The dorm resembled a ghost ship, aimlessly drifting upon an expansive sea of silence. The vibrant energy that typically animated the common room had vanished, leaving behind a dense, oppressive silence that enveloped the space.
Plates of food that Yukari had meticulously prepared remained untouched on the table, their vibrant colors and enticing aromas lingering in the air, yet they were forsaken, a testament to the absence of eager diners.
Junpei gazed vacantly at the flickering static that filled the TV screen, his mind adrift in a sea of thoughts.
Makoto sat quietly, his expression difficult to decipher. Yet, the familiar calm that usually enveloped him seemed fragile, reminiscent of delicate ice stretched over a profound abyss.
And Akihiko… Akihiko had vanished.
His body lay in the room, yet the essence of the person—the determined, proud, and fiercely loyal fighter—was utterly broken.
I could sense it without the need for my powers. The dorm felt incomplete without his intense, focused energy, leaving a noticeable void in the atmosphere.
Upon his emergence the following day, he appeared as a complete stranger. His shoulders, which were typically squared in preparation for a confrontation, now hung in a defeated manner.
His eyes, which had once been sharp and filled with challenge, now appeared hollow and distant, as if they were locked onto some internal horror that only he could perceive.
The idea surrounding him had transcended mere destruction; it had become an absolute emptiness. A profound sense of emptiness envelops me, weighing heavily on my heart and mind.
I observed him from a distance, my heart heavy with an ache that seemed to resonate deep within me.
The Entity residing within me regarded this new data with a detached sense of curiosity, its interest piqued yet devoid of warmth. It appeared to whisper, an imperfect device, deficient in its effectiveness; its intended function is undermined.
I buried the thought deep within myself, a wave of anger igniting the chill that flowed through my veins. He represents much more than merely a tool. He is a friend of mine.
Mitsuru navigated through the entire scene with a calm yet determined efficiency, each movement deliberate and purposeful.
She took charge of the official reports, managed communications with the school, and made certain that Shinjiro's name was treated with the utmost dignity.
However, I did observe the expense involved.
I observed how her hand would quiver ever so slightly before she resolutely formed it into a fist. I noticed the shadows, deeper and more pronounced than ever, lingering beneath her eyes.
That evening, I discovered her in the command room, not poring over data as one might expect, but instead standing silently before the large, dark screen. Her reflection appeared as a pale, weary ghost, haunting the dimly lit space.
"You can't carry it all," I remarked gently from the threshold, my voice barely above a whisper.
She remained still, not turning at all. "It is essential that someone take action." Her voice lacked its usual vibrancy, sounding flat and devoid of the fire that typically characterized it. "This… this is the stark truth of our conflict."
"It is not simply a collection of glorious victories and the display of controlled power. This is the reality: crimson stains mar the surface of the pavement, and desolate chairs stand in silence."
I approached her from behind, maintaining a distance that was intimate yet respectful, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence but careful not to make contact. "I understand, but the burden is not solely yours to carry."
I softly rested my hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her presence beneath my touch. She tensed for just a brief moment, then released a slow, trembling breath, leaning back gently into my touch. "Allow me to assist you in carrying that."
She remained silent for what felt like an eternity, lost in her thoughts. Then, she pivoted within my gentle hold to meet my gaze.
The leader's mask had disappeared, creating an atmosphere thick with uncertainty.
What remained was a profound, unfiltered sorrow coupled with an overwhelming sense of fatigue. "He was right there, Kaito," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "And I… we… we were unable to…"
"I understand," I reiterated, enveloping her in a warm and genuine embrace.
Though tears did not fall, her body shook with a quiet intensity as she pressed her face into my shoulder, her fists gripping the fabric of my shirt tightly.
We remained in that position for what felt like an eternity, two steadfast anchors clinging to one another amidst the raging storm.
The following day, I found myself at a breaking point, unable to endure the situation any longer. On the rooftop, I discovered Akihiko, not engaged in his usual training routine, but instead gazing out at the city skyline, his eyes devoid of life and emotion.
"Sanada," I called out.
He remained silent, offering no reply.
I approached and took my place beside him, resting against the railing as I did so. "Remaining in that room indefinitely is not an option."
"Why shouldn't we?" His voice came out as a rough scrape, a sound that seemed to echo with a certain rawness and grit. "What is it that truly holds significance in this place?"
"We are," I said, feeling my own frustration begin to surface. "Is it your team, your friends, or did all of that fade away with him?"
That certainly elicited a response. He turned his head, and in that moment, his hollow eyes flickered with a glimmer of the old fire that once burned brightly within him. "You have no right to speak about him. You never knew him, and you can't possibly understand."
"You know what? You're absolutely right, I didn't," I retorted, locking eyes with him, feeling the tension crackle in the air between us.
"Yet, I have come to grasp the reality of what lies before me." I observe a man who seems to have surrendered to the weight of his circumstances.
"In the end, Shinjiro made the choice to stand by your side, to safeguard Fuuka, demonstrating his unchanging devotion to those he cared for."
"Is this how you honor that?" I gestured toward his defeated posture.
"Was he truly willing to cast aside everything else that held meaning for him?"
His jaw clenched, a subtle yet powerful indication of the turmoil brewing within him. He turned his gaze, directing it once more towards the sprawling cityscape. "You just don't understand."
"Every ounce of my strength… it was meant to be channeled into this moment. To ensure the safety and well-being of individuals. In those crucial moments, when everything was on the line, it simply fell short... I... always felt like I fell... short."
I finally understood the core of the concept around him. It wasn't just grief. It was a fundamental failure of his own identity. The thing he had built his entire life around—strength—had proven to be a lie.
I chose my next words carefully. "You're looking at it wrong," I said, my voice softer. "You think strength is a wall that never falls. It's not." I tapped my chest. I ought to be aware of that. I hold a power capable of obliterating this entire city. Yet, true strength transcends mere defenses."
I gaze out at the city, taking in the scenery that unfolds before me, while the cold wind brushes against my skin, evoking a sense of tranquility that resonates deeply within me.
"It resides in the steadfast determination to reconstruct after the violent upheaval of an earthquake has rattled everything to its very foundation."
"It is the courageous act of standing up once more, even when every fiber of your being is pleading for you to stay down."
Though he remained quiet, an undeniable sense of his attentiveness enveloped me.
"He's gone, Akihiko," I uttered, the weight of those words pressing heavily on my heart, each syllable laced with an unbearable ache. "It's a wound that will remain open, a void that time cannot completely heal."
"Yet, despite everything, we remain here. We truly need you."
"We do not seek an unbeatable hero. We rely on you as our cherished companion and family, the one who strives to excel in their training, frequently expressing disapproval at even the most absurd jokes." That individual… that individual remains sufficient."
I chose not to wait for a response. I simply turned away, leaving him behind amidst the bustling city and the lingering shadows of his past.
As the night deepened and the Dark Hour approached, an unmistakable change began to unfold. With a gentle push, Akihiko stepped out of his room, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the world beyond his familiar confines.
Not a single word escaped his lips as he stood there, surrounded by others yet completely isolated in his silence.
With a steady stride, he made his way to the heart of the common room, his fingers curling around the familiar weight of his Evoker.
A sense of purpose filled him as he stepped through the door, setting his sights on the looming presence of Tartarus ahead.
We moved forward in silence, each step heavy with unspoken thoughts. It was not merely a mission. The journey felt like a pilgrimage.
Inside the tower, he didn't fight with his usual disciplined fury. He fought with a raw, reckless rage, pouring all his grief and self-loathing into every punch. Caesar materialized not with elegant power but with a berserker's fury, lightning crackling wildly.
We allowed him to proceed. We established a protective perimeter around him, skillfully managing the Shadows he chose to overlook, safeguarding his vulnerable side as he battled his inner demons with sheer force.
I observed him, feeling the weight of my own power subdued, resting silently within me. This was not merely a struggle for ideas or accuracy. This was a profound struggle for the very essence of a soul. It was a battle that only he had the strength to conquer.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally came to a halt, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, surrounded by the fading remnants of a dozen Shadows swirling around him.
The vibrant energy that once surrounded him had vanished, leaving in its wake a deep, overwhelming sense of fatigue that settled into his bones.
He turned and gazed at us, truly gazed at us, for the very first time since that moment in the alley. His eyes remained brimming with anguish, yet the emptiness that once consumed them had vanished.
What remained was a somber yet resolute acceptance that had been forged through struggle.
"Let's go home," he said, his voice carrying a roughness that contrasted with the clarity of his words.
Mitsuru offered a decisive, sharp nod, a gesture that spoke volumes in its simplicity. "Yes."
As we made our way back, he fell into step beside me, the rhythm of our footsteps syncing in a comfortable silence that enveloped us. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding any glance in my direction.
"...Thank you," he muttered, the word feeling strange and clumsy as it rolled off his tongue.
I simply nodded in response. "Anytime."
We were far from okay. We would forever be changed. The reverberation of that gunshot would linger in our corridors for what felt like an eternity. The masterpiece of our lives now bore a dark, jagged crack that ran through it, marring its once flawless beauty.
As we strolled back to the dorm, side by side, a sense of solidarity enveloped us once again. Yet, deep down, I understood that the canvas remained untouched, waiting for the next stroke of our journey.
The painting remained intact, untouched by any misfortune. It felt undeniably more real now. It had experienced the profound weight of loss. In the midst of that profound loss, we made the conscious decision to unite and stand together.
The fragmented steel was slowly starting to reshape itself, emerging into a new and more resilient form. Forged in the heat of flames. Hardened by the weight of sorrow. And prepared, once more, to confront the endless, shadowy night that lay ahead.