From the end of the wooden corridor came an extremely slow, heavy sound.
Not footsteps. It was the scrape of kneecaps grinding against wooden boards.
Yaha lay on the half-shattered bed, an arm covering his eyes. The two Origins inside him still burned faintly. He had finally quelled the commotion that pink idiot had stirred up and was just beginning to feel sleepy.
The sound outside the door stopped.
Then came two dull thuds. Knees hit the floor half a meter beyond the threshold.
Yaha did not move.
One minute. Three minutes. Five minutes.
No sound came through the door. No knocking, no shouting, no sign of anyone about to speak. Whoever it was simply knelt there, motionless.
Yaha's brow creased.
He smelled blood. Not the rotten stench of demon blood, but human blood, with the raw scent of rust and morning dew. There was also that dull sweetness seeping from broken bones-at least two ribs were broken, their jagged ends piercing muscle tissue.
Ten minutes passed.
The person kneeling outside breathed deeply and steadily, pain never disrupting his rhythm.
Shinobu Kocho's footsteps approached from the other end of the corridor. She paused, apparently seeing something, and fell silent for several seconds.
Yaha moved his arm away from his eyes.
Daylight had fully broken.
He rolled over and sat up, set his bare feet on the cracked floor, pulled the loose yukata around his shoulders, and walked to the door.
He slid it open.
Muichiro Tokito knelt on the wooden boards of the corridor.
His posture was precise. Knees together, back straight, hands resting flat on his knees. A wooden sword lay neatly across the floor half a step in front of him.
Most of his left sleeve had been torn away, and black scabs covered the wound stretching from