3rd Person POV – Focus: Kaito Mugenrei
The sky over Korvath was a dull, bruised gray when the Guild Hall doors opened. Dust floated in through the cracks of the rebuilding walls, swirling around the faint scent of ink and burnt parchment. Kaito stood before the table where Lia and Iroko Ryusei waited — one face soft with empathy, the other unreadable, carved from restraint.
"This mission," Lia began quietly, "is not meant for glory. Nor for forgiveness. It's meant for truth."
Her voice carried neither accusation nor pity. Only weight.
Iroko slid a parchment across the table. The seal was unmarked — unofficial. It bore only one line:
> Scout the northern front. Observe. Report. Do not return unmarked.
Kaito's expression didn't change, but his hands tightened around the parchment. "You're sending me home," he murmured, tone flat. "To the ashes."
"Bustleburg is no longer home," Iroko said. "It's a scar that bleeds northward. We need to know how deep the wound goes."
"And," Lia added, her eyes softening, "you won't be alone."
That last line drew Kaito's gaze upward. "A leash, then?"
Before Lia could reply, the door opened behind them — without sound. A small figure entered the hall, dressed in dark leather that seemed to drink in the light. The newcomer's movements were measured, light as a sigh. A half-mask covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible — sharp, alert, yet strangely distant.
"Anzuyi Bizen," Lia said. "Your watcher."
Kaito's gaze drifted to her twin daggers, then back to her still figure. "You sent a shadow to chase a ghost," he muttered.
Anzuyi bowed slightly, silent as the air around her. Iroko folded his arms. "She reports directly to me. If you deviate from orders, if you endanger the mission—"
"I die," Kaito finished. "Yes, I assumed that much." His lips curved faintly. "Then I suppose I should behave."
Anzuyi did not answer. She simply turned toward the door, waiting. The faint jingle of her daggers was the only reply.
---
They left at dawn.
The world beyond Korvath had not yet healed. The road north was lined with burned trees and shattered wagons — remnants of caravans that had never returned. Crows fed on forgotten banners, and the smell of rot clung to the wind like a curse.
Kaito rode in silence. Anzuyi followed half a pace behind, her hood drawn low. Every so often, she would tap the reins twice — her wordless signal for danger — and Kaito would shift his eyes to the horizon. Her silence was not born of disdain but habit. She existed like mist — always near, never intrusive, dissolving when spoken to.
They spoke little, and when they did, it was all necessity.
"Tracks," she said once, pointing to faint impressions in the frost.
"Valerian?" Kaito asked.
She nodded once.
And that was all.
By the third night, the wind had grown colder. The fields turned to white ash — the outskirts of Bustleburg. Kaito dismounted and stared across the plains where his childhood had once been. The city walls were gone, replaced by jagged towers of scorched stone. The snow carried streaks of black soot. The ground itself seemed to remember pain.
"Bustleburg," he whispered. "My beginning… and my end."
Anzuyi's voice was soft, almost reluctant. "We camp here."
Kaito didn't answer. He knelt, brushing the snow aside. Beneath the frost lay something half-buried — a fragment of blue fabric, the insignia of Bustleburg's guard. He froze, then lifted it with trembling hands. The edges were crusted with old blood.
---
By morning, they reached the remnants of an outpost.
It flew a banner — one that twisted Kaito's breath into ice.
Half the cloth bore Bustleburg's old crest: a silver tower under a blue sky. The other half was burned black, stitched crudely with Valeria's crimson serpent.
Soldiers moved below the tattered flag — men wearing mixed armor, speaking in the Valerian tongue but carrying Bustleburg's weapons. Their laughter was coarse, their stance careless.
Kaito's jaw locked. Anzuyi's gloved hand rose slightly — wait.
They crouched behind a wall of collapsed stone, listening.
"Korvath next," one soldier said, spitting into the dirt. "Bustleburg fell in a week. They'll kneel faster."
"Commander Montara's gold saw to that," another replied. "A traitor's coin is still good coin."
Kaito's hands clenched until blood welled beneath his nails. The world narrowed to the echo of Montara's name. Betrayal upon betrayal.
He rose slowly.
Anzuyi reached out, grabbing his arm — her first touch since they met. Her voice was a whisper. "Don't."
Kaito turned his head, meeting her eyes — and for a moment, she saw something that made her release her grip. Not rage. Not madness. Just resignation.
"I'm not killing them," he said softly. "I'm burying them."
---
The first soldier never saw him move.
Kaito's blade entered cleanly, a silver blur between words.
The others turned, shouting in confusion — but the snow muffled everything.
Anzuyi joined him only when necessary. Her daggers flickered through throats and ribs, silent punctuation to Kaito's fury. Together they carved through the defiled garrison until the only sound left was the crackle of dying fire.
When it ended, Kaito stood among the corpses, his breath fogging the air. The ground was red where snow should have been white.
He dragged the bodies together. Some bore the faded crest of Bustleburg. Some the serpent of Valeria. It didn't matter anymore. He piled them high and set them aflame.
The fire caught quickly, hungry. The scent of burning cloth and hair filled the cold wind.
"Bustleburg burned once," he murmured, staring into the blaze. "Now it can rest."
Anzuyi said nothing. She stood a few paces away, her shadow long against the snow. The reflection of the flames shimmered in her eyes — not judgment, not approval. Just quiet understanding.
When the last body turned to ash, Kaito sheathed his blade. "Report that I completed the mission," he said flatly. "Scouted the northern front. Eliminated resistance."
Anzuyi tilted her head. "That's not the mission."
"No," Kaito replied. "It's what needed to be done."
They stood in silence as dawn began to break over the horizon — pale gold over blackened ruins. The snow fell again, soft and clean, covering the ash like forgiveness trying to take root.
As they walked north, Lia's words echoed in Kaito's mind:
This mission is not meant for success. It is meant for truth.
And now, knee-deep in the corpses of his past, Kaito Mugenrei finally understood what that meant.
Truth was not a weapon.
It was a wound — and he had just torn it open again.