One last time

Without a word, Atsunori walks forward. The dull sound of his footsteps is swallowed by the uneven beating of his heart.

Pressure builds on top of him—too many thoughts pressing at once, each insisting it come first.

Despite it all, his mind remains calm.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he forces them to wait their turn.

As he nears the cells, the hum of electricity rises. The magic woven into the warding thickens enough to prickle his skin.

When he reaches them, he stops. Out of habit, and a sense of obligation, he straightens his spine, which has been half-hunched for days. Even here, his body remembers how a Munakata is meant to stand.

At the base of each enclosure is a small label: the type of Yokai inside. Some bear a second name. Not the Yokai's—but those of young Munakata children, still waiting to receive their Blessing.

Among them, he finds Renya's.

One by one, the Yokai meet his gaze. Some acknowledge him with hatred, hope or confusion. Others look through him, as if he's just another captor standing where so many have before.

The sight that hurts him the most is the Zashiki Child.

A Yokai shaped like a little girl. Pure. Mischievous. Good luck spirits—an omen of prosperity.

She looks back at him, solemn. The glass wall faintly reflects his own face over hers—uniform, composed, a barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his eye.

The image strains something he cannot afford to let fracture.

Still, he holds her gaze. Doesn't look away.

After a moment, she bows politely and retreats deeper into her chamber.

This has happened before.

Many others must have stood here before him, looked upon this scene, and chosen to preserve it.

If this is wrong, then countless people have chosen wrong before him.

For how long? Perhaps long enough that it might reach all the way back to the origin of the Munakata themselves.

Footsteps approach. Avery's—not toward him, but to the cells. She doesn't speak. She gives him the time to face what he needs to face.

And what he needs to confront now is what she told him before.

She…

She was right.

This isn't necessity disguised as tradition. It's tradition polished until its cruelty no longer shows. Someone chose this. Maybe the First herself.

And then they made it untouchable—taught it, inherited it, defended it—until it became inseparable from what it means to be a Munakata.

The family is flawed. Deeply so. And this isn't a flaw that can be ignored or quietly buried. One way or another, it has to be confronted.

Eventually—

Because letting it continue is still a choice.

What would Avery do?

His attention shifts to her. She stands before one of the crystal walls, one hand resting against it. Half her face is caught in the reflection. She glances aside at one of the panels, then looks back at him without moving closer.

As if asking…

What would you do?

That's so like her.

And yet—

"You're not planning to destroy this place," he says. Not a question.

She answers with a slow shake of her head.

Of course not. That's why she brought him here instead of coming alone. She might be changing, but she's still the Avery he knows. Childish, a little naive—

But not dumb by any means.

It could work.

The Yokai are lucid. Few, but enough—both witnesses and victims.

She wouldn't need to accuse anyone. She would only need to open the door.

The consequences would come flooding out on their own, crashing into the Munakata and reshaping them forever.

They would be deserved, true.

But they would strike far more people than those responsible.

And it isn't only a question of whether the current leaderless Munakata could survive it. Without the Blessings, what future would remain? Their authority isn't just political or economic—it's mythic. Divine.

Once the truth is exposed—
Blessings become curses.
Every priest becomes complicit.
Every ally, a potential traitor.

The family wouldn't merely lose face. It would splinter. Turn inward. Tear itself apart.

She knows that.

And she's willing to bear her own consequences for it: to be hated, blamed, hunted.

Even if that guard hadn't seen them, she would still confess. If only to keep the Munakata from descending into accusations.

She is strong enough to do this.

Strong enough to accept everything that follows—even the parts she can't predict.

It would achieve what she wants. But the cost would be enormous. Greater than anything either of them can fully imagine. The system holding the city together could collapse all at once.

And she would still choose to free them.

There is no world in which she lets this go. She knows what she wants to do.

Now the only question is:

What do I want to do?

The choice stands directly in front of him. There is no third path. Only one or the other.

So who am I?

The Munakata who ends this cruelty—who joins Avery, shares her guilt, and carries the consequences beside her, no matter how high the cost?

Or the one who chooses order over justice? Who preserves stability knowing exactly what it demands, because he cannot accept a future built on uncertainty—no matter how righteous its promise.

╭₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪╮

The hum of the wards loses its rhythm. It deepens, stretching into a low roar—vast, distant, immense.

The chamber feels wrong. Too wide. Too fluid. The clean lines of stone blur, refusing to hold their shape.

Atsunori blinks—and sees water where stone should be.

He stands waist-deep in an endless ocean, dark and restless. Neither violent nor kind. Just moving—forever reshaping itself. There is no ground. No stillness to anchor himself to.

Avery walks across its surface. Soaked and unsteady, but never stopping.

There is no struggle or panic. She moves as if motion itself is something she understands instinctively—adjusting to every shift, every surge. Never resisting the waves. Only moving with them. There is fear in her posture—hesitation, even—but resolve keeps her upright.

Each step is earned.
Each moment costs her something.

Atsunori steps forward.

And sinks.

Because stillness has no meaning here. This is what happens when something meant to bear weight enters a place that demands movement instead. His body—trained to brace, to endure, to hold the line—becomes an anchor in a world where anchors only pull you under.

The water accepts him without cruelty. It closes over his head—not cold, not crushing. Simply indifferent.

He understands that even if he learned to breathe here, he would no longer be standing on anything.

If he walked beside her in these currents, he wouldn't be himself—but someone else entirely.

Atsunori Munakata can only sink here.

Above him, Avery continues on, facing only forward.

And he understands why.

She advances because the world moves.

He was built to keep it from doing so.

It isn't that he fears the ocean.

He simply knows what swimming in it would cost.

The structure holding the city together. Siding with her would mean letting everything fixed dissolve at once: authority, faith, safety, the quiet assumption that tomorrow will resemble today. And he's not willing to gamble that much on a future no one can shape once it breaks loose.

So he makes his choice.

The vision vanishes—and with it, the illusion that this was something they could carry together.

╰₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪╯

"Thank you."

"Huh?" Avery blinks, caught off-guard. "Uh… you're welcome? Does this mean—"

"May I hug you?"

She stares at him for a beat, then lets out a soft, uncertain laugh. "Oookay… that might be your weirdest request so far. But sure."

Stepping forward, he wraps her into an embrace.

The hug is gentle. Careful. It doesn't cling or seek reassurance—only acknowledges it. Like pressing a flower between pages, knowing it won't be taken out again.

Avery's warmth is familiar, grounding, and painfully present.

Atsunori allows himself to remain there as long as he wishes.

To remember unpredictable conversations. Stubborn optimism. The ways she challenged him without cruelty. The way she believed in him—as a person, regardless of his family name.

At the back of his mind, a voice stirs.

Mistress Tomoe—cold, controlling—reminding him how easily this closeness could be shaped into obedience.

He ignores it. Not out of defiance—

But because this moment belongs to him.

His grip loosens and he steps back, bowing his head slightly.

He will not be a mindless weapon.

He will not borrow conviction from orders or hide behind tradition.

He will be Munakata Atsunori—one who chooses his loyalty, defines its limits, and bears its weight willingly.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I accepted the hug.

And let myself rest in it—truly rest. Not thinking. Not planning. Not bracing for the next thing. Simply present.

It felt honest. Atsunori wasn't acting as a Munakata, an enforcer, a caretaker, or a symbol of anything at all—just as himself. Someone who had finally stopped pretending his way was the only one.

I could feel the tension he always carried, held carefully between discipline and posture. Even now, his arms were steady, but not stiff. Controlled—but warm.

I loved it.

For once, Atsunori seemed entirely genuine—with me and with himself.

And—funnily enough—that second hug confirmed something trivial I'd suspected for a while:

He really was very huggable, intimidating appearance aside.

I wished it could last forever. Partly because it was comforting. Partly because it was rare.

But mostly because of the quiet fear settling in my chest.

This didn't feel like a promise.

It felt like the kind of moment you cling to because you know you won't be given another.

A goodbye disguised as kindness.

And I hated myself a little for realizing it before the hug was over.