Royushi woke to the sound of breathing that wasn’t his own.

It took him a moment to realize it was his.

The med-bay ceiling hovered above him—white, seamless, faintly glowing. The air smelled clean in a way that felt artificial, scrubbed of anything human. Tubes lined the walls. Soft pulses of light tracked vitals he didn’t remember losing.

He tried to move.

Pain answered first.

Not sharp. Not blinding. Just deep—settled into his bones like it had always been there.

“So you’re awake.”

Royushi turned his head slowly.

Ishara Veyl stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, posture composed as ever. There was no relief on her face. No panic. Just observation.

“How long was I out?” Royushi asked.

“Six hours,” she replied. “Longer than anyone else.”

“Anyone else?”

“The rest of the team walked out.”

That landed heavier than it should have.

Royushi stared at the ceiling again. “Figures.”

Ishara didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes traced the faint lines of Shuryoku residue still clinging to his skin—thin, almost invisible.

“The instructors reviewed the footage,” she said finally.

Royushi frowned. “Footage?”

“The mission zone records everything.” She hesitated. “Almost everything.”

He turned back to her. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Ishara said carefully, “that something intervened.”

Royushi’s throat tightened.

He remembered the pressure folding inward. The stillness. The man made of light.

It doesn’t matter who I am.

“They don’t know what it was,” she continued. “Only that the hostiles stopped behaving normally. As if—” she searched for the word “—as if the environment corrected itself.”

Royushi closed his eyes.

“So they think I did it,” he said.

“No,” Ishara replied. “They think you survived it.”

That was worse.

She stepped closer. “Your Shuryoku readings don’t support the outcome. They’re inconsistent. Fragmented. Almost nonexistent.”

Royushi opened his eyes. “Then why am I still here?”

Ishara studied him.

“Because,” she said, “someone higher up thinks mistakes don’t happen without reason.”

Later, after the med-bay lights dimmed and Ishara was called away, the room fell silent.

Royushi lay still, listening to the hum of the Citadel. He should have slept. His body begged for it.

Instead, he waited.

He didn’t know why.

The air changed.

Not abruptly—just enough to be noticed.

The lights flickered once.

Then the pressure returned.

A familiar stillness settled over the room, as if the world had learned to hold its breath.

The hologram appeared at the foot of the bed.

Rikishu Kairo looked exactly as he had before—bloodless now, cleaner, but no less unreal. His form wavered faintly, like a reflection disturbed by water.

“You survived,” he said.

Royushi didn’t sit up.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied.

“I know.”

That answer unsettled him.

“Then why me?” Royushi asked. “There are better candidates. Stronger ones. People who actually try.”

The hologram regarded him quietly.

“Trying,” he said, “is not the same as choosing.”

Royushi frowned. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

The man stepped closer. Not physically—just visually. The distance folded in on itself.

“Tell me,” he said. “When you were about to die… what did you feel?”

Royushi thought.

“I didn’t panic,” he said slowly. “I didn’t think about winning. Or losing.”

“And?”

“I felt… relieved.”

The hologram’s eyes sharpened.

“Because it would’ve been over,” Royushi added. “No expectations. No effort.”

Silence followed.

Then the man nodded once.

“That silence,” he said, “is where your Shuryoku hides.”

Royushi clenched his jaw. “So what. You’re saying I’m strong?”

“No,” the hologram replied. “I’m saying you’re unfinished.”

He turned slightly, as if listening to something far away.

“My time here is limited,” he said. “So I’ll ask only once.”

The room felt smaller.

“If I teach you how to circulate your Shuryoku,” the man continued,
“not to fight—
not to impress—
but simply to be aware…”

He met Royushi’s gaze.

“Will you stop wasting what you have?”

Royushi’s heart pounded.

This was it.

Not destiny.
Not prophecy.

A choice.

He swallowed.

“…What happens if I say no?”

The hologram smiled—not kindly, not cruelly.

“Nothing,” he said. “You’ll live an average life.”

Then he faded slightly.

“And I’ll stop coming.”

The pressure lifted.

Royushi stared at the empty space long after the hologram vanished.

He didn’t answer.

Not yet.