Where Silence Breaks

Chapter 5: Where Silence Breaks

Dawn arrived sooner than expected.

Sleep had been fitful, fleeting—a mere pause rather than rest. The hush of the early morning was broken only by Daiki's quiet footsteps as he stirred Aiko from drowsy half-consciousness. Without a word, he slid open the doors to Koushirou's room, stepping inside with the practiced silence of a man who had spent a lifetime moving unseen.

Koushirou barely stirred at first, caught in the haze between exhaustion and wakefulness. The weight of the night before still clung to him, pressing against his limbs, making every movement sluggish. His mind, still clouded with sleep, struggled to catch up—to remember why the air in the room felt so heavy and why his father's presence at his bedside carried an urgency that set his pulse thrumming.

Then it came back. All of it.

And suddenly, he was awake.

"Koushirou blinked up at his father, his voice thick with sleep. "Father, what's wrong?"

Daiki's expression was unreadable, his tone quiet but firm. "We're leaving."

A pause.

"Pack up, and pack light."

Koushirou could hear his mother moving swiftly in the adjacent room, gathering what little they had brought on this trip. The soft rustle of fabric, the muted clatter of belongings being tucked away—it was the sound of urgency wrapped in quiet efficiency.

Their family had never been the kind to linger when danger loomed.

He focused on packing himself, shovelling clothes into a small bundle, his hands moving instinctively. Every movement felt mechanical, like muscle memory taking over where his mind hesitated. His heartbeat was steady in his chest—but only because he forced it to be.

Aiko tightened the knot on her bag and straightened, her brows knitting together as she turned to Daiki. She was greeted by an unexpected sight—Daiki stood near the doorway, a long wooden case strapped across his back, the weight of it pressing heavily against his shoulders. In his other hand, he held the 'gifts' Koushirou had received from the Kamishirou servant the night before. 

The scroll, and the silk-wrapped dagger—symbols of a summons that demanded obedience, of a past that refused to stay buried.

Aiko's lips parted, a flicker of unease crossing her face. "You're bringing those?"

Daiki brought the wooden case with him wherever he went, keeping it close even as he slept. Aiko had never understood his fixation on it—why he guarded it so fiercely, why his grip would tighten whenever someone so much as glanced at it. She had asked him once, pressing for answers, but he had only deflected with a half-hearted story, one so unconvincing that she hadn't bothered to argue.

And this time was no different. 

Daiki didn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze flickered toward Koushirou, who stood stiffly by his half-packed belongings, his jaw clenched. The boy's hands hovered over the last of his things, but he wasn't moving. The weight of unspoken questions hung heavy in the room.

Without a word, Daiki shifted, stepping toward the centre of the room. His movements were deliberate and measured. The wooden crest, strapped firmly to his back, gave him a presence that felt larger, heavier, as if he carried more than just the object itself.

Aiko swallowed, her fingers tightening around the strap of her own bag. "Daiki," she said quietly, hesitant. "Where are we going?"

Daiki knelt, adjusting the wrappings around the 'gifts' from the Kamishiro clan before finally speaking.

"Far from here," he said. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath it. "Somewhere safe."

Aiko exhaled, uncertain whether that was meant to reassure her or not. Koushirou, on the other hand, didn't move, didn't blink. His eyes were locked on the wooden case as if searching for an answer in the grooves of its surface.

Safe.

He wasn't sure if such a place existed anymore.

Koushirou barely registered the passage of time. One moment, he was inside the inn, his mind clouded with unanswered questions. The next, he found himself outside, the cold air biting at his skin as they slipped through the backdoor. His feet moved on instinct, following his parents through the narrow alley.

Daiki cast one last glance at the inn before pressing forward. He felt a twinge of guilt for leaving like this—the innkeeper had been kind, providing them top-notch service without question—but there was no room for hesitation now.

The inn's wooden beams stood tall against the creeping dawn light, their dark grain catching the faint glow of the lanterns still burning at the entrance. The air smelled of damp earth and the lingering traces of warm broth from the kitchen, a quiet reminder of the comfort they were abandoning.

He had no doubt the innkeeper would notice their absence soon enough. Perhaps they would assume their guests had left early to continue their journey, slipping away before the roads became too crowded. Or perhaps they would recognise the silence for what it was—an unspoken farewell, heavy with unfinished business.

Daiki tightened his grip on the wooden case slung across his back. There was no time to dwell on guilt.

Aiko moved with quiet efficiency ahead, her steps swift but careful as she led Koushirou through the narrow alley behind the inn. The fading night framed her silhouette, and the hem of her cloak swayed with each step. Even without looking, Daiki could sense the tension in her posture—the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, the way her fingers curled protectively around the strap of her bag.

She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. The urgency in her movements spoke for her.

Koushirou followed closely, his gaze flicking back toward the inn once before facing forward again. His hands were clenched at his sides, his pace steady but reluctant. He wasn't a child anymore—he wouldn't ask where they were going, wouldn't plead for an explanation.

But Daiki could feel the questions simmering beneath his silence.

Would they find safety at the end of this road? Or had they already stepped into the storm that had been waiting for them all along?

The thought was a blade at his back, but he didn't let it slow him.

Without another glance behind, Daiki stepped into the quiet streets, his footsteps barely disturbing the hush that lingered in the air. The dawn stretched long shadows ahead of him, casting elongated figures across the uneven stone path. The world was still wrapped in the lingering hush of night, the last remnants of darkness retreating into narrow alleyways and the eaves of silent houses.

The cool morning air carried the faint scent of damp earth and the distant traces of burnt oil from lanterns that had been extinguished only hours ago. Above, the sky had begun its slow transformation—deep indigo giving way to pale hues of violet and amber, the first breath of sunlight glimmering on the rooftops.

Daiki's steps were measured and steady, yet there was a quiet urgency in the way he moved. Each stride felt deliberate, each breath drawn as if preparing for something unseen. Behind him, the inn remained shrouded in silence, its wooden frame standing against the coming light as if it, too, hesitated to wake.

He did not look back.

There was nothing to gain from hesitation. The path before him had already been chosen, and with each step, he walked further away from the fragile peace he had tried so hard to build.

The cab stand stood just ahead, a small wooden shelter with a slanted roof, its faded paint peeling at the edges. A single driver was present—a man in his late forties, dressed in a well-worn haori over a simple kimono. He sat on a low stool beside his vehicle, idly rolling a toothpick between his fingers as he watched the empty street with the patience of someone accustomed to long waits.

Daiki stepped forward, his movements deliberate. The driver's eyes flicked up at his approach, scanning him briefly before shifting toward Aiko and Koushirou.

"Morning," the man greeted, his voice rough with sleep. "Looking for a ride?"

Daiki nodded. "How far are you willing to go?"

The driver let out a quiet hum, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. "Depends on the coin. And the destination." His gaze sharpened slightly. "You in a hurry?"

Daiki met his eyes without hesitation. "Yes."

A pause.

The driver studied him for a moment longer, then exhaled, tapping his knee as he stood. "Well, you're in luck. I was about to head out anyway." He patted the side of his vehicle. "Where to?"

Daiki exchanged a brief glance with Aiko before answering. "Somewhere far."

The driver chuckled. "That vague, huh?" He shrugged. "Alright, get in. We'll sort out the details on the way."

Without another word, Daiki gestured for Aiko and Koushirou to board. The driver moved efficiently, tucking their modest luggage into the trunk with the ease of someone accustomed to handling travellers' belongings. 

When he turned toward Daiki, eyeing the wooden case strapped securely to his back, he let out a casual sigh. "That looks heavy. I can stow it in the trunk for you—no sense in carrying it when you don't have to."

Daiki had refused to part ways with the wooden case he had been carrying on his back when the driver offered to relieve the weight on his back, at least throughout their journey to their destination. Daiki's grip on the strap tightened almost imperceptibly. "No, thank you." he said, his voice steady but firm. "I'll keep it with me."

The driver raised a brow, his expression of mild curiosity, but he did not argue. He had been in this business long enough to know that some passengers carried more than just physical baggage.

Aiko, however, frowned.

It wasn't just fixation anymore—it was something deeper, something that gnawed at Daiki in a way she could not ignore. He had always been guarded, always held his past close to his chest, but this… this was different. The way his fingers curled around the case, the way his shoulders tensed at the mere suggestion of parting with it—it was as if the weight he carried was not just physical but something far heavier.

Something unspoken.

The driver was puzzled. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he stepped back. "Suit yourself," he muttered, moving to the front of the vehicle.

Aiko hesitated for only a moment longer before following Koushirou inside.

Daiki was the last to enter, settling himself beside them, the case still resting against his back. As the vehicle lurched forward, rolling onto the main road, Aiko cast one last glance at her husband.

Whatever it was that Daiki refused to say, whatever it was that kept his hands clenched so tightly around the past—she knew one thing for certain.

It was only a matter of time before the weight of it all came crashing down.

The road ahead was uncertain, an expanse of winding streets and unspoken dangers stretching beyond the city's quiet morning veil. The steady hum of the engine filled the silence between them, a rhythmic lull that should have been comforting—but was anything but.

Koushirou sat stiffly beside his mother, his fingers curled into his lap, his thoughts tangled in the events of the last night. He watched the buildings pass by through the window, their wooden façades bathed in the soft glow of dawn, shutters still drawn, lanterns flickering out as the city stirred to life. Everything looked the same as it always had—peaceful, familiar—yet the knowledge that they were fleeing turned that familiarity into something suffocating.

Aiko's hands rested lightly on her knees, but her knuckles were taut, betraying the unease she refused to voice. She cast a glance toward Daiki, watching his reflection in the window. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed ahead, his posture unwavering. The wooden case still pressed against his back as if it were a part of him, an extension of whatever past he carried.

The driver, sensing the heaviness in the air, refrained from making idle conversation. Instead, he focused on the road, hands steady on the wheel as he manoeuvred through the near-empty streets. The occasional clatter of a shopkeeper setting up for the day, the distant bark of a stray dog, the creaking of a cart rolling over uneven cobblestones—these were the sounds of the city waking up, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing within the cab.

Hesitation was a luxury they could not afford.

Every second spent lingering was another second wasted, another moment closer to being found. Daiki knew this better than anyone. He had spent years walking the fine line between past and present, between what was left behind and what could never truly be escaped. Now, with every passing street, he felt the weight of that reality pressing against him.

There was no turning back.

The road ahead stretched on, uncertain and unforgiving. And yet, Daiki knew—no matter what awaited them at the end of this path, he would not let it swallow them whole.

The ephemeral, dream-like moment shattered in an instant. Reality came rushing back as the car turned the corner and lurched to a sudden stop, the tires skidding slightly against the damp pavement. The sudden jolt sent a sharp tension through Daiki's spine. Instinct took over before thought—his hand braced against the door, muscles taut, breath steady.

Something was wrong.

Aiko exhaled sharply beside him, her grip tightening on the seat in front of her. Koushirou stiffened, his fingers curled into fists on his lap. Even the driver let out a quiet curse, his knuckles whitening as he clutched the wheel.

Ahead of them, the road was no longer empty.

A group of men stood in the middle of the street, their figures cast long by the creeping dawn light. They weren't passersby caught in idle conversation—no, their stance was too deliberate, too controlled. A few leaned casually against the walls of the alley, others stood with arms crossed, their gazes locked onto the approaching vehicle. At the centre of them stood a man with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe, his expression unreadable.

A quiet unease settled over the car like a suffocating fog.

The driver exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping the dashboard. "Tch. Looks like trouble." His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. "Probably a territorial dispute. We should turn back before we get involved—"

He didn't get to finish.

Before Aiko could stop him, before Koushirou could even register what was happening, Daiki had already moved.

With a quiet exhale, he reached for the door handle, fingers curling around the worn metal. The weight of the wooden case pressed against his back, familiar, grounding. There was no hesitation, no second guessing—only the sharp precision of someone who had walked this road before.

"Daiki," Aiko whispered, the warning in her voice unmistakable.

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned his gaze to Koushirou. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments—long enough for the boy to understand.

"Stay inside," Daiki murmured. His voice was calm. Steady. Absolute.

And then, without another word, he stepped out.

The morning air was crisp against his skin, carrying the lingering scent of damp earth and burning oil. Behind him, the car door clicked shut. The moment stretched, thick with silence.

The man at the centre of the group tilted his chin slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—a smile that did not reach his eyes. In the pale morning light, his features were sharp and angular, with a gauntness that hinted at a life of discipline rather than deprivation. His presence carried the air of someone accustomed to control, to standing at the precipice of violence without ever losing balance. His dark yukata was simple yet pristine, the sleeves slightly loose, as if designed to allow swift movement. The fabric shifted as he stepped forward, his geta clacking softly against the stone pavement.

His gaze swept over Daiki, slow and deliberate, taking in every detail—the firm set of his shoulders, the wooden case strapped to his back, the quiet yet unmistakable readiness in his stance. Then, with an air of amusement, he spoke.

"Kamishirou Daiki."

The name was not spoken as a greeting but as a reminder, a tether to a past that Daiki had long tried to sever. The way the man said it—savouring each syllable—made it clear that he was not here for pleasantries.

Daiki did not respond. His expression was unreadable, his body still but alert, like a predator assessing whether it had just encountered prey or another hunter.

The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "No words of greeting? That's cold." He let out a quiet chuckle, though it held no warmth, only the echo of amusement that did not quite reach his gaze. "Then again, I shouldn't be surprised. You were never much for conversation."

His men shifted slightly behind him—silent figures, waiting. They wore no uniform, yet there was a distinct air of discipline about them. Their stances were careful, their eyes sharp. Not hired thugs, not common enforcers. These were men who had seen battle, men who knew how to fight and, more importantly, how to kill.

The smirk on the man's lips deepened. "You always did have a bad habit of running, Kamishirou." His voice was almost teasing, but there was something pointed beneath it, a knife wrapped in silk. His gaze flickered toward the wooden case strapped across Daiki's back, and a glint of recognition sparked in his eyes. "But you wouldn't be carrying that if you still thought you could run forever."

Silence hung between them, thick with meaning.

Then, for the first time, Daiki spoke.

"You should leave."

His voice was quiet, measured—but beneath the surface lay something razor-sharp, honed over years of survival.

The man arched a brow as if surprised, then let out a slow, knowing chuckle. "Still pretending, I see." He took another step forward, deliberate yet unhurried, the sound of his geta against the pavement punctuating the quiet morning. "But we both know you were never meant for peace."

His fingers lifted slightly—just a subtle movement, but the effect was immediate.

The men behind him straightened.

Daiki's grip on the strap of the wooden case tightened imperceptibly.

Inside the cab, Aiko's breath hitched. Her hands, which had been gripping the edge of her seat, clenched tighter, her nails digging into the fabric. She didn't speak, but Daiki could feel her watching him, waiting. Koushirou, beside her, had gone rigid, his eyes fixed on the scene outside.

The world around them, once filled with the quiet hum of the waking city, now seemed unbearably still. The distant murmur of early risers, the rhythmic clatter of wooden sandals against stone, the faint echo of a vendor setting up his stall—all of it had faded into the background, swallowed by the suffocating presence of the men before them.

A breath.

Daiki exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing at his side, feeling the familiar tension coil through his muscles. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to act, to strike first—but years of discipline held him in place, forcing him to measure the weight of the moment.

Aiko remained silent in the cab, but Daiki knew her well enough to sense her unease. The grip she had on Koushirou's wrist was not just protective—it was restraining. The boy was watching everything with unblinking intensity, his body stiff with unspoken questions and fear.

The road ahead was uncertain.

But hesitation was a luxury they could not afford.

The man before him—the one who had spoken his name like an invocation of the past—was waiting. Watching. His smirk had not wavered, but there was something sharper in his gaze now, something patient, as if he were gauging how long Daiki would stand there before accepting the inevitable.

The weight of the wooden case pressed against Daiki's back.

He inhaled.

And then, he moved.

The shift was instant.

Daiki stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. His stance remained loose but poised—neither aggressive nor yielding. The morning light stretched long shadows across the pavement, but it did nothing to warm the creeping chill that settled in the air between them. The world, just moments ago humming with the quiet stirrings of a waking city, now seemed unbearably still.

The leader of the group stood at ease, his confidence settling over his frame like a well-worn cloak. He wasn't a man who rushed. He wasn't a man who bluffed. The slight smirk tugging at his lips spoke of amusement, but his sharp eyes—dark and cutting—watched Daiki like a hunter sizing up prey.

His men mirrored his stance, yet their postures betrayed a readiness that had been honed through repetition. Feet adjusted subtly for balance, shoulders squared just enough to prepare for movement. They weren't nervous. These were professionals—men who had walked into this confrontation knowing the outcome was already decided.

Aiko's hand tightened around Koushirou's wrist. She was tense but silent, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. She had known this was coming the moment Daiki turned them away from the main road, the moment she saw the figures standing in wait. And yet—knowing did nothing to quell the ice-cold dread spreading through her veins.

She felt Koushirou shift beside her. The boy was stiff, his shoulders locked, his breath uneven. He didn't fully understand what was happening—what these men wanted—but he understood enough to recognise the weight in the air. The unspoken promise of violence.

The leader's smirk deepened as his gaze flicked over Daiki, as if cataloguing something only he could see. "Still the same, I see," he murmured, his voice light and conversational. "Silent. Calculated. Unshaken."

Daiki didn't respond. He kept his breathing steady, his fingers flexing subtly at his side.

The leader tilted his head, letting out a slow sigh. "It doesn't have to be like this, you know. You could come with us. No trouble, no mess. The Kamishirou Clan has extended a hand, Daiki." He gestured lazily towards Koushirou. "And the boy—he's been summoned. You know what that means."

Daiki's jaw tightened.

He knew.

Summoned.

The word carried weight. It was not a mere request—it was a command. An obligation.

The Kamishirou did not send invitations.

The leader studied him for a moment before clicking his tongue. "No?" he mused, feigning disappointment. "Still stubborn, then. You haven't changed at all."

A pause.

Then, he stepped forward—just enough that the space between them grew taut, the line between restraint and action razor-thin. His voice dropped—a whisper just for Daiki.

"But you of all people should know—if a summons is refused, a reckoning follows."

Aiko inhaled sharply, her grip tightening involuntarily. Beside her, Koushirou barely moved, his body tense, his eyes darting between his father and the men who stood in their path. He didn't fully understand the implications of those words—but he understood the threat woven beneath them.

Daiki, however, did not react.

Not outwardly.

But the words slid beneath his skin like a blade.

Slowly, he exhaled. His gaze met the leader's, steady, unyielding. A quiet storm churned behind his eyes, but his voice remained calm when he finally spoke.

"I don't answer to the Kamishirou anymore."

The leader stilled.

The smirk faded.

And in that breath of silence, the shift in the air was absolute.

Daiki saw it—the subtle tightening of fingers at sides, the shift of weight in preparation for movement, the flicker of irritation behind the leader's otherwise composed expression.

Patience had just run out.

The leader's amusement vanished like a wisp of smoke, leaving something colder in its place. "Shame," he murmured, almost regretful. "I was hoping you'd make this easy."

A beat.

Then—

His fingers flicked downward in a subtle yet unmistakable command.

The first gunshot split the air like a crack of thunder, its sharp, merciless echo shattering the fragile morning silence.

Aiko reacted instinctively. Before she could even register what was happening, she had already pulled Koushirou close, her arms locking around his shoulders in a desperate bid to shield him. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the world.

Another shot.

The cab driver yelped, throwing himself behind the vehicle just as the bullet struck the side mirror, sending shards of glass scattering across the pavement. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, mixing with the faint traces of burnt oil and damp earth.

Koushirou felt his mother's grip tighten like a vice. His pulse pounded in his throat, his breath hitching as his mind struggled to catch up. He could barely move, barely think. The world had narrowed into the frantic rhythm of his own breathing and the weight of his mother's arms around him.

But amidst the chaos—Daiki moved.

Not away.

Not towards cover.

Forward.

Aiko barely caught a glimpse of him through the blur of movement—the unwavering certainty in his steps, the way his body coiled with deliberate precision. The wooden case was still strapped securely to his back, its weight pressing heavily against him. Yet his hands remained empty.

No weapon. No hesitation.

And still—

The men faltered.

Two of them had already drawn their guns, their fingers tense on the triggers. But the leader—the man standing at the centre of the group, the one with the faint smirk still ghosting his lips—remained perfectly still.

Watching.

Assessing.

His eyes flicked over Daiki with slow, deliberate recognition.

He knew.

Knew that the man standing before him was no ordinary civilian. Knew that beneath the quiet restraint in Daiki's stance lay something far more dangerous.

The hesitation lasted only a heartbeat.

Then—

The second gunman shifted, raising his weapon. The cold barrel glinted beneath the early morning light, a steel promise of death aimed squarely at Daiki's chest.

Aiko gasped.

Koushirou stiffened, his fingers digging into the fabric of his mother's sleeve.

And then—Daiki moved.

A single, fluid step.

Faster than thought. Faster than fear.

His hand lashed out, striking the gunman's wrist in a sharp, controlled motion. The man barely had time to react before the firearm was wrenched from his grasp with brutal efficiency. A sharp twist of Daiki's wrist sent it clattering to the ground, skidding across the pavement.

The disarmed man staggered backwards, clutching his arm, his breath hitching with the shock of how quickly it had happened.

The second gunman flinched, eyes widening—hesitating.

That was all the opening Daiki needed.

He pivoted, his body moving with the grace of someone who had done this before—too many times before. His elbow struck with precision, a ruthless blow to the ribs that sent the first man crumpling to his knees, gasping for breath.

The second gunman started to raise his weapon, but Daiki was already there, his foot slamming into the man's wrist with enough force to send the firearm flying from his grasp. The gun hit the ground with a dull clatter, spinning to a stop near the curb.

Aiko felt her breath catch.

The way Daiki moved—it was not just self-defence.

It was calculated. Controlled. Efficient.

This was not the Daiki she knew.

This was the Daiki he had left behind.

Koushirou stood frozen, his eyes locked on his father, unable to look away. His breath was shallow, his pulse pounding against his ribs. He couldn't look away.

This man—his father—was a stranger.

The way Daiki moved, the way he held himself, every slight shift of his stance spoke of something long-buried. Something lethal. There was no hesitation in his posture, no uncertainty in his gaze. It was as though he had shed the quiet, unassuming presence Koushirou had always known, revealing something sharper, something honed by years Koushirou had never been allowed to see.

And the men in front of them saw it, too.

The leader of the group—the one who had spoken with that knowing smirk—watched Daiki with something close to satisfaction. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was an edge beneath it, a dangerous curiosity, as if he were confirming something he had only suspected until now.

"You haven't lost your edge," the man mused, his voice smooth, almost amused. He glanced down at the fallen bodies of his subordinates, then back to Daiki. "Good."

The others shifted uneasily, their confidence shaken. A few hands twitched toward their weapons—blades half-drawn, fingers hovering over triggers.

Daiki remained still.

Not in fear.

Not in hesitation.

But in something far more deliberate.

Waiting.

Koushirou could feel it—an invisible thread pulled so tight it was on the verge of snapping. Aiko's grip on his arm tightened, her nails pressing into his skin. He didn't know if she was trying to hold him back or if she was simply grounding herself, fighting the same dread that clawed at his own chest.

The air was suffocating.

The morning sun had begun to creep higher, casting long streaks of gold against the buildings, but it did nothing to warm the moment. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the street, bending under the weight of unseen forces pressing against them. The world had gone still, as if even the city itself was holding its breath.

Then—

The smirking man took a single step forward.

Aiko's breath hitched.

Koushirou felt his stomach twist, his body rigid with a tension he didn't understand.

One step. That was all. And yet, it was enough to set off something deep within Daiki.

His fingers curled, just slightly. His shoulders shifted, so subtly that most wouldn't notice. But Koushirou saw it now. It was a skill he had picked up as a child. He had been watching, trying to understand.

Koushirou worked diligently to earn his father's attention, observing every movement, every breath, and every unspoken cue. He learnt early on that Daiki's words were few, but his actions spoke volumes. The way his weight shifted before he moved, the brief narrowing of his eyes before a decision was made—these were the tells of a man who had lived in the shadows far longer than Koushirou could comprehend.

And now, as his father stood facing the man with the drawn blade - a weapon he claimed from his fallen opponents, Koushirou saw those signs once more. 

A moment stretched impossibly thin.

Daiki's stance had barely changed, yet something about him felt different—like a bowstring drawn taut, poised to snap. He wasn't just standing. He was measuring. Calculating.

Daiki wasn't afraid.

He was preparing.

And in that moment, Koushirou realised something terrifying. His father wasn't just capable of violence. He had lived in it.

And if these men thought they were in control, if they thought they had cornered a man who had spent the last decade living in peace—

They were wrong.

Because the look in Daiki's eyes told a different story.

A story of a man who had already decided.

If they stepped any closer, there would be no turning back.

The leader of the group remained still, watching the scene unfold with eerie calm. His expression betrayed no anger, no frustration. Only quiet amusement.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

"Ah," he murmured, his voice carrying effortlessly in the heavy silence that followed. "So that's how it is."

And just like that—

The quiet morning shattered.