Too late for regret

Before his consciousness fully returns, Atsunori's eyes are already searching the cells.

They're intact. Sealed. The Yokai remain where they are meant to be.

Relief loosens his chest, and only then does he draw a full breath.

Pain arrives in pieces—pressure first, then heat, then a deeper, dragging weight that settles into his bones. He turns his head to Avery—the motion slow and punishing.

The wall he raised lies between them, collapsed into jagged stone and dust. A boundary that failed to hold.

His gaze dips to his own body, to the wound cutting diagonally across his torso, deep enough to bare muscle. Not as catastrophic as the night Kairi nearly killed him, but still too deep.

And more importantly, it isn't closing—flesh tightens and pulls, attempting to mend itself. The bleeding slows, hesitates, then starts again.

The understanding settles in: this is his limit.

His body tries to rise before he consciously commands it to. Weight shifts forward. Agony detonates—white and blinding. He barely has time to register it before he collapses back against the stone.

It feels as though the entire wall has been rebuilt atop him—too heavy to stand beneath.

I…

Am losing…

His gaze lifts again, finding Avery still standing.

Hair disheveled. Clothes torn. Blood drying at her temple. Her breathing is uneven, strained—but she remains upright, watching.

And she doesn't advance.

She isn't pressing her advantage.

Just waiting.

Enduring.

Another attempt follows. Again, muscles tense, tremble, then fail. The weight crashes back down and he sinks.

Not just physical weight, but something deeper—expectation, consequence, the accumulated cost of every choice he's made.

For a moment, all he can do is breathe through clenched teeth.

And assess.

If this continues, he will fail. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Simply… gradually.

Avery won't finish him—she'll outlast him.

And then…

She will free them.

His eyes drift toward the cells.

The Yokai remain silent watchers. They don't beg or cry—they simply observe the outcome being decided before them. The honesty of it brings him a strange relief, even if they stand on opposite sides.

As he relaxes, a familiar chill creeps along the soles of his feet.

It's been there the entire time.

Something he buried decades ago through relentless discipline.

Yet it resurfaced the moment he transformed today.

It must have been the pressure of the past two months. That's the only explanation…

For the Oni Instincts to be back.

A buzzing behind thought. Heat beneath restraint. The tingle that follows spent fury.

Although this time they aren't demanding anything of him.

They're offering.

Strength.

Endurance.

Continuation.

And they name the cost clearly—though he already knows it too well.

If he leans on them, even partially, they won't simply vanish afterward. The line between him and the Oni will thin. Pulling back will take more effort. More loss.

A memory flashes—unwanted and sharp.

Yorinobu's story about Kairi's mother.

The way the Elder described her gaze at the end—not feral, not mad.

Just… empty.

Atsunori closes his eyes briefly.

This isn't the same.

His eyes open and return to Avery.

Even if he somehow restrains her now, the system has already revealed its weakness—and Avery her strength.

She won't stop after today.

No matter what he does, she'll try again.

And again if she has to. That's the burden she's chosen.

Her answer to Kairi.

And now—

To him.

Am I really going to choose this, knowing exactly what it means?

If anything, that's what separates him from Avery—certainty.

She accepts consequences she cannot predict.

He will only accept the ones he knows.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs—too soft for her to hear.

Then, carefully, he loosens the restraint. Not fully. Not recklessly. Just enough.

Heat floods his limbs, dulling the sharpest edges of pain. His heartbeat steadies, grows heavier. The world narrows not in clarity, but purpose. Everything compresses into something simpler.

Stand.

And stop her.

The wound stabilizes. Flesh draws tight around muscle in a messy, patched seal.

He rises and straightens, rolling his shoulders once, testing the altered balance of his body. The instincts hum beneath his skin—neither roaring nor raging. Simply there, like a current he has stepped into.

Avery moves immediately. Sideways, then back. Her footwork remains precise, but the transitions lag.

He reaches for her.

Not wildly. A controlled strike—cutting the angle, herding her toward the narrowing space between rubble and wall. Avery slips past his fist, but not cleanly. An exhale escapes her as she retreats, and he hears the strain in it.

Meanwhile, his body feels lighter every second.

She tries to widen the space again, but he's already there—adjusting without conscious thought, body answering before strategy can catch up. Mist blooms briefly around his face, disorienting—but only for a breath.

Atsunori barrels through it. His arm is already moving, even though he hasn't ordered it to.

He catches himself mid-swing, correcting the angle just enough to miss, to avoid landing a blow far too brutal.

Avery retreats steadily, her balance uneven. Sweat cuts pale lines through dust on her skin.

The instincts swell insistently. Each successful exchange feeds them. Each moment Avery yields draws him closer to a single end:

Crushing her skull.

What?

His fingers curl, nails biting deep enough to draw blood.

Focus!

He forces the next movement to slow, wrests the rhythm back under conscious control. It works—briefly. He reins the pressure in—

And his body surges forward anyway.

His shoulder slams into Avery's guard—weak, restrained, but enough to send her skidding sideways. Her footing barely holds, one hand scraping the wall to stay upright.

Yet there's not a hint of fear in her eyes. No sign that she's anywhere near giving up.

Nothing will stop her.

Unless he ends her.

His heartbeat surges—not with triumph.

But alarm.

The narrowing closes in. Thoughts compress, flattening into action and response. Nuance slips away at the edges. With every motion, the effort required to tell what's his own will grows heavier.

Atsunori stops.

Forces himself to.

His body resists—expecting continuation.

Across from him, Avery straightens, her guard lowering.

She knows something is wrong.

"Atsun, what—"

His hand raises, halting her.

He needs this moment.

Because he understands now.

If this continues, there are only two endings.

Either she kills him.

Or he kills her.

And if he kills her… the family will put him down.

This is the line.

And he's standing on it fully awake.

His thoughts drift—not chaotically, but painfully clear.

The locked Yokai.
The city above.
The fragile balance held together by myth, lies and force.

Avery's refusal to stop.
His refusal to yield.

If he falls, the system cracks open.

If she falls… it survives.

At the cost of everyone here.

He looks at her one last time—not as an opponent, not as a threat, but as the person who showed him the truth and still let him choose.

"Goodbye, Avery."

Whatever she says in response doesn't reach him.

He makes the choice without anger. Without desperation. With full awareness that it will end everything.

The instincts surge without violence, as a flood. They drown all thoughts. His stance widens, spine straightening beyond comfort, breath deepening into something heavier. Something animal.

The last thing he feels clearly is regret.

Not for the choice.

But for the knowledge that there was no world where they could walk the same path.

Then it moves.

Someone—

Something that is no longer Atsunori.