Kurozumi Orochi's blood was still freezing in the main hall's courtyard, while beyond a single wall, the atmosphere in the side hall was as treacherous as a game of chess.
The flames on the candle stands flickered restlessly, stretching Denjiro's prostrate shadow into a huge, distorted shape on the wall. His forehead pressed against the cold floor, his posture humble as dust. Only the taut line of his back betrayed the turmoil within him.
Yamato sat casually in the broad chair that had once belonged to the shogun, curiously studying the man below with his wild blue hair, so far removed from the "legend." She wrinkled her nose, her tone openly disdainful. "Are you really the Denjiro from the journal? It said he was a refined samurai who wore glasses... how did you end up looking like this?"
Kurozumi Orochi's head, hastily cleaned but still stained with wet blood, sat in the center of the desk. Its lifeless eyes "stared" vacantly at Denjiro, as though silently mocking and questioning him.
Boer paced leisurely around Denjiro, his boot heels tapping softly against the floor. His azure eyes gleamed in the candlelight with a light that seemed to see through everything, and a faint, elusive smile hovered at his lips.
"There's no mistake." He stopped and lightly tapped his temple. "The answer... is right here."
Those words were like a key undoing the final shackle. The shoulders of the prostrate "Kyoshiro" relaxed almost imperceptibly, and then a heavy sigh sounded through the silent side hall.
He slowly straightened, no longer looking terrified and abject. Raising his hands, he carefully, meticulously brushed the dust from his cuffs and lapels, his movements unhurried. When he lifted his head again, the mask of flattery melted like snow, naturally revealing a quiet composure tempered by hardship.