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They had lost.
Chihiro could have done better; he knew he could have done more. But his so-called “uncle” was too powerful... or perhaps he, himself, was simply too weak. The events of the past few days upended his world ten times over, forcing him to battle living legends from a war and time he could barely even fathom. His own sorcery and swordplay felt laughable compared to Soga’s innate mastery over the Magatsumi. Soga was an unstoppable force, and Chihiro was an object who unwilfully yielded.
For a moment, he forgot where he was. The heavy scent of cigarette smoke, the warm ambient lights illuminating the room, and the soft trickle of pouring wine brought him back to his senses. They were tucked away inside an underground bar, hidden from the chaos above, forced to lick their wounds. If not for Ro—who started to rattle on quite incessantly to the ever-attentive Sumi and Moku—Chihiro would have been drowning in a pool of his own restless thoughts. Now, at least, they had a semblance of a plan: uncover the enigmatic power of the Enchanted Blades to revive someone else’s loved one, even if it meant eliminating his own.
They were not the only lost souls gathered though. Chihiro stole a fleeting glance at the figure across the room. Like him, she was a remnant of the war, but until a week ago, was living blissfully in a reality he could only imagine. Unlike him, she had the luxury of forgetting it all, to be shielded from a life of danger, turmoil, and endless bloodshed. Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, she made the ultimate choice: to look toward a perilous future and risk being plagued by the ghosts of her past.
Like him, she wouldn't trade her father for anything.
Like him, her burdens were her own now to carry.
Chihiro wouldn't dare admit it out loud, but such breakthrough fascinated him. So much so that he found himself walking towards her. Even in her dejected state, she was still rubbing her knee after her honourable, if futile, attempt to break her father’s blade.
“Iori,” he began. “Are you alright?”
He noticed her jump slightly in surprise. “Chihiro! Yes, I—uh, that was silly of me, wasn’t it?”
“It was worth a try,” he reassured her. “There is still so much we don't know about the blades...”
“Eh?" she chuckled dryly. "You’re just saying that...”
She glanced down at his hands, sudden curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Your katana... do you plan on forging again?”
He wasn't even aware he was clutching Enten—or what remained of it—until she pointed it out. He knew what he had to do, yes, but why did that realisation feel so much heavier than normal?
As if sensing his thoughts, she beckoned him closer, patting the empty cushion next to her on the couch. He wordlessly complied, leaving a deliberate foot of distance between them. He placed the broken Enten on the table, the sight of it leaving a dull ache in his chest.
Seconds stretched into a strange silence… an unspoken understanding washing over that only the two of them could share. Chihiro, to his surprise, didn’t mind it.
“You know, I never got to say thank you for what you did back there with my father.” Her voice was barely a whisper, breaking the stillness. “For a moment, it was nice to just hold him. I’m forever grateful. But it’s funny how things turned out—how fleeting it is for the things you cherish to be ripped away from you all over again.”
“Iori, I—”
“Before you say anything else,” she interrupted, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I’m also sorry for what he did to you. Ro told me what you went through to protect me. I... I don’t know if I could ever forgive myself if something happened to you. To any of you.”
He watched her sink deeper into the couch, hugging Tobimune tightly like a lifeline. Her cloudy grey eyes began to brim, but no tears fell. Perhaps because they weren't alone, or because she had already cried enough for the both of them, Chihiro wasn't sure.
“It’s so stupid—what he did! S-so stubborn! But… I can’t help but miss him, you know? I finally had him back, and now he’s gone... just like that.”
Chihiro could do nothing but nod. It had been years for him, but the grief remained—a raw wound that he thinks would never ever truly heal. If he were to see his own father right now, what would he say? What could he say? His father would probably chide him for overthinking, for being too logical, serious, and brooding. Yet a part of him would argue that the path he walked up to this point was paved entirely with emotion. Unfamiliar, agonising, but so, so real. He knew they would default to their inevitable back-and-forth, both Rokuhira men stubborn to a fault. But then, it would only take a single glimpse of his father’s jovial antics for Chihiro to feel like all was right again with the world.
“Iori.” His eyes reluctantly met hers. The misty cloud from before now transforming into a smoky haze. It lulled him into a false sense of security. “Do not ever blame yourself for this. We acted on our own. The choices we made were ours.”
“I know. It’s just—”
Despite the cacophony of noise numbing his mind, his father’s words rang out the loudest.
Keep a cool head... and be more flexible.
“And I will do whatever it takes to bring your father back,” Chihiro vowed.
He noticed her grip on Tobimune loosen. A glimmer of hope, perhaps? Still, he couldn’t help but wonder: what would happen if he destroyed it and… failed? What if the only memento she had left of her past—of her father—vanished entirely? It was an excruciating thought, just as painful as almost losing Enten.
“Chihiro... thank you,” she smiled pensively. “I know you’re hurting just as much as I am right now. I don’t know if you want to hear it, but... I’m here for you.”
Before Chihiro could respond, she placed her hand on top of his. Her thumb delicately trailed over his gloved knuckles. He wondered, if his skin was bare, would she feel warm or cold to the touch? A swirl of emotions suddenly surged through him—unfamiliar, yes, but not at all agonising.
Mr. Samura left him Enten, paying for it with his life. The power unlocked to do so was far greater than anything Chihiro could comprehend. Samura was a master, a legendary sword bearer who wielded an Enchanted Blade to its absolute potential.
“I thought I could defeat him—the Sword Master. My uncle. Enten was the key,” Chihiro sighed. She turned his hand over, fingers now tracing circles around his gloved palm, slowly unravelling him. He felt himself coming undone. “I felt so... so helpless. So weak. I knew I was attuned to the blade, but it wasn’t enough.”
“And that scar...?” she murmured.
“I got it the day I lost him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he dismissed earnestly. The last thing he wanted was pity. “I know what I have to do. I have to surpass him.”
He wasn't entirely sure if he meant his father, his uncle, or both. His mind was a mess, but Iori seemed to sense otherwise.
“And you will,” she affirmed, squeezing his hand. It felt like an instinctual response, but Chihiro basked in it more than he cared to admit. Aside from his father, who else had he ever allowed himself to be this vulnerable with? Mr. Shiba... hell, even Yura. Yet, there was something about Iori that disarmed him. Almost completely.
He wondered what she would think if she saw the rest of his scars. She already asked about the one permanently etched across his face, but his hands were just as battered. They weren’t a pleasant sight, that much was certain.
Yet here she was, caressing them as if they were made of fine china, as if one wrong move might cause him to break all over again.
“You don’t have to shoulder this alone anymore, Chihiro,” Iori hummed solemnly, her ash-colored eyes fluttering shut. There was a faint strain of sadness in her voice, as though she were trying to convince herself of the exact same thing. “Not anymore.”
He noticed she was no longer holding Tobimune; it rested undisturbed beside her. Instead, her hands were fully enveloping his now, gliding over every crease and outline of the leather like a drawing. In a mere moment, everything became beautifully clear to him.
What started as an ember now felt like a forge lit ablaze, melting away the cracks in Chihiro's cool resolve. He knew that ever since he first laid eyes on her, she intrigued him far more than what was required of the mission. And the more he learned of her circumstances, the more it felt like he was looking into a mirror—an otherworldly reflection harbouring the illusion of what-ifs and what-could-bes.
He would be lying if he said Iori was just someone to protect for the sake of following orders. It exceeded that now. And throughout the time they had gone through hell and back, had he truly begun to notice her.
The way her dark pigtails rested effortlessly against her shoulders, the way her brows furrowed with intense focus in the heat of battle, the expert way she handled a sword, her determination, her empathy, her smile. Sure, his experience with girls was nonexistent at best, but he knew what the word 'pretty' meant.
And Iori was so much more.
She was beautiful.
The sudden discovery blindsided him. Chihiro found himself staring for far too long, clearing his throat with an awkward cough. He suddenly wished for the couch to swallow him whole.
“I-Is everything alright?” Iori asked, opening her eyes, her hold still on him. He struggled to meet her gaze, feeling an unfamiliar rush of warmth creep up his neck. If his father were still alive, he would have had a field day seeing him like this. Ironically, the thought of his dad served to simmer down his flustered thoughts.
“Yes... I’ll keep that in mind, Iori. Thanks,” he managed to utter calmly.
"And I don't know what happens after you get the katanas done, but..."
In a second, before he could react, her hand travelled up to the top of his head, giving his hair a gentle pat. Once. Twice. Three times. The world stood completely still. "Ah, s-sorry! My dad always did that to me whenever I felt down. I didn't mean to make you uncom—"
"No, no, it's nice. Thanks." Chihiro suddenly felt like a broken record.
He finally mustered up the courage to study Iori's face more intently. Her eyes were looking everywhere but his, and the sudden flush of her cheeks did not go unnoticed by him either. It was a perplexing sight, the breath he unknowingly held escaped his lungs.
She let out an awkward cough of her own, hand snapping back to her lap like a magnet.
For a moment, the silence between them stretched, but it no longer felt comfortable. It felt heavy, charged with a strange energy that made Chihiro’s chest tighten. He looked at her fingers, nervously bunching the fabric of her skirt, and found himself wanting to close the distance she had just put between them.
Wordlessly, he pulled the cuff of his glove, setting the dark leather onto the table beside the broken pieces of Enten.
"Iori...," he said softly.
She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide with a quiet curiosity. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, staring at his bare hand—battered, heavily calloused, and covered in the rough scars of a blacksmith and a fighter. It was a sorry sight, but he reached out anyway, resting his palm flat on the couch cushion right next to hers. An open invitation.
"You don't have to carry your burdens alone either," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden racing of his pulse. "I'm here, too."
Iori stared at his hand for a beat, her breath hitching slightly. Then, a small, genuine smile broke through her melancholy. "I know," she murmured.
She slid her hand over his, her soft fingers sliding into the spaces between his rough ones, intertwining them.
Warm.
That was how she felt.
"Your hands are so cold, Chihiro," she teased softly, though her blush deepened as she squeezed his fingers.
"They're warm enough right now," he managed to reply, a rare sense of ease settling deep into his bones.
This revelation was all too new for Chihiro, and he wasn't quite sure what it all meant either. But as they sat there, hands tightly bound in the dim light of the bar, he found himself wishing the rest of the world would stay locked outside just a little longer.
The moment, however, was short-lived when a loud, echoing voice broke whatever spell the two teenagers were under.
"Are we interrupting something?"
.
.
.
.
.
How long the Masumi trio had been watching them, Chihiro didn't want to know. But the devious, lopsided smirk spreading across Ro's face proved they had seen enough. Sumi, of course, remained as stoic as ever, while Moku's subdued yet visible fluster was the final nail in the coffin.
Chihiro endured things no normal eighteen-year-old should. He recalled his battle up at the roof of the hotel, where he briefly wondered what other life he could have lived—going to school, making friends his own age, getting a regular job. Weren’t those what ordinary teenagers did?
Yet, as he glanced at a floundering Iori—who was currently trying to innocently explain away the past few minutes with her cheeks flushed bright pink—Chihiro couldn't help but let a small smile slip. This fleeting respite, this unexpected peace... it was more than enough.
He squeezed her fingers gently one last time, a silent promise between them before letting go to face the trio.
He had no idea what tomorrow, or the near future, would bring.
But he found great comfort—that whatever happened moving forward—he was no longer alone.