When the light went out

There's not much to the story. Kairi was just one of many children I used to interact with. Back then, in my twenties, he was a little over ten. Thanks to my good attitude and example, I was assigned as a caretaker for a while.

A younger Atsunori charges up the stairs and storms through the door.

The heap of mattresses on the floor shifts and lets out a groan. Three strides carry him across the room—he throws the window open, and morning light floods in. He grabs the sheets and yanks them away.

"Gaaahhh! The light, it burns!"

"Up, now," Atsunori commands. A pillow smacks him square in the face. "You little… That's it, you're on cleaning duty today."

"Yeah, yeah. Five minutes," the brat mutters, already flipping the futon over himself like a shield.

Shouting replaces patience. Then threats. Then he grips the futon and hauls, lifting the boy clear off the floor.

The response is a muffled snort of laughter from beneath the bedding.

My strictness meant nothing to him, he simply refused to take me seriously.

Later that morning.

"Atsun, where's Kairi?" one of the kids asks.

"Cleaning duty."

A chorus of complaints answers, swelling into a barrage of voices that, back then, Atsunori couldn't yet bring under control.

"Again?"
"What did he even do?"
"Let us help him so he finishes faster."

When he isn't openly rebelling, Kairi is polite. Helpful, even. The other children cluster around him naturally, though he never seems to notice—or care.

On another day, Atsunori paces between desks while rain rattles the windows. Wind howls through the paths outside, but in the classroom there's only the scratch of pencils and controlled breathing.

A glance at his watch.

"Alright. Stop."

Chairs scrape softly as the children sit back. Atsunori gathers the tests, flipping through them while walking. Then he halts.

Kairi's papers are dense with writing. Yokai classifications. Martial techniques. Even the math and science sections are filled—clean, confident, mostly correct at a glance.

"You put a surprising amount of effort into certain subjects."

The answer is a smug little snicker.

A long exhale escapes through Atsunori's nose.

"Then explain this," he says, tapping one of the pages, "for the First's Lessons of Wisdom: Ask the old farts. They probably saw it in person."

"Good point, Atchan," comes the light reply. "Should've written ask the Guardians. They'd agree the question's pointless."

That day's punishment is severe. Isolation until dawn. No food. Only water.

By nightfall, Atsunori's irritation has cooled into something close to unease. He decides the penalty has run its course, so he goes to release him, if only to let the kid sleep in his own room.

Nothing but air waits inside the isolation chamber. Near the ceiling, a small window gapes open. Outside, the ground is slick with rain, and in the mud below, footprints lead straight to a narrow hole dug beneath the outer wall.

Kairi has left the estate.

Halfway to alerting his seniors, Atsunori stops. If they learn about this, it won't end with extra chores or confinement. An example would have to be made for the other children. The punishment might even reach his parents.

Lantern in hand, Atsunori plunges into the forest alone. The darkness and the slope make the path treacherous, roots slick with rain, mud clinging to his sandals. Still, Kairi hasn't bothered to hide his tracks. The footprints are plain as day, leading downhill, toward the city.

Asphalt replaces earth, and there—on a bench—sits the runaway, legs swinging lazily. Beside him rests a half-open bag of chips. A few crows hop closer, bold enough to take food straight from his hand.

They scatter as Atsunori comes up behind him. Kairi turns, their eyes meet—but he's too slow. Atsunori grabs his ear.

"Gah! Hey!"

"You little idiot," Atsunori snaps, already dragging him back toward the stairs leading uphill. Words spill out—anger, relief, reprimand—all tangled together. When they near the entrance, before they come into view of the guards, he veers off-trail and hauls the boy toward the narrow hole beneath the wall.

"Wait at the other side," Atsunori says, forcing his breath to steady. "I'll bring you clean clothes."

"Heh. Appreciate the concern, Atchan, but no need."

"You need to change. If anyone sees you—"

"I know." Kairi shrugs. "I've got spares hidden on the other side. We all wear the same boring robes anyway. No one ever notices."

"Do you have any idea how serious this is? What do you think will happen if anyone else finds out?"

"But you won't tell anyone, right?"

The confidence in his voice makes Atsunori falter.

"Why do you insist on provoking me? Can't you see how lenient I'm being?"

"I do," Kairi grins up at him, unbothered. "Thanks, seriously. If it were any other caretaker, I'd be in real trouble."

There's no resentment in the boy's voice. No fear. Just an easy certainty, as if Atsunori hadn't ever punished him for his mischief.

I scolded Kairi almost every day, handed out punishments on a weekly basis, yet it's true I always held back—never letting things go as far as they could.

"Funny," Avery cuts in on his tale. "He too could see how gentle you really are under all the barks and empty threats."

Ignoring her, Atsunori proceeds with his narration.

Kairi's parents never knew how often I disciplined him. I saw no reason for them to.

They were good Munakata. Loyal, diligent, and rarely home. His mother served under Mistress Tomoe and was often away for weeks at a time. His father held a high position in one of the family's commercial branches.

When they died, I accepted the public announcement without question. Overwork for the father. An evil Yokai for the mother.

Only now do I know the real story. A few days before you returned, Elder Yorinobu told me the truth about Kairi's parents.

The boy was fourteen when it happened.

When his mother got overwhelmed by the negative emotions of her Yokai—a Hannya.

The powers of any relatives of the Oni are dangerous—such Yokai are often malicious by nature, so they can easily corrupt the weak-willed. Only those with iron resolve can resist being consumed by them.

For years, Kairi's mother had maintained full control, dutifully serving the family with her great power. But then something broke that balance overnight.

She discovered her husband's affair.

Hannya are Oni born of jealousy, hate, and despair. Feeding on those same emotions, her Yokai side consumed her. She lost herself entirely, killed her husband and had to be put down by the priests. That their powers were effective on her proved she was no longer human.

Soon after, he came to me one evening.

Kairi enters without knocking, hair damp from the rain, and glances around until he finds Atsunori at the table, buried in paperwork. For once, there's no grin, no mock salute, no snarky remark ready to be thrown.

Papers pushed aside, Atsunori gestures to the cushion across from him.

Without a word, the boy sits. Back straight, hands folded neatly on his knees—the correct posture, but not his own.

"Did you hear about…" Kairi starts, but his words fade out.

Atsunori nods quietly. "My condolences. It is… regrettable."

"Y-yeah… just my luck, I guess." The smile he manages trembles at the edges.

"If you need anything, say the word."

A pause—the dulled yellow of his eyes darts downwards.

"Were you told… about what happened to my mother?"

"Mistress Tomoe handled that evil Yokai. Your mother can rest now."

Kairi shivers. At the time, I didn't realize he did so because of how oblivious I was to the truth.

"I heard… you lost your mother a long time ago too."

"My circumstances were… different."

"Yes, I know." He makes an effort to raise his eyes to meet Atsunori's. "How did you endure it?"

A swallow. "At first, I couldn't get out of bed. I was so ashamed, also angry, and confused, and…" A cough covers the thickness in his voice. "Eventually, I realized I still had a family. Not just my father, but everyone in the Munakata. That's why I'm here, for you, as are the other adults, the Elders, and Mistress Tomoe herself.

At the mention of the last name, Kairi's expression stiffens.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he stands.

"I see."

A bow. Perfectly executed, utterly formal—the kind he never gives when being punished. Turning, the child pivots toward the door.

"Kairi," he says to the retreating back. "If you need guidance—"

At the door, the boy freezes without turning around.

"You already gave it to me, Atchan."

From that point onward, he became someone else.

No more defiance. No more talking back to the Elders or caretakers. Kairi's noise, once unavoidable, simply evaporated.

At the time, I thought it was maturity.

Only now do I understand.

Kairi had already begun feeling alien to the family, and to me. Even then, he was considering abandoning us, stepping away from everything and everyone who cared for him.

Two years later, at around sixteen, he vanished, becoming the traitor he is now.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

"Atsun, why are you trying so hard to convince yourself you hate him?"

"I'm not convincing myself of anything." His voice is flat. "Kairi is a betrayer. A murderer. He doesn't deserve compassion, and that's exactly why my weakness frustrates me so much."

Avery studies him with a strain on her eyes.

"Did you ever consider," she says, "that the night he came to you, he was asking for help?"

"Of course I knew that," he replies at once. "And I gave it to him. I offered guidance, support. Everything that was expected of me. He's the one who chose to grow distant. He abandoned me. Abandoned all of us."

"I know it's rich coming from me, but you should stop telling yourself those lies."

"What?" A scoff. "Even by your standards, this amount of nonsense is getting too much."

"That night," Avery continues, raising her voice, "he came to you as a child who had just lost everything. And you answered him as a loyal servant of the family that killed his parents."

"What kind of bullshit is that? Are you suggesting this is my fault? Am I also responsible for his father's affair or what?"

"Please, drop the hate and just listen to me," Avery says in a firm, but also pleading voice. "I'm not excusing what his father did. He failed, yes. But he was overworked, isolated, barely seeing his wife or child. The man made a terrible mistake under pressure." She pauses. "People do that. I do, and you too."

His stomach knots as he remembers his own choice the night he was falling with Kairi.

The Mistress' black gaze appears in his mind.

"He made a mistake," Atsunori says harshly. "So did his mother when she gave in to her Yokai. And so did Kairi when he betrayed us. Circumstances don't absolve anything." His voice rises despite himself. "And if I ever sink to their level, I will punish myself with my own two hands!"

The words echo louder than he intended. He grimaces immediately—but Avery doesn't flinch.

She simply closes her eyes, her expression heavy, wounded, tired. After a moment, she nods, and her voice comes out soft.

"Fine. I'll let it rest for now." A weak smile tugs at her lips. "How about I now tell you a story of my own? But on one condition."

He says nothing.

"When we come back to this, Atsun, you'll at least try to see things from Kairi's side, okay?"

No answer—no promise at all.