The dawn light pierced through the thick morning mist, casting its pale glow over the desolate ruins. The group, who had endured the silent weight of the night, now gathered their belongings without a word. Exhaustion and a suffocating tension bound them like invisible chains, leaving no room for levity.
Shingin slung his bag over his shoulders, his gaze instinctively drifting toward Riyugi. She was quietly tidying her clothes, her expression impassive, her movements brisk, as if purposefully maintaining a barrier between them.
Along the way, Shingin attempted to break the silence with a casual comment. Pointing at a cluster of wildflowers by the roadside, he said with forced cheerfulness, "Riyugi, look at those flowers. Their colors are quite unusual. Do you want to—"
"I'm not interested," she replied curtly, her voice devoid of warmth. She didn't spare him a glance before continuing ahead, her footsteps firm.
Shingin's smile froze, and his outstretched hand faltered before retracting awkwardly. He said nothing more and fell to the back of the group, his steps weighed down by an invisible burden.
Myouka walked alongside Riyugi, their pace slightly distanced from the rest. She tilted her head slightly, her voice low but probing. "Riyugi, what's with you and Shingin? You used to stick by him all the time. Are you really going cold on him now?"
Riyugi's steps faltered for a moment, her posture betraying a trace of inner conflict, but she quickly resumed her stride. Her tone remained calm as she answered, "I was never 'into' him. I only cared because he has this reckless tendency to take everything on alone. It worried me."
Myouka pressed her lips together, skeptical but choosing not to argue. Instead, she inquired further, "Even so, you never used to be so distant. Yesterday, when he got hurt, you didn't even check on him. Is it because of what he said about us being weak?"
Riyugi hesitated briefly before replying in a subdued tone, "He's not wrong. We've hardly contributed anything useful."
"Who says you're weak?" Myouka shot back, her voice tinged with defiance. "Your mirror ability saved us from that energy blast and those bullets. Without it, we'd all be dead by now."
Riyugi shook her head, her gaze shadowed with self-reproach. "That was luck. If it hadn't been me, someone else would've figured something out."
Myouka mulled over this before adding, "Then… is it because he froze up and didn't go back for Usagi during that ambush? Is that why you're upset with him?" Her tone was probing yet defensive, as though seeking to justify Shingin's actions. "But let's face it, we couldn't have saved her. The enemy was too strong."
Riyugi pressed her lips tightly together, her voice soft but firm. "It's not that. He wasn't wrong to prioritize survival. But…" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Shingin has always been scared before, but he's never been this… evasive. He's always faced things head-on. Yesterday, though, it felt like he… like he caved in. Like he was weaker than us."
Myouka fell silent, her expression pensive. After a moment, she murmured almost to herself, "Maybe… maybe he's just tired of fighting."
Those words hit Riyugi like a cold gust, her brows furrowing as a pang of unease stirred in her chest. Myouka had voiced the thought Riyugi herself had been avoiding—the possibility that the Shingin she admired for his resilience and reliability might be losing his will to carry on. The idea unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Riyugi said nothing more, her gaze falling on Shingin's figure at the rear of the group. His head was bowed, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, as if wrestling with demons only he could see. She could sense his frustration, but it did little to close the growing rift between them.
The journey continued in oppressive silence. The youthful camaraderie that once defined their group had long since withered, replaced by a somber heaviness. They were no longer a band of adventurers chasing a dream; they were survivors trudging through the wreckage of their shattered ideals.
Morning sunlight stretched their shadows across the barren landscape, thin and distorted, unable to banish the darkness that clung to their hearts. Even the chirping of distant birds seemed faint and removed, like a memory from another life. Shingin's eyes were fixed on the ground, his fists tightening and loosening in a restless rhythm. The weight of his failure pressed heavily on him, a constant reminder of his inadequacy.
"Don't beat yourself up too much," Ryuosho's voice broke through the stillness, quiet but firm. There was an unexpected depth in his tone, a mixture of understanding and resolve. "We know you didn't mean to let her down. Some things are just… beyond what we can handle right now. But it won't always be like this. Things will get better—"
Shingin turned to look at Ryuosho, his words striking an unfamiliar chord. This wasn't the carefree, brash companion he knew. Ryuosho's usual flippant attitude had given way to a calm, almost solemn demeanor. It unsettled Shingin more than he cared to admit.
"Things will get better?" Shingin echoed bitterly, his voice tinged with disbelief. He nodded faintly in response but offered no further reply. He knew Ryuosho meant well, but empty assurances were not what he needed. Not now.
Shingin's gaze drifted back to the endless expanse of desolation ahead. The dry wind stirred the dust at their feet, its barren chill mirroring the bleakness in his heart. His thoughts churned, a tempest of doubts and regrets he couldn't quiet.
Riyugi glanced back briefly, her eyes lingering on Shingin's hunched figure. She didn't know how to bridge the widening gap between them. The man she had once trusted to face any challenge head-on was now a shadow of his former self, weighed down by a despair she couldn't fully understand.
As the sun climbed higher, its warmth did little to dispel the cold that had seeped into their souls. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, burdened by a silence filled with unspoken fears. And for Shingin, the question loomed larger with every passing moment: Could he still protect them? Or had he already failed them beyond repair?