Yuki’s hand trembled, still clutching the plush toy their daughter never slept without. Its soft fabric was now wrinkled, damp from his grip, and lightly scented like her — lavender and honey. The silence around him was maddening, pressing in like a weight. It wasn’t just the absence of laughter or the soft patter of footsteps in the palace — it was the stillness of fear. The wrong kind of stillness.

His scream had already cracked the air, a raw, wounded sound that echoed through the halls like a wounded beast. Then Ryota appeared, his steps like thunder. The moment Ryota saw the state of the room — the scattered guards, bloodied but breathing, the tangled bedsheets, the open window — he didn’t need to ask. He saw red. His vision blurred with rage, and only one word echoed in his mind: mine. He clenched his fists, claws pushing past skin, and the air around him thickened with heat and magic.

They ran through the dark halls of the Kurohana Palace, through moonlit corridors and silent stone, until they reached the garden their daughter loved more than anything. The place she would sneak off to in early morning light or late dusk to pick moonflowers and talk to birds and stars. And there she was, safe but not alone.

A group of armored figures — clearly from Hikarimiya, judging by their sun-stitched insignias and glowing weaponry — stood around her, confused by their sudden exposure. Some had tried to blend into the shadows. Others crouched, ready to attack. But none of them were ready for Ryota and Yuki.

The garden lit up in a silent storm. Ryota unleashed a spiral of blue moonfire, elegant yet consuming, scattering the attackers with a wave of his blade. His movements were lethal, precise. No wasted motion. Just fury. Yuki, barely needing a weapon, summoned dark tides from the koi pond at his side, shadows morphing into spears of sharpened water. He moved like wind over still water — deadly in his calm. The fight was over in seconds.