Lostwick.
Delacroix rode in silence, fingers tense around the reins. Bronx’s hooves thudded against the dirt, steady, rhythmic, uncaring. The stallion had no notion of exile, no burden of shame. He simply carried his rider forward, blind to the weight pressing down on his back.
The air smelled of wheat and woodsmoke, tinged with something else—the faintest trace of iron. A reminder that once, long ago, these fields had been soaked in blood.
As the last of the sun dipped below the hills, Nakamura slowed his horse, then reined to a stop.
"Dismount."
Delacroix hesitated for a fraction of a second before swinging his leg over the saddle, landing lightly on his feet. The earth felt different beneath him now—less like home, more like something unfamiliar, something temporary.
Nakamura dismounted as well, moving with the same effortless control he had always possessed. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
He turned to his saddlebag, unfastening a bundle of black Kyosakan robes, their fabric simple but worn, frayed at the edges from years of use. With them, a cloak—dark, tattered, its hem fraying into stray threads.
“Put these on.”
Delacroix took the bundle, unfolding the robes. The cloth smelled faintly of incense and travel, of a life spent moving.
He ran a thumb over the faded embroidery, brows furrowing. There had once been a symbol stitched into the collar—now picked clean, only the ghost of the threads remaining.
A nameless life.
His mouth pressed into a line. If that was the price, then so be it.
He shed his old clothes without a word.
The fabric was lighter than what he was used to—no reinforced doublet, no gilded embroidery, no insignia to tell the world who he was.
That was the point.
But still—it wasn’t enough.
He felt Nakamura step closer. Before he could react, calloused fingers pressed against his jaw, smearing something rough across his cheek. Dirt.
Delacroix jerked back, scowling. “What in the hells are you doing?”
Nakamura met his glare with calm indifference. “You still look too princely.”
Delacroix wiped at his face, but the grit remained, settling into the creases of his skin. His hands curled into fists.
He exhaled sharply, muttering, “And when they do look?”
Nakamura’s smirk was faint, unreadable. “Then they spit.”
Delacroix let out a bitter laugh, hollow and sharp. “I suppose I should be grateful they don’t stone me.”
Nakamura didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he turned his attention to Bronx.
“The horse.”
Delacroix frowned. “What about him?”
“The gold trim on his tack. The royal engravings. Strip them.”
Delacroix’s grip on the reins tightened. The markings on Bronx’s saddle, the subtle golden etchings along the bridle, had been gifted to him when he had first joined the warfront. A prince’s mount—an honour from the monarchy that never wanted him.
And yet, standing here now, it was the last thing tethering him to that name.
He exhaled sharply.
One by one, he removed the embellishments, fingers working swiftly, without hesitation.
- The royal clasps, undone.
- The gold plates, slipped free.
- The engraved bridle, unfastened.
Piece by piece, he stripped the last vestiges of his past from his horse.
And when it was done—he let them fall.
A faint clink of metal against dirt.
Nakamura nodded, satisfied. Bronx was just another horse now.
Delacroix didn’t look at the remnants he had left behind.
He didn’t need to.
Without another word, Nakamura mounted his steed and turned toward the torchlit village.
Delacroix followed.
The past stayed behind them, half-buried in the road.
Delacroix could feel their eyes, watching from behind shuttered windows and dimly lit doorways. A blacksmith paused mid-swing, hammer hanging over the anvil. A merchant tucked her purse closer, fingers white-knuckled around the strap.
The only sound was the steady clip of hooves on dirt as they rode further into the village.
They were not welcome here.
Delacroix had felt this before—a lifetime of glances that lingered too long, of whispers that slithered just beyond hearing. But here, in the glow of torchlight, it was different.
This wasn’t suspicion.
This was fear.
At the village square, Nakamura pulled on the reins, slowing his horse near a two-story building, its windows glowing with warm, flickering light. Laughter spilled from inside, rough and full-throated, mingling with the hum of a lute.
The sign above the door swung in the evening breeze, its lettering faded with age.
Delacroix dismounted, glancing up at the building. It looked like any other tavern.
He adjusted Bronx’s reins, murmuring, “Taverns have never been the most welcoming places for me.”
Nakamura swung off his horse with practiced ease, hitching the reins to a post.
He barely spared Delacroix a glance as he said, “Wrong taverns.”
They enter. Warmth hit Delacroix first. The scent of sweat, smoke, and perfume tangled in the air, thick enough to taste. A lute thrummed lazily in the far corner, a woman’s voice humming along, lilting and half-drunk. Somewhere above, muffled laughter spilled from behind closed doors, the telltale creak of bedposts marking the rhythm of the evening’s profession.
The door swung shut behind them, and for a moment, they were just another set of weary travellers seeking food, drink, and a place to rest their heads.
Then the silence hit.
It lasted only a breath—a single moment where laughter dipped, where voices lowered, where the weight of a room full of eyes pressed against his skin like a blade drawn slow.
Delacroix had long since learned to measure the shape of a silence. There was the hush of respect, the quiet that filled the halls before a king spoke. There was the silence of fear, the held breath of men waiting for the next arrow to fall. And then there was this.
The silence of rooms that did not want him in them.
It passed as quickly as it came, the tension slipping beneath the surface as men turned back to their drinks, as conversations resumed with a careful casualness. But Delacroix knew better. The moment might be gone, but the knowing remained.
Nakamura didn’t acknowledge it, stepping forward as though the brothel had welcomed him with open arms. The other two Rōnin followed without pause, moving toward an empty table near the far wall.
Delacroix forced his shoulders to relax, to ignore the weight of old instincts that told him to leave. He had been here before—not this brothel, not this town, but places like it, places where men marked him before they even knew his name.
Shadeborn.
That word did not need to be spoken for it to be understood.
He followed the Rōnin, moving to take a seat, when a voice slurred through the din.
"Sharp-eyes, here in Lostwick."
The words came thick with ale, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath them.
Delacroix turned his head slightly, gaze settling on the speaker—a man at the bar, broad-shouldered, weathered, the kind whose hands had known honest labor and dishonest fights alike. His cup hung loose in his fingers, but his eyes stayed sharp.
A few others at the bar chuckled, low murmurs slipping between them like dogs testing the weight of a chain.
The man swirled his drink lazily before setting it down with a deliberate, ringing thud. His attention shifted from Nakamura to Delacroix. His expression curdled.
Here it comes.
"A darkie?" He let the word linger on his tongue, stretching it out slow, as if savouring the taste of it. "I don’t drink with his kind."
Something inside Delacroix coiled tight.
It wasn’t the insult. He had endured far worse. It was the familiarity of it, the inevitability—like a play rehearsed too many times, the actors different, but the lines always the same.
He could feel the room shift, the tension curling at the edges, subtle but present. The way the woman behind the bar moved with practiced ease, pouring another drink as if she hadn’t heard a thing. The way a man in the corner tilted his chair back slightly, just enough to be out of the way should something start. The way no one looked directly at them anymore, yet everyone listened.
The drunkard watched him, waiting. Daring him.
Delacroix could feel his fingers twitch, that old, ugly instinct whispering to give the man what he wanted. A fight, a reason, a way to justify the loathing that had already been settled in his mind the moment Delacroix had walked through the door.
He almost obliged.
His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword. Just a flicker of movement.
Then, before he could act, Nakamura spoke.
"Then drink alone."
The words were flat, disinterested. As though the conversation itself was beneath him.
Delacroix exhaled slowly, fingers relaxing against the hilt. The moment Nakamura had spoken, it was already over.
But the drunkard did not take well to being ignored.
His cup scraped against the wood as he shoved back from the bar, knocking over what little ale remained. The room stilled again, anticipation crackling at the edges.
"I said," he bit out, "I don’t drink with his kind."
A chair shifted. Someone muttered under their breath.
Delacroix felt something hot coil inside him, something sharp and frayed and aching to be let loose.
But before he could act, a hand came down—hard and heavy—on the drunkard’s shoulder.
The man stiffened.
A slow, deliberate voice cut through the air like steel being drawn. "Drink, or don’t," the voice said. "But there won’t be trouble."
The brothel’s enforcer had moved without sound, without fanfare. An Osterian by the look of him, all broad muscle and quiet authority, the kind of man who ended fights before they began.
His fingers dug into the drunkard’s shoulder just enough to make a point.
A pause.
A beat where Delacroix could see the war behind the man’s eyes, the stubborn weight of drink and pride and whether it was worth pushing further.
Then, slowly, the drunkard exhaled through his nose and shrugged the enforcer’s grip off, sinking back onto his stool. "Fine," he muttered. "The ale’s shite anyway."
The room breathed again.
A woman near the hearth laughed—too loud, too forced—smoothing over the tension with practiced ease. The hum of conversation cautiously resumed, the moment already slipping into the growing haze of the evening.
Delacroix exhaled.
Nakamura glanced at him, one brow raised ever so slightly.
"See?" He gestured vaguely to the tavern, as if the last two minutes had not just happened. "Right tavern."
Delacroix gave him a flat look.
But as he pulled his chair back and sank into the seat, he caught himself smirking just slightly.
Maybe.
The night carried on.
The brothel returned to its rhythm—drunken laughter, the scrape of chairs, the slow, honey-thick murmur of whispered deals behind velvet curtains. The air smelled of spiced wine and candle smoke, thick with the musk of bodies and sweat.
Delacroix let himself sink into his chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup. The ale was weak, the kind meant to be poured more than tasted, but he drank anyway. Anything to wash the weight of the moment down.
Nakamura was unbothered. He drank slow, deliberate, the picture of someone who had seen a thousand nights like this and would see a thousand more.
For the first time since he had left home, Delacroix allowed himself to think this might be enough.
A night without battle. A night where the only thing waiting for him in the dark was sleep.
Then the doors crashed open.
The warmth of the room was split in two, the night spilling into the threshold like an open wound.
She stumbled in first—a woman, her hair half-fallen from its braid, her dress dirt-stained and torn at the hem. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t bleeding. But she was shaking.
“Please—please, someone—”
Her breath came fast and frantic, her words catching in her throat before she could spit them out.
“My husband—he was tending the fields beyond the village before sundown. He hasn’t returned.”
A ripple moved through the room. Not shock. Not concern. Just… acceptance.
Somewhere by the hearth, a man tipped his chair forward and took a slow sip of ale. Someone near the bar exhaled through their nose, shifting just slightly so that his back was turned to the scene unfolding before him.
Delacroix had been on enough battlefields to know what resignation looked like. He didn’t like it.
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The brothel’s madam stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, silver at her temples, the kind of woman who had seen more desperate souls walk through her doors than she could count. Her voice was even, but firm.
“If he hasn’t come back, he’s already gone.”
The woman shook her head violently. “No—no, please! I heard something! A—something in the trees! It’s still out there!”
That got a reaction. A pause, a flicker of unease.
Someone near the back swore under their breath.
A farmhand rubbed at his face, muttering, “Shit…not again.”
Delacroix sat up straighter. Not again. The words hung in the air, settling between the cracks of the conversation like dirt in an open wound. Still, no one moved.
The woman’s breath hitched, her hands twisting in the fabric of her skirt. “Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking now. “Please, someone—”
The silence stretched.
Then, Nakamura pushed his chair back.
The sound wasn’t loud. But it cut through the room like a blade through silk.
He set his cup down, rising with the same slow certainty he did everything else. His gaze was unreadable as he stepped toward the woman.
Behind him, the other Rōnin moved without hesitation.
Delacroix felt it again—that shift.
They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t hesitate.
They already knew.
Nakamura turned his head slightly. Just enough for his gaze to fall on Delacroix.
“Come.”
Delacroix blinked. “What?”
Nakamura gestured to the door. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
Delacroix hesitated. Not because he was afraid. Not because he didn’t believe the woman. But because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t the one being sent first into the dark. He rose to his feet anyway.
Outside, the torches burned brighter than before. And beyond them, the fields stretched out into the abyss.
Waiting.
The torches of Lostwick burned high behind them, casting long, flickering shadows along the dirt path. But beyond the village borders, where the fields stretched wide and open, the light failed.
The night swallowed everything.
Delacroix stood beside Bronx, his fingers wrapping around the familiar weight of his sword. It was an arming sword, forged of Gallian steel, its hilt wrapped in leather worn smooth from years of use. The crest of a silver lion gleamed against the pommel, a final mark of where he had come from—a prince’s blade, made for the battlefield.
He slung the sheathed sword over his back, letting it settle across his shoulder blades. This was how he had always carried it, strapped high, ready to be drawn in a downward arc.
A soldier’s stance.
Nakamura, meanwhile, moved to his horse and reached for his own weapon. A katana, its scabbard plain, unadorned, like a thing that had never been meant to be admired—only used. The other Rōnin followed, their hands resting lightly against their sword hilts, fingers curled just beneath the guard.
Delacroix caught the way they held them—low and relaxed, the sheaths still at their sides, their grip steady but never tense.
It was different. Everything about them was different.
Nakamura unsheathed his blade just slightly, the metal catching in the lantern light for the briefest moment.
It was not steel. It was black. Darker than the void itself, as if the blade had been carved from the night. Delacroix said nothing, but he stared for a moment too long. That was no ordinary sword.
Nakamura let the blade slide back into its scabbard with a faint, deliberate click. If he noticed Delacroix’s curiosity, he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he turned toward the road ahead and said, “Let’s go.”
The night swallowed everything.
Delacroix had been in darkness before—tunnels beneath war-torn fortresses, the blindfold wrapped tight over his eyes, the empty void of nightfall on the battlefield.
But this was different.
This darkness pressed against him.
It moved.
The woman led them just beyond the torches, her pace quick, her breath unsteady. She kept wringing the hem of her dress, glancing toward the fields as though expecting something to crawl out of the wheat.
Nakamura said nothing as he walked beside her.
Delacroix, however, was growing increasingly aware of the silence. The wrongness of it. The countryside was never truly quiet—there was always something, whether it be the chirp of crickets, the rustle of foxes darting through the brush, the distant hoot of an owl. Tonight, however, there was nothing.
Only the sound of their boots against the dirt.
Only the whisper of the wind, curling through the grass.
Only the sound of the woman’s breath, coming sharp and fast, as if she knew something none of them did.
Delacroix shifted uncomfortably. He turned toward Nakamura.
"Do you hear that?"
The Rōnin didn’t look at him. "No."
Delacroix frowned. "Exactly."
The woman suddenly staggered forward, clutching at her chest. "Here," she gasped. "It was here—"
She pointed to the ground.
A lantern lay in the dirt, its glass cracked, its oil still glistening beneath the moonlight.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the tracks in the soil.
There were no footprints leading away.
Only drag marks.
Long, deep, like something had been pulled away from this spot and into the tall grass.
Delacroix felt his skin crawl.
Something wasn't right.
Nakamura crouched down, brushing his fingers along the earth. The other two Rōnin flanked them, their hands hovering near their weapons.
"Your husband," Nakamura said quietly. "He didn’t wander off, did he?"
The woman shook her head violently, tears welling in her eyes. "No, no, he was supposed to be back before sundown, he would never—"
A sound.
A wet, shuddering breath.
The woman went rigid.
Delacroix's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.
The wheat swayed, shifting ever so slightly, though the wind had stopped.
And then, from the darkness of the fields—
A shape moved.
The grass rippled as something heavy dragged through it, the stalks bending and parting as it came closer. The breathing deepened, turning into something thicker, wetter, something that didn’t belong in a man’s lungs.
Then, from the black of the fields, it stepped forward. And Delacroix saw it. His stomach dropped. The first thing he noticed was the eyes. Not eyes, not really. Just pits of darkness, blacker than the night itself, sucking the light into them. Then the horns, jagged and uneven, curling out like broken scythes. Then the thing hanging from them.
A man’s body—or what was left of one.
Blood dripped down the twisted lengths of bone, soaking into the beast’s cracked, rotting hide. Its legs were wrong—longer, too lean, too stretched, as if someone had pulled an ox apart and reshaped it for the hunt.
It should have looked clumsy, broken.
Instead, it looked hungry.
The woman made a choked, strangled noise.
"Goddess," she whispered. "No. No, no—"
The Yachō snorted, steam curling from its nostrils, thick and unnatural in the cold night air. Its eyes—or the voids where eyes should have been—fixated on them, unblinking. The scent of damp fur, rotting flesh, and something fouler, something deeper clung to the space between them.
Then it charged.
The earth shuddered beneath its weight, each step pounding into the dirt like a hammer against stone. Its breath hitched and wheezed, a deep, wet noise that felt too human, too wrong for something that had once been a beast of burden.
The Rōnin moved.
Not with the rigid discipline of soldiers, but like ghosts given flesh—fluid, seamless, stepping aside just as the Yachō’s horns carved the air where they had been standing mere moments ago.
To Delacroix, it looked like evasion.
Like hesitation.
They were dodging, weaving, slipping past every charge—but not striking. Not drawing blood.
Delacroix felt his heart hammer against his ribs.
They were wasting time.
He could feel it—that old instinct, the one beaten into him from years of war. Strike first. Strike fast. Take the advantage before it’s lost.
But the Rōnin did not rush.
They were watching. Studying.
Assessing.
Delacroix didn’t see that.
What he saw was a creature rampaging, its strength unchecked. And no one stopping it.
The Yachō reared up, its jagged horns scraping the air, and for the briefest second, its guard was open.
Delacroix moved.
His hand snapped to the hilt over his shoulder. Steel hissed free of its sheath.
The sound barely had time to fade before he was running.
The voices around him—the measured, calculating tones of the Rōnin—meant nothing now. He heard only the rush of blood in his ears, the beat of his own pulse hammering like war drums.
His boots hit the earth hard, dirt kicking up behind him.
He didn’t think.
Maybe that was how it had always been.
On the battlefield, in the screaming chaos of the frontlines—he had charged.
And maybe, if he was lucky enough, he'd die.
That was the contradiction, wasn't it?
The part he never spoke of. He had charged because that was what they wanted.He had charged because there was no other choice.He had charged because if the blade found him first, then at least—at least—
But then—
Survival always won.
And that was the real cruelty of it.
He knew, even now, as his sword arced through the air, that he would fight to live. His blade connected. Steel bit into flesh. The Yachō shrieked. Not a sound of pain, but rage.
Then it moved faster than anything that size had a right to.
Delacroix barely had time to react before a massive limb slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His sword ripped free from the beast’s hide, but the wound barely bled.
Then he was airborne.
He hit the ground hard, the impact ripping through his shoulder, pain exploding along his ribs.
The world spun, dirt and sky trading places in his vision before he finally landed in the grass, gasping.
The Yachō was already turning toward him.
That was when the Rōnin struck.
Nakamura’s blade flashed in the dark, the black steel cutting across the creature’s hind leg. One of the others followed, a quick, sharp cut at the tendons near its knee.
The Yachō stumbled. Just slightly.
Not enough to fall.
Not enough to kill.
But it was the first true movement of the fight.
The first real step of the hunt.
Delacroix groaned, rolling onto his knees, coughing as dust filled his lungs.
He had misread it.
They hadn’t been hesitating.
They had been waiting.
And now, they were beginning.
The Yachō howled, an awful, choking noise that belonged neither to man nor beast. Its muscles bunched and coiled, the deep gash in its hind leg bleeding black ichor onto the dirt. But it did not falter.
It grew angrier.
Delacroix wiped the blood from his mouth, his ribs aching as he forced himself to his feet. His sword was still clutched in his grip, its edge stained, but not enough.
The wound he had left on the creature’s side was shallow, a scratch more than a cut.
His blade had connected. It should have done more.
Across the field, Nakamura stepped lightly to the side, his black katana low at his hip, reflecting no light. The Rōnin weren’t standing still now. They were in motion, slow and fluid, circling the beast like patient wolves.
Delacroix watched as one of the other Rōnin struck.
A clean, precise slash.
The katana cut deep.
The Yachō bellowed, staggering. Its flesh hissed and burned where the black iron sliced through it, smoke curling from the wound.
Delacroix’s pulse quickened.
His blade had barely made the creature flinch.
But the Rōnin’s weapons—those were different.
The Yachō shook itself violently, whipping its massive head in a wide arc, its broken horns carving through the air. The Rōnin scattered, just out of reach.
Not retreating. Repositioning.
Delacroix tightened his grip on his sword.
The Rōnin were coordinated, methodical. They were cutting at the creature’s legs, forcing it to move, forcing it to exhaust itself.
It was controlled. Precise.
And still, the beast fought back.
It lunged, swiping with clawed hooves, its sheer weight alone enough to shatter bone if it landed. One of the Rōnin barely slipped past its reach, rolling across the dirt before coming back up to his feet, sword still drawn.
It wasn’t enough.
This was no elegant, calculated execution. The Yachō was stronger than expected, more resilient.
The fight was not yet in their favour.
Delacroix could see the flicker of realisation in Nakamura’s expression. A shift in strategy.
The Yachō snarled and surged forward, targeting one of the Rōnin at the edge of its reach.
For the first time, a misstep.
The Rōnin tried to dodge, but the beast moved faster than anticipated. A hoof caught him mid-step, the impact sending him sprawling.
And just like that, the opening appeared.
Nakamura moved first.
He sprinted toward the beast’s flank, sword flicking upward in a single, perfectly measured arc.
The black blade carved deep, parting flesh like water. The Yachō howled, its balance shifting—
Now.
Delacroix didn’t think. He just moved.
His boots pounded against the dirt. The creature was mid-turn, staggered, still reeling from Nakamura’s strike.
This was his chance.
His blade was not black iron.
But it could still kill.
He darted past the beast’s reach, ducking low, swinging hard.
The silver lion’s crest flashed in the moonlight.
And his sword found its mark.
He drove the blade deep into the base of the creature’s skull, right between the tendons.
The Yachō screamed.
For a moment, Delacroix thought he had done it.
Then the creature whipped its head back violently, throwing him off-balance. His sword was wrenched free, but not cleanly. The wound was deep—but not enough.
The Yachō was still alive.
Still fighting.
Delacroix barely had time to regain his footing before the beast’s massive body twisted toward him.
The blow came fast.
A hoof slammed into his side, lifting him off the ground.
Pain exploded through his ribs, air ripped from his lungs.
The world spun, and then he hit the dirt, hard.
His vision blurred.
He could feel the cold earth beneath him, the night sky pressing down from above.
He couldn’t move.
The Yachō was still standing.
Bleeding. But standing.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Nakamura’s voice, calm but sharp.
“Stay down.”
Then the Rōnin moved again.
Faster this time.
Delacroix barely saw the next strike—but he felt it.
The Yachō howled one final time.
And then, finally—
It fell.
The air was still.
The world had not yet caught its breath.
Delacroix lay in the dirt, ribs burning, head light with the remnants of pain. The sky above him was vast, endless, indifferent. His ears still rang from the impact, the weight of the beast’s strike still echoing through his bones.
Then, suddenly—a hand.
Strong, steady, pulling him upright.
Nakamura.
Delacroix sucked in a sharp breath as he was hauled to his feet, the pain in his side flaring bright before dulling into something he could tolerate. The fight was over.
But Nakamura wasn’t looking at him.
His gaze had already shifted past him, toward the scene that was unfolding near the carcass of the Yachō.
Toward the woman.
She was kneeling beside what little remained of her husband, clutching at the tattered scraps of his clothing, her shoulders shaking. There was nothing left to hold onto, but still, she held.
Nakamura exhaled slowly, turning toward her.
“His body must be given a proper burial.” His tone was gentle, but firm. “If not, the void will claim him. The corruption will take root. And he will rise again.”
The woman looked up—but not at Nakamura.
Her eyes landed on Delacroix.
And twisted with rage.
“This is yer fault!” she shrieked, her voice raw, cracked from grief. “Foulbloods are a curse! A bad omen! He wouldn’t be dead if not for ye!”
The words hit like a blade to the gut.
Delacroix did not move.
Did not speak.
Because what was there to say?
This wasn’t new.
The blame. The fear. The belief that Shadeborn brought death with them, that their presence alone tainted the world.
Delacroix had long since stopped defending himself.
Because deep down, in the places he did not speak of—
A part of him wondered if they were right.
Nakamura, however, did not hesitate.
He turned, gaze flicking toward one of the Rōnin.
“油を持ってこい。”
"Get some oil.”
A pause.
“そして、紙もだ。”
"And the paper."
The Rōnin nodded once before disappearing toward the horses.
Then, Nakamura placed a hand on Delacroix’s shoulder—not a firm grip, not a demand, but an offer.
“Wait with the horses.”
Delacroix stared at him, studying his expression. It was not unkind.
But there was something there—a quiet understanding.
An understanding that Delacroix did not want.
Something in him hardened.
“No.” His voice was steady now. “I want to see.”
Nakamura studied him for a moment longer before nodding once.
The Rōnin returned shortly after, carrying a small pouch of oil and thin slips of yellow paper. The latter was worn from age, creased at the edges, but Delacroix could see the faint ink strokes already prepared on its surface.
Nakamura knelt beside the woman, who had fallen into silent, breathless sobs. He pulled a small brush from the folds of his robes and dipped it into a vial of ink.
Then, carefully, he wrote.
Donovan Leigh, Born on the 6th Month, 18th Year of King Arno I
Nakamura let the ink dry before holding the paper between his fingers.
Then, he set it alight.
The fire ate through the name in seconds, curling the edges to black, turning words to nothing.
Delacroix watched.
He didn’t know why this moment felt important.
He only knew that he needed to see it.
The woman wept quietly.
Donovan Leigh’s name was no longer tethered to this world.
Whatever remained of him would pass on, unbound, free.
Nakamura set the burnt remnants in the dirt before turning his gaze toward the beast’s smouldering corpse.
Delacroix followed his stare.
The Yachō’s body was still.
Smoke curled from its wounds, its blood thick and black as tar.
He exhaled sharply. “And the demon? What will you do with it?”
Nakamura was quiet for a long moment.
Then, simply—
“Nothing.”
Delacroix frowned. “Nothing?”
The Rōnin exhaled slowly.
“As long as nightfall exists, so will Akuma.”
Delacroix felt a chill creep down his spine.
This fight had ended. But it would never truly be over.
And for the first time, he understood.
This was not a war that could be won.
Only fought.
Again.
And again.
And again.
They left the horror behind them.
The demon’s corpse smouldered in the fields, its unnatural flesh still hissing where black iron had cut through it. Nearby, what remained of Donovan Leigh lay still, wrapped in silence, his name already burned away by ink and fire.
Nakamura gave a final glance toward the scene, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned toward the horses.
The others followed.
The woman mounted first, her hands trembling slightly as she took the reins. She rode at the front, her grief forcing her forward, as if the moment she stopped moving, it would all come crashing down.
The two silent Rōnin positioned themselves behind her.
Nakamura and Delacroix rode in the middle.
The air was thick with the stench of blood, charred flesh, and earth overturned in violence. But the further they rode, the more the night stretched, pulling them toward the village’s torches like distant stars.
The silence lingered.
Delacroix adjusted the reins in his hands, stealing a glance at the two Rōnin ahead. They had not spoken once. Not during the fight, not after, and not now as they traveled back toward Lostwick.
A strange thought settled in his mind, and before he could stop himself, he voiced it.
"They don’t speak much, do they?"
Nakamura, riding just beside him, turned his head slightly.
「彼らは共通語を話さない。」 (Karera wa kyōtsūgo o hanasanai.) "They do not speak common."
Delacroix raised a brow. "That explains part of it."
Nakamura allowed himself the faintest smirk.
"
And the rest? It is simply the way of the Rōnin. We cultivate silence as one cultivates discipline." His gaze turned forward again. "言葉は矢のようなものだ。" (Kotoba wa ya no yō na mono da.) "Words are like arrows. Best not to waste them."
Silence followed.
Delacroix mulled over the thought, watching as the fields gave way to Lostwick's distant torchlights. There was something strangely calming about the quiet now.
Nakamura broke it first.
"You displayed much courage tonight."
Delacroix’s grip on the reins tightened slightly. He let out a slow breath before offering a small, wry smile.
"And yet, I still draw breath." His tone was light, but something darker lurked beneath it. "The Gods have quite the sense of humor."
Nakamura tilted his head.
"Perhaps you draw breath because there is a purpose to your existence."
Delacroix said nothing.
Not because he agreed. Not because he disagreed.
But because he did not know.
They continued down the dirt path, the village gates looming ahead, flickering with torchlight.
Just as they reached the entrance, Nakamura spoke once more.
"When we reach the East, you will find that the people are… indifferent to what you are." He turned to glance at Delacroix. "That does not mean you will be lacking in challenges. But at the very least, you will not be fighting ghosts."
Delacroix inhaled deeply, letting the words settle inside him.
"We leave at first light." Nakamura added, voice calm but firm.
Delacroix looked toward the sky.
The first hint of deep blue was stretching across the horizon.
He nodded.
Tomorrow, he would leave Gallian behind.
And perhaps, one day, the man he had once been would be buried with it.