"Damn it. I should've just told her everything," he muttered to himself.
He really wished she'd just ask again.
The first time she had, he'd shut it down. Gave her some vague promise about "when the time comes."
If he'd known the silent treatment would be this brutal, he would've just spilled everything right there.
But he was afraid. Not of her reaction—of her disbelief. His reputation wasn't exactly stellar. They already thought he was an idiot. The bird thing made sure of that.
He didn't know how he was supposed to say it. What was the script for this?
"So, funny story—my dad threw me into a well full of our clan's poisonous snakes and I died. While dead, I trained with a voice in my head—who was also dead—and my older brother, for years, in a lovely place called purgatory. Oh, and I ate the snakes. All of them. Anyway, I'm back to life now. So—hug it out?"
They'd either think he was lying or finally, completely, irreversibly nuts.
And he wasn't sure which one was worse.
'And just like that, I'd be known as the crazy idiot. Not just the regular idiot. The upgrade.'
All he wanted was time. A moment to figure out the right words. The right order. The right way to explain years of silence without sounding like a coward.
But Nora didn't do time. She never had. If she wanted something, she wanted it now. Patience wasn't in her vocabulary—it never made it past the first page.
And this coldness she was giving him—the silence, the glares, the distance—like he was a stranger wearing Shiro's face.
It was worse than the rapier. Worse than the shouting. Worse than anything she could've done to him physically.
'Maybe if she asks again, I'll just say it. All of it. Every stupid, ugly piece.'
Because this silent treatment was doing more damage than any blade, any monster.
After a brief word with her father, she told him to follow her. She said it pretty coldly.
So he did. Because he liked the living part.
But the entire time he followed—blindly, obediently, like a pet being led to the vet—she hadn't said a single word. Hadn't even glanced his way.
The air felt thinner with every step. Like each second of quiet was pulling the oxygen out of his lungs one breath at a time. Each step heavier than the last.
It almost felt like he was being marched to his own execution for the crime of not saying hello from the dead.
'Maybe I can run for it.'
He slowed to a halt. Took a quiet step back.
Nora's head twisted slightly—barely an inch—and a gust of wind slammed into him from behind, shoving him forward. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept walking.
"Quit messing around," she snapped without turning.
"Are you going to kill me?" he asked nervously.
She didn't reply.
'Well. She didn't say yes. Which is technically a good sign.'
After a series of turns and twists, they passed through the lower district and into the middle. And the difference hit him immediately.
The smell came first. Street vendors grilling snacks over open flames. The sweet, warm scent of pastries he hadn't tasted in years—maybe ever. His stomach growled in protest, reminding him it had no loyalty to anything but food.
'Not now.'
The lower district was cramped. Houses stacked on top of houses. People on top of people.
But the middle district was different. Barely any homes. Instead—corner shops. Food stalls. Entertainment spots. Every street felt like it existed for one purpose: to separate you from your money as enjoyably as possible.
The air hit him like a wall. Charcoal. Grilled meat. Something sweet underneath that he couldn't name but desperately wanted in his mouth.
His feet stopped moving before his brain gave the order. His eyes locked onto a vendor who had just slapped a massive tentacle onto a sizzling grill.
'I need that. I need that right now.'
Nora turned. Found him frozen in place. Eyes wide. Mouth already watering.
He hit her with the big puppy eyes. Full power. Not an ounce of pride left.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine."
He didn't walk to the stall. He teleported.
An old couple ran it. The woman sat low on a wooden stool, threading giant tentacles onto skewers with hands that had done this a thousand times. The man stood over the grill, calm, patient, turning each piece like it was art.
They looked up and gave him a smile so warm it almost made him forget he was being marched to his death.
"What can I get you, young man?"
"That one." He pointed, grinning so wide his face hurt.
The old man laughed softly. "Give us ten minutes."
So they waited.
Which was a mistake.
Because waiting gave Shiro time to look around.
"I want that one too." His eyes moved. "And that. Oh—that one as well."
Nora silently handed the woman more coins. No argument. No complaint. Just silent, simmering acceptance.
The old woman accepted them with a smile so gentle, so pure, it almost neutralized the murderous energy pouring off Nora behind him.
Almost.
"Are you two on a date?" the old lady asked, eyes twinkling.
"No, ma'am," he muttered, biting into a skewer. "She's leading me to my execution."
The old couple's smiles dissolved. They stared at him. Then at Nora. Then back at him. Their eyes said, "Should we call someone?"
Nora's fist came down on the top of his skull like a hammer.
"Ow—"
"Quit. Messing. Around."
She turned to the couple. Instant transformation. Warm smile. Soft voice.
"Thank you so much. Everything looks wonderful."
Then she seized his arm and hauled him away, him stumbling behind her, arms overflowing with skewers and zero dignity remaining.
Shiro waved at them over his shoulder as she dragged him away.
"See you after my execution! I'll be back for more!"
The old couple stared. Still frozen. Still unsure if they should laugh or call for help.
They passed through more streets, more turns, more vendors he wished he could stop at, until they came to a halt.
A dojo.
Nora's family training ground.
They stepped through the door.
His eyes wandered across the room. Countless shards hung on the walls—rows and rows of them, lined up like trophies. Some glowed faintly. Others sat dull and dormant.
Nora stood in the center. Turned. Faced him. Her expression calm.
"Take out your weapon."
He looked at her. Then at the walls.
"Why would I, when there are so many nice ones here?" He gestured at the collection like a kid in a candy store. "I'll borrow one of yours."
He wandered to the nearest wall. Scanned the rows. His hand drifted past a blue shard. A red one. Settled on a gray one—dull, forgettable, the kind no one would pick first.
He wrapped his fingers around it. Pressed gently.
A bow formed in his hand. Wooden. Medium-sized. Light enough that it barely felt like holding anything at all.
'Perfect.'
[Artifact]
[Name: Titan's Grasp]
[Rank: Awakened]
[Type: Weapon — Bow]
[DESCRIPTION]
A bow carved from petrified stone that spent a thousand years drinking from the earth's marrow. Its limbs are dense and unyielding. Its string hums with the weight of buried mountains. When drawn, the ground beneath the wielder cracks.
[ENCHANTMENTS]
[Rooted Draw] — The longer the wielder holds the draw, the heavier the arrow becomes. At full draw, a single arrow carries the weight of collapsed stone.
[Earthen Quiver] — Arrows do not need to be carried. The bow pulls minerals from the surrounding earth and forges them mid-draw. No soil, no arrows.
[FLAW]
[Accumulated Burden] — The bow remembers every arrow that misses. Each failed shot adds weight to the next draw. Hit your target, and the weight resets. The bow never forgets, and it never forgives.
He turned.
His expression shifted. A grin cut across his face—slow, wide, and far too excited for someone who'd been enjoying skewers thirty seconds ago and was still licking the sauce off his finger.
"I've been waiting for this."
The words came out raw. Hungry. The kind of hungry that had nothing to do with food.
"No stakes. No lives on the line. Just you and me."
Nora's lips curled.
And her hair tore free—snapping around her face like pale gold flames, alive and furious.
A rapier appeared in her hand. She pointed it at his chest.
Steady. Unwavering.
"Then don't you dare hold back."