debt collector disguised as a person."
Itomei sniffed. "I should've let you drown in training."
"You couldn't even swim."
"You passed out because a butterfly flew near you."
"It sneezed on my wrist. That's not normal."
Teruko groaned. "Can we not have this argument right now?"
"I can't promise anything," Mazanka said.
The table clattered as Shugoh shoved his chair back again, practically vibrating. "Okay okay okay—let's go before the soup mutates!"
Rakan stood beside him, calmer but certain.
Teruko rolled her eyes and muttered something unflattering.
Mazanka pulled himself to his feet with a dramatic sigh and one last sip of purple mystery.
And Itomei, already back in his seat, waved a limp hand without looking.
"Don't die. Or do. Just don't drag it back here."
They left the inn with the weight of nothing spoken.
No grand farewell. No fanfare. No ceremony.
Just a door that creaked open, then closed behind them.
The village was alive—just like it had been before.
Chickens pecked at corners. A child shrieked with laughter as she chased a floating seedpod through the morning haze. Vendors called half-heartedly over stews that smelled like earth and cumin. The same one-eyed hound that had barked at them three days ago gave them a disinterested glance, then laid its head back down on the stones.
As if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
No one stared this time.
No one whispered.
They passed through the narrow walkways like ghosts the village had already grieved. Like the pain of their presence had been absorbed, pressed into the soil between footsteps and the woodgrain of walls.
The grief had a place now.
It didn't need to be spoken.
It just was.
They didn't say goodbye.
Not out loud.
But the villagers didn't stop them either.
And that, somehow, was louder.
Shugoh looked back three times.
Once at the inn.
Once at the ridge above the village.
And once at nothing in particular—like he half-expected to see Yori floating just out of sight.
He didn't say anything. But when he walked, his steps brushed closer to Rakan's than usual.
Teruko walked in silence.
Her arms were crossed, but not in defiance. Her gaze flicked to the boys every few minutes—measuring, unsure.
At one point, when the path narrowed, she moved without thinking and ended up standing beside them.
And she didn't step away.
Rakan led the way.
Not because anyone told him to.
He just… moved first.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
The trail into the jungle forked into three directions.
He didn't pause.
He picked the center path, and his feet moved like they already knew the weight of the soil.
Like he was following footsteps only he could see.
A quiet purpose had settled in his spine. Not cocky. Not loud. Just present.
Mazanka brought up the rear.
His usual half-slouched gait, hands in his pockets, a grin flickering at the corners of his mouth like he was amused by a joke no one else had heard yet.
But his eyes didn't stop moving.
They watched Shugoh's hands—how they twitched slightly now when the air grew too still.
They watched Teruko's posture—how she kept hovering near the boys without knowing why.
And they watched Rakan's back—the way his Ka'ro barely shimmered now, tucked deep inside him, coiled and focused.
He watched them all.
Every shift. Every silence. Every breath.
And he didn't say a word.
The jungle took them back without a sound.
Trees leaned over the path like old friends pretending not to remember.
The leaves above danced in layered light.
Somewhere far ahead, the call of a bird neither human nor beast echoed once—and stopped.
The jungle opened ahead of them in slow, breathing ripples—moss curling and uncurling like lungs just beneath the soil.
The air smelled like bark soaked in memory.
Above, the canopy swayed with windless rhythm. Birds chirped in patterns that didn't quite sound right—calls skipping backward, some too fast, some too slow. As if the forest itself were trying to relearn its song.
They followed a trail half-eaten by vines and soft, iridescent ferns. The path shimmered faintly in the low light. Not glowing—but as if it had been stepped on by something greater.
The sun above flickered behind unmoving clouds—hanging, pinned like a painted eye.
No one spoke.
They moved slowly, and not because of fatigue.
There was no need to hurry.
But the air itched at the back of their necks.
Not danger.
Just the feeling you get when something is about to remember your name.
Rakan felt it first.
Not through his eyes. Not through his steps.
But through his Ka'ro—a low, steady vibration in his ribs. Not unpleasant. Not warning.
An invitation.
A soft hand reaching from behind a curtain he couldn't see.
Shugoh rubbed the side of his head, wincing. "Does anyone else feel like the trees are… uh… staring?"
Mazanka didn't even look up. "They always stare. Polite enough not to wave."
Teruko muttered, "I'd rather they stare than scream again."
Rakan didn't respond.
His eyes were fixed ahead—not sharp, not cautious.
Just… listening.
Focused the way one might focus on a sound beneath the sound. A heartbeat buried beneath drums.
He didn't blink much.
The terrain began to change.
Subtly.
The trees leaned a little too far east. Leaves rotated like compass needles. Bark shimmered in ways bark shouldn't shimmer—like mirrors that had forgotten how to reflect.
Roots twitched beneath the moss. Barely. As if deciding where to stay.
The light itself dimmed, but the shadows didn't move.
Then—
They stepped into a clearing.
And didn't leave.
Time moved.
But they didn't.
The trees didn't change.
The stump to their left remained exactly where it had been.
And after several slow minutes of walking—
It was still there.
Teruko stopped. Her brow furrowed. "We just passed that stump."
Shugoh tilted his head, chewing a twig. "You sure?"
"Positive."
Mazanka's eyes narrowed.
He raised a hand and spoke with sudden command. "Everyone. Freeze."
They did.
So did the air.
It closed in like a blanket made of soundless wind—pressing against skin and bone, not cold, not warm. Just dense. Almost humming.
The kind of silence that has teeth.
Then—
Ka'ro cracked.
Soft. Deep. Like a shudder in the bones of the world.
A tremor that wasn't earth, but memory.
Something rippled outward from the ground beneath them. Not physical. Not spiritual.
Something older.
Something waking.
Rakan's eyes widened. His Ka'ro ignited without him calling it. It rose from his chest, white-blue and bright as starlight, tugged upward like a flame pulled by an invisible thread.
His breath caught in his throat.
The wind exhaled—
And the world changed.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
But it was final.
The shift didn't happen in light, but in logic.
In the rules of how the world should be.
One step forward—
And the jungle had changed.
No, not changed.
Layered.
As though another version of reality had been resting just underneath, and something had pulled the skin back to show the bones.
Above them, the sky had turned pale violet.
The sun was gone—replaced by a halo of drifting glyphs, moving like thoughts across water.
The trees now stretched high and thin, bending inward, their branches woven like fingers praying in silence.
The ground beneath them shimmered.
Not with moisture.
With language.
Footprints—not theirs—burned into the moss, outlined in soft gold light. Each print surrounded by looping sigils that twisted slightly with every breath.
The air was thicker. Heavy.
Like they were moving underwater.
Or not moving at all.
Teruko tried to speak, and the words fell flat—as if the space between her and her mouth had warped.
Shugoh's hand twitched toward his chest.
Mazanka's Ka'ro flared faintly at his wrist, already preparing for the unknown.
Rakan stood very still.
Not frozen.
Anchored.
His Ka'ro—no longer reacting—now pulsed in perfect rhythm with the shifting glyphs in the air.
A rhythm not taught.
A rhythm not learned.
Remembered.
Something in him opened.
Not memory.
Not thought.
Something older than that.
And the Rift—
breathed in.
And then—
Shugoh saw it.
Not in the air.
Not in the trees.
Not with his eyes.
But within them.
Like something had been waiting behind his vision all this time—and blinked.
Just once.
And the world changed.
He stood in a field.
But not a living one.
The jungle was burned. The soil cracked and steaming. Trees collapsed into ash. The air itself shimmered like oil, heavy with the weight of screaming that had already happened.
Ash drifted upward, not downward, like snowfall in reverse.
And beneath it all: silence.
Dead silence.
Shapes littered the ground.
Not all were bodies.
Some were broken things. Weapons. Symbols. Pieces of Ka'ro-bound artifacts that no longer held meaning.
A cracked blade jutted from the dirt—one Shugoh recognized.
It was Teruko's.
Split down the middle, like a truth cut too late.
And then—
He saw him.
A man.
Older. Taller. Sharper.
A figure wreathed in Ka'ro so violent, it didn't pulse—it howled.
His cloak fluttered behind him in tatters, but the air was so charged it didn't fall naturally. Ka'ro crackled in waves across his arms and spine, forming jagged, glowing glyphs that moved like living scars.
His eyes weren't hollow.
They were full.
Too full.
As if he had seen too much.
Felt too much.
Become too much.
And his face—his face wasn't twisted in rage.
It was empty.
Heavy.
Like the world had grown too loud to bear.
Each step he took rippled through the ground, bending the land itself. Plants decayed in his wake. Stones cracked. Ka'ro symbols curled and broke around his boots.
And he was walking—
Toward Shugoh.
Not charging.
Not attacking.
Just walking.
Inevitable.
Like gravity.
Like regret.
And then the man looked up.
Met his gaze.
And Shugoh felt something die inside him.
Not in fear.
But in recognition.
I know you.
I wish I didn't.
"Rakan?" Shugoh whispered. But his voice didn't carry.
The world around him began to crumble, folding in like it was being drawn into Rakan's gravity.
His own body began to fracture, like light through broken glass.
And then—
He gasped.
The vision tore away.
The jungle snapped back into place.
Shugoh stumbled hard.
His shoulder clipped a tree trunk. His leg gave out. Teruko caught him by the elbow without thinking.
"What was that?" she barked. "Shugoh—what did you see?"
His mouth opened.
No words came.
His heart was pounding like it had run ahead of him.
He blinked, shaking his head, his usually wild eyes now wide and clear and stunned.
"I… I don't know."
His voice was smaller than usual. Flat. Like he didn't trust it.
The air cleared.
The birds began to call again.
The sky righted itself.
But the clearing felt wrong.
It was back, yes. But so was the weight—heavier now. Sadder. Like it had returned from something it didn't want to talk about.
Rakan exhaled, eyes narrowing slightly.
"…That wasn't just Rift-spill," he said, quietly. "Right?"
Mazanka moved beside him, eye catching the faded glyphs still shimmering faintly on the ground.
"No," he agreed. "That was a pulse. From deep."
Teruko crossed her arms. "They're getting worse."
No one replied.
Shugoh didn't look at the trees.
Didn't make a joke.
Didn't even blink for several seconds.
He was still staring at Rakan.
Not in anger.
Not fear.
Just a hollow kind of confusion.
The kind that lives just behind the eyes after you see something you can't ever unsee.
His fingers twitched at his side.
As if reaching for something.
Or someone.
Or a time that hadn't broken yet.
They moved on.
Because that's all they could do.
But now—
Shugoh walked closer.
Not because he wanted to.
Not because he didn't trust him.
But because he did.
And that scared him.
Rakan led.
His steps were smooth.
Certain.
Not hesitant. Not searching.
Like something ahead was calling, and he no longer had reason to doubt where it came from.
Mazanka lingered behind, gaze flicking between the trees and the path and the boy up front.
His fingers flexed at his side. His Ka'ro buzzed faintly in warning.
Not because something was coming.
But because something was already here.
And walking ahead of them.