Neither needed, nor wanted

Death rushes up to meet them. The ground swells in his vision, swallowing everything.

This is a good way to die.

And yet—his body refuses the thought.

With a pull, he hauls Reiji's leg toward him. Draws his face close enough to strike—once, then again, the sound dull in the rushing wind.

"Wake up!"

Reiji's eyes are empty—weightless and gone.

Suddenly, they snap into focus.

Brutal force tears Reiji upward so suddenly Atsunori nearly loses his grip. The jolt strains his shoulders. Fingernails bite into flesh, fighting the slip as their fall stutters—slower, but still going.

A branch explodes against his back, snapping like dry bone.

Then the ground hits. A wet, crushing force that drives the air from his lungs and shatters thought into white noise. Bone caves. Cartilage breaks. Reiji slams down atop him.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing.

Until pain drags him back.

No. Not yet.

Atsunori claws himself awake by sheer refusal, forcing breath into lungs that don't want it, rising before his vision returns. The motion tears sounds from his body—sharp cracks echo through him as broken bones grind and protest.

He stands anyway.

The world swims into shape. Trees. Dirt. Mist.

Reiji lies nearby, curled on his side, gasping as if each breath is a negotiation.

"I… gotta admit it." Reiji coughs, pushing himself upright inch by inch. "You're incredible. You deserve my praise, Atchan."

"Don't call me that." Atsunori's voice comes out rough, scraped raw. "Who are you? And how do you know that name? Speak while I'm still asking nicely."

A breathless chuckle slips free, followed by a sharp grunt. Reiji's body shudders—and the transformation recedes.

The long, hooked nose shortens, red skin fading back to human tones as wings fold inward and disappear. What remains is a young man with clear, lightly tanned flesh and delicate features—the kind of face that draws female eyes without trying.

Atsunori has seen it before. Across the street. Across the table.

Yet now, in the dimness, the resemblance sharpens instead of fading.

"No." The word escapes him, thin and unguarded. "There's no way… you can't be…"

"I can't be who?"

If only this moment—this fragile space before certainty—could last forever.

Reiji smiles. Neither cruel nor mocking. It's the grin of a boy who once knew mischief more than malice.

"Kairi Munakata," the boy says lightly. "The kid who, seven years ago, walked away from the cult you call a family."

With a shift, he starts to rise.

"Stay down." Atsunori steps forward. "Move a step and I'll break your limbs."

Another soft laugh. Reiji settles back, obedient but amused.

"You've changed. Or maybe part of you still sees me as a helpless kid." Something hardens in his expression. "The Atsunori I knew wouldn't hesitate with someone who's caused so much bloodshed."

"You want to test that?" Atsunori warns. "The only reason you're not screaming right now is because I want answers. Your goal. Your allies. And why you did all this."

The smile widens—aggravating, but still gentle.

"I like this version of you. He gives me hope."

Atsunori lunges.

Despite his injuries, Reiji twists aside with ease, scrambling upright in one fluid motion.

"Let's not do this yet." Reiji's voice is still calm. "Didn't you want to talk?"

"Not if you're going to waste my time."

"Alright, alright." He lifts both hands in mock surrender. "My goal's simple, Atchan. Tear down the people pulling this city's strings. The ones who indoctrinate children from birth and enslave—"

"Enough with the farce!" The words rip from Atsunori. "You were family. We share blood. How could you betray us and do all this? D-do you even know how many have died because of you?" His voice wavers, cracking under disbelief.

Finally, the smile disappears.

"And do you know how many more die while you serve them?" Reiji exhales, weary, pressing a hand to the side of his head. "I want to believe you're different. That you could see the truth." His gaze softens. "But I think the real reason I can't bring myself to kill you is simpler. You're the last person I ever cared about."

The words and the story they carry—of how someone could end saying them—drive into him like a nail he can't pull free.

Atsunori's strength falters. The transformation slips, unraveling with a dull ache.

"W-what…" He clears his throat, voice breaking despite himself. "What happened to you? You… you used to cry just from stepping on a snail. How can you say things like this now?"

"If I told you," Reiji words come as a whisper, "would you listen? Or would you call me a liar and attack before I finished the first minute?"

"I-I…"

Another memory rises, clawing its way to the surface.

Not Kairi.

Someone else.

A woman who once meant the world to Atsunori. Her voice could make him rise each morning, her presence coloring the brightest fragments of his childhood. But she, too, had turned away. Betrayed the family she claimed to protect. Left him with the weight of shame, the sting of rejection, and the gnawing emptiness of unanswered questions.

Trying to understand Kairi now… it would mean admitting that she might be right.

Her face flashes before him. For an instant, the old hurt blooms like fire through his veins.

Then it hardens. All tenderness drains away, replaced by cold, razor-sharp resolve.

It doesn't matter.

Atsunori's duty is not to understand. Not to forgive or to reconcile mistakes of the past. His task is singular: stop the threat in front of him—dead or alive. Kairi Munakata is irrelevant. His grievances with the family are irrelevant.

Reiji is the enemy.

He betrayed their family—killed their kin and shattered lives.

That is all.

Power surges back through him, washing away trembling and hesitation. Muscles swell with energy as his transformation reignites.

Reiji's wings tear free in response, slicing the air with a whip of wind.

"Is that your final choice?" the Tengu murmurs. "Or are you going to keep giving me false faith?"

Atsunori swings first—and is countered, as expected.

Attack after attack follows—wide, obvious strikes with no finesse. Each is punished, yet every slug forces Reiji to move, some to leap.

And every time he does, he favors his left foot, the opposite to the ankle Atsunori had wrenched during their flight.

So he shifts his aim. Drives Reiji toward the opposite side, herding him, forcing weight onto the injured leg. The price is steep—each counter returns a fraction of Atsunori's own might to him—but Reiji's movements begin to lag. Strikes lose precision. Landings grow heavier.

Atsunori endures.

He can do this. He can win.

All he needs is one. Single. Mistake.

Reiji's knees buckle—his balance falters.

There!

Atsunori lunges, throwing his full weight into a reckless tackle—

—and slams face-first into dirt.

Reiji had only pretended to stumble—in truth, he was coiled for a sprint.

Atsunori twists, scrambling to rise, expecting a lethal spell to strike while he's down.

Instead, Reiji is already lifting in the air.

"No! Wait!" Atsunori leaps forward, grasping blindly. His fingers scrape empty air. When his feet hit the ground, it feels as though he's sinking into it. "Come back!" The shout tears his throat raw, almost pleading. "You can't just leave after all that."

"Sorry, Atchan." Reiji's voice carries down the wind. "If I spend what strength I have left to push through your regeneration, I won't be able to escape the others." A theatrical shrug travels along his frame. "And seriously, make up your mind."

The beating of his wings grows louder, then steadier.

"If you don't know whether you want to be a mindless slave or an actual human," Reiji continues, "then I can't kill you in good conscience."

A pause.

"Nor talk things through."

With that, he leaves.

Atsunori runs after him. Shouting. Threatening. Taunting. Pleading. Words torn away by the wind as the distance stretches wider and wider.

Even when the sound of wings fades, he keeps moving, eyes locked on a shrinking speck against the night sky.

He doesn't stop until it disappears completely.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Atsunori wanders aimlessly around the forest, his steps heavy, until pale light begins seeping through the clouds. Every muscle throbs, breath sears his throat, and the air tastes of rain and metal. Hours blur together.

Eventually, a search group finds him, guided by the Munakata tracker. At the forefront is…

"You hesitated, didn't you?"

The weight of Mistress Tomoe's words presses down on him, a gravity so thick it threatens to make him collapse where he stands.

All he can manage is a weak nod.

Tomoe doesn't speak again. She turns her gaze elsewhere, sweeping the forest with deep, surgical precision, and continues her search with the group.

Atsunori lingers for a moment, unsure whether to follow, whether to speak—but her right-hand man intercepts him, gesturing firmly toward the city.

The message is clear: he is neither needed, nor wanted.