The knights of the Fourth Division arrived early, as they always did.
The sun had barely begun to rise—only a faint suggestion of light pressed against the horizon—and the cold was merciless, biting through cloaks and armor alike. Frost clung to stone and steel, breath rose in pale clouds, and the courtyard of the palace slowly filled with the low murmur of familiar voices.
Laughter.
Complaints about the weather.
Half-serious boasts about who would collapse first during training.
Despite everything that had happened—the investigation, the argument with Smith, the rumors whispering through the palace corridors—the men quietly assumed their commander would not be present today.
Toki needed rest.
Toki had too much on his plate.
Toki would understand.
So when someone noticed movement at the far end of the courtyard, it took a few seconds before surprise turned into disbelief.
"…Is that—?"
A figure shot across the stone path like a streak of blue.
Fast.
Snow sprayed into the air with every step, melting in patches where feet struck again and again, the ground scarred by repeated acceleration. The air itself cracked faintly, compressed by speed that no normal body should have been able to sustain for long.
Toki was running.
Not warming up.
Not stretching.
Running.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He finally slowed near the center of the courtyard, boots skidding slightly on damp stone before coming to a controlled stop. Steam rose from his body. His uniform clung to him, darkened with sweat despite the freezing air.
And he was smiling.
Bright.
Open.
Almost… happy.
"Morning, everyone," Toki said cheerfully. "I'm glad you're all here. Formation—quickly now."
The knights stared.
Then, instinctively, they moved.
One of them—an older man with frost gathering in his beard—hesitated just long enough to speak.
"Commander… shouldn't you be handling the investigation today?"
Toki waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing away a minor inconvenience.
"Don't worry about that," he replied lightly. "I'll take care of it later. Right now, it's my turn to take better care of you."
Another knight stepped forward, clearly uneasy.
"You don't have to push yourself for us, Commander Toki," he said. "We know you're working hard. We are too. You don't need to worry about us."
Toki's smile softened.
"I've planned everything," he said gently. "Trust me."
He fell silent then, eyes moving slowly across the formation.
Two hundred men.
Two hundred lives.
He looked at their faces one by one, memorizing details he already knew—scars, tired eyes, youthful excitement, quiet determination. Men who had followed him without hesitation. Men who had jumped when he told them to jump, never once asking why.
How did I let myself forget that? he thought.
"You are my people," Toki said at last. "All two hundred of you."
His voice was calm, steady—but something underneath it made several of the knights straighten instinctively.
"You listened to me every time," he continued. "When I told you to move, you moved. When I told you to fight, you fought. You trusted me."
A pause.
"How could I have been so negligent?"
Confusion rippled through the ranks.
"Your loyalty," Toki went on, smiling still, "will be rewarded one day. I promise you that."
His eyes gleamed.
"You are my pride."
The words should have inspired comfort.
Instead, they sent a shiver through more than a few spines.
Toki raised his hand and motioned forward.
"Follow me."
And then he started marching.
At first, the pace was reasonable—brisk, controlled, nothing unusual for training. Boots struck stone in rhythm. Breaths fell into sync.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then thirty.
An hour.
And the march did not stop.
It wasn't strange for Toki to test their limits. That was expected.
What was strange was that his smile never faded—not for a second.
He joked as they ran.
Teased individual knights.
Made light comments about posture and breathing.
All while running at the front.
All while clearly exhausted.
They could see it.
His legs trembled.
His breath steamed heavily.
The cold gnawed at him, uniform soaked through with sweat, heat bleeding away faster than his body could replenish it.
He had been running long before they arrived.
That much was obvious.
Why? one knight wondered.
Why push himself like this?
Why smile like he's enjoying it?
Bernard and Ozvold appeared nearly two hours into the run.
Bernard didn't bother hiding his concern.
"Toki," he called out. "Got a moment?"
Toki raised a hand, signaling the division to break into sparring sessions.
"Pair up," he ordered. "Standard drills."
Then he turned, jogging casually toward Bernard and Ozvold.
"Good morning!" he said brightly. "What can I help you with?"
Ozvold didn't smile.
"Toki," he said bluntly, "why did you leave in the middle of the night?"
Toki blinked, feigning surprise.
"Did I?"
"You did," Ozvold continued. "Utsuki and I searched the entire manor. If we hadn't pressed Lilith, we'd still be looking."
Toki laughed softly.
"Sorry," he said. "I just wanted to… prepare the ground a little."
Bernard stepped closer and placed a hand on Toki's shoulder.
"Toki," he said quietly. "Are you okay?"
His grip tightened slightly.
"I know the argument with Smith wasn't pleasant. But you don't have to carry this alone. We're your friends. We won't abandon you."
Toki mirrored the gesture, placing his own hand on Bernard's shoulder.
"Don't worry about the Star Collector," he said calmly. "I already have a plan."
He smiled again.
"And I was wrong to put that much pressure on Smith. Honestly, I deserved that slap."
Bernard blinked.
"That's… not what I expected you to say."
Toki shrugged.
"Today, I want to finish training early," he continued. "I want us home sooner."
He glanced at Ozvold.
"Actually, I think I'll take tomorrow off. Don't you think we've earned it?"
Ozvold didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
"The Snow Festival is in two days," Toki added smoothly. "Tomorrow evening, I'll come by to discuss patrol routes. There'll be crowds, stalls… risks."
He tilted his head.
"And this night, we have a council with King Mathias about it, right?"
Bernard nodded slowly.
"Yeah. That's right."
"Take it easy, Toki," Bernard said gently. "If you need help, just say so."
He turned and walked back toward his division.
Toki and Ozvold joined the sparring sessions.
By noon, Toki dismissed the division for the day—and the next.
"You'll need your strength for the festival," he said. "Rest."
Salutes followed.
As they dispersed, Toki watched them go.
Then he turned to Ozvold.
"Let's go home."
Ozvold nodded. "I left Umma in the stables. I'll get her."
"Actually," Toki interrupted gently, "there's one place I need to stop first."
He smiled again.
"Could you wait for me at the outer gate?"
Ozvold felt it then—that same chill crawling up his spine.
"…Yeah," he said. "I'll be there."
And as he walked away, Ozvold couldn't shake the feeling that Toki was already somewhere else.
The cemetery lay just beyond the eastern wall of the capital, nestled between barren hills and rows of blackened trees stripped bare by winter.
Snow covered the graves in uneven layers, softening the sharp lines of stone and iron, muting the world into something quieter—something closer to sleep than death. No bells rang here. No voices lingered. Only the wind moved, weaving gently between headstones like a patient visitor who had nowhere else to be.
Toki arrived without haste.
His steps slowed the moment he passed through the iron gates, as if instinctively adjusting to the place's rhythm. He did not run here. He did not smile widely either.
He carried a bouquet of red roses in one hand.
Their color was almost violent against the white snow.
At the center of the cemetery stood a familiar figure, unmoving before a single grave. Dark hair fell straight against her back, untouched by the wind, her posture calm but heavy—like someone holding a thought too fragile to speak aloud.
Toki stopped a few steps behind her.
"For weather like this," he said softly, breaking the silence, "melancholy feels almost mandatory."
Lorelay did not turn immediately.
"It's the perfect time," Toki continued, voice gentle, "to pay respect to those who fell before us. Don't you think?"
A pause.
"…Lorelay."
She finally looked over her shoulder.
Her expression was composed, as always—but her eyes betrayed exhaustion, the kind that came not from lack of sleep, but from carrying too many endings.
"I thought I'd find you more demoralized," she said. "But I'm glad at least one of us still feels like joking."
Toki smiled faintly.
He stepped past her and knelt before the grave she had been watching. The name etched into the stone was old. Weathered. Almost forgotten by the world—but not by those who came here.
He placed the roses gently against the headstone.
"Tell me the truth," he said quietly, still facing away from her. "Smith is avoiding me, isn't he?"
Lorelay exhaled.
"I think," she said carefully, stepping closer, "you're avoiding each other."
Toki closed his eyes.
That was fair.
He rose slowly, brushing snow from his knee, and turned toward her. Lorelay reached out instinctively, resting her hand against his shoulder. Her warmth bled through the fabric immediately—startling against the cold that clung to him no matter how hard he tried to shake it.
Toki covered her hand with his own.
His skin was cold.
Too cold.
"Thank you," he said softly, tightening his grip just a little. "For taking care of his wound."
Lorelay's gaze flickered to his hand.
"You always have kind words for everyone," he continued. "Even when they don't deserve them."
She didn't respond.
"But asking Smith to solve my problems," Toki went on, voice lowering, "to break rules for my sake… that was a mistake."
He released her hand.
"I'll make it right."
Lorelay studied his face.
"Tell me," she said after a moment, "how does the third level of the Dark Division feel?"
Toki's expression shifted.
"As a Gravedigger?" he asked. "I haven't noticed much."
He looked away, eyes drifting across the rows of graves.
"I've spent these days carrying bodies off the streets," he continued. "And I can say this without irony—I envy them."
Lorelay stiffened.
"I'm hungry," Toki said quietly. "I'm afraid."
His fingers curled slowly at his side.
"It's like I can hear every scream. Every wound. As if I'm absorbing their suffering."
He laughed softly, without humor.
"Death doesn't let go easily."
Lorelay stepped closer, her voice firm now.
"Don't say that. Everything will be fine."
Toki didn't answer right away.
"There are two days left until the festival," he said instead. "And only one day until—"
He stopped.
Shook his head.
"Forget it," he said, forcing a lighter tone. "I should go home. Spend some time at the manor."
Lorelay didn't try to stop him as he turned away.
But as he took his first step, she spoke again.
"Be careful, Toki."
He paused.
"The scent of death clings deeply to you."
Toki glanced back over his shoulder, smiling.
"Death can have me," he replied calmly, "after I've exhausted every possibility."
He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.
He stopped at a bakery.
The bakery was warm.
That alone felt strange.
The scent of sugar and yeast wrapped around him the moment he stepped inside, thick and comforting, stirring memories he didn't know he still had. The baker greeted him cheerfully, unaware of who stood before him—just another tired man buying bread.
Toki bought a bag full of sweet loaves.
Too many.
When he stepped back into the cold, the warmth vanished instantly, but the smell lingered faintly, clinging to his clothes.
He found Ozvold waiting by Umma at the outer gate.
"Sorry it took so long," Toki said, climbing onto Umma's back behind him. "I thought we could use something sweet at home."
Ozvold nodded, giving Umma the signal.
The great bird began to run, wings twitching .
Toki hummed quietly behind him.
A soft, aimless melody.
Something in his stomach twisted—an instinct screaming at him not to look back.
He didn't.
"Tomorrow will be a big day," Toki said softly, almost to himself.
The wind swallowed his words.