CHAPTER-45

Reika's breath came ragged, each inhale like fire. It scorched her lungs, burned through the rawness of her throat. Blood clung to her clothes, a dark, sticky second skin, hot and wet against her ribs. Her shoulder hung limp, the bone grinding beneath torn flesh. Every heartbeat screamed in protest, but still, she refused to fall.

Usui stood in front of her—barely. His body was a portrait of agony: a limp katana dragged in his left hand, his other arm useless at his side, bleeding freely. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his lip was split, the blood seeping down to his chin. They didn't look like warriors anymore. They looked like survivors of a war long forgotten, a battle no one would remember.

He limped closer, each step uneven, his body screaming with the weight of every movement. But his gaze never faltered, never left hers.

"You still don't get it," he murmured, voice low, almost too quiet for the weight of his words. "You still think this is about power, ranks, or politics."

His words were flat, lifeless, yet beneath them, something trembled. A crack in his composure. A fracture.

"You think I want to win?"

Reika didn't answer. She lifted her blade again—barely. Her arm shook, muscles trembling under the strain. Her fingers were slick with blood, but she didn't back down. Even now, when every part of her body screamed for respite, she didn't falter.

Usui's gaze hardened, but there was something else in it now—a vulnerability he couldn't hide. Slowly, with deliberate slowness, he raised his blade—not to strike, but to rest it against her.

The cold steel pressed into her stomach, the tip digging into torn cloth and bruised skin.

Reika didn't move.

She didn't blink.

Her eyes locked with his, unflinching, unwavering. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. The battlefield around them fell silent. Even the Shikiban above ceased their murmurs, watching this strange, intimate standoff unfold below.

"...Do it," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Usui's grip tightened on his katana. His knuckles whitened, but his blade wavered slightly, the tremble betraying something deeper.

Her voice was so quiet, so calm, as if she had already accepted it. "You're going to, right? You want it more than anything. So stop hesitating."

His throat constricted. Something inside him twisted and pulled tight, but still, he couldn't move. The blade in his hand was a weight heavier than any armor. His fingers loosened, then clenched again, the sword trembling in his grip.

"Shut up," he muttered, the words harsh, but lacking the venom they should've carried. His blade trembled in the silence, the only sound the shallow, ragged breaths between them.

Reika didn't flinch. Didn't beg. Didn't show fear. She simply stared at him. Her gaze wasn't pleading—it was steady. Calm.

"You don't hate me, do you?"

"...No," he admitted, the word slipping from him like the last of his resistance.

"Then why?"

His chest ached with the weight of that question, and he swallowed hard. His lips parted, but the words stuck in his throat. There was a flicker of something—raw, familiar—shifting in his eyes.

"I don't have a choice," he murmured, the admission heavier than the blade in his hand.

Reika exhaled slowly, the sharpness of her breath almost a sigh. "You always had a choice, Usui."

His blade pressed deeper, just slightly. The tip sank into her skin. Her breath caught in her throat, a gasp she couldn't fully release. Blood spilled over her body, warm and immediate, but she didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She didn't step back. She didn't stop him.

"You think anyone cared about my choices back then?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I didn't get to choose. Not then. Not ever."

FLASHBACK – 7 YEARS AGO

The room reeked of sweat and cheap liquor. The air was thick, suffocating, the walls seemingly closing in with every breath.

His father threw the remote across the room. It struck Usui's head with a crack, a burst of pain.

"Why're you still here, huh? What the hell are you good for?"

Twelve years old, blood trickling from his lip, Usui didn't answer. He couldn't. The pain from the blow was nothing compared to the emptiness inside him. He stood still, a statue of quiet fear, unable to move, too numb to fight back.

His mother sobbed from the kitchen. The sound filled the room, loud and broken, but it meant nothing. She was powerless. She always was.

His father leaned in close, his breath rancid with alcohol. "You want to survive in this world? Grow up. Get strong. Or you'll rot like her."

Usui's fists clenched so tight, his nails cut into his palms. The pain was welcome, because it was real.

But he didn't cry.

Not anymore.

PRESENT

His hand moved.

The blade sank deeper, and Reika's breath hitched with the sharpness of it. Blood spilled from her wound, dripping freely, staining her skin, her clothes, the earth beneath them. But she didn't scream.

Her hand pressed weakly to his chest—not to push him away—but to steady herself, to stay grounded.

"You always fight like you're already drowning," she whispered, voice cracking. "Like... if you stop, you'll disappear."

His lips trembled, as though the words cut deeper than the sword ever could. "...Maybe I already did."

For one brief moment, everything stopped. Time seemed to hold its breath, and for the first time, it was just them—two broken pieces, two halves of a whole, caught in an endless struggle to destroy each other just to survive.

Then—

Usui shoved the blade all the way in.

Reika choked on a scream that never came. Her eyes widened, and her body arched involuntarily. Blood spilled from her lips, but still, she didn't pull away. Her legs gave out, but she didn't fall. She clung to his shirt, trembling, her fingers weak but desperate to hold on.

"That was the only way, Reika," Usui whispered, his voice barely audible. "I needed... to make sure I'd never go back to being that kid."

Her fingers clawed weakly at his chest. Her knees buckled beneath her. They sank together, their bodies colliding with the earth in a heap of pain and blood.

She rested against his shoulder, her breath shallow, her eyelids fluttering. "I thought... you'd be different," she whispered, barely audible.

Usui didn't respond.

He couldn't.

The sword slipped from his hand, and he caught her weight as she slumped forward. Blood soaked between them, an unspoken testament to what had just transpired. Above them, the Shikiban murmured, their voices distant and indifferent.

But in that moment, it was only them.

Reika coughed weakly, blood staining his collar. "I still don't hate you..." she murmured, and the words broke something inside him.

He gritted his teeth, his forehead pressing to hers. "You should."

Her lips twitched, forming the faintest of smiles—one that could barely be seen, but felt like the weight of everything.

And then, her eyes rolled back, and her body went still.

The battle above them continued, the flames still crackling, the war still raging. But for Usui and Reika, everything had ended.