Rain began to fall before dawn—thin, cold, and endless. It ran down the cracked stone walls of the Old Judiciary District, washing over the remnants of justice that once ruled the city. The Court's banners had rotted away, leaving only their shadows burned into the marble. Shinomiya Reiji walked through the silence, his coat dripping, his breath pale against the mist.
Each step echoed like a verdict returning to haunt its judge.
He followed the trail of footprints left by the armored man—the last survivor from the crossroads. They led toward the heart of the Court's ruins, a hall buried beneath centuries of deception. It was where Reiji's past began—and where, perhaps, it had been erased.
The rain deepened, a whisper against the glassless windows. It wasn't merely water that fell tonight; it was the city weeping for what it had become.
Reiji pushed open the doors to the Hall of Judgments. The sound—heavy and hollow—rolled through the empty corridor like thunder caught in a tomb. Dust danced in the air, disturbed for the first time in years. The courtroom still stood, though barely: the judge's chair splintered, the witness stand cracked, the scales of justice rusted and uneven. Everything smelled of mold and forgotten vows.
He stepped closer to the central dais.
The sigil—the devouring eye—was carved into the floor, fresh despite the ruin. Around it, candles burned low, wax bleeding across the stone like melted bones.
Reiji crouched, brushing his gloved fingers against the mark. Warm. Recently made.
A whisper slithered through the air.
"You shouldn't have come back, Reiji."
He didn't turn immediately. The voice came from the shadows behind the judge's seat—a voice he hadn't heard in years but could never forget. It was soft, calculated, with the faintest trace of amusement.
Reiji straightened slowly, his hand resting on his blade. "Kurobane."
From the darkness emerged a figure clad in black judicial robes, their edges frayed, insignia stripped away. Kurobane had once been the Court's adjudicator—mentor, ally, and executioner. Now, his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian under the faint candlelight.
"So, the ghost returns," Kurobane said. "You've brought the storm with you."
"The storm was already here," Reiji replied. His tone was flat, but his grip on the sword tightened. "I only walked into it."
Kurobane circled him like a predator in thought. "Still quoting ideals? Even after the Court buried them with your name?"
Reiji's silence was answer enough. The older man smiled, faint and bitter.
"You killed the last witness," he said quietly. "And now you're here, looking for absolution from a corpse."
"I didn't come for forgiveness."
"Then for what?"
"The truth."
Kurobane's eyes narrowed. "Truth is a weapon, boy. And the Court forged it into chains long before you learned to hold a blade."
Reiji stepped closer. "Then why are the chains breaking?"
Kurobane stopped pacing. His smile faded. "Because you are pulling too hard."
---
Lightning flashed beyond the broken ceiling, illuminating the hall in fragments of white and gray. The light revealed something new—figures lining the gallery above them, silent and still. Their faces hidden under hoods, their eyes glowing faintly through the dark.
Reiji recognized the insignia on their robes: remnants of the Court's executioners—The Silent Jury.
Kurobane raised his hand slightly. "They've been waiting for you."
"So you've rebuilt it," Reiji said.
"No," Kurobane replied. "I preserved it. The Court never dies—it only changes the mask it wears."
The Jury began descending, steps echoing like the tolling of bells. Reiji drew his blade slowly, its edge glinting cold. "And what verdict do they bring tonight?"
Kurobane's voice dropped to a whisper. "The same one you left unfinished—judgment upon the shadow that betrayed the light."
The first of the Jury lunged. Reiji moved instinctively—sidestepping, cutting through the fog of robes. His blade sang through the air, slicing candlelight into shards. Another came from behind; he twisted, letting the strike pass before countering with precision born from memory. His every move felt rehearsed, as if he'd already lived this moment in a dream.
But they were too many.
For every one that fell, another emerged from the shadows. Their movements were synchronized—eerily calm, devoid of sound. It wasn't a battle; it was a ritual, a silent trial enacted through steel.
Kurobane watched from above, his expression unreadable.
"You see now?" he called out. "The Court doesn't need truth—it needs balance. And you, Reiji, are the imbalance it must correct."
Reiji's breath grew heavier. Blood ran from a cut across his jaw. His boots slid on the wet marble, the crimson mixing with candle wax. Yet he didn't falter.
"Balance?" he rasped. "There was never balance. Only obedience… and silence."
He parried another strike, then another—until the final executioner's blade locked with his. Their faces were inches apart. Beneath the hood, Reiji saw a scar he recognized—a mark across the cheekbone, the same as his reflection.
The realization froze him.
He tore off the hood—and saw his own face staring back.
---
The clone fell back, lifeless, when his sword struck. But the image lingered in his eyes—his own shadow collapsing into nothing. Reiji turned toward Kurobane, trembling not from fear, but from the weight of what he'd just destroyed.
"What did you do?" he whispered.
Kurobane descended the stairs, hands clasped behind his back. "You left your reflection here the day you abandoned judgment. The Court kept it alive, molded it into something useful."
Reiji's gaze darkened. "You turned me into your executioner."
"No," Kurobane said. "You did. We merely taught your shadow to obey."
He stepped closer, his words now a quiet sermon. "You sought truth, Reiji. But truth requires witnesses. And witnesses must survive the lie."
Reiji raised his blade, voice steady though his heart trembled. "Then let this be the last trial."
Kurobane's smile returned, sad and cruel. "As it was always meant to be."
Their blades met in a single strike that split the hall's silence apart. Sparks cascaded through the air. For an instant, lightning and candlelight fused—then darkness consumed everything.
When it cleared, Kurobane stood still, sword lodged in his chest. He looked almost peaceful.
"You finally learned," he whispered, blood at his lips. "Justice doesn't whisper, Reiji. It remembers."
Reiji caught him as he fell, the old man's weight heavier than guilt. The candlelight flickered out one by one, until only the storm outside remained.
He lowered the body gently, then turned toward the broken symbol on the floor. The sigil's glow faded, leaving only the faint outline of an eye.
The whisper came again—this time not from Kurobane, but from the hall itself.
"The Court is never gone."
Reiji looked up at the shattered ceiling, rain falling through the cracks. His reflection shimmered in the wet marble—blurred, fractured, but still there.
And for the first time in years, he felt the cold truth settle into his chest:
He was no longer just Shinomiya Reiji.
He was what the Court had made him—
the whisper that outlived its sentence.