Evidence of The Unforgiven

Her boots scraped stone as she pivoted, the sound sharp and wrong in a city that hated echoes. A wraith surged from her left—too fast, compressed, its form pulled tight like a fist around a blade. Reina didn’t meet it head-on. She slid past instead, shoulder brushing cold shadow, and cut upward in a diagonal arc.

“Lantern Split.”

Light tore through the wraith’s core. Not flesh—space. The cut burned a seam through its torso, lantern-glow spilling out like molten glass. It screamed without sound, its shape unraveling, limbs elongating, faces surfacing and sinking again. Then it closed. Faster than before.

Reina hissed through her teeth. “Of course you do.” Her personal lantern hovered near her right shoulder, steady despite the chaos, its flame pale and narrow. It didn’t flicker like the others. It watched.

“Your timing was late by half a breath.”

“I know,” Reina snapped, already moving.

Another wraith dropped from above, folding itself out of shadow like wet cloth peeling from a ceiling. Reina rolled forward as claws raked the air where her spine had been. She came up low, blade skimming the ground, and swept in a wide arc. “Hollow Arc.” The strike didn’t aim to destroy. It carved space. The light rippled outward, forcing three wraiths back at once, their forms blurring as if the world itself rejected their proximity. 

Lanterns overhead trembled, their whispers sharpening into something closer to laughter. “She’s slowing.”

“That blade remembers too much.”

“She won’t finish you.”

“Shut up,” Reina muttered—not to the lanterns above, but to herself.

Pain had settled deep now, not sharp, not screaming. The kind that spread quietly, filling joints, pulling at muscles every time she moved. Her shoulder burned where a blow had slipped through earlier. Her ribs ached with every breath. Still, she didn’t stop. Stopping meant listening. She feinted right, drawing a wraith’s attention, then pivoted hard left, boots slamming into stone as she launched herself upward. Her blade flashed down in a brutal vertical strike. “Afterglow Step.”

She didn’t hit the wraith. She hit the space in front of it. Light lingered where her blade passed, a residual smear that hung for a fraction too long. The wraith slammed into it mid-lunge and recoiled violently, its form distorting, movements stuttering as if its sense of direction had been torn away. Reina landed hard, knees bending deep to absorb the impact. She didn’t give herself time to breathe. Another wraith was already closing in, low and fast, its limbs stretched thin like whips.

She raised her blade to block—and didn’t. At the last second, she twisted her wrist, opening her guard deliberately. 

“Mercy Feint.”

The wraith took the bait. It struck where her heart should have been. Reina stepped inside the blow, the shadow tearing past her ribs close enough that cold flooded her lungs. She drove the pommel of her sword into the wraith’s core and followed with a short, vicious cut across its neck. Light flared. The wraith collapsed inward, its form imploding into itself, faces screaming silently as they were dragged under. For half a heartbeat—It stayed down. Reina froze. Hope flickered. Small. Dangerous. 

Then the shadow surged back, re-forming with a violent snap, faster than any before it. It didn’t just recover. It adjusted. Reina staggered back as the wraith moved—no, anticipated. It shifted before she did, cutting off her retreat, forcing her to change direction mid-step. Another mirrored her from the opposite side, copying her stance with eerie precision. Her lantern’s flame sharpened. “They are recognizing patterns.”

“Yeah,” Reina breathed. “I noticed.”

“You cannot overwhelm them.”

“I’m not trying to.” Reina.

“Then what are you doing?” lanterns.

Reina’s grip tightened until her knuckles burned. “Buying time.”

The lantern was quiet for a moment. “For him?”

Reina didn’t answer.

Kazu stood very still. The wraths—no, wraiths, he corrected automatically—had closed the distance without urgency. They didn’t rush him. They didn’t need to. The lanterns overhead dimmed and brightened in uneven pulses, their whispers bleeding together until he couldn’t tell where one voice ended and another began. “Don’t move.”

“You’re safe if you stay.”

“Running only hurts more.” A lantern drifted closer, its glow warm, almost comforting. Its voice softened. “You’ve done enough.” Kazu swallowed. His heart wasn’t racing. That was the strange part. It beat steadily, like it had accepted something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet. “You’re lying,” he said quietly. The lantern flickered. “We only tell what you already know.”

“No,” Kazu replied. “You tell what you want me to believe.” The wraith nearest him shifted. Not forward. Not back. Sideways. Like it was reassessing the angle. Kazu exhaled slowly.

Time heals nothing. It only teaches you how to hold the pain without shaking.

The thought wasn’t comforting. It didn’t make him braver. It just… steadied him. He took a step forward. The lanterns gasped as one. “Stop.” That’s not— “You’ll—”

Kazu didn’t stop. The shadow under his foot didn’t recoil. It didn’t attack. It hesitated. He looked down at it. Really looked. Faces surfaced again—brief, flickering. Fear. Regret. Recognition. “You were someone,” he said softly. “And you’re still trying to be.” The wraith shuddered. Around him, the city warped—buildings leaning, alleys stretching and snapping back. The lanterns’ whispers fractured, voices overlapping in dissonant confusion. “He’s not afraid, That’s wrong.”

“That’s not how this works.” 

Kazu crouched slowly, bringing himself closer to the shadow instead of away from it. His pulse thudded in his ears now, loud but controlled. “You don’t chase,” he murmured. “You recognize.” The word settled into the space between them like a weight. The wraith recoiled sharply, its form thinning, destabilizing—not from force, but from something closer to shame. Kazu straightened.

“If redemption is real,” he said, voice steady despite the pressure building in his chest, “why does it feel like losing the last piece of yourself?”

The lantern nearest him went dark. Not dim. Dark. The others followed, one by one, their whispers cutting off mid-syllable. The city inhaled.

Reina felt it.

The shift wasn’t visual. It was structural. Like a tension line snapping somewhere deep beneath the ground. The wraiths around her faltered—not stopping, not retreating, but losing cohesion. Their movements went sloppy for a fraction of a second. Enough. Reina lunged.

“Afterglow Step—Second Form.”

She drove herself forward, blade flashing in a rapid sequence of cuts, each one carving lingering trails of light that crisscrossed the plaza. The wraiths stumbled through them, their forms stuttering, misjudging distances, colliding with afterimages that burned like memory scars. Her lantern flared brighter. “Now.” Reina didn’t hesitate. She vaulted onto a fallen streetlight, boots slamming into metal, and launched herself downward in a brutal overhead strike.

“Lantern Split—Severance.”

The blade slammed into the ground, light erupting outward in a violent ring. The shockwave blasted wraiths back, tearing them apart—not killing, but breaking formation. Shadows scattered, faces dissolving into formless dark. Reina landed hard, one knee hitting stone. Pain flared white-hot through her side. She bit it back, forcing herself upright. Her breathing was ragged now. Sweat stung her eyes. Her hands shook despite her grip.

“You’re exceeding safe thresholds,” the lantern warned. “Story of my life,” Reina muttered. The lantern hovered closer. “You cannot finish this.”

“I know.” Reina.

“Then why continue?” Lantern.

Reina’s jaw tightened. She glanced toward the far end of the plaza—toward where the city’s geometry felt… different. Thinner. Like something had been pushed out of alignment. “Because stopping isn’t an option.” A scream echoed again—closer this time. Human. Real. Reina’s chest tightened painfully. People think I fight monsters, she thought bitterly. They’re wrong. I fight the shape of a girl I failed. Her grip shifted on the hilt.

“Because if pain becomes a weapon,” she whispered, “mercy becomes a luxury.” 

She moved. Not toward the wraiths. Toward the sound. The wraiths reacted instantly, surging to cut her off—but slower now. Sloppier. Distracted. She slipped between them, blade flashing just enough to force space, not enough to waste strength. One caught her arm, claws digging in, cold burning through muscle. Reina didn’t scream.

She twisted, drove her elbow into its core, and tore free, blood spotting the ground. Her lantern’s voice dropped, almost quiet.

“You are not meant to survive this alone.”

Reina laughed breathlessly. “Too late.”

Kazu felt the city settle around him—not calming, not softening. Acknowledging.

The darkness didn’t retreat. It watched. The lanterns stayed dark. Somewhere nearby, steel rang against shadow, and the sound didn’t cut off this time. It echoed—raw and real. Kazu straightened, a strange clarity settling over him. The 25th Hour isn’t punishment. It’s evidence. Evidence of what people carried. Of what they refused to put down.

He didn’t have a weapon. But he understood the rules now. And the city had noticed.