The Ones Who Followed

The ceiling above him was wooden. Too clean. Too still.

Kazuki didn't move.

He didn't breathe like someone waking up. He breathed like someone expecting to wake up somewhere else. The air was thin, unchanging. No mist. No heat. No blood. Just the soft creak of timber above his head and the weight of bandages on his chest.

His side pulsed in time with his heart.

The pain was real.

And that was the problem.

He blinked.

Still here.

Still alive.

The loop hadn't reset.

He tried to sit up—slowly. The cot creaked under his hips. Linen stuck to his ribs. His arms trembled more than he expected.

Bandages ran from his collarbone to his hip. His leg was wrapped, too, rigid with splints.

They'd fixed him.

Which meant they'd found him.

A figure shifted beside the cot. Tadakatsu sat hunched low on a wooden stool, hands resting on his knees. The light caught on his jaw—stubbled, drawn. His armor was half-buckled, a long gash above one eyebrow crusted with drying blood.

He looked tired. More than tired.

He looked older.

"I told them not to wake you," he said quietly.

Kazuki's voice caught in his throat. "How long?"

"Half a day. Maybe more."

Kazuki moved again. Tadakatsu didn't stop him. Just watched.

"You didn't report. You didn't send a runner. You didn't warn anyone."

Kazuki forced the words out. "I went alone."

Tadakatsu nodded once.

"Yeah," he said. "But you were the only one breathing."

Then he stood, the stool creaking beneath his shift in weight, and walked out.

The healer tried to keep him down. Kazuki pushed past her.

By late morning, he stood in the fortress courtyard, leaning on a makeshift crutch, a strip of bloodied cloth tied around one shoulder.

The air was bright, but brittle. The sun was out, but it didn't feel warm. A wind moved across the stones, dry and hushed, like it was afraid to carry sound.

The courtyard should've been busy. Sword drills. Shouted cadence. Sparring groups.

Instead, he walked through a landscape of ghosts.

A pair of soldiers were sharpening blades at the edge of the smith's awning. They stopped when they saw him. Didn't move. Didn't nod.

An archer at the far range turned, caught sight of him, and lowered his bow mid-pull.

Boots scraped the ground as people shifted away—not obviously. Not rudely.

But with the kind of distance people reserve for fire that hasn't gone out yet.

Kazuki didn't speak.

He passed them all like he was still bleeding—like they could see the fog on him, clinging to his armor even after it had burned away.

He didn't look for Mayu.

But she found him.

She was standing beneath the inner tower, arms loose at her sides, a training bow still slung across her back. Her sleeves were rolled, hands darkened with ash from the fletching line. She looked like she hadn't slept.

Kazuki stopped a few paces away.

They stood like that for a moment. Neither moving. No one else close enough to hear.

"They didn't hesitate," Mayu said.

Her voice was low. Not cold. Not angry.

Just tired.

"They followed you into the fog. No questions. Not even from Rikuya."

She stepped closer.

Her eyes didn't accuse. They mourned.

"You didn't give them orders, Kazuki. You didn't tell them what you were doing. But they still followed you."

She stopped at his side. Looked at him for what felt like a full breath.

"They didn't hesitate."

A pause.

"Do you understand what that means?"

Kazuki's mouth opened. No words came.

Mayu didn't wait for them.

She stepped past him. Didn't bow. Didn't salute.

Just walked away.

The war room was colder than he remembered.

Kazuki pushed the doors open with his unbandaged hand, shoulder braced for the weight of them. The hinges groaned. They echoed longer than they should have.

No one was inside.

No aides. No captains. No whispered voices arguing about supply lines. Just the long center table and the map unrolled across its surface—creases still flattened from the last war council.

He limped toward it.

The candles were still lit.

They hadn't melted much.

Time was moving again, but it wasn't racing. It wasn't dragging either. It was just… moving.

That terrified him more than anything.

The map still held his last placements. East flank reinforced. Southern pass rotated. Archer towers prepped. The annotations were all in his script.

It was the same plan he'd drawn up during Loop Five. Or maybe Six.

He didn't remember writing it here.

He didn't remember writing it again.

The ledger sat untouched beside the map.

Kazuki flipped it open with careful fingers.

The names were still there.

The dead ones.

The ones who'd followed him.

Rikuya's was near the bottom. Clean handwriting. No corrections.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then, slowly, he reached for a brush. Dipped it in ink.

Crossed Rikuya's name out.

The sound the bristles made was soft. Quiet. But it still felt too loud.

His hand lingered over the ink.

It trembled.

He left the war room through the back corridor, walked the length of the fortress wall under a sky that couldn't decide whether it wanted to storm or shine.

By the time he returned to his quarters, dusk had already crept in around the edges of the sky. The light bled orange across the mountain peaks. He lit a single candle, sat down, and watched it.

It burned slower than usual.

The wax didn't drip right.

It rose. Then fell again.

Like it was breathing.

Kazuki leaned in close.

Stared.

He waited for the change. For the flicker. For the moment the world would decide he'd done something wrong.

Nothing came.

He was still here.

Still on the wrong side of the loop.

Still not dead.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked the flame.

It didn't answer.

Not with light. Not with silence. Not with meaning.

The wax ticked lower.

That night, Kazuki didn't sleep on the mat.

He sat against the wall.

Sword across his lap.

Eyes open.

Waiting for the loop to remember he was still in it.