Oaths and Ashes, Part IV

The rain hadn't stopped all afternoon. Kyoto's streets shimmered under soft orange lamps, the water on the pavement mirroring neon signs in rippling fragments. Ryunosuke stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to Aiko's apartment, his hands deep in his pockets, hair damp from the walk, heart heavier than his soaked clothes.

He stared at the door for a long moment, unsure whether to knock.

Then he did. Two short taps.

A beat passed.

The door creaked open to reveal Aiko standing barefoot in pajama shorts and an oversized hoodie that read "NO SIGNAL." A plastic bowl of instant noodles was balanced in one hand, chopsticks dangling from her mouth.

She blinked at him. "Well, well. Look what the storm dragged back."

Ryunosuke rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down. "I… kind of got kicked out."

Aiko pulled the chopsticks from her mouth. "Exiled. Like, officially?"

"Yeah." He gave a sheepish half-smile. "Turns out telling a room full of ancient men that they're the reason everything's falling apart doesn't go over too well."

"Shocker." She stepped aside. "Get in before you drown."

He stepped inside, the familiar chaos greeting him like an old friend—tangles of charging cords, flickering monitors, stacks of half-read manga, the lingering scent of soy sauce and old RAM modules.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offered, already slipping off his shoes.

Aiko closed the door behind him and flopped onto the beanbag beside her desk. "Couch is yours. Unless you want to share the floor with my old computer parts. One of them still beeps at night. Like it's haunted."

"I'll take the couch," Ryunosuke said, smiling faintly.

She gestured at the small TV across from them, where a paused scene from a retro mech anime displayed a city in flames and a giant robot mid-transformation.

"Episode nine," she said. "Pilot's about to discover the mech runs on trauma and caffeine."

"Sounds accurate," Ryunosuke muttered as he eased onto the couch, still damp but finally still.

Aiko tossed him a blanket—thin, worn, but warm. "You missed the best part. The angsty monologue before he gets punched through a skyscraper."

Ryunosuke pulled the blanket over himself and leaned back, letting the room surround him—the low hum of electronics, the rain pattering against the window, the soft flicker of animated ruin on the screen.

"…Thanks," he said quietly.

Aiko looked over at him. "You're not just crashing here, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. "No?"

She shook her head, then poked a thumb at her own chest. "This is the Resistance now. You and me. And my emotional support anime."

He let out a tired laugh. "Glad to be recruited."

She unpaused the episode. The robot screamed as the screen flashed.

And for the first time in days, Ryunosuke let himself rest...

Over at the Hiyashi estate garden. Mist clung low to the stepping stones, curling around moss-covered rocks and the still surface of the koi pond. The world felt suspended—caught between breath and memory.

Kenji knelt near a patch of bonsai trees, trimming one with the steady hand of a man who understood silence better than speech. His sword lay across his lap, sheathed but ever-present, like a shadow he couldn't remove.

Footsteps approached, soft but hesitant.

He didn't look up.

"I thought I'd find you here," Mayu said.

Her voice was tired—worn thin by days of strain she hadn't dared show. She stood just beyond the pond's edge, arms folded, her eyes scanning the stones like they might offer her an answer.

Kenji snipped another branch from the small pine and set the shears aside.

"You used to come here when you were younger," he said.

Mayu stepped closer. "I used to think this place was sacred. That if I listened closely, I'd hear the ancestors whispering through the wind."

He said nothing, but the quiet between them felt more like a conversation than most words ever could.

She lowered herself slowly onto the stone bench beside the pond, facing him.

"Did I make a mistake?" she asked.

Kenji didn't respond immediately. He picked up a small watering can and poured just enough water to nourish the roots.

"What mistake?"

"Letting Ryunosuke walk away," she said, her voice cracking. "Not stopping the exile. Not stopping myself from staying silent."

Kenji's eyes lifted, calm but sharp. "You spoke when it mattered."

"I spoke too late."

The koi stirred beneath the surface—bright flashes of orange and white beneath the stillness.

Mayu leaned forward, her voice barely a whisper.

"I believed in the Family. In tradition. In the cause. I believed we were protecting something greater than ourselves." Her hands curled into fists on her knees. "But now? All I see is rot disguised as heritage."

Kenji's gaze softened. "We were raised to believe loyalty was the same as purpose. But they are not always aligned."

She looked at him.

"I don't know who I am without the Family."

Kenji paused. The mist drifted between them like smoke.

"That means you're finally seeing clearly," he said.

Mayu blinked, her breath catching in her throat.

Kenji stood, brushing dirt from his hands, and looked down at her—not with judgment, but with the silent respect of a man who had lost and endured.

"Grief and loyalty are not enemies. But sometimes… one must be buried to let the other survive."

He turned toward the exit path of the garden.

Mayu sat still, the koi circling beneath her, the wind stirring her hair.

She didn't know what she believed in anymore.

But the truth had already begun to bloom—quiet, painful, and inevitable.

The mist followed her into the hills.

Mayu walked alone, her boots brushing against gravel and fallen leaves as the path narrowed into a trail. The city fell away behind her, leaving only the quiet murmur of wind through cedar and stone. The sky remained overcast, the light subdued, as if the world itself had chosen to lower its voice.

The shrine appeared like a memory half-remembered—tucked into the mountain's curve, its wooden frame warped by time, roof sagging beneath years of neglect. Ivy crawled up its pillars. A single bell hung above the entrance, rusted and mute.

She stepped inside.

The air was colder here, untouched. The silence was heavier than any temple she'd known. Sacred once—now forgotten.

She knelt before the altar, fingers trembling slightly as they rested on her thighs. The wood beneath her was soft with age. She didn't speak—not aloud.

Her mind carried the prayer instead.

But the words felt hollow.

As if someone else had once written them, long ago.

Her eyes drifted shut, and memory crept in like a whisper.

She was sixteen again. Kneeling on the same spot. Kenji before her, solemn and sharp in ceremonial robes. A blade rested across her open palms, its edge kissed with blood—her blood. She'd cut herself willingly. Sworn with fire in her heart and pride on her tongue.

"I serve the Family until death. I obey the old ways. My blood for the clan."

It had felt powerful. Beautiful. A promise of identity.

Now… it felt like a chain.

Mayu opened her eyes. The altar's surface was cracked. The offerings long since decayed. Dust gathered where incense once burned.

Her gaze drifted to the back wall of the shrine.

The Hiyashi crest was carved into the wood—barely visible beneath a film of moss and grime. A serpent curled around a sword, the symbol of the old blood.

But the wood was split, a jagged crack slicing straight through the center of the emblem like a wound no one had bothered to mend.

She rose slowly and walked to it. Her fingers brushed the moss aside, tracing the fracture.

This isn't just forgotten, she thought.It's abandoned.

The realization settled over her like a funeral shroud.

She turned away, her breath catching in her throat—not from sorrow, but from the quiet clarity that follows.

She had prayed here once, believing the Family would always protect her.

Now she saw it for what it was.

A shell.

An echo.

And it was time to let it go.

The wind had picked up by the time Mayu stepped outside the shrine.

Dusk settled over the mountains like a veil—shadows growing longer, the forest breathing deeper. She walked to a small clearing behind the shrine, a place once used for cleansing rituals. The old stone basin still stood there, cracked and empty, surrounded by a ring of weather-worn statues with missing faces.

Mayu knelt before the brazier. It was ancient and rusted, forgotten like the rest of the grounds, but it still stood—defiant in its own quiet way.

In her hands, she held the Hiyashi family sash.

Black silk, trimmed in crimson, embroidered with the red iris: the mark of her station. The symbol of everything she had bled for. Fought for. Lied for.

She held it gently, like a relic.

Then, wordlessly, she folded it once, then again, and placed it in the brazier.

The matchbook she pulled from her pocket trembled slightly in her hand.

She struck the first match.

Wind snuffed it out.

She struck another.

It held.

The flame kissed the edge of the sash. The silk curled, recoiled, then ignited. The fire grew in slow waves, orange light flickering across her face, catching the tears she didn't know had started to fall.

She didn't chant.

She didn't bow.

She just watched as the symbol of her oath burned to ash.

Behind her, soft footsteps approached.

Kenji stood at the tree line, hands behind his back, his coat fluttering slightly in the breeze.

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just watched.

Their eyes met.

Mayu didn't look away. She didn't apologize.

Kenji didn't look angry.

Or disappointed.

He looked like a man who understood the weight of tradition… and the cost of walking away from it.

When the last thread of the sash crumbled into glowing cinders, Mayu rose.

The fire crackled once more, then died.

She turned away from the brazier, the smell of smoke clinging to her sleeves, and walked past Kenji without a word.

He didn't stop her.

Didn't follow.

He only turned to face the embers—watching them fade into ash and wind.

As if mourning something too old to name.