"…What's your name?" he asked, voice low—dangerously low.
Astra blinked, caught off guard. Of all things, she hadn't expected that question again.
"I said, your name."
She hesitated, suspicious. "Why do you wanna know?"
His gaze narrowed. "Because I don't like stabbing nameless things."
"…Astra," she muttered. "Astra Aya—"
Before she could finish, Ryoma suddenly pushed himself to his feet, fists clenching, voice hoarse but loud. "Her name is Astra Yehua," he said, fists clenched tightly at his sides.
There was a beat of silence.
The man's gaze snapped toward her. His expression hardened. "…Yehua?" he repeated, slowly. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "As in—night flower?"
Astra blinked, unsure. "Maybe? I don't know..."
The man's eyes darkened. Then, without a word, he lifted his fingers and drew a sharp motion through the air.
A sudden sting cut across Astra's neck—a thin, shallow line. She gasped and staggered, pressing her hand against it as the warmth of blood seeped between her fingers.
"Astra!" Ryoma's voice cracked. He surged forward but flames rose again, blocking him off.
The man stepped in close to Astra, examining her. Then… he turned away, voice dropping into a mutter laced with something bitter.
"She's not her."
Without another glance, he stepped back through the flame. The fire seemed to coil around him.
Astra hissed, blood seeping between her fingers as she clutched the cut on her neck. Her eyes burned—not just from the pain, but from the heat, the rage boiling inside her.
She raised Ryoma's sword again with both hands and pointed it at the man's back.
"What's your name!?" she shouted.
The man stopped mid-step.
He turned slowly, tilting his head as though surprised she still had the strength to speak—let alone demand something.
Then, he stepped forward through the crackling fire, the heat never touching him.
"Hongli Huozhen,"
Ryoma's brow furrowed as he slowly pushed himself up again, swaying slightly.
Astra blinked, stepping back slightly. "Huh? What kind of name is that…?" she whispered, eyes darting to the flames curling along the cracked floor, inching toward her.
Still gripping her neck, she adjusted her stance, holding the sword tighter.
Huozhen's eyes glinted in the firelight. "It's the kind of name people forget… until the fire reaches their door."
——————
Meanwhile, Daita knelt in front of the Crown Prince, his breath ragged, hands trembling as he tried to steady the figure shaking before him.
"Akira!" he shouted, voice raw with desperation. "Just what happened to you suddenly?! Steady yourself!"
The prince stood tall, blindfolded with a strip of red cloth. His breaths came shallow and rapid, each one more erratic than the last. A silent pressure rippled from him—suffocating, furious. No one dared step closer.
Commander Zhou moved a foot forward—but the sudden shift in the prince's aura stopped him cold. He lifted his arm to shield himself, instinct warning him back.
"Crown Prince, please—what's wrong?!"
The guards flanking the space held their positions, eyes wide with unease. None had seen him like this. frozen in a fear that only deepened when the prince suddenly reached for one of their swords.
He didn't speak. Just gripped the weapon, pulled it from the guard's sheath with a slow, whispering scrape.
Then, with a calm that was more terrifying than rage, he turned the blade and pointed it at his own heart.
"No—!" Daita's voice cracked in horror.
In an instant, he surged forward.
His hands caught the blade just as the prince began to thrust. Steel tore through his palms—hot blood spilled down the edge, staining the metal and his sleeves. He grit his teeth, straining against the force.
"You're not doing this," he growled through the pain.
With a grunt, Daita wrenched the sword aside It clattered against the stone and skidded to a halt, far from reach.
Silence fell.
Daita stayed kneeling, blood dripping from his hands in steady drops. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths.
Still holding onto the prince's wrist, he looked up—not at his eyes, but at the red cloth tied across them. "Whatever this is… whatever darkness you're facing…" Daita's voice softened, still firm beneath the strain. "Don't let it take control of you."
He kept his hands on the prince's wrist, grounding him.
"Akira… just focus on yourself. It will fade away."
For a moment, the air held its breath. Then slowly almost reluctantly the prince nodded. His shoulders relaxed, the tremors in his frame easing. It took time… a long, silent minute, but finally, his breath steadied. The sharpness in his chest began to ease.
Then he turned slightly, face tilting toward Daita. Without a word, his hands reached out, finding Daita's bloodied palms by instinct.
Daita tensed, then pulled back slightly. "It's nothing," he said quietly. "Just a cut. I'll recover once I apply some herbs."
But the prince didn't reply. Instead, he reached up and, without hesitation, tore the sleeve from his robe. The cloth came away in a sharp motion, fluttering in his hand.
Daita exhaled with a sigh and shook his head, eyes softening. Still, he didn't stop him. He let the prince take his injured hands, watching as he carefully wrapped the torn fabric around each palm. His movements were unhurried, precise—not a single touch wasted, not a single gesture careless.
The fabric was tightened just enough to stop the bleeding, yet gentle enough not to press into the wound.
"…You're getting better at this," Daita muttered.
The prince didn't answer. But when he tied the final knot, he didn't let go right away. His hands lingered for a breath longer, as if grounding himself in the quiet.
Daita looked down at their hands, then up at the prince's face. "Akira… is something wrong?"
The prince was still for a moment. Then he nodded slightly, his voice low.
"Commander Zhou. Listen to me carefully."
Zhou stepped forward with a bow. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Split into three teams. Sweep the area in all four directions—east, west, north, and the outer perimeter. If anyone sees or senses anything unusual, use the emergency alert. Do not act alone."
Zhou nodded and turned sharply to organize the teams.
Akira turned next to Daita. "You go with Commander Zhou."
Daita's brows shot up. "Wait—what? No. I'll go with you."
"Just do what I say," Akira said, firm but not cold. "If you find any threat, don't confront it head-on."
Daita's mouth opened to argue again, but the prince cut him off.
"I can handle it. Alone."
Daita met his tone for a moment… then nodded, reluctantly, and followed the others into the dark.
The place emptied. The fires from earlier had died down, but the air still trembled faintly with the echo of something—something unnatural.
The prince stood alone in the silence, his bloodstained sleeve fluttering in the night breeze. Then, quietly, he turned his head toward the direction no one else had gone.
"…You better not be anywhere near this."
His hand hovered near his chest, fingers brushing the fabric as if to quiet the unrest beneath it.
"This isn't the time… not yet."