The world went black.
The last thing Yukio felt was the cool, gritty press of dirt against his cheek, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, and that faint, stubborn thrum of triumph in his chest.
He didn't lose. He didn't lose.
That half-delirious, half-defiant thought alone held him fixed to existence till all was lost.
---
Then came silence. Not peaceful, but just absolute, so deep it seemed to swallow even the idea of sound. The dark bled into gray, then blossomed into blinding white.
When Yukio opened his eyes, he was no longer on the battlefield. The fire, the blood, the pain. all gone.
No ground, no sky, no smell.
Just light. Suffocatingly endless light.
He stood—or so he thought—in a void so vast it hurt to look at: no up, no down, only weightless stillness.
He raised a trembling hand to his chest.
No pain, no scars, not even the faintest trace of fatigue.
Whole again.
"…Did I die again?"
He muttered; his voice was startlingly loud in the nothingness.
"Well, that's not fair."
The laugh that escaped him echoed oddly, a small ripple in a sea of silence. It wasn't bitterness this time, just tired amusement.
He let his head fall back, staring into the blank horizon above him.
"Fukui,"
He called, tone light but edged with that gambler's sarcasm.
"This your idea of a joke?"
The white around him shuddered, a pond whose surface has been disturbed. The ripples expanded outward, with greater and greater speed, until the void fractured—and then was gone.
When the world settled once more, he was no longer standing in nothingness.
Gone was the sterile white; in its place, the amber glow of cheap fluorescent lighting colored the room. The air, faintly tinged with soy sauce and miso, smelled of the sweetness of cheap air freshener that his mother adored.
Yukio blinked. His heart lurched.
He was home.
Everything was just as he remembered it: the crooked calendar, the worn kitchen tiles, the scuffed table, the cracked windowpane-all just as he remembered them. A warm draft stirred the curtains and carried in the hum of a television from the other room.
His throat went dry. He hadn't seen this place since…
Since before everything changed.
"…No way."
He stepped forward on unsteady legs, each movement heavy with disbelief. A faint clatter of utensils and a low hum of conversation came from the living room adjacent to this one.
He turned the corner—and froze.
---
His family was there.
His mother, Nozomi, leaned over a steaming bowl of rice, her hair tied back in a way that pulled painfully at his memory. His father, Tsutomu, sat across from her, still in his worn shirt, sleeves rolled up, tired eyes softened by domestic calm.
Between them sat his little sister, Megumi, chopsticks poised midair. Her face was bright with the easy warmth of a person untouched by loss.
The smell of grilled fish filled the room. The steam curled gently between them.
Nozomi was the first to look up. Her chopsticks slipped from her fingers, clattering against the porcelain. A whisper escaped her lips before even her brain could catch up.
"…Yuki?"
Yukio was unable to move. His body was shaking.
Tsutomu turned next, his furrowed brow lifting as his eyes widened.
"Son…"
He breathed, his voice low and unsteady.
"You're alive—but how…?"
Megumi was the last to react. For a long second, she only stared, her eyes wide and her mouth trembling. Then she stood abruptly, knocking her chair back.
"No. No way…"
Her voice cracked, and before he could answer, she was already moving—rushing across the room, nearly tripping over herself as she reached him.
"Is this real?"
She whispered, and her voice was small and shaking. Her hand came up, hesitating just inches from his cheek. Then she touched him, skin to skin, and gasped at the warmth.
Tears welled instantly in her eyes.
Yukio's composure shattered. He pulled her close, arms tightening around her shoulders, burying his face in her hair. The faint scent of her shampoo, the weight of her in his arms--it hit him like a flood.
"I'm here, sis,
He said huskily.
"I'm really here."
Next was Nozomi, who stumbled forward with tears streaming freely down her face.
"Yuki… my sweet boy…"
She wrapped her arms around them both, holding on like the world might stop if she let go.
Tsutomu's hesitation lasted only a moment, as he stepped forward and wrapped them both up in his broad, trembling arms.
"We thought…"
His voice cracked.
"We thought we lost you."
Yukio laughed, choked, and teary.
"Guess I'm hard to get rid of."
Yukio laughed through his tears, the sound breaking apart halfway. The four of them held onto each other, entwined in a mess of grief and love and disbelief.
Finally, he felt warm for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.
Megumi sniffled loudly and pulled back. Her watery glare could cut.
"Okay,"
She said, trying for her usual teasing tone, though her voice still trembled.
"You owe us an explanation. That money you sent, what's that about?"
Yukio blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief.
"Ah, right. That."
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a crooked grin forming despite the lump in his throat.
"Oh, well, there's no use hiding it now."
He took a deep breath, and a familiar grin spread across his face.
"On New Year's Eve, I went to a casino for the first time, just to try my luck. Turns out I have a few. special skills. I won big. Sorry I didn't tell you, but I'm kind of a professional gambler at this point."
Tsutomu let out a proud, loud laugh as he shrugged his shoulders and placed a hand on Yukio's shoulder.
"At least it was something legitimate! I'm proud of you, son."
Nozomi looked at Yukio with wide, surprised eyes, her smile breaking through her tear-stained face.
"My son is a gambler? Well, I didn't see that coming."
She tilted her head playfully.
"Where did I go wrong raising you, my little apple?
Megumi's grin spread even wider.
"You mean golden apple, Mom!"
She said, her head tilted.
"Did you see that amount he sent us? We can now live comfortably!"
Yukio chuckled weakly, the warmth swelling in his chest. The chatter, the banter, the overlapping laughter-it was the music of a life he'd thought lost forever.
And yet, as he peered down, that warmth started to falter. His hand… was glowing.
Not bright. Just faintly—like light leaking through a thin sheet of paper. The glow spread, his fingers becoming translucent.
"Ah…"
He let out a soft sigh .
"Guess my time's up."
Nozomi's laughter faltered.
"Yuki?"
Tsutomu's smile fell away.
"Wait… no…"
Megumi took a step forward, shaking her head furiously, as if denial could hold him here.
But Yukio just smiled-a calm, peaceful thing.
"Hey. Don't cry."
He reached out and brushed a strand of Megumi's hair behind her ear, his fingers passing right through.
Tsutomu stepped closer, grasping his fading hand as if to anchor him with will alone.
"Spirit or not,
He quietly mentioned, his voice cracking.
"You're still my son. You always will be."
Yukio smiled-sad, but peaceful.
"I know, Dad."
Again, Megumi's tears spilled over.
"You better watch over us, you stupid ghost,"
She said, trying to sound tough through the sobs.
Yukio grinned, that same lopsided, confident grin he always wore when bluffing in a bad hand.
"You got it. I'll be watching."
Their faces blurred, fading into light as the apartment dissolved around him as he whispered,
"See you later, guys."
His family's warmth lingered there for one last heartbeat-and then was gone.
---
The silence came back. Not white this time—black. Deep and endless.
Yukio floated, weightless, caught between heartbeats.
Then, through the dark, came a voice—light, lilting, mischievous.
"Hope you liked my gift,"
It said,
"Now go on and live. We shall meet again soon."
Fukui.
Even without his sight, Yukio could feel the grin behind that voice. He chuckled softly, his consciousness flickering like a candle in the wind.
"You really don't play fair, you know that?"
---
The darkness cracked.
Cold air rushed in, and the smell of ash, of damp earth, of burnt goblin flesh flooded back all at once.
He awoke, gasping.
Yukio's head was resting in Michibiki's lap. Her robes were smeared with soot, her silver hair tangled, her eyes fixed on his face with quiet intensity.
She said nothing for the most part—just watched. A single tear slid from the corner of Yukio's eye, carving a clean line through the dirt on his cheek. Not pain. Something deeper. Michibiki's expression softened. She brushed the tear away with her thumb, her touch gentle, reverent even; a faint healing glow flickered at her fingertips.
"What am I going to do with you?"
She murmured, half-sigh, half-whisper.
Her voice now had no mockery in it-just weary fondness. The woods were quiet. The fires had burned low. Beneath the broken sky, Yukio slept, his lips curled into a faint smile, as if he still could hear the echoes of home.