We sit in the suffocating silence of the pre-dawn dark. The only sound in the old shrine is Hachiro's rhythmic, obnoxious snoring. It is a strange, jarringly normal sound in a world that feels like it has been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong.
I am leaning against the cold wooden wall, my legs drawn up. Every joint is an echo of pain. My shoulder, where the wound is not, throbs with a phantom emptiness. I am here. I am solid. But I feel... hollowed out. Like a bell that has been rung so hard it has cracked, and the sound is now just a dull, flat thud.
Kizawa is sitting cross-legged a few feet away, his back ramrod straight. He has not taken his eyes off the hilt of his broken sword, which he holds in his lap with his one good hand. His other hand, the one that lost its partner, is clenched into a white-knuckled fist.
"How bad is it?" I ask. My voice is still a dry rasp, but it is my voice. He does not look up. "How bad is what?" "Your sword," I clarify. "It... it shattered. It saved my life." "It failed," he says. The words are flat. Devoid of emotion. "It was not strong enough. So it broke." "That is not what I-" "It failed," he repeats, his voice a low, cold thing I still do not recognize. "It did its job. It intercepted. But it was not good enough to survive. And because it broke, I was disarmed. And you..." His head snaps up, and his blue eyes lock onto mine. They are not the eyes of the boy who teased me, or the friend who worried about me. They are the eyes of a predator that has just lost its prey. "You almost died."
I flinch. The coldness in his voice stings more than the General's blade. "That is not your fault, Kizawa," I say, my voice firmer. "That was my call. I used the 'Phoenix Lance'. I knew the risk. I was defenseless." "And I am your best friend," he says, his voice cutting. "I am the one who is supposed to be standing with you. And I was on the ground, useless, with one broken sword and the other one too far away. I had to throw my sword, Mizuki. Like a... like a child throwing a rock. That is not how this works." He looks back down at the hilt. "That will never happen again."
The finality in his tone scares me. This is not a promise. It is a sentence. "Kizawa," I say, softer this time. "What did... what did he mean? Yogawa. He said I am... 'in soul-debt'." Kizawa's gaze drifts to my shoulder, the spot on my kimono that is still intact. Then it moves to the single, traitorous strand of gold hair at my temple. "He says..." Kizawa struggles, the cold facade cracking for just a second. "He says you... you paid for your life. With... you. That your life force, your... your 'phoenix-ness'... is a cup. And you poured it all out to fill the hole the General made. Now... the cup is empty."
"I... I can feel it," I whisper, closing my eyes. It is true. I try to reach inside myself, to that warm, golden place that has always been there. The 'Sacred Ground'. The well of power I inherited from my grandparents. There is... nothing. It is not blocked. It is not weak. It is... gone. It is a dry, barren, cold void. The golden place I saw in my vision... it is just an empty room. Panic, cold and sharp, stabs me. I open my eyes. "I... I cannot feel it," I say, my voice rising. "Kizawa, I cannot feel my power! It is... gone!" I hold up my hands, focusing, pushing, trying to summon the silver-gold light of my daggers. Nothing. My hands just shake in the moonlight. "Mizuki, stop," Kizawa orders, moving to my side in a rustle of cloth. "Stop, you are shaking." "I am empty!" I cry, the terror of it, the wrongness, overwhelming me. "I am just... I am me! The fire is gone! How... how do I fight?" "You will," he says, his voice rough. He does not touch me. He just sits beside me, a solid, unmoving presence. "Yogawa is right. You are empty. But you are not broken. An empty cup can be refilled." "How?" I demand, looking at him, desperate. "He said he does not know how!" "Then we will find out," Kizawa says. "We will go to your grandparents. They will know. And until then..." He nods his head toward the sleeping forms of our friends. "You are not the only one who can fight."
As if summoned by his words, Erima stirs. She jerks awake with a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her bow. Her eyes are wide and wild for a moment, scanning the dark shrine before they land on us. "Mizuki...?" she breathes, scrambling to her feet. "You are... you are awake!" She is at my side in an instant, her hands hovering, checking me for wounds, for a fever. "How do you feel? Are you in pain? Does the wound hurt?" "I am... okay, Erima," I say, managing a weak smile. "Just... tired. Really, really tired." "You are grounded," Erima says, and the relief in her voice is so thick it makes it stern. "Absolutely, 100% grounded. No more 'Phoenix Lances'. No more 'filling the void'. You are on guard duty. And... and snack duty. From now on." I laugh. It is a weak, painful sound, but it is real. "Deal."
The sound wakes the others. "Guh... wha...?" Hachiro sits up, rubbing his face. "Are we dead? Is this heaven? Kizawa, why are you here?" "Shut up, Hachiro," Kizawa mutters, but the icy edge in his voice has thawed, just a little. "She is... she is awake!" Hachiro scrambles over, his face, usually a mask of idiotic cheer, is pale and bruised. His knuckles are a mess of split, dried blood. "Hey, Boss," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You... uh... you really scared us. That was... not cool." "Sorry," I whisper. "I will... try not to." "Good." He nods, his expression grim. "Because... man. I... I could not do anything. I punched the big guy, sure. But when he... when he hit you... I was just... stuck. I am just... fists. I cannot... fix... that." He looks down at his own hands, his indestructible "Iron Fists," with a look of pure disgust. "I need... to be better."
"We all need to be better," Yogawa grunts. He is the last to wake, pushing himself up from the altar with a groan that sounds like a dying animal. His face is a sickly, greenish-white. He stumbles over, his grimoire clutched to his chest like a shield. He stares at me, his analytical gaze sweeping over me. He looks at my hair, at my shoulder. "So," he says, his voice raspy. "The vessel is intact. But the aether... is depleted. How does it feel?" "It feels like... there is a hole inside me," I say honestly. "There is," he confirms, nodding. "You are in 'soul-debt'. You paid a price you could not afford, and your spiritual body is... bankrupt. You are running on pure biological function. Your magic... your 'phoenix-ness'... is offline. It is not gone. It is... dormant. It is waiting for payment." "Payment? What payment?" I ask. "Energy. Life force. Time," Yogawa says, sitting down heavily. "You cannot just... will it back. You have to refill. And that... is a process I have only read about in the most obscure texts. It requires... rest. Pure, unadulterated spiritual and physical rest. And, most likely... an external catalyst." "Like what?" Kizawa demands. "A place of immense natural power," Yogawa mutters. "A convergence of leylines. A dip in a sacred river. Or... contact with a source of similar, compatible energy. Like... your family." He looks at me. "Your grandparents. They are... like you, are they not?" "They are," I nod. "They are the ones who trained me." "Then that is our only move," Yogawa says. "We must get you to them. If you stay in this... this empty state... you are vulnerable. Not just to demons. To... sickness. To your own power imploding. You are a... a vacuum, Mizuki. And nature... especially magical nature... hates a vacuum."
The silence that follows is heavy. "So, the plan is simple," Erima says, her voice cutting through the gloom. She is already re-stringing her bow, checking her fletchings. "We are in the middle of a demon-infested industrial sector. We just killed a General, which means the Spinner King is furious and knows exactly where we are. Mizuki is a non-combatant. Kizawa has one-and-a-half swords. Hachiro's hands are broken. And Yogawa looks like he is going to throw up his own spleen." "A... very accurate... assessment," Yogawa groans, leaning his head back. "So," Erima continues, "we have to get out of the city. We have to travel to Mizuki's grandparents' home in the mountains. We have to do it... now. Before the sun is fully up. Before the next General shows up."
"She is right," Kizawa says, standing. He sways, but he steadies himself. He tucks the hilt of his broken sword into his belt. "One... problem," he says. "Only one? I am impressed," Yogawa mutters. "I am... not... going to the mountains... like this." He gestures with his one good katana. "I am not going to fight whatever comes next... with this. I failed. It failed. I need... more." "More? More what?" Hachiro asks. "A new sword? We can... I do not know... loot one?" "No," Kizawa says. "I do not need a sword. I need the sword. Yogawa." The magician opens one eye. "What?" "You know things. You read... obscure texts. Is there anyone... anyone in this country... who can forge a weapon that can kill a General? A weapon that will not shatter?" Yogawa is silent for a long moment. "You are... an idiot," he finally says. "You think you can just... buy a god-killing weapon?" "I am not asking to buy it," Kizawa says, his voice flat. "I am asking who can make it." Yogawa sighs, a long, rattling sound. "You... are probably going to get us all killed. But... yes. There... is a legend. Of a smith. A hermit. They call him... the 'Blacksmith of the Spirit Wind'. He does not forge with steel. He forges with... concepts. With vows. With... souls." Kizawa's eyes... ignite. "Where is he?" "In the mountains, of course," Yogawa groans. "Where else? In the Akatane Peaks. A full week's journey... in the opposite direction of Mizuki's home." Kizawa nods once. "Then that is where we go first."
"Absolutely not!" Erima explodes. "Kizawa, are you insane? Mizuki is in soul-debt! She needs help! We are not taking a detour to some... some legendary blacksmith so you can get a new toy!" "It is not a toy!" Kizawa whirls on her, his voice lashing out. "It is necessity! What happens when the next General comes? And the one after that? Mizuki is down. I am... broken. We... we ran, Erima! We won, and we ran! That is not victory!" "We survived!" she shoots back. "And that is all that matters! We have to get Mizuki to safety!" "Safety is an illusion!" Kizawa roars. "There is no 'safe'! There is only 'strong' and 'dead'! I am done... being 'weak'!"
"ENOUGH!" My voice cracks through the argument like a whip. They all freeze. They stare at me. I am on my feet. I am shaking. I am so weak I feel like I am going to faint. But I am standing. "You are... both... right," I pant, gripping the wall for support. "Erima... I... I am a liability. I am empty. We... we cannot... fight a... a proper battle... like this." I look at Kizawa. He is staring at me, his rage banked by a sudden, sharp worry. "And you..." I say. "You are... an idiot. But... you are right, too. We cannot... just... run. We cannot... hide... until I am... 'refilled'. They will find us." I take a breath. The silver thread. The will. "So we do... both," I say. They stare at me. "The Akatane Peaks... where the smith is," I say to Yogawa. "Are they... near... the... Tamayura Hot Springs?" Yogawa's eyes widen. "The... 'Springs of the Soul'? Yes. They are... one valley over. It is... a place of immense natural, purifying energy. A... a convergence... of leylines..." "A place... to refill... a... 'bankrupt' soul?" I ask. Yogawa is speechless. He just... nods. "Then that is our plan," I declare, pulling myself to my full height. I am so dizzy. "We go to the Akatane Peaks. I... will rest... at the springs. And Kizawa..." I look at my oldest friend. "You go... and get... your new sword." Erima looks at me, her mouth open, about to protest. I raise my hand. "We... we are not 'surviving' anymore, Erima. Kizawa is right. We are... hunting. And we are... done... being the prey." KInsawa stares at me, and for the first time since the battle, a real, true emotion breaks through his cold resolve. It is... respect. He nods, his hand moving from his good sword to the broken hilt at his belt. "The Akatane Peaks," he says. "The Akatane Peaks," I agree. We are a broken, battered, terrified group of kids. We are under-powered, over-extended, and being hunted by a literal demon-god. We should be terrified. And we are. But as I look at the faces of my friends-Erima's fierce practicality, Hachiro's new, quiet determination, Yogawa's grumpy acceptance, and Kizawa's burning, terrible resolve-I feel... something else. The silver thread. The will. The cup is empty. But I am still here. And I am angry. "Let's go," I say, taking a step away from the wall. "This place... stinks."