Everyone Returned Alive, the Old Man's Tears

The last step of those seven days felt heavier than the ninety-nine before it combined.

Not because of their injuries.

Sabito had broken two ribs, and the right side of his body sagged as he walked.

Makomo had five purplish-black finger marks on her neck, and her voice was hoarse.

A patch of skin had been torn from Giyu's left shoulder. Dark red seeped through the bandages beneath his collar.

Yaha was fine. Just hungry, his empty stomach churning with acid.

By the seventh day, the fragrance of the wisteria grove smelled sickeningly sweet.

He walked out over the thick carpet of fallen flowers at the entrance, then stopped after three steps.

Sakonji Urokodaki stood directly opposite the exit.

The old man leaned on the bamboo staff he never went anywhere without.

The Tengu Mask still covered his face, but something beneath its lower edge caught the faint light.

The morning breeze lifted the hem of his gray-blue haori, then let it fall.

He looked ten years older than he had seven days ago.

"Master."

Yaha spoke. His voice was a little hoarse, the result of thirty hours without sleep.

Urokodaki did not answer.

He took a step forward. His legs were trembling.

Then a second step, a third.

The bamboo staff slipped from his hand.

It struck the stone paving with a dull thud and bounced twice. He did not bend to pick it up.

On his fourth step, his Adam's apple bobbed.

On the fifth, he opened his mouth and forced out a broken, indistinct syllable.

Yaha could not make out what he had called.

Because by the time the old man reached him, his arms were already spread wide.

Those hands, covered in calluses and sword scars, swept all four children into his embrace.

His grip was far too tight.

Yaha's ribs ached under the pressure.

Sabito gave a muffled grunt. His broken ribs had probably been jostled.

Makomo buried her face in the old man's robes, her shoulders trembling faintly.

Giyu froze in place, his arms hovering in the air, unsure where to put them.

Sakonji Urokodaki rested his chin on top of Yaha's head.

Something warm dripped down, passing through his hair onto his scalp.

He was crying.

In his twelve years of life, Yaha had seen the old man lose his temper, seen him scold people, seen him stand in the snow all night with his bamboo staff.

But he had never seen him cry.

He made no sound as he cried.

The tears simply kept falling.

They ran from the edges of his mask, falling into Yaha's hair, onto Sabito's shoulder, onto Makomo's Amulet, onto the backs of Giyu's hands, still frozen in midair.

"You're back."

Only after a long while did he force the words out. His voice was so hoarse it sounded as though his throat were packed with sand.

"You're all back."

Yaha raised a hand, intending to pry the old man's arm off his shoulder.

But when his fingers touched the cuff, he stopped.

That cuff was trembling.

It was not just his hands. His entire frame was shaking.

From his shoulders to his spine to his hips, every bone trembled faintly, each at a different rhythm.

He was like someone who had been frozen for fifty years and suddenly had a brazier thrust into his arms, leaving his whole body at a loss for how to react.

Yaha withdrew his hand and turned his head aside.

"Old man."

No answer.

"I'm covered in sweat."

Still no answer.

"And blood. Don't wipe your tears and snot on my clothes."

Urokodaki went stiff for a moment.

Then he sniffed.

It was loud enough for the entire wisteria grove to hear.

He released them and took half a step back.

The Tengu Mask still hid his face, but clear droplets kept falling from its lower edge.

Tears flowed down his weathered jaw, soaking a large patch on the front of his gray-blue haori.

"There's something on your face," he said suddenly.

"Hm?"

"Your face."

Yaha reached up and wiped it.

His fingertips brushed against something sticky. He looked down. Dark red.

It was the foul blood that had splashed onto him when he stomped the Hand Demon's head apart, dried into a thin crust.

"Oh, that." Yaha casually wiped his fingers on his trouser leg. "Lots of mosquitoes in the mountains. One bit me."

Urokodaki did not expose that ridiculous lie.

He merely sniffed again and turned to retrieve the bamboo staff from the ground.

He swayed twice as he bent over, and Yaha reached out to steady him.

He did not refuse.

Once he had planted his staff firmly, he looked over the four of them.

"Let's go home first."

"Okay."

The journey back to Mount Sagiri took a day and a half.

Not because the road was difficult, but because they were all injured.

If Sabito walked even a little faster, his ribs hurt enough to bring him out in a cold sweat.

Giyu took Sabito's luggage without being asked and supported him by the arm. The two slowly made their way forward.

Makomo walked at the front, scouting the path.

Yaha brought up the rear.

Urokodaki limped along in the middle, his bamboo staff tapping steadily against the stone road.

None of them said much.

It was not awkwardness. Too much had happened in those seven days.

So much that, once it filled their heads, they had no strength left to sort through it.

The Hand Demon was dead. That was the one certainty.

The monster that had haunted Mount Fujikasane for fifty years and eaten eleven of Urokodaki's disciples had become a heap of mangled flesh and ash one night three days earlier.

Yaha had told no one about it.

Giyu had probably guessed something.

When he drew his blade that night, he had sensed something sweep through the air along the paths of the three demons lunging at him.

But the sensation had been so vague that even he could not tell whether it had been real or imagined.

Sabito and Makomo asked nothing.

Not because they did not want to, but because they did not dare.

Yaha still occasionally recalled the look Sabito had given him when he released those two fingers that night as they made their way home.

There had been no admiration in that look, no gratitude, not even anger.

Only a deep, profound sense of estrangement. As though he were looking at some alien being he had never known.

Yaha could not be bothered to care.

What needed doing was done. What deserved to die was dead. Those who remained had made it out alive. That was enough.

It was dusk on the second day when they reached Mount Sagiri.

The snow in the courtyard was a full foot deeper than before they left.

Several translucent icicles hung from the eaves, glowing red in the setting sun.

Urokodaki stopped.

"Giyu, take Makomo inside to rest. Have a hot bath and tend to your wounds before sleeping."

"Yes."

Giyu answered.

He turned, his gaze lingering on Yaha for two seconds. He forcibly swallowed the concern he wanted to voice, then merely tugged at Makomo, who was still standing in a daze. They entered the house one after the other.

Urokodaki glanced at Yaha, then at Sabito.

Without a word, he turned and went into his own room.

The door closed softly.

Only Yaha and Sabito remained in the courtyard.

Sabito stood beneath the veranda, his right hand resting on the Nichirin Blade at his waist.

He had never taken it off. For the two days and one night since leaving the wisteria grove, the sword had stayed at his side.

He looked at Yaha.

Yaha leaned against a post, hands in his pockets, just about to head inside.

"Yaha."

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"That night in the mountains."

"Hm?"

"You..."

He did not finish. His lips moved twice before closing.

Yaha waited three seconds.

"If you want to ask about that night, leave it until tomorrow. All I want right now is sleep."

"I wasn't going to ask about that night."

"Oh. Then why are you standing here?"

Sabito did not answer.

He stared at Yaha for two seconds, his gaze sliding from Yaha's face to his hands, then back to his face.

That scrutinizing gaze irritated Yaha a little.

It was like trying to recognize a word he had once known, only to discover that it had suddenly been altered beyond recognition.

Sabito looked away, turned, and left.

His footsteps receded along the veranda until they disappeared into the shared sleeping room.

Yaha pushed open the door to his own room and went inside.

There was no fire. The room was as cold as an icehouse.

He could not be bothered to fetch a brazier. He simply lay down fully dressed and wrapped himself in his quilt.

His sleep was not particularly restful.

Once the inhuman traits granted by the Sukuna template faded, all the exhaustion of his human body came flooding in at once.

His muscles ached, and cold seemed to seep through the gaps between his bones.

He rolled over three times in bed.

Each time, a jumble of images flashed through his mind.

The Hand Demon's severed limbs falling in the moonlight as he was sliced apart. Sabito's face covered in blood and fear. The old man's tears dripping onto his scalp in the wisteria grove.

Yaha pulled the quilt over his head, burying his face.

Sleep. Tomorrow's problems can wait until tomorrow.

He did not know how much time passed.

There was a faint sound outside the door.

It was neither the wind nor a mouse scurrying across the rafters.

It was footsteps.

Someone was standing outside his room.

Yaha did not move. The quilt still covered his head.

"Yaha."

It was Sabito's voice, hoarse and subdued, as though he were deliberately trying not to wake Giyu in the next room.

"Are you asleep?"

"I'm asleep."

"Then how are you still talking?"

"Talking in my sleep."

The footsteps outside the door did not retreat. Instead, they took a step closer.

Then another, stopping directly in front of the door.

Yaha heard an exceedingly faint scrape of metal.

It was the sound of a Nichirin Blade being drawn an inch from its sheath.

He opened his eyes in the darkness. Deep within his pitch-black pupils, a dangerously dark red glimmer flickered.

"Sabito."

There was no answer from outside.

"It's the middle of the night. Why are you standing outside my door acting crazy instead of sleeping?"

Three seconds of silence passed.

"Come out."

"I'm sleepy."

"Come out."

"I told you, I..."

"Tomioka Ye Yu." Sabito's voice changed.

It was no longer the hesitant probing of earlier that day, but something heavy, driven to the brink by fear and doubt, suppressed until he could suppress it no longer.

"Come out. Fight me."

Yaha sat beneath his covers, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Moonlight from outside seeped through the gaps in the paper window, casting a deathly pale strip of light across the tatami.

Outside the door, Sabito gripped his sword and said nothing more.

Yaha could hear his breathing. Heavy and unsteady, every breath sounded as though it had been forced through clenched teeth.

He was afraid.

Not of getting beaten up.

He was afraid of the monster he had seen with his own eyes, the one who had sliced the Hand Demon to pieces like tofu beneath the moonlight.

He was afraid that monster was Tomioka Ye Yu.

He was even more afraid that monster was not Tomioka Ye Yu at all.

Yaha threw back the covers and slowly stood.

The footsteps outside did not retreat even half a step. Moonlight shone on the paper door, outlining a slender figure holding a sword.

That silhouette stood utterly still, as if awaiting a verdict.

Yaha slipped both hands back into his trouser pockets and walked to the door.

The Sukuna template's arrogance and his own fiercely protective temper melded together strangely in that moment.

"Sure."

His voice drifted through the door, languid and nasty.

"Since your wounds have healed and you're itching for another beating, I'll be merciful and put you right back in bed."