POV: Kaito Mugenrei
The smell of herbs and faint incense lingered as they entered the infirmary. The door creaked shut behind them, muffling the distant sounds of soldiers still shouting orders outside. The battle was over, but its echo clung to the air like smoke refusing to fade.
A healer with soft silver hair met them halfway down the hall. Her expression was calm, professional, though her eyes flickered with concern as she glanced at the dried blood on their armor.
"This way," she said, leading them to a small room. Two beds stood side by side, neatly made, linen white as untouched parchment. The scent of lavender drifted from a bowl of steaming water in the corner.
Anzuyi collapsed onto the nearest bed with a soft groan, exhaustion replacing her usual sharp alertness. Her daggers clattered onto the bedside table. She didn't even bother to remove her boots.
Kaito remained standing for a moment. Then, as the healer muttered a quiet prayer and left, he looked around the quiet room. It felt too still—too safe. The walls weren't scarred with claw marks or blood. No cold wind slipped through cracks. Just warmth. Silence.
He exhaled, almost uncertain what to do with the calm.
Then he sat down—not on the bed, but on the floor. The wooden boards creaked beneath him. He leaned his black greatsword against the wall and rested his back against it, knees bent, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
Anzuyi lifted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why the floor? There's another bed right there."
Kaito shrugged. "This is fine. There's a wall. A roof. That's more than enough."
She frowned. "You sound like a man who's slept in worse places."
"I have," he said quietly. His lips curved in a small, tired smile. "Mud, stones, broken crates. The earth's been my bed longer than I've known any roof. Comfort like this…" He looked at the bed beside her. "…makes me nervous."
Anzuyi shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. "You're impossible," she said, though her tone was softer now. "Come on, it's not a trap. Try it, at least."
Kaito didn't move.
Anzuyi let out a long sigh and patted the empty space beside her. "I'm not asking you to sleep beside me, hero. Just… try lying down on something soft for once."
He hesitated, eyes studying her expression. She wasn't teasing; there was an odd gentleness there, a hint of something she rarely showed.
After a few heartbeats, Kaito stood. The boards creaked as he crossed the short distance. He lowered himself carefully onto the other bed, half expecting it to collapse under his weight. Instead, it yielded—soft, warm, impossibly light.
His breath caught.
He sank into it slowly, like a man afraid of waking from a dream. The mattress seemed to cradle him, the sheets whispering against his armor-scarred skin. His muscles, used to tension and stone, didn't quite know how to relax.
"It's…" He paused, searching for words. "…soft."
"Told you," Anzuyi murmured, turning her head toward him.
He chuckled under his breath. "Feels strange. Like I'm being tricked into comfort."
"That's what normal people call rest," she replied, eyes half-lidded. "You should try it more often."
Kaito let out a slow sigh. His vision blurred for a moment. He raised a hand to cover his eyes, hiding the faint sting gathering there.
He hadn't realized how tired he was—not from battle, but from surviving it.
For a while, the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. The healer had left a faint golden glow in the corner, a mana lamp flickering like candlelight.
Then Anzuyi spoke again, voice soft and uncertain. "Why'd you do it?"
Kaito's hand lowered slightly. "Do what?"
"Risk your life for me back there," she said. "You could've pulled back when the ogres closed in. You didn't. You stayed."
He turned his head toward her. The question wasn't cold or accusatory—it was fragile, as if she were afraid of the answer.
"I didn't think about it," he said at first. Then, after a pause, he added, "Maybe because I've seen what happens to those left behind."
She watched him quietly.
"I know what it's like," Kaito continued, voice low. "To be the one no one comes back for. To wait and realize no one's coming. To scream and hear nothing but your own echo. I wouldn't let that happen again—not to someone else."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy, full of something unspoken.
Anzuyi's eyes softened. She turned her face toward the ceiling. "You really are terrible at taking care of yourself."
"Maybe," he said. "But I'm good at making sure others don't end up like me."
Her lips curved in a faint smile. "That's the saddest brag I've ever heard."
Kaito almost smiled back. "Guess I'll take it."
The room fell quiet again. The warmth from the mana lamp pulsed gently, wrapping them both in soft light.
Then Anzuyi spoke again, her voice almost teasing. "You said this was your first time lying on something soft and warm?"
"Yeah," he said. "Feels almost unreal."
"I know something even softer," she whispered.
He turned his head toward her. "Oh?"
Her hand stretched across the narrow space between the two beds. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"Here," she said, eyes half-closed. "Hold my hand."
For a moment, he didn't move. He simply watched her fingers hovering there, palm open—an invitation, not a command.
He reached out slowly, his calloused hand meeting hers halfway. Her skin was warm, faintly trembling, but steadying as his fingers closed around hers.
It wasn't the softness of the bed that struck him—it was the warmth that pulsed against his palm, alive and real.
Her thumb brushed against his knuckles, barely there.
"See?" she murmured, eyes closed now. "Told you. Warmer."
Kaito didn't answer. His gaze drifted to their joined hands, the contrast between his scarred fingers and her smooth skin. He could still feel the phantom chill of the battlefield, the echo of steel and death.
But here, in this small room, the world was quiet. For the first time in years, the fire in his chest wasn't from rage—it was from something gentler, something dangerously close to peace.
He tightened his grip just slightly, as if afraid the moment might slip away.
Anzuyi's breathing evened out, her lips curling in a faint, sleepy smile.
Kaito lay there, eyes half open, staring at the ceiling's wooden beams. The warmth of her hand anchored him—proof that he hadn't been swallowed by the chaos outside.
For a man who had spent a lifetime fighting through the dark, this—this fragile, human connection—felt like the rarest kind of victory.
He whispered to no one, "Maybe… this is enough for tonight."
Their hands remained clasped as the mana light dimmed, leaving only the quiet rhythm of two survivors finally allowed to rest.