Yuki walked alone through the empty streets, the cast on his right arm heavy and itching. Every step sent a dull throb up his shoulder from the tournament's lingering damage—bruised ribs, scorched nerves from Ren Kyorin's lightning, and the deep exhaustion. The harsh winds mirrored the chaos in his head perfectly: roaring, unpredictable, refusing to let up.
He replayed the words he'd said to Seri outside the karaoke room, the ones that had come out so calm and final.
"It's alright… everything you said is true anyway. As a favor to me… stop following me around. And stop offering to protect me."
Had he been too harsh? The question gnawed at him like the cold seeping through his soaked uniform. She had been right, after all. He was weak. An Acolyte who'd somehow clawed his way into the semifinals on stubbornness and a few lucky breaks. He'd held his own against Ren Kyorin only because the royal had lost his composure at the end, that predatory wolf gaze of Yuki's cracking the lightning user's perfect control. Against Renjiro back in the training hall? Easy to outsmart the hot-headed fire user with raw physics and a bit of black ice surprise. Derek… well, that one still haunted him in quiet moments. But if any of those fights had been to the death, no rules, no crowd, no cube ceiling trapping them in? Yuki knew the truth in his bones.
He'd be dead.
Even Seri. Beautiful, untouchable Seri Kyorin—Paragon-level, student council president, daughter of the family that owned Kyorin High. He couldn't beat her in a straight fight.
Not yet. Maybe not ever. His black ice could devour lightning and shatter fire, but it came at a cost: drained ki, trembling muscles, that invasive crawling agony that still lingered from Ren's twenty-thousand-volt punches. He'd gotten stronger—unbelievably so since the day he'd stepped into Kyorin High as the "human wrecking ball" who cracked the Power-Output Pillar with pure fist. But strength was relative when you were surrounded by Royals.
Why did she say those things? The thought looped endlessly. She should know I have a crush on her. Or… did I? I'm confused. The memory of her voice through the door—soft, teasing at first, then cutting deep under Emi's prodding—played on repeat. He's weak. An Acolyte who constantly needs protecting. Entertaining, but fragile. She hadn't meant for him to hear it. He knew that. But it still landed like a spinning kick to the gut.
A fat raindrop smacked his eyelash, blurring the streetlights into hazy halos. Yuki cursed under his breath and broke into a jog, the cast making his arm swing awkwardly. His boots splashed through puddles that reflected the stormy sky like shattered mirrors. Up ahead, a dimly lit bus stop offered shelter—a rusted metal roof and a single bench. He ducked under it, shaking water from his black hair, and collapsed onto the seat with a groan. The cast thunked against the wood.
For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing hard, watching the rain hammer the pavement. The world felt distant, muffled. Like after Ren's barrage, when the electricity had turned his nerves into live wires and the arena had spun. But this pain wasn't from kizo. It was quieter. Deeper.
He pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the gloom. His thumb hovered over the contacts. Hana. The landlady's niece—cute in that sharp, haughty way that always made him grin. She'd been there through the early days, back when he was just the broke tenant upstairs trying to figure out what "school" even meant. He tapped her name and hit call.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Hello, my cute but haughty landlady," Yuki greeted, forcing that familiar playful lilt into his voice even though his chest felt tight. "Miss me ?"
A sharp scoff crackled through the speaker. "Haughty? Who the hell are you calling haughty, you walking disaster? And don't even start with the 'cute' nonsense. I know exactly what you're doing, Kinatarou."
Yuki chuckled softly, leaning back against the bench. Rain drummed louder on the roof now, a steady roar that almost drowned her out. "That's how you respond to every compliment? Damn, Hana. A guy tries to be charming and gets roasted."
"Only compliments from idiots," she shot back, but there was the faintest hint of a smile in her tone. "What do you want? It's late, and I can hear the rain through the phone like you're standing under a waterfall. Are you outside? In this mess?"
He hesitated, staring at the sheets of water cascading off the bus stop edge. "Yeah… got caught in it after… stuff. Needed to clear my head." He took a breath and spilled it all—the karaoke hangout with the group, Seri blurting her real feelings under Emi's teasing, him overhearing every word, the way he'd walked away into the storm with that calm mask plastered on. He didn't sugarcoat it. Told her about the tournament exhaustion still clinging to him, the self-doubt, the confusion twisting in his gut about whether he even still had feelings for Seri or if it had all just… cracked.
Hana listened in silence on the other end, the kind of quiet that felt heavier than any lecture. When he finished, she let out a long sigh.
"You're an idiot, Yuki. A dense, hopeless idiot. Did you really not notice?"
"Notice what?" He sat up straighter, wincing as the cast pulled at his shoulder.
"Ask Seri yourself, dummy. But since you're clearly too thick-skulled to figure it out on your own… fix it. With her. She'd be hopeless without you, too."
Yuki blinked. "Hopeless? Hana, she's a Royal. Paragon-level. She doesn't need—"
"Shut up and listen," Hana cut in, her voice firm but not unkind. "I'm not sure exactly how, but I know you helped her. In some way that matters. You two… you need each other. When she called you weak, she didn't mean it like you think. Not in a bad way. She just wants to take care of you. Protect you. Because that's what people do when they care, you blockhead."
The rain eased for a second, then slammed down harder, like the sky was agreeing with her. Yuki's free hand tightened around the phone.
Hana laughed softly, a rare gentle sound. "You're really hopeless on your own, Yuki. Let the people who care about you protect you sometimes. I know you're a kind person at heart. You'll do the right thing and apologize to her. Smooth it over." Her tone sharpened again, the haughty edge returning full force. "If you don't, I'll break your legs myself. Got it?"
Yuki chuckled despite everything, the sound genuine this time. "You're really good at giving advice, you know that? Tsundere landlady strikes again."
"Of course I am, you idiot," she replied, but he could hear the warmth beneath the bite. "Now hurry up and get home before you catch pneumonia or something. Aunt Mai's already muttering about making extra soup, she's asking you to come over."
"Maybe next time."
He was about to hang up when she added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and… after we cleared all our debts with that money you gave us? Aunt Mai and I started a small restaurant downtown. Nothing fancy—just good food for folks who need it. We donated the rest to an orphanage on the east side. Kids who don't have families. Figured it was the right thing."
Yuki's throat tightened. He remembered handing over the cash after the tournament payouts started rolling in—winnings he had earned alone, but money that had felt like too much for one "weak" kid. "You didn't have to ask, Hana. It was your money the second I gave it to you. I like what you did with it. Really. Money well spent."
She huffed, but he could picture her cheeks flushing the way they did when she got embarrassed. "Yeah, well… don't get sappy on me. Go home, wrecking ball."
"Night, Hana."
He hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket. The call had helped—a little. The storm still raged, but the knot in his chest felt looser. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should apologize. Fix things. Seri had been looking out for him since day one, even if her words had cut deep. He wasn't sure about the crush anymore—feelings were messy when you were built like a glacier that could crack into something lethal—but he knew he didn't want to lose her.
A faint shuffle pulled him from his thoughts.
Someone was sitting on the bench beside him.
Yuki hadn't heard them approach. The rain had masked the footsteps, but now the presence hit him like a Thunder Spear to the ribs. His heart slammed against his chest, skipping a beat, then another. This ki—he would know it anywhere. Thick, suffocating, laced with that metallic tang of old blood and polished steel. The scent hit next: rain-soaked leather, faint smoke, and something sharper, like ozone after lightning but twisted, wrong. Familiar in the worst way. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold, dripping down his temple and splashing onto the wet concrete.
A huge man in a long black coat sat there, casual as if they'd been chatting for hours. Hands tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders broad enough to block the rain on that side of the bench. Water streamed off the brim of an unseen hood, but Yuki didn't need to see the face. The arm that slid around his shoulders—heavy, possessive, like a noose made of muscle—confirmed it.
"Hello, murderer," the man rumbled, voice low and amused, carrying over the storm like it belonged there.
It was none other than Giyu.
Yuki's breath caught. The cast on his arm suddenly felt like nothing compared to the ice that flooded his veins—not his black kizo, but raw, primal fear mixed with something colder. Sharper. That survival instinct, the one Yukari had screamed to pull him back from in the cube, flickered at the edges of his vision. Empty eyes. Predatory. The wolf beneath the golden retriever smile.
Giyu's grip tightened just enough to remind him who had once locked him away in that empty room for years. Who had carved those nights of silence into him. The man who'd made the "weakest" Acolyte into something that could stare down lightning and still stand.
The rain kept falling, harder now, washing the streets clean while the past sat right beside him, arm draped like an old friend.
Yuki didn't move. Didn't speak. But a smile spread across his face like he had just heard a bad joke.