What I didn't tell you

I really wish I could tell Atsun about this next part. But my words would be too weak to sway him. They'd only make him reject the truth more violently.

Which, I suppose, is why Kairi never told him either.

So I'll omit a part of my story once again. Not because I want to hide it, but because I want him to accept it.

I'll find another way. Something more convincing than words.

Until then, this is the part of my time with Kairi I will keep from Atsun:

"Tell me about everything you're still hiding from me."

Kairi looked up from tying his bandages, brow lifting slightly. "That came out of nowhere."

"No, it didn't." I folded my arms. "You promised to answer any question I asked. With the utmost truth."

He didn't reply immediately.

Setting the bandages aside, he leaned back on the armchair. "I'm not withholding this because it would weaken my cause. It would end the argument entirely."

"I don't care."

"If you hear it, you won't be able to forgive the Munakata. Not without lying to yourself. That's why I won't say it unless the alternative is losing you to them."

The words didn't budge my stance. "Then listen carefully. I refuse to close my eyes. If you want me to keep considering your proposal, to keep listening at all, you tell me everything. Otherwise, we stop here."

A slow breath left him. His eyes drifted to the cracking fireplace.

He studied me for a long instant.

"Alright, then listen carefully. Because once I say this out loud, there's no pretending you don't know."

Silence was the only answer I gave.

"When I was nine," he began, "I snuck out of the estate for the first time. Far enough to feel free. I got lost in the mountains. Panicked, cried, thought I'd freeze to death before anyone noticed I was gone."

His voice eased. "That's when Reiji found me."

"Reiji?"

"A Tengu. Yes, they have normal names."

My own experience with Yokai didn't exactly support that claim.

Kairi's gaze drifted, unfocused for a moment. "He'd been watching humans for a while. His fellows warned him we were dangerous. So he kept his distance at first. Observed." A quiet chuckle. "Then he decided a lost child wasn't very threatening."

He explained how Reiji led him back. Stayed longer than he should have. Asked questions. Listened.

"And after that," Kairi said, words coming faster now, hands moving as he spoke. "I started sneaking out whenever I could. Sometimes to wander the city. Sometimes just to sit with him. We talked about humans. Yokai. All the misconceptions each side held."

"Let me guess," I said softly. "He wasn't exactly well-behaved among his own kind."

His response was a louder chuckle.

Five years passed like that.

Then his parents died.

"When I went to Atchan," he said, voice tightening just a bit, "I wanted a friend, but got a Munakata. Rehearsed condolences and empty words."

So he withdrew. Played the obedient heir. And whenever he could, he escaped—to the only place that still felt like home.

"Until the Munakata captured Reiji."

My stomach dropped. "What? Why? I thought they—"

"Venerated Yokai?" He let out a humorless laugh. "So did I. So did Reiji."

His hands clenched. "That's the lie. There are no Yokai Guardians, Avery. Only Yokai sacrifices."

The words landed like a hammer. And he didn't stop there.

"The Blessings aren't gifts. They're stolen. Taken through a ritual that kills the Yokai involved."

Nausea rose in my throat.

"Our entire system," he said quietly, "is built on corpses."

Nerves burned along my tongue. "And… you're sure?"

"How do you think I got my powers?"

Reiji hadn't been alone. He'd been locked away with others. Stored. Catalogued. Waiting.

"The priests and Elders keep it secret even from loyal Munakata. They drug the recipient beforehand. You wake up the next day with powers and are told you've been blessed."

My fingers dug into my sleeve.

"And they…" Kairi's words came out torn. "They chose me. I was going to receive Reiji's Blessing."

"B-but that means Blake… the Yokai I met—"

"Yes. The Kitsune who gave you your power… is gone. True Blessings still cost a life."

The words hollowed me out.

"But there's a difference," Kairi said, steadier now. "Forced rituals only transfer a fraction of the power. True Blessings, voluntary ones, transfer everything."

The final piece slid into place.

"That's why you're so strong," I whispered.

"And you will be too, once you gain mastery."

The Munakata had lied about the strength of pure Yokai, about everything.

"And the priests' powers," he continued, "work exceptionally well on Yokai, despite being nearly useless against humans. That's how they capture so many."

Reiji knew he was going to die.

So he chose how.

"The night of the ritual he gave me his power willingly before they could complete it. And he used his illusions to show me the truth through a dream."

Kairi closed his eyes. "He asked me to escape. And to live happily."

We both knew what came after.

"I only listened to half of that. Escaped, but swore I'd tear the whole thing down. Free every Yokai they're holding. End it forever."

Silence settled between us.

Kairi had nothing left to hide. And nothing left for me to argue against.

Now I understood—not just his hatred.

His certainty.

If I returned to the Munakata, I'd stand over a lake of blood, pretending not to see it. My will eroded by endless waiting.

If I joined him, the blood would still be spilled—smeared across his hands, while mine stayed clean through obedience.

There was no good choice.

Only the choice of what to sacrifice.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Two hours passed with me unmoving on the bed, lost in thought.

Kairi didn't interrupt me once. He finished changing his bandages, adjusted the last wrap, then settled back into his chair and waited. No impatience. Just certainty that, eventually, I'd speak—and that when I did, I'd choose one of the paths he'd laid out.

When I finally stood, my legs felt stiff, but my mind was steady.

"I'm done. I've made my choice." I walked up to him. "I'm not taking the easy option. Neither of them. I'm not mindlessly integrating into the Munakata system, and I'm not mindlessly following you."

Seated in the armchair, he looked at me—intrigued rather than alarmed.

"Alright," he said calmly. "Explain."

Air filled my lungs slowly. "Both options are abdications. One hands responsibility to you, the other hands it back to the Munakata. Either way, I stop deciding."

"A reminder that you also have the option to take full responsibility and have me follow you."

"An option you offer but don't actually expect me to take. And even if I did, it'd still be making choices working toward your ideal, not mine."

He intertwined his fingers—still composed.

"Say it, then. What do you actually intend to do?"

I didn't rush. If I faltered here, he'd fill the gaps for me.

"First, the sacrifices stop. Immediately. No negotiations, no delays, no gradual reforms. Every Yokai they're holding is freed."

His eyes narrowed lightly—not in disbelief, but interest.

"You think you can force that…" His head tilted to the side. "...without tearing the structure down?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"By dragging the truth into the open. By making it impossible to hide. The sacrifices rely on secrecy, on obedience carried out in the dark by a small, controlled group. You said it yourself: this secret was buried even from the loyal Munakata. The Elders and priests know not everyone would accept it."

At the very least, I know someone who wouldn't.

He slowly shook his head. "You're gambling that exposure will restrain them. What happens when half the family still stands with the priests, and now opposes the other half?"

I'd run from conflict enough times already. "Then they fight. Out in the open. Not behind rituals and lies. And everyone sees exactly what they're defending."

"So you'd rather let the system tear itself apart than grant it the mercy of a quick death?"

"No. I'd rather let people choose what they fight for than steal the knife and decide for them."

His fingers tightened together. "And the priests? Tomoe? What do you do with them?"

I didn't look away.

"I stop them. Completely."

"That's vague."

"It's precise. They don't get to perform another ritual. They don't get secrecy, authority, or new followers. Every lever they use gets taken out of their hands."

"And when they resist?"

"Then I face them. I won't let them hide behind tradition or faith or fear. If they try to continue, I put myself in their way."

He searched my expression for hesitation. There was none.

"But I won't execute them. Not because they deserve mercy. But because I refuse to decide that their deaths are necessary."

His jaw set, almost clenched. "They live."

"They live without power. Without masks. Without an altar to stand on."

"And when they return?" he pressed. "When they adapt? When they wait for you to turn your back?"

"Then I stop them again." The chain clattered as I shifted. "And again, if I have to. That's the burden I'm choosing."

My hand grabbed the metal around my neck.

Not safety—but responsibility.

For a long moment, Kairi didn't answer.

He looked at me as if he were seeing me properly for the first time—not as a variable in his plan, not as a potential ally or obstacle.

"You really believe you can carry that," he said at last.

"I don't believe anything." I shrugged with a smile. "I'm just willing to try."

His gaze dropped to the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

"You're asking me to accept a world where the people who destroyed my life get to keep breathing." The armrest groaned under his grip. "Where they're watched instead of erased. Where they wake up every morning knowing they survived."

"I'm asking you to accept that ending harm doesn't always mean ending those who cause it. And that choosing otherwise doesn't make you wrong. It just makes us incompatible."

That word hung between us.

He straightened slowly, as if the conversation itself had weight.

Standing now—slightly taller—he looked at me. "You've made up your mind."

"Yes."

"And you'll never stand by my side."

"No."

Silence.

Then he nodded once.

"We're done here."

The words were calm. Final. Not angry at all.

"I'll act once I'm healed." He was already turning away. "I won't involve you. And I won't ask again."

Exhaling, I smiled softly.

Because I knew it would end like this.

And I was ready for it.

…

To Atsun, none of this happened. He doesn't know about it because I omitted it from my story.

To him, after my few days' break, the next thing of importance I did was…