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Archer the Sorcerer Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2025-08-27 15:05:21 +0000 UTCChapter 13: After the Parade — Part I
And then the streets were quiet now.
Not the silence of peace—no, this was the silence of exhaustion, of ruin.
Cursed ichor stained the snow in streaks of black. Corpses of spirits—misshapen, broken things—lay scattered across the pavement.
The once-bustling blocks of Kyoto had been reduced to a warzone, smoke trailing from collapsed roofs and shattered glass crunching underfoot.
He walked back into it.
His red coat was tattered, the sleeve of his left arm scorched to ribbons, his boots tracking soot across the snow.
His bow had long since dissolved into ether, leaving only his steady, composed stride—though every step carried the weight of the battle he had just waged alone.
The Kyoto students, officials, and some Jujutsu Sorcerers were still scattered around, blades drawn, hands trembling, their techniques simmering faintly as they kept watch over the dying remnants of the Night Parade.
But as he stepped into their sightline, many of them slowed. Stopped.
They stared.
Because he looked like he had walked out of a legend—scarred, burnt, but unbroken.
The kind of man who fought not with borrowed strength, but with something terrifyingly his own.
One by one, their skirmishes ended.
The last Cursed Spirit fell, shrieking before being split apart by Momo’s broom-riding slash of wind.
Kamo Noritoshi lowered his bow, panting, his arrows steaming in the cold.
Mai Zenin leaned against a lamppost, bruised but smirking in that half-proud, half-irritated way of hers.
And then—silence again.
“...It’s over?” one of them muttered, disbelief in their tone.
That was when Iori Utahime appeared.
She moved briskly across the ruined street, her long hair and robes swaying as she passed her battered students, eyes fixed squarely on him.
She didn’t stop until she stood directly in front of him, her sharp gaze scanning the blood and soot that clung to him.
Her lips parted—hesitation, disbelief, then quiet resolve.
“It’s over,” she confirmed.
The students sagged with relief. A few even laughed, breathless. But Archer only raised an eyebrow.
Utahime drew in a breath, folding her arms beneath her sleeves. Her voice was steady, but the tightness at its edges betrayed the gravity of the words.
“The Night Parade of a Hundred Demons has ended. We’ve just received word from Tokyo.”
His eyes narrowed. “...Tokyo.”
“Yes.” Utahime’s gaze softened slightly, though she still carried herself with the rigid formality of a teacher trying not to falter in front of her students.
“Suguru Geto is dead. The Cursed Spirits he unleashed in Tokyo—especially those targeting Tokyo Jujutsu High—have all been exorcised.”
For a moment, even the wind seemed to pause.
The Kyoto students and officials exchanged glances, mutters spreading quickly.
“Dead?”
“Did Satoru Gojo take him out—“
“He… he really—?”
He said nothing at first. His expression was unreadable, silver eyes reflecting the shattered cityscape.
Suguru Geto. Dead.
The name, the weight behind it, pressed in his mind—but he let no emotion surface. He only exhaled, a soft cloud of white mist leaving his lips.
Utahime studied him, then added quietly, “This district is secured. We’ll begin evacuation of civilians and cleanup at dawn. For now… rest. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”
Her tone was calm, but there was something beneath it. Something that said she’d seen, or at least felt, the earthquake of power that had erupted earlier—the explosion that had rattled half the city.
She didn’t ask. Not yet. But the question hung heavy in her eyes.
He gave the faintest nod. His gaze flickered once toward the distant edge of the perimeter—where Illya had gone, snow still disturbed from her hurried steps.
He made sure she had escaped. That was enough for now.
He shifted his focus back to Utahime and the students.
“Then it’s finished,” he said simply.
Utahime dipped her chin. “Yes.”
For the first time since the night began, there was no roar of cursed beasts. No tremor of approaching death.
Only the crackling of distant fires and the slow, uncertain relief of those who had survived.
He stood in the middle of it all—silent, unmoved, yet undeniably at the center of the storm that had finally passed.
He then reached into the folds of his ruined red coat and pulled out his phone. His thumb brushed over it, intent on checking the situation in Tokyo himself.
But before he could activate it, a hand closed around his wrist.
Iori Utahime’s hand.
Her grip wasn’t strong enough to hold him physically, but the sharpness in her eyes did what her hand couldn’t.
“Wait,” she said firmly.
He tilted his head slightly. “...What is it?”
Utahime’s jaw tightened. “What did you just do out there?”
He blinked. For once, the question seemed to throw him off. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Utahime pressed, stepping closer, “a quarter of the Cursed Spirits’ force broke away from the parade and came straight at you. Not us. Not Kyoto High. Not the civilians. You.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice.”
The students nearby shifted uneasily, their gazes flicking between their teacher and the mysterious man in black and silver.
His response came as a quiet shrug. “They were spirits. They attacked. I cut them down. That’s all.”
But Utahime didn’t buy it. Her stare lingered, sharp and suspicious.
She had been in enough battles to know what she’d felt—when he unleashed that spiraling arrow, the sheer density of energy had drawn everything nearby like moths to a flame.
Even she, who had seen Satoru fight countless times, couldn’t quite put words to what she had witnessed.
Before she could press further, a dry voice cut in:
“Oi. Gojo.”
Mai Zenin stepped forward, brushing ash from her hair as she came up to him with her usual scowl.
Her rifle hung loosely at her side with its barrel still smoking faintly from the last volley she’d fired.
She jabbed a finger at him.
“How the hell can you, a Gojo, use Construction?”
The word fell like a hammer. The surrounding students tensed, glancing at each other in confusion.
Utahime stiffened, her gaze flicking from Mai to Archer, then back again. “...Mai.”
But Mai wasn’t backing down. She narrowed her eyes, looking at Archer as if trying to peel back layers of skin to find the truth beneath.
“Don’t play dumb. I saw it. The way you made those weapons—like they were just ideas given form. That’s Construction. That’s my Innate Technique. The Zenin’s technique.”
Her tone was sharp, almost accusatory. “So how can a Gojo—” she spat the word with open disdain, “—use a Zenin Technique?”
For a moment, the air was taut with silence. Students leaned forward ever so slightly, tension thick enough to taste.
His expression didn’t change. No surprise. No denial. No anger. Just that same unreadable calm as silver eyes regarded Mai.
And then—
He gave the faintest chuckle. A low, humorless sound.
“...You’re mistaken.”
Mai’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t screw with me. I know what I saw.”
Archer simply shook his head, turning his gaze away as if the matter wasn’t worth entertaining.
“I’m pretty sure there were some in the old days that could use that Technique and not coming from the Zenin Family. But even if I do have it—“
He started to look at him sharply and coldly.
“Why should I answer a Zenin?” he spat and Mai Zenin only filled her eyes with disdain even more.
That only made the suspicion deepen—both in Mai’s glare and in Utahime’s furrowed brow.
But him? He had already lifted his phone again, thumb brushing its surface, his attention sliding back toward the distant city of Tokyo.
Mai’s glare was sharp enough to cut stone. Her voice came out low, almost a hiss.
Her eyes narrowed. “Zenin blood runs it. Not Gojo. So tell me—how the hell can you use it? And using it like that? Summoning arrows! Arrows!”
Her demand hung in the air like a blade. A few of the Kyoto students glanced at one another, waiting for the inevitable spark.
“Considering you can only make bullets, I could say Zenin blood runs it slow,” he sarcastically replied.
Of course, he saw a glimpse of Mai Zenin’s technique and how it was similar to his own Magecraft.
But what he saw was that she created only one bullet. With her rifle being real, he deduced that it took too much of her reserves.
“How dare you—“
Before she could continue, another voice slid into the silence. Calm. Smooth. Almost too collected.
“Now, now.”
Noritoshi Kamo stepped forward, brushing ash from his sleeve with aristocratic precision.
Even after the battlefield’s carnage, he carried himself as though he had just left a formal meeting.
His dark eyes shifted between the Zenin girl and the Gojo boy, reading the tension like lines on a page.
“The Zenin and Gojo families have always been… entangled,” he said lightly.
“For centuries, their disputes have poisoned the air of the jujutsu world. It seems even now, those shadows linger, even in battles not their own.” His gaze flicked toward Mai.
“And your aggression, Zenin, is far from subtle.”
Mai scoffed and looked away, but her fists clenched at her sides.
Noritoshi’s tone deepened, though still level. “Perhaps we should not indulge in these old rivalries tonight. The Night Parade has ended. Our focus should remain there.”
Archer tilted his head, his expression unreadable, then slipped his hand into his coat pocket. His phone glinted faintly in the fractured streetlight.
“Then excuse me,” he said. His tone was flat, dismissive. “I have a call to make.”
He turned as if none of their scrutiny mattered, but—
“Oi, oi, oi!”
The booming interruption rolled like thunder across the ruined street.
Aoi Tōdō stormed into view, broad shoulders filling the space, chest still gleaming with sweat despite the cold night air.
He moved with the heavy confidence of a man who’d already decided the room belonged to him. His grin was infectious, wild, and absurdly sharp.
“When I heard about Satoru Gojo’s brother…” Tōdō’s voice rose, carrying to every Kyoto student still lingering in earshot. “I thought: finally! Someone worthy! Someone who could answer the only question that truly matters in this world!”
He slammed his palm against his chest, his booming laugh echoing through the ruins.
“But what do I see before me?!” His grin widened, eyes gleaming with provocation.
“Is it the man who stands shoulder to shoulder with the strongest? Or just another nepo baby… a pale reflection crawling behind his brother’s shadow?”
The words stung the air like sparks. A few students froze in place, waiting for a brawl to ignite. Utahime groaned softly, already massaging her temples.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t rise to the bait.
He just shrugged.
“That depends on who you ask.” His voice was calm, level, even almost bored.
His phone dangled from his fingers, a small metallic weight he seemed more focused on than the mountain of muscle glaring down at him.
“But if you want to know…” His gaze shifted upward, just slightly, silver eyes reflecting the smoke-heavy sky. “We can all agree that Satoru is the strongest. Stronger than me.”
A pause.
Then, with the faintest hint of dry amusement, he added—
“…Maybe.”
Murmurs rippled through the gathered students. Some smirked at his confidence, others frowned at the evasiveness.
Mai’s scowl deepened. Noritoshi folded his arms, studying the non-answer like it was a puzzle box.
Aoi Tōdō, however, didn’t stop grinning. But behind that grin, his sharp eyes narrowed, reading Archer with something far more dangerous than mockery: curiosity.
Shirou Gojo remained still, unmoved, his phone still in hand. To him, the rest of them might as well have been distant echoes.
Utahime exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Boys and their egos…”
But even she couldn’t deny it—the tension between the “strongest’s brother” and Aoi Tōdō was like a storm cloud waiting to crack.
Aoi Tōdō’s grin sharpened. His eyes gleamed with the unmistakable light of mischief and challenge.
“Good, good! You’re calm under fire. You don’t crumble under provocation.” He jabbed a thick finger toward his chest, his booming voice echoing across the ruined district.
“But the time has come for the most important question of all! The question that defines the very soul of a man!”
The other students collectively groaned. Mai muttered under her breath, “Oh no… here it comes.”
Even Utahime pinched the bridge of her nose. “Not this again…”
Aoi Tōdō’s whole body leaned forward, looming over him with the weight of a mountain. His tone dropped into a dramatic, almost sacred growl.
“What… kind of women do you like?”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. A few onlookers turned away, embarrassed.
Others tried to stifle their laughter. Even Noritoshi Kamo, who prided himself on composure, raised a brow.
He, however, didn’t even blink. He stared at Aoi Tōdō as though he were analyzing a weather forecast—distant, detached, with the faintest suggestion of irritation.
“…Why,” he said flatly, “should I answer that?”
The words fell like stones into a pond
Aoi Tōdō loomed over him like a shadow blotting out the moon. His wide frame radiated intensity, veins bulging on his forehead as though he were about to pass divine judgment.
“This,” he declared, his voice resonating like a temple bell, “is not just some idle curiosity. It is a pivotal question! The single most important trial to measure the essence of who you are.”
“Your answer will decide whether you are a man of culture… or a pitiful husk without conviction!”
The man in question tilted his head ever so slightly, unimpressed. “Sounds more like you want an excuse to lecture me.”
But Aoi Tōdō wasn’t letting him move.
Every time he shifted his weight to leave, Tōdō stepped with him, blocking the path, his massive shoulders casting a literal shadow across Archer’s figure.
“Answer me!” Aoi Tōdō bellowed. “Show me the core of Shirou Gojo’s soul!”
His brow twitched. This was wasting time. He needed to make a call—check on Tokyo, check on Satoru.
The longer he entertained this muscle-bound lunatic, the longer he was standing here instead of doing something useful.
With a quiet sigh, he relented. His tone was dry, almost sarcastic, as if daring Tōdō to take him seriously:
“Either petite blondes… or twin-tailed tsunderes.”
The words echoed in the ruined street like a proclamation of doom.
Tōdō froze. Absolutely, utterly froze.
His grin vanished. His body stiffened like stone. His pupils dilated as though he had just been struck by lightning.
Around them, the Kyoto students exchanged baffled looks.
“…Did he just say—?” Momo began.
Mai crossed her arms, incredulous. “He actually answered.”
Noritoshi pressed a hand to his temple. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
Utahime muttered under her breath, “…Oh no.”
Meanwhile, Archer simply straightened his coat, his expression calm and disinterested. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have a phone call to make.”
And with that, he stepped past Tōdō’s unmoving frame and walked off, vanishing into the ash-streaked street as though nothing at all had happened.
Kasumi Miwa cautiously approached Tōdō, who remained rooted in place like a statue. She waved a hand in front of his eyes. “…Senpai? You okay?”
Silence.
“…Why are you frozen like that?” she asked, genuinely concerned.
Then, slowly, impossibly, Tōdō began to tremble. His teeth ground together. His jaw clenched. His eyes ignited with a fury hotter than cursed flames.
A storm of wrathful energy erupted from him, shaking the ground beneath his feet. His roar split the night sky:
“Shirou Gojo…!”
The Kyoto team recoiled at the sheer intensity in his voice.
“I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! YOU ARE MY SWORN ENEMY FOR LIFE!”
The shout reverberated across the district, shaking loose snow from the ruined rooftops.
The Kyoto students stared, stunned.
“…So much for that idiot,” Mai muttered, unimpressed.
Noritoshi sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”
And Aoi Tōdō, fists clenched, eyes blazing with holy conviction, pointed dramatically in the direction HE had gone.
“MARK MY WORDS! I SWEAR ON MY LIFE THAT I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!!!”
Now, just what did he actually envision?
---
The grounds of Tokyo Jujutsu High were quiet in the aftermath of chaos.
Shattered masonry littered the courtyard, pieces of old stone and charred wood scattered among faintly glowing embers.
The cold night air carried the acrid tang of cursed energy long since burned out, and yet the silence felt heavier than battle itself.
The moon shone overhead, pale and watchful, casting long shadows across the ruined ground.
Satoru Gojo crouched there in the wreckage, his long legs folded loosely beneath him. His white hair caught the faint light, gleaming like frost, but his head hung low.
The blindfold that so often made him appear aloof was no longer there as it seemed to weigh him down, obscuring his expression in shadow.
His radiant blue eyes were there for no one to see, except for the dead.
His usually restless energy, the swagger that never left him even in combat, was gone.
He was still.
Too still.
In front of him lay the reason why.
The phone in his pocket vibrated. A muted, insistent buzz that felt alien in the heavy quiet.
For a moment, Satoru didn’t reach for it. He just sat there, fingers lax on his knees, as though moving would break something fragile within himself.
The vibration continued, and at last, with a slow, almost reluctant motion, he pulled the phone free.
He glanced at the caller ID, then pressed it to his ear.
“…Yo,” he said.
The voice on the other end was steady, carrying the weight of exhaustion but also responsibility.
Calling: Lil’ Bro
“Finally,” his little brother’s voice came through, sharp and controlled. “What’s the situation in Tokyo?”
Satoru’s lips twitched, shaping into something resembling a smile. In an instant, his tone brightened, forced levity snapping into place like armor.
“Well, turns out Suguru didn’t go for the city center. He made Jujutsu High his stage instead. So naturally, I was here to greet him.” He gave a light chuckle.
“Had to clean up his entourage first—cursed users, some of his pet freaks. A little noisy, but nothing too serious.”
There was a beat of silence.
“What about Suguru?” Shirou asked. His tone was clipped, urgent. “Did you confront him?”
Satoru looked down again. His hand clenched around the phone, though his voice betrayed nothing.
“Nope,” he answered simply. “Didn’t get that chance. One of my students took care of it.”
“…One of your students?”
“Yeah.” Satoru leaned back slightly, though his eyes never left what lay before him.
“Yuta Okkotsu. You’d like him, actually. Kid’s got guts. At first, I thought he was haunted—cursed by a spirit. But no.”
His lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “He cursed her himself. The bond between them was… strong enough it twisted her into one of the strongest Cursed Spirits I’ve ever laid eyes on…”
“But it’s over now. Resolved.”
On the other end, his brother said nothing.
Satoru continued, voice dipping softer, as though speaking to himself more than to his brother. “The higher-ups will lose their minds over him. But Yuta will be fine. He has me. Or us, in fact!”
“What do you mean ‘us’?” the other end of the call asked.
He hesitated, then added: “…He’s family. Distantly, but still. Related to us. Turns out, Yuta is actually descended from Sugawara Michizane! Just like us, the Gojos! Can you believe it? Never thought I’d meet my cousin who’s strong! Probably, stronger than you, lil’ bro~”
After the whole revelation that he gave, Satoru expected his little brother’s reply to be surprised. But instead, it got quiet.
The silence stretched before his voice cut through again, sharper this time.
“Satoru. Are you okay?”
The question landed like a weight.
For the first time, the grin slipped.
“…It is what it is,” Satoru said, lightly, too lightly.
But the pause before the words betrayed him.
His little brother didn’t press further. He’d known his brother long enough to recognize the mask when he heard it.
“Fine, I hope you can deal with it there,” he muttered. “I’ll deal with whatever is here left.”
“Oh! Speaking of, how was it in Kyoto? Did you kick ass like me and Yuta, or just stay on the sidelines? Becoming a bench-player than starting on the big game?~” Satoru masked himself back again with his cheerful and playful tone.
“…It is what it is,” the call replied in the same tone that Satoru had used to say the same thing.
“Hey, don’t be using my line and start to mimic me, Shirou! Gave me the creeps, for fuck sake!” he only shrugged off his little brother’s demeanor.
“I’ll update you later on chat instead of call…” With that, Satoru made a light chuckle.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure to ask Utahime about your performance, hehehe~” Satoru’s cheer returned in full force, though brittle at the edges.
“Don’t play hero too much, you little snot. Megumi and Tsumiki are waiting for you. Don’t keep them hanging.”
His little brother gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. “Later.”
The line went dead.
Satoru lowered the phone slowly, setting it on the broken stone beside him. His hand lingered there, trembling faintly, before falling slack against his thigh.
Silence returned.
The mask cracked.
All the bravado, all the humor, all the unshakable confidence—gone. What remained was raw, heavy, unguarded.
For once, the strongest sorcerer in the world looked nothing more than a man.
His shoulders slumped. His lips parted, but no words came.
Instead, his gaze fell again to the body lying before him.
Suguru Geto.
Once his best friend. Once his equal.
The one who laughed with him in sunlit courtyards, who shared meals and secrets, who made foolish promises they both believed.
The one who turned away, who became an enemy, and yet never stopped being someone he remembered as Suguru.
Now just a lifeless corpse, sprawled upon the ruined stones of the school they once both called home.
Satoru reached out, but stopped short of touching him. His fingers hovered in the air, then curled into a fist. His breath shuddered out, misting faintly in the cold night.
“…It is what it is,” he whispered again.
But this time, the words trembled, fragile, and broke against the silence.
And there he remained—Satoru Gojo, crouched before the corpse of Suguru Geto—with only the moon and the shadows to bear witness to his grief.
For a long while, he didn’t move. His phone lowered loosely to his side, fingers slack, as though the simple act of holding it had drained the last of his strength.
His eyes were slightly damp around the edges, his breath steady but shallow. No students. No colleagues. No witnesses. Just him.
And Suguru.
The once-feared sorcerer lay crumpled on the broken flagstones, his dark hair matted with blood, eyes shut as if he had simply drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
The world had already moved on without him, yet Satoru remained, crouched like a mourner who refused to rise.
There was no anger. No shouting. No tears. Only silence between them—the silence of a friendship that had already been broken long before tonight.
His fingers brushed the ground near Suguru’s hand, but he stopped short of touching it. His throat tightened.
“…Idiot.”
The word slipped out, quiet enough to vanish into the winter air. Then he shut his mouth, sealed it all away again, as he always did.
For everyone else, he was Satoru Gojo—the strongest, untouchable, unbreakable.
But here, in this private moment, he was just a man saying goodbye to the only friend who had ever truly understood him.
---
The call ended with the faint click of the line going dead.
He lingered, the phone pressed loosely against his palm as if holding it longer could keep the conversation alive.
He stood there in the quiet aftermath, surrounded by the fading traces of cursed energy still prowling through Kyoto’s air, his gaze lost on the horizon where the stars shone dim behind drifting clouds.
Satoru’s voice still rang in his ears. Loud, playful, obnoxiously casual—as if he’d just walked out of a comedy act instead of a battlefield.
But he had caught what others might have missed.
A slight delay before his brother answered. A softness in the syllables he rarely used. An edge of restraint under all the bravado.
It wasn’t much. Just a sliver of silence.
But for Satoru Gojo, silence was everything.
“…He’s grieving,” he murmured to himself.
The admission hung in the air, fragile, heavy.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and tilted his head to the sky, letting the cold night wind brush against his skin. He wasn’t supposed to notice these things.
Not him.
He was supposed to be detached, efficient, moving forward without looking back.
A Counter Guardian didn’t stop for grief—not their own, and not anyone else’s. They were executioners, not comforters.
But this wasn’t the Throne anymore.
This wasn’t the endless, sterile eternity of a man who had died once and been bound forever.
This was his life. A new one.
And somehow, despite everything, he’d found himself tethered to someone like Satoru.
Brother.
The word felt unfamiliar and heavy, like a foreign weapon in his hand—awkward, yet grounding. He was truly Satoru’s brother, by blood or shared childhood.
He had grown up at his side, had lived through the same family’s pressure even though the same years of laughter and fights (mostly Satoru and not him).
Their bond was something else—thrust upon him by circumstance, complicated by secrets, yet undeniable in its pull.
And it was stronger than he’d expected.
Because even though Satoru was abrasive, irresponsible, arrogant, and almost unbearable with his constant jokes, he could see the truth beneath it.
Satoru wasn’t untouchable. He wasn’t unfeeling. He was a man who carried too much, who laughed too loudly because otherwise the silence would crush him.
And now, with Suguru gone, that silence was louder than ever.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the motion stiff and awkward. He had no idea how to deal with grief—his own or anyone else’s.
Back when he had been a Counter Guardian, his way of “coping” had been to keep walking, to smother everything under duty, to never pause long enough to feel.
The idea of comforting someone, even someone like Satoru, felt foreign. Like trying to use a sword as a crutch—it wasn’t meant for that.
But still…
He wished, just for once, that he could ease that weight for Satoru.
That his brother might find some way to move forward.
“…Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, his voice soft, caught between irritation and something warmer. He didn’t know if he meant Satoru, or himself, or both.
The night answered only with the whisper of wind, carrying the faint scent of snow through the ruined streets.
For a moment, he just stood there, watching his own breath fog and fade into the darkness.
His hand lingered at his side, fingers curling into a loose fist.
His thoughts drifted—unbidden—back to the man who had been at the center of all this chaos.
Suguru Geto.
Even without meeting him face-to-face tonight, he felt as though he could picture him as clearly as when he’d met him the last time.
A man whose path had always been leading to the same dead end. A man whose ideals, no matter how passionately clung to, could never survive the weight of reality.
He had seen it before. He’d seen it in others—and he’d lived it himself.
His prediction had been right from the start. Suguru’s dreams of reshaping the world, of drawing sharp lines between “Sorcerer” and “Non-Sorcerer,” could never last.
Even if he had survived this night, even if he had gathered more cursed spirits, even if he had stood triumphant in the short term… it wouldn’t have mattered.
The dream itself was doomed. A foundation cracked from the beginning.
Suguru would never prevail.
Not against him and Satoru. Not against the world. Not even against himself.
And yet, despite disagreeing with every fiber of his being, he could feel a thin, uncomfortable thread of kinship with the man.
Because once, long ago—or perhaps not so long ago, in his fractured sense of time—he had been the same.
A man chasing an ideal so absolute that it consumed him.
Hero of Justice.
The words still echoed bitterly, like a half-forgotten incantation.
He’d wanted to save everyone. He’d wanted to shoulder the burdens others couldn’t. He’d wanted to be a shield, a sword, a light for those left in the dark.
And in the end, it had devoured him.
Just like Suguru.
Two men who had once believed that ideals alone could bend the world. Two men who had been broken when those ideals became their chains.
“The same… huh.” The words left his lips in a low whisper, almost a laugh, though it carried no humor.
It was ironic. He had stood on the opposite end of Suguru’s dream, fighting for the weak while Suguru sought to discard them, and yet their paths had twisted into the same ruin.
Both consumed by the weight of their convictions. Both ending not as men, but as warnings.
“You either die a hero, or live long enough as the villain.”
The words he once said to Suguru turned out to be quite right, until it became wrong for Suguru Geto… died as the villain.
Maybe that was why the grief in Satoru’s voice had unsettled him so deeply.
And maybe—just maybe—Satoru had recognized that too.
He exhaled slowly, his breath curling into the cold night.
It wasn’t sympathy. It wasn’t forgiveness. He didn’t have the luxury of offering those things.
But in the quiet of his own thoughts, he could admit it: Suguru Geto had been chasing something he understood all too well.
And in that shared ruin of ideals, there was no triumph. Only the hollow comfort of knowing neither of them had ever truly stood a chance.
The voices of the Kyoto students and their instructors still carried faintly behind him—arguments, relief, exhaustion, and the frayed laughter of those who had survived another night. But he didn’t linger. He didn’t turn back.
There was nothing more for him there.
Without a word of farewell, he stepped away from the group and into the city streets.
The glow of distant fires and the acrid stench of smoke were thinning now, fading into the winter air.
The Night Parade was over. Kyoto had endured. And his part in it—whatever small measure it had been—was finished.
His boots echoed softly on the empty pavement as he walked. For the first time in hours, the silence pressed down around him.
The thought of calling Satoru again briefly flickered in his mind, but he discarded it.
Satoru needed solitude right now. The grief was too fresh, and even if he wanted to help, he knew he wasn’t the one who could. Not when he barely knew how to handle his own.
Instead, his thoughts shifted—inevitably—to Illya.
Her face rose unbidden in his memory.
Wide eyes, the faint tremor in her voice when she had stood frozen earlier, then the unmistakable surge of cursed energy spilling from her when her fear had peaked.
That was something he hadn’t expected.
Not from her. Not here.
Tomorrow, she would ask him questions. He knew it. About who he was. About what he had done. About what this world really was.
And he had no intention of meeting her.
The very idea of her getting closer to this life, of letting herself be pulled into the filth of curses and sorcery, was unbearable.
It wasn’t her burden. It never should be. He’d spent too long watching others be consumed by paths like this—Suguru, himself, even Satoru in his own way.
Illya didn’t belong anywhere near it.
No, it would be better if she hated him. If she stayed away. If she thought of him as nothing more than a distant, unapproachable figure.
Tomorrow, when she sought him out, he wouldn’t be there.
That much, he had already decided.
The night breeze tugged at his coat as he walked on, his shadow stretching thin beneath the sparse glow of streetlights.
Ahead, the suite waited—a quiet shelter from the small wreckage of the city, and where Megumi and Tsumiki would no doubt already be resting.
He would return to them, because that was his responsibility.
But Illya…
No. He clenched his jaw faintly. She couldn’t be a part of this. Not again.
And so, he walked on, not looking back at what he had left behind, not allowing himself to think too long on what tomorrow might bring.
---
The room could not be quieter even though there were two inside.
Megumi sat perched at the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, knuckles pressing white against his palms.
He could feel the faint tremor in his own body, that restless vibration that came when every instinct screamed at him to move—to get up, to fight, to do something—yet the situation chained him down in place.
It was infuriating.
Shirou was out there. Alone. Facing gods-knew-what, and Megumi was here. In a quiet room, behind locked doors, like a child being sheltered from a storm.
His jaw tightened. He wasn’t some kid who needed protecting. Not anymore.
He thought back to the way Shirou looked before he left—expression calm but with that edge of steel that only surfaced when things got serious.
He had told him to stay put and guard Tsumiki. No arguments. No chances to follow. Just… stay.
Megumi wanted to believe that was enough. That Shirou would come back, because Shirou always did. But a gnawing pit in his stomach refused to ease.
That man had a way of throwing himself into an impossible battle, like his life was nothing more than another tool to spend.
He remembered back when they were children. Back when they were accompanying Satoru on a mission while training.
The Furoda Hills Mission.
He remembered when Shirou had told him to run back whereas he would stay and fight against that monstrosity.
They were only children, but Shirou back then and Shirou now were the same. How he acted, how he moved, how he talked… even how he cooked.
Sometimes Megumi wondered if Shirou even cared about surviving.
The thought clenched around his chest harder than he wanted to admit.
Then—
BOOM!
The explosion rolled through the air, deep and resonant. The windowpane rattled, the glass quivering faintly, and the floor seemed to hum with the echo.
Megumi’s head snapped up instantly, every muscle in his body coiled tight. He could feel it—somewhere out there, that was the sound of a battle.
It had to be. That wasn’t the kind of sound you heard from ordinary fighting. That was too loud.
The pit in his stomach hollowed further.
Beside him, Tsumiki gasped softly, the sudden sound jolting her. “What… what was that?”
Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with a startled kind of worry. She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide as she turned toward him.
“Megumi, was that close? Was it a gas explosion or something? Where’s Shirou?? He’s taking too long outside…”
Her words cut through him more than the explosion had.
He kept his gaze fixed on the window, on the faint trembling of the glass, anything to avoid her eyes for a moment too long.
Because if he looked at her… he’d want to say it. He’d want to tell her everything.
That cursed spirits were prowling outside. That Shirou was fighting them, maybe even dying to keep them safe.
That the entire city was under siege, drowned in the chaos of something she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
But she didn’t know.
She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like them. She wasn’t caught in this world of shadows, cursed energy, and constant bloodshed.
And… maybe it was better that way.
Megumi exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders even though his insides screamed.
“It’s nothing,” he said finally, trying to make his voice sound steady. Normal. “Don’t worry about it. Shirou is probably buying snacks right now.”
The lie came easier than it should have.
But Tsumiki’s gaze lingered on him. Searching. Quietly pleading for more.
For a fleeting second, he almost broke. He wanted to tell her.
To let her know the truth, so she could understand the weight pressing on his chest. So he wouldn’t have to carry it alone.
But then he saw her face—soft, gentle, untouched by the cruelty of their world.
And he couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t drag her into this.
So instead, he sat there, pretending to be calm while his heart pounded in his ears.
Pretending to believe Shirou would walk back through that door, alive and whole, even though the echo of that explosion still vibrated in his bones.
Inside, his thoughts churned.
‘Why am I here? Why am I sitting in this room while he’s out there?’
If he was stronger—if he had more control, more power, more answers—he could’ve been by Shirou’s side.
He could’ve fought with him, instead of waiting like a coward, letting someone else shoulder all the danger.
He hated it. Hated feeling powerless.
He clenched his fists tighter, nails biting into his palms.
Shirou would come back. He had to.
And when he did… Megumi swore to himself, he wouldn’t let things stay like this. He wouldn’t keep being the one waiting behind.
The door clicked open.
Megumi’s head snapped up instantly, every muscle taut, half-expecting the worst—bloodied clothes, a grim expression, maybe even silence instead of words.
But instead, Shirou stepped inside with a faint, casual air, a plastic bag dangling from one hand.
“I’m back,” he said simply, as if he had only been gone for minutes.
The crinkle of snack wrappers shifted inside the bag. “Stopped by the convenience store. Roads were a mess—everyone’s panicking about closures, so the place was packed.”
The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly Megumi almost hated him for it.
Tsumiki stood from the bed in a rush, her relief bubbling out too quickly to hide the way it had nearly curdled into panic. “You were gone forever! I was worried sick, Shirou!”
He blinked at her tone, then gave a nonchalant shrug, setting the bag down on the low table.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you worry. But see? I brought snacks.” He lifted one of the bags slightly, like it was a peace offering.
It only made her frown harder, her brows knitting. “Snacks don’t erase the fact that you just… disappear like that.”
Megumi stayed silent, watching them. He could feel the residue of that earlier explosion still thrumming in his bones.
Convenience store, roads closed, crowded—what a joke.
Shirou’s voice was steady, casual, even friendly, but to Megumi’s ears it was nothing more than a cover.
Tsumiki, though, sighed and shook her head, brushing some hair behind her ear. “Fine. Just… don’t do that again, okay?”
“Mm.” Shirou smiled faintly, deflecting without promising.
She turned to the television, picking up the remote. “I want to see what’s going on out there, if it’s that bad.”
The screen lit up with a crisp anchor’s voice over an image of flashing emergency vehicles.
“Breaking news tonight: reports of a major gas leak and subsequent explosion in downtown Kyoto. Authorities are urging citizens to stay indoors and avoid travel until further notice. Evacuation orders are being considered for several districts…”
Megumi’s gaze stayed fixed on Shirou instead of the screen. A gas leak. Sure. That was what they were saying.
But he had seen the way Shirou’s coat had been untainted, too untainted like it was brand new, the faint smell of smoke clinging beneath the clean air of the room. The timing was too sharp.
His suspicion was more than suspicion—it was instinct. That explosion wasn’t some gas main accident. It had been Shirou.
As if sensing his eyes, Shirou looked back at him. For a moment, their gazes locked—silent, heavy, unspoken.
Then Shirou tilted his head just slightly, shoulders loose, and gave the smallest shrug. Like it meant nothing. Like he wasn’t hiding something larger than both of them.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he said, almost lazily.
And with that, he disappeared down the hall.
Megumi’s jaw tightened, his nails digging into his palms again. He kept staring at the empty doorway long after Shirou had gone, anger and frustration coiling hot beneath his ribs.
‘Just how strong is he?’
Stronger than him, certainly.
Strong enough to create explosions that shook entire blocks, then walk back like nothing happened.
Strong enough to lie to Tsumiki’s face and keep her safe in ignorance.
Megumi ground his teeth, the thought chewing through him.
‘How far am I from that kind of strength? How much longer do I have to sit here, useless, while he does everything?’
He hated it. Hated that gulf between them.
Hated how easily Shirou carried it all, while he was left behind in the dark.
Tsumiki leaned closer to the TV, her eyes narrowing at the scrolling text beneath the anchor’s voice.
Emergency lines. Gas leak warnings. All neat, orderly words that painted over the chaos outside.
“How do you think this will affect our trip?” she asked aloud, her voice uncertain but practical.
Her hands fiddled with the hem of her sweater as if holding onto something normal. “If the roads are closed… does that mean we’ll be stuck here longer?”
Her question drifted into the air, light but heavy with a subtle anxiety.
Megumi didn’t answer.
His eyes were locked on the faint condensation on the water glass in front of him, but his thoughts were miles away.
Shirou’s shrug kept replaying in his mind, mocking him. That small gesture carried a weight Megumi couldn’t touch, a strength that felt unreachable.
‘I’m weak.’
The words dug deep. Every explosion, every battle fought just out of his reach, everything Shirou had kept hidden under that maddeningly calm exterior—it all sharpened into one conclusion.
No matter how hard he trained, no matter how much he pushed, he was still trailing behind.
He clenched his fists on his knees, nails biting into skin.
‘I couldn’t do what he did. Not now.’
“Megumi?” Tsumiki’s voice softened, almost like she sensed the storm under his silence.
She tilted her head toward him, still waiting for an answer. “Do you think we’ll be okay staying here?”
He looked up at her briefly, saw the honest worry in her face—the kind of worry that didn’t know about curses, spirits, or the war being fought in the shadows.
She just wanted to know if her little trip in Kyoto was ruined.
His throat tightened, but no words came out.
Instead, he glanced back at the TV, then at the hallway where Shirou had vanished.
‘I’m too far behind.’
The thought echoed louder than anything else.
And so, he said nothing.
Comments
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You keep mentioning Shirou having silver eyes, but shouldn't they be amber? I swear in chapter 11 there was multiple mention of Shirou's amber eyes...
