Chapter 112: Twing Fangs

The stars were veiled by thick clouds, the night unusually quiet. Within the perimeter of their secluded base, soft winds carried the faint scent of blooming yarrow and moonflower. Kuroka moved soundlessly through the underbrush, her tails gently flicking as she crouched near an ancient tree trunk, fingers glowing faintly with yokai energy.

She was inscribing a ward—delicate, intricate, and hidden beneath moss and root. Not for show. Not for glory. But for protection.

Earlier that night, Volundr had found her sitting on the roof of the main training hall, her eyes fixed on the moon with a faraway look. She rarely initiated conversation, but this time, her voice broke the silence.

"…Did you know I used to dream of snow?" she murmured. "Back when things were quieter. Before the Khaos Brigade, before all the running."

Volundr had joined her without a word, settling beside her without asking questions. It was enough for her to continue.

"I wasn't made to be someone's weapon. But they all wanted me to be one. My sister… Shirone… she was innocent. I tried to protect her. Ran from the Devils, from the underworld. From everyone." Her voice softened. "That's why I don't do 'serving.' Ever again."

He listened. Not once did he interrupt. When she finally looked at him, eyes glinting with sorrow and challenge, he only said, "I don't want people behind me. I want them beside me."

That was it.

No promises. No demands.

Later, under the cover of night, she began leaving her wards—layered sigils only she could see. They blended into the natural ley lines, reinforcing barriers, warning of intrusions, and shielding weaker members like Caelum without anyone realizing it.

It was her language of trust: quiet, subtle, and powerful.

The night air was thick with tension as Volundr, Kuroka, and Caelum surveyed the ruined chapel from a cliffside perch. A squad of rogue exorcists had taken refuge below—wielding corrupted light-based magic twisted by forbidden rites. Their presence was destabilizing the local ley lines, poisoning the area's aether. They had to be stopped.

"Fast and quiet," Volundr muttered, adjusting his gauntlet. "No survivors."

Kuroka gave a soft hum of amusement. "You always say that, nya. But you're louder than you think."

Without another word, they leapt into the shadows—silent as death.

Volundr's constructs flared briefly to life: radiant blades flickering like starlight on water. Kuroka slipped between the flickers, weaving illusions and spatial distortions that sent the enemy's senses spiraling. She conjured phantom footsteps, mirrored sounds, and bursts of false light—sowing chaos in their ranks.

The rogue exorcists retaliated with beams of corrupted holy light, but Volundr redirected them with barriers shaped mid-motion, his constructs fluid and reactive. Every time an opening formed, he struck with precise force—never wasting movement.

Kuroka danced between the chaos like smoke, her tails coiling and twisting through the battle. One moment she was nowhere, the next she was striking from behind a veil of mist. She didn't wait for commands. She didn't need them.

Caelum, stationed at a safe vantage, watched with wide eyes. They moved as if choreographed—Volundr's raw radiance drawing eyes while Kuroka struck unseen. Their synergy was unspoken but undeniable. She was not part of the peerage. Not yet. But she fought as though she already belonged.

When the last exorcist fell to a silent slash of Volundr's blade and a choke of shadow from Kuroka, the battlefield stilled. The chapel crumbled in the distance, the corrupted light dispelled.

Breathing lightly, Kuroka tilted her head toward Volundr. "You don't give orders."

"I don't need to," he replied simply. "You were always in step."

Kuroka blinked, then looked away with a slight smile. No vows were exchanged, no formal allegiance made. But in that moment, something unshakable formed between them.

And from the shadows, Caelum understood: loyalty didn't need a contract. Sometimes, it was forged in fire—and sealed in trust.