Bullet Train - 7:15 PM
The air in the reserved car was so thick you could cut it with a dull knife.
I had my headphones on—noise-canceling—blasting jazz fusion while I flipped through the latest issue of Gastronomy Today. I was reading an article on molecular deconstruction of sauces, completely ignoring the terrified whispers around me.
Every time I looked up, eyes darted away. The other passengers, mostly Exorcists and support staff, treated me like I was an unpinned grenade sitting in seat 4A.
Then the door opened.
And out came Bon, Shima, and Konekomaru. They looked physically healed, but their egos were clearly still in a cast. When they saw me, they froze. Bon's face twisted into that familiar scowl, but he didn't shout. He just looked... defeated. He walked past me without a word, they sat behind me.
Good. Silence is golden.
I went back to my magazine.
"Is this seat taken?"
I didn't look up immediately. I slid one headphone cup off my ear. Izumo Kamiki stood there, looking annoyed but not terrified.
"It's a free country," I muttered, turning a page.
She sat down. She didn't scoot away. She didn't tremble. She just pulled out a book and started reading.
For an hour, we said nothing. It was the most comfortable silence I'd had in weeks.
"You're not worried," Izumo stated suddenly, not looking up from her book.
"About?"
"About the order. About them," she gestured behind us where Bon and the others were whispering. "About your execution."
I closed my magazine. "Why should I be worried about the opinions of sheep?"
Izumo paused. "I thought you guys were friends."
"They were classmates," I corrected. "Nothing has changed for me. They see a monster? That's their business. I couldn't care less. I don't have time to tiptoe around their feelings."
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"Honestly? I'm glad the secret is out. Holding back was exhausting. Now I can actually breathe."
Izumo looked at me for a long moment. Then, a small, barely noticeable smirk tugged at her lips.
"You're an arrogant jerk," she said.
"I've been called worse," I retorted.
We arrived in Kyoto a few hours later. The air here was different—older, heavier. It smelled of incense and centuries of secrets.
We were met on the platform by a messenger named Doi.
"We've been waiting," he said. "I'm messenger Doi from the Kyoto field office. I've prepared a bus, you can leave our luggage at the inn and relax."
The ride was silent. Shura sat in the front, looking bored. I looked out the window, watching the modern city give way to traditional architecture. The others in the back were whispering again, probably bracing themselves for whatever awaited them.
The destination was the headquarters of the Myodha Sect—a traditional Japanese Inn that doubled as a fortress.
When the vans pulled up, it was chaos.
We barely got the doors open before a swarm of monks in traditional robes flooded the courtyard. They ignored me. They ignored Shura. They went straight for Bon and his sidekicks.
"Young Master! You've returned!"
"Ryuji! You're hurt!"
"Renzou! Konekomaru! You're alive!"
I stood by the van, leaning against the doorframe, watching the reunion with bored detachment. It was like watching a cult greeting their messiah. Bon, who had been sulking for hours, suddenly straightened up, trying to look dignified while being patted down by twenty crying monks.
Right, he's a big shot here, I noted. A real 'Prince of the Paupers'. No wonder he acts so stiff.
Then, the wooden doors to the inn slammed open with a force that rattled the frames.
"RYUJI!"
The crowd parted instantly, like the Red Sea splitting for Moses. A woman stormed out. She was dressed in a traditional kimono, but she moved like a tank. She had the same sharp eyes as Bon, but with ten times the intensity.
Torako Suguro, the Matriarch.
She marched up to Bon, who actually flinched.
"Mom, I—"
SMACK.
She slapped the back of his head—hard enough to make a sound, but not to injure. Then, immediately, she grabbed him in a bear hug that looked like it cracked his ribs.
"You idiot! Look at you!" she cried out, her voice cracking with emotion. "You're skin and bones! Have you been eating?!"
She released him, wiping a tear from her eye, and turned her focus on Shima and Konekomaru.
"And you two!" she scolded, though her tone was thick with relief. "You were supposed to look after each other! Look at the state of you!"
"We're sorry, ma'am!" Shima squeaked, bowing.
"Just get inside," she sighed, shaking her head. "Your fathers have been pacing the floor for days."
Then, she turned to us.
The transformation was instant. The loud, terrifying mother vanished. In her place stood the perfect image of a Kyoto hostess. She smoothed her kimono, clasped her hands in front of her, and offered a deep, graceful bow.
"My apologies," she said, her voice soft and incredibly polite. "I am Torako Suguro. You must be the reinforcements from Tokyo. Thank you for traveling so far to aid us in these troubled times."
She looked up, smiling gently at Izumo and me. There was no judgment in her eyes, only warmth.
"You must be exhausted. Please, come inside. We have prepared a meal and baths for you. Treat this inn as your own home."
"I could eat," I said, pushing off the van.
"Of course," she smiled, gesturing elegantly toward the entrance.
"We appreciate your hospitality," Shura said, pulling out a gift box with the woman's name on it. "We just met the director so we'll head to the field office. I'll leave some doctors to treat the infected."
"It's my pleasure! I'm thankful for the Order's patronage," Torako said, accepting the gift. "And, um about that other thing…"
"Oh, Right!" Shura said, turning to the Exorcist. "Suguro! Miwa! Shima! Go say hello to your relatives. The rest of you help Mr. Yunokawa treat the infected."
"So much for eating," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let's get to work."
I followed the rest of the class into the main hall, which had been converted into a triage center. The smell of rot and antiseptic hung heavy in the air. The miasma from the Deep Keep breach here had infected more people than they let on.
"Izumo, Shiemi, put on these aprons," the head medic, Mr. Yunokawa, ordered. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, but he was moving with a slow, deliberate calm, scratching the back of his neck as he surveyed the room. "We need to disinfect the wounds before the rot spreads."
I stepped forward, rolling up my sleeves. "Let's get this over with."
Yunokawa looked up from his clipboard. He didn't flinch and he didn't even look terrified. He just sighed, a long, tired sound.
Well damn, sigh some more why don'tcha.
"Ah, Okumura," he said, waving a hand lazily. "Yeah... let's not."
"Excuse you?" I narrowed my eyes.
"Nothing personal," Yunokawa said, sounding bored as he checked a patient's pulse. "But your whole... vibe... is a bit intense for the patients right now. They're already panicked. Seeing the blue flames might give someone a heart attack, and I don't want to fill out the paperwork."
He pointed toward the door without looking at me.
"Just go chill outside, yeah? Stay out of trouble."
It wasn't fear this time; it was just dismissal. To them, I wasn't a resource; I was an inconvenience. A liability to be managed.
"Yea, Ight," I shrugged.
If they don't want me to do anything, then that's fine with me. I'll have more time to myself. I walked out of the triage center, leaving the heavy atmosphere behind.
I wandered into the inner courtyard garden. It was peaceful here, a stark contrast to the chaos inside. Cicadas buzzed in the summer heat. A small bamboo fountain clacked rhythmically against a stone basin.
Sitting on the wooden porch, drinking sake in the middle of the day, was a man who looked like a homeless bum. He was unshaven, wearing a loose, faded yukata that hung open at the chest, scratching his stomach lazily.
"Yo," the old man waved a cup at me, his eyes half-lidded. "You look like you want to punch a wall."
"Nah," I muttered, kicking a pebble into the pond. I sat on a large rock nearby. "Just got kicked out of the ICU. Apparently, I'm 'too intense'."
The man chuckled, scratching his stubble. He pointed a lazy finger toward a pile of large, round watermelons stacked near the stream.
"Well, since you're free," he drawled. "Help me cut these? The nurses need snacks for the patients to keep their hydration up, but I can't seem to find a knife."
I looked at the melons. I looked at the bum.
"You're just lazy, man," I laughed.
"Guilty," he grinned. "Come on, kid. Help an old man out."
"Sure, why not?" I said, standing up.
I walked over to the pile. I didn't ask for a knife. I didn't need one.
I stood over the largest melon and focused on the essence of the fruit—the perfect line dividing its halves.
Conceptual Cleave.
I chopped my hand down.
I didn't actually touch the melon. A blade of absolute, commanded space sliced through the green rind.
SQUELCH.
The watermelon split perfectly in half. The cut was so clean the cells hadn't even ruptured on the surface; the juice stayed inside until the halves fell apart, revealing the bright red interior.
The old man lowered his sake cup. His lazy eyes sharpened instantly, just for a fraction of a second, before returning to their droopy state.
"Ho..." he murmured, impressed. "That's some control. You didn't even bruise the fruit."
"I'm a Chef," I said, grabbing a slice and biting into it. It was sweet, cold, and crisp. "Precision is the job."
"A Chef, huh?" The man smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. "I'm Tatsuma. A monk."
"Rin," I replied, lining them up. "A monster on probation."
We ate in silence for a moment, the sound of cicadas filling the air.
"You're Bon boy's dad, aren't ya?" I asked suddenly.
Tatsuma froze mid-bite. "Heh. Do I look that much like Ryuji? Poor kid."
"No. You look like the only guy here who actually knows what's going on," I said, dropping the act. I turned to face him fully. "And my flames... they feel a connection to you. Or rather, to the sword you were supposed to be guarding."
Tatsuma set his cup down. The air pressure around him changed. The "lazy bum" mask vanished, revealing the High Priest of the Myodha.
"What do you know about the sword?" he asked quietly.
"I know the Left Eye was stolen," I stated, leaning forward. "I know the thief is coming for the Right Eye, which you have hidden. And I know there's a traitor in your sect helping them."
Tatsuma's eyes narrowed. "That is a dangerous accusation."
"It's the truth. Todo didn't work alone. Someone opened the door for him."
"Why tell me?" Tatsuma asked. "If you know so much, why not tell the Vatican? Or the others?"
"Because the Vatican wants to execute me," I said bluntly. "And the others are running around like headless chickens. I need someone who can actually make a decision."
"And what do you want from me?"
"A trade," I proposed. "I can help you. My flames can purify the Impure King's miasma. If the Eyes are united, I'm the only one who can stop the rot. I can sniff out the traitor for you."
"And in exchange?"
"I need you to teach me."
"Teach you what? The sword?"
"No," I shook my head. "I need to know how to reach a Nirvana-like state. Empty mind, empty body kind of thing."
Tatsuma blinked, surprised. "Why?"
"Because my soul is too big for my vessel," I explained, tapping my chest. "If I go 100%, I might burn out. I need to bypass my human limiters. I need to become the void so the fire can flow through me without resistance. You're a monk. You know meditation. Teach me a shortcut."
Tatsuma stared at me. He looked at the perfectly cut watermelon. He looked at the blue tint in my eyes.
"That kind of power can change the world."
"If I succeed... yeah, it might."
Tatsuma sighed, scratching his head. Then, he poured another cup of sake.
"Nirvana isn't a technique, Rin. It's a surrender," Tatsuma said, his eyes hard. "But... if you can actually purify the rot... and if you can bring me proof of this traitor... I suppose I can give you a few pointers."
He stood up, dusting off his yukata. "Meet me here tonight. Don't tell anyone."
I grinned. "My lips are sealed."