Kaizen sat in the dim firelight, watching Itsuro's unconscious body tremble as the demon's blood worked its way through his veins.
The monk was strong. Stronger than Kaizen had expected.
Most men would have screamed by now.
But Itsuro?
He endured.
Kaizen tilted his head, studying him. The fever sweat glistened on Itsuro's skin, his breathing ragged. Every so often, his fingers twitched, as if his body were fighting against something unseen.
It amused Kaizen, in a way.
"You should be grateful, monk."
His voice was quiet, almost mocking.
"Not many get the chance to transcend their limits. To become something… greater."
He leaned back against the frozen stone, staring at the ruined ceiling above. Snowflakes drifted through the cracks, their descent slow and silent.
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment—just a moment—he let his mind wander.
Back to the past.
The Orphan and the Blade
Kaizen had never known his real parents.
He barely even remembered their faces.
The monastery had taken him in as a child, much like they had taken Itsuro. But unlike Itsuro, Kaizen had never been meant for enlightenment. He had been raised for something else.
Assassination.
The High Monk had called it a necessary darkness.
Some threats could not be met with prayers. Some evils could not be confronted with kindness.
And so, Kaizen had been taught the way of the hidden blade.
His first kill had been at the age of thirteen. A corrupt noble who had grown too ambitious, too curious about the monastery's dealings. Kaizen had slit his throat in the dead of night and vanished before the man's blood had cooled.
No hesitation. No remorse.
That was the life he had been given.
That was the purpose they had forged into him.
But Kaizen had never been blind.
Unlike Itsuro, who had clung so desperately to the monastery's teachings, Kaizen had seen the truth early on.
The monks spoke of balance. Of peace.
And yet they built their power upon secrets, upon control, upon blood spilled in the shadows.
So Kaizen had chosen to become the very thing they feared.
A blade beyond their control.
The Game He Plays
His crimson eyes flickered open, focusing once more on Itsuro.
The monk had made his choice.
And now, Kaizen would see just how much of him remained after this.
The demon's blood was not a simple cure. It was not a mere tool.
It changed those who took it.
Some were consumed by it, their bodies mutating into something unrecognizable. Others lost their minds entirely, their souls devoured by the power they had taken into themselves.
Only a rare few survived with their will intact.
Kaizen had seen it before.
And he needed to see it again.
Because Itsuro was more than just an injured monk.
He was a variable.
A piece on the board that Kaizen had yet to fully understand.
If he survived this, if he endured—then he was worth keeping alive.
If not?
Well.
Kaizen had never been sentimental.
He reached into his cloak, fingers brushing against a small, worn object tucked away inside.
A broken talisman.
Faint traces of spiritual energy still lingered in the cracks, whispers of a time long past.
Kaizen's expression darkened.
"Not yet," he murmured to himself. "Not until I know for sure."
The fire crackled. The ruins whispered.
And deep in the darkness of his own mind, Kaizen listened to something else.
Something ancient.
Something waiting.