DW DXD Remastered Chapter 13: The Path Forward (Patreon)

The rhythmic crash of waves against the shore was the first thing Issei registered as he drifted back to consciousness.

His body felt like lead with every muscle aching, limbs sluggish, skin raw where salt had seeped into a hundred tiny cuts. His soaked clothes clung to him, heavy and cold, and even the weak morning sun couldn’t chase the chill that had settled deep into his bones. Sand stuck to his cheek and lips, gritty under his tongue. His hair was a wet mess plastered to his forehead, and every breath tasted like the sea had crawled into his lungs and refused to leave.

He tried to push himself up but his arms immediately betrayed him, trembling so hard his elbows nearly gave. A sharp, angry pain stabbed through his ribs like someone had driven a nail between them. Issei hissed, his teeth grinding, and dropped back down for a heartbeat, just long enough for the waves to mock him with their steady, indifferent rhythm.

A low groan escaped him as he clenched his fingers into the damp sand and forced his body to obey anyway.

‘I can’t believe I actually survived that.’

The memory came back in flashes, golden circles tearing open the sky, weapons falling like rain, that suffocating pressure of a “king”. The moment Sherri’s emergency teleport yanked him out of death’s grip. The impact of his Dragon Shot. Running away. The river swallowing him. 

His hand shook as he dragged it through his tangled hair. The motion made his shoulder flare white-hot where the spear had grazed him earlier. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, tasting blood mixed with salt.

(You were lucky, Partner.) Ddraig’s voice rolled through his skull, deep and unamused.

‘Indeed,’ Sherri added, calm as always. ‘If we were even one second slower, Master’s survival probability would have dropped below acceptable thresholds.’

Issei let his head fall back into the sand with a soft thunk. “Ddraig… Sherri… let me just enjoy being alive for at least five minutes before you start chewing me out.”

(You don’t have five minutes.) Ddraig’s tone sharpened, all the warmth burned away. (Get up. You could be attacked again at any moment.)

‘Luckily, I am not detecting Servants or Masters within immediate range,’ Sherri noted. ‘However, that does not equate to safety.’

Issei let out a laugh that turned into a cough. It hurt. Of course it did. “Relax?” He rasped as his voice was cracked. “I feel like I’m bleeding from everywhere. And you two lecturing me while I’m fossilizing on the beach isn’t exactly helping.”

(Let this be a lesson.) Ddraig’s growl vibrated through him. (You cannot rely on pure luck and cheap tricks. You were utterly outmatched. If the Watch hadn’t activated its emergency function, you’d be a corpse right now.)

Issei’s jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the sand until it pressed into his palms like tiny knives. He stared at the sky, bright and innocent like nothing had happened. “I know that.”

(Do you?) Ddraig snapped. (This was only your third battle. In the last two, you had the fox to protect you. This time, you had nothing. And you nearly died.)

Something ugly flared in Issei’s chest, part anger, part fear, part humiliation. The kind that stuck under your ribs and refused to be ignored.

“I KNOW, damn it!” He barked, voice raw. The sound carried across the empty beach and was swallowed by the waves. His shoulders shook with the effort of it. “I did everything I could, and it still wasn’t enough. None of it mattered. He wasn’t even trying. He was playing with me.”

There was a beat of silence inside his head, not from mercy but just the heavy pause of truth settling in.

(Exactly.) Ddraig’s voice lowered, colder. (You have too many weaknesses—speed, power, and more importantly, experience. If it wasn’t for Sherri, you wouldn’t even be able to react in time. And if it wasn’t for that emergency teleport, you wouldn’t be reacting at all.)

Sherri’s tone softened only by a fraction. ‘Your instincts are improving. Your decision-making under pressure is adequate. But your body cannot keep up with your intent. Against an enemy like Gilgamesh, that gap becomes fatal.’

Issei swallowed, throat tight. He hated how right they were. Hated even more that his hands were still shaking, not from the cold anymore. “…So what do I do?” His voice dropped, quieter, steadier, forced into control. “I can’t just magically get faster overnight.”

(No.) Ddraig said it like a verdict. (But you can train. You can refine your movement. Your footwork. Your timing. Your breathing. Your reaction speed. Strengthen your legs and learn to control your power without wasting motion. Power is meaningless if you can’t apply it.)

Sherri chimed in, analytical. ‘Additionally: we can explore temporary compensation methods. Reinforcement training. Speed-boosting magecraft. Improving your baseline physical conditioning will also reduce the strain each Boost places on your body.’

Issei stared at his left arm. The Boosted Gear wasn’t visible now, but he could still feel it—like a heartbeat under his skin. The same heartbeat that had kept him alive.

He exhaled slowly, the air leaving him in a shaky line. The humiliation didn’t vanish, but it sharpened into something more useful. Resolve.

His hands clenched again, but this time not in anger but in decision. “Fine,” he muttered. “No more relying on luck.”

He forced his palms into the sand and pushed up, trembling violently. His knees tried to fold. His ribs screamed. He gritted his teeth and stood anyway, unsteady, soaked, battered, but standing. He wiped sand off his cheek with the back of his hand and immediately regretted it when his cuts stung.

“For now,” he said, voice rough, “we have to go back to Tamamo… to Yuuka… Misuki… Sakura—” His chest tightened at the thought of Sakura being anywhere near that golden psycho again. “They’re probably worried.”

(They are.) Ddraig said, blunt. (Get moving.)

Issei started walking. Each step felt like dragging himself through wet concrete. His clothes slapped against his legs. His shoes squished. Cold water dripped from his sleeves. People on the street were scarce this early, but even the few he passed gave him strange looks—at the drenched teen with blood on his clothes, eyes too sharp for someone his age.

But he didn’t care. He just kept moving through Fuyuki’s streets, toward the Hana residence, toward the only place that felt even remotely like “safe”

—------------------------------------

Hana Residence

A kettle hissed somewhere in the kitchen. A clock ticked on the wall, louder than it had any right to be. The house smelled faintly of rice and miso and underneath it, the lingering trace of smoke that seemed to cling to Sakura no matter how many breaths she took.

Sakura sat curled into the corner of the couch like she was trying to fold herself into something smaller. Her knees were tucked tight to her chest, and her hands clutched her sleeves so hard her knuckles had gone pale, as if loosening her grip would make her come apart at the seams.

She had done it. She had rejected him.

The memory replayed in her head in cruel, perfect clarity. Tokiomi’s calm, unreadable face, the way his voice had sounded like an order disguised as concern, her own mouth forming that single, shaking word. No. One word. One refusal.

And yet it felt like she had thrown a stone at a mountain and was now waiting for the avalanche to come. The Matou house was hell… but at least it was familiar. The suffering there had rules. A schedule. A pattern. The pain had been predictable, and somehow that made it survivable in the most broken way.

But now…? Now there was emptiness. Unknowns. A future she’d never been allowed to imagine.

‘What if I don’t belong anywhere?’ Sakura’s throat tightened. Her fingers trembled. She pulled her legs closer, shrinking further into herself until her back pressed into the couch cushion like she wanted it to swallow her whole.

Then her thoughts, traitorous as ever, drifted to the boy. Issei.

The way he had looked when he grabbed her from that pit, angry, scared and determined. The way he had thrown himself into battle again, even after he’d already saved her, because the golden monster had decided her life was just an inconvenience.

She hadn’t missed the way Tamamo had moved, either, how she’d hesitated for half a second before running, like leaving him behind was a wound of its own.

‘What if he’s…’ Sakura’s stomach turned. ‘What if I’m cursed to hurt everyone who tries to help me?’ Her chest ached like something was squeezing her heart with a fist. ‘Why do the people who care about me always end up suffering? Is this my fault?’

A soft weight then touched her head, freezing her thoughts from getting darker.

Sakura flinched so hard her whole body jolted, breath catching like she’d been struck. For a flickering, horrible instant, her mind tried to make the touch cold. It tried to make it into a trap. Tried to turn it into worms and rot and hands that grabbed too tight.

But it didn’t. The hand was warm. 

Sakura’s eyes lifted slowly, blinking like she didn’t trust what she was seeing.

Tamamo-no-Mae sat beside her with an expression Sakura didn’t know how to categorize, something between smug pride and genuine gentleness. Her smile wasn’t pitying. It wasn’t fake. It was… real.

“You did good, little one,” Tamamo said softly, fingers ruffling Sakura’s hair with a familiarity that should’ve felt impossible.

Sakura’s lips parted, voice small. “I… I did?”

Tamamo hummed, tails swaying behind her like lazy flames. “Mmm. Telling that bastard off? That took guts.” There was a sharp satisfaction in her tone, but it softened at the end. “And now you’re free to choose your own path.”

‘Free.’ The word lodged in Sakura’s chest like it didn’t fit there. Like her ribs didn’t know how to hold something that light. She wanted to believe it. She wanted it so badly it hurt. But doubt was a parasite. It whispered that freedom was just another illusion that would be taken away the moment she got used to it.

A heavy sigh cut through the room. 

Yuuka sat nearby with her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was holding herself together by force. Her brows were drawn down, not in anger but in worry. The kind that didn’t know where to go, so it pretended to be irritation.

“I still can’t believe he just threw himself into danger like that,” Yuuka muttered, shaking her head. “That idiot… he always does this.”

Sakura’s head snapped up. “You mean… Issei?”

Yuuka’s gaze flicked to Sakura and softened immediately, the sharpness in her face blunting. “Yeah. He’s reckless. Always rushing in without thinking.” She exhaled, rubbing her temple like her own nerves were starting to fray. “I swear, one of these days, he’s going to get himself killed.”

The words hit Sakura like a punch. Her eyes dropped. Her grip tightened on her sleeves until the fabric creaked. “Because of me…” She whispered, and she hated how much she believed it.

Yuuka blinked once, then her expression hardened, not at Sakura, but at the thought itself. “No.” Her voice was firm enough to pin Sakura in place. “Don’t even start thinking like that, kid.”

Sakura flinched. “But if he—”

Yuuka leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked onto Sakura’s like she was forcing her to look at something true. “Issei isn’t the type of person to ignore someone suffering when he can help. That’s not on you. That’s who he is. You didn’t make him do anything. He chose to do it and place his life in danger.”

Sakura’s lips trembled. “But… what if he—”

“He’s alive,” Yuuka cut in immediately, like she refused to let the sentence exist. “He has to be. He’s too damn stubborn to die that easily.”

Sakura searched Yuuka’s face for hesitation but there was none. Yuuka believed it, the way people believed the sky would still be there tomorrow, not because it was guaranteed, but because the world didn’t make sense otherwise.

Tamamo sniffed, posture straightening with arrogant certainty. “Plus, my husband and I have a special connection,” She said, and her eyes slid toward Yuuka with the smug satisfaction of winning a contest Yuuka didn’t agree to participate in. “And unlike her, I can confidently say Darling is still alive.”

Yuuka’s eye twitched.

Sakura’s shoulders had loosened just a fraction.

What Tamamo didn’t say, not aloud, was how faint the bond felt right now. How thin. How frayed. How it tugged in a way that said far and hurt and still moving. She swallowed that worry like poison and kept smiling.

Then Sakura was pulled into a warm embrace that caused her to stiffen instantly, body going rigid, muscles locking like a frightened animal cornered by kindness.

Misuki had sat down beside her without Sakura noticing and wrapped her arms around her as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Her hold wasn’t tight enough to trap her, just enough to anchor.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore, sweetheart,” Misuki whispered, rubbing slow circles between Sakura’s shoulder blades. Her voice was soft in a way Sakura didn’t understand yet. “You’re safe now.”

Safe. The word shouldn’t have meant anything. It should’ve been empty. A lie adults told children to keep them quiet.

But Misuki’s warmth didn’t come with claws. No hidden demand. No punishment waiting behind a smile. Just… warmth.

Sakura’s breath shuddered. Her body trembled, caught between panic and something unfamiliar that felt like it might tear her open from the inside.

Slowly, almost against her own will, her fingers curled into Misuki’s sleeve.

Gripping like Misuki might vanish if she let go.

Misuki only held her closer and rocked her gently, humming under her breath like she was soothing a nightmare that hadn’t finished fading.

Yuuka leaned back with a quiet exhale, still tense but watching with eyes that had softened. Tamamo flicked her tails with a huff and crossed her arms, pretending she wasn’t relieved.

Sakura stared at them all from within Misuki’s arms.

This house was warm in a way the Matou home never was. It was warm, messy and real. Sakura didn’t know what to do with people who chose to care.

Misuki finally pulled back, brushing Sakura’s hair from her face with a gentleness that made Sakura’s throat ache. “Alright,” Misuki said with a small smile. “Let’s prepare breakfast. The moment Issei comes back, he’s probably going to be starving.”

Yuuka snorted. “Understatement of the year.”

Tamamo lifted her chin like she was accepting a royal duty. “Hmph. I suppose I can assist.”

Sakura hesitated, then nodded, small and uncertain.

Freedom still scared her. But maybe… just maybe… This place wasn’t something she had to earn with obedience or pain. Maybe she could learn what it meant to be free, one quiet morning at a time, in a home that didn’t feel like a cage.

—-------------------------------------

Tohsaka Manor

The Tohsaka study was too pristine for the mood inside it.

Candlelight glinted off polished wood and gilded frames. The air carried the faint perfume of old paper, expensive ink, and wine that had been left untouched. Everything in the room was ordered, every book aligned, every artifact placed with intent, yet Tokiomi’s footsteps cut through it all like a crack spreading through glass.

He paced as he walked around in deep thought. The soft click of his shoes against the floor sounded louder than it should have.

‘This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.’

Gilgamesh, his Servant, Archer, continued to disregard him with open contempt, treating his command as a chore, his authority as a mild inconvenience. The boy with the red gauntlet had appeared like a blemish on an otherwise elegant war, a “Master” who didn’t fit the rules Tokiomi had built his confidence upon. Assassin had failed to retrieve Sakura, worse, had been made to fail, slipping through hands that should have been powerless.

And Sakura…

Sakura had looked at him with contempt and said no. Just one word. A childish refusal, yet it had struck him harder than any curse.

Tokiomi stopped mid-step, fingers curling into tight fists. His nails bit into his palm, anchoring him to something physical so he wouldn’t betray the turbulence twisting in his chest.

Across from him, Kotomine Kirei stood like a statue placed there for decoration—hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect, expression smooth. If not for the faint glimmer in his eyes, one might have mistaken him for a man incapable of curiosity.

“You seem troubled, Master Tokiomi,” Kirei said, voice gentle enough to masquerade as concern.

Tokiomi’s breath left him in a controlled exhale. “We must retrieve Sakura. That much is certain.”

Kirei inclined his head, a precise, almost polite motion. “You say retrieve, but she is no longer in the Matou estate. Caster has her now. And I doubt her Master will simply hand her over.”

Tokiomi’s jaw tightened. “Then we force them to comply.”

Kirei’s lips curved, barely. Not quite a smile. More like a thought trying on a shape. “And if they refuse?”

Silence stretched, thin and taut.

Tokiomi turned away, facing the bookshelf as though the accumulated knowledge of generations could tell him what he already knew. His reflection stared back faintly from the glass of a framed portrait, composed face, noble posture, the image of a lord.

But the man behind the image felt… cornered.

“Then we will do as the rules of the Grail War dictate and dispose of them,” Tokiomi said at last, each word measured as if he could stabilize the world by speaking with precision.

Kirei allowed the statement to linger, savoring it without seeming to. “How should we proceed?”

Tokiomi turned back sharply, eyes narrowed. “Have your father declare Caster’s Master in violation of the Holy Grail War’s rules. He harbors another Master’s family. Not to mention the destruction caused and the civilians endangered. That is reason enough.”

Kirei’s amusement warmed by a fraction. “The Church has remained impartial thus far. You would have my father cast judgment over something that, at best, is… a gray area?”

Tokiomi’s gaze hardened, a flare of authority meant to cauterize doubt. “Are you questioning my decision, Kirei?”

“Of course not,” Kirei replied instantly, smooth, obedient, perfectly practiced. “I am merely considering the risks. If my father rules in your favor, the other Masters may begin to doubt his impartiality.” His eyes stayed on Tokiomi, studying him with the patience of a man watching a candle burn down. “Are you willing to stake your position on this?”

Tokiomi’s shoulders rose subtly, then squared. He lifted his chin, conviction forced into place like a mask. “I am not asking. This is necessary. The longer Sakura remains with the Master of Caster, the greater the risk.”

Kirei noted the word and the way Tokiomi clung to it, at just how his usually composed teacher was losing his disposition.

He gave a small nod, as if accepting a reasonable request rather than indulging desperation. “Very well. I shall speak with my father.”

Some of the tension left Tokiomi’s spine. Not in relief, never that, but the slight loosening of a noose by a single notch. “Good. I will prepare accordingly.”

Kirei turned toward the door, pausing with his hand near the handle. “And if the Church refuses?”

Tokiomi’s fists clenched again, the brief calm snapping like a thread. “Then I will handle it myself.”

Kirei’s mouth curved, faint and private, as though Tokiomi’s words had confirmed something he’d wanted to be true all along. His voice dropped to a near-whisper as he stepped out. “How amusing.”

—---------------------------------------------------

By midday, Issei finally made his way back to the Hana residence.

The moment he stood in front of the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent hit him like a blanket. It was homey. The kind of normal that felt almost illegal after a night of excitement.

He barely had time to exhale before two bodies collided with him.

Pain detonated across his ribs as Tamamo and Yuuka slammed into him in a death-grip hug. His battered frame protested so hard his vision threatened to go white, not because he was dying (again), but because both of them apparently had the emotional stability of a freight train.

“Gah—!” Issei sucked in a sharp breath, body locking up on instinct.

“My beloved idiot, you absolute fool!” Tamamo wailed, mashing her cheek into his chest like she could fuse herself to him by force of outrage alone. Her fox ears twitched and flattened, then twitched again, furiously. “How dare you disappear and return looking like this?! Have you no care for my delicate heart?!”

Yuuka with tears in her eyes, smacked the back of his head hard enough to make his teeth click. “You jackass! Do you enjoy making us worry?!”

Issei wheezed, half-laughing, half-dying. “Y-Yeah… missed you guys too…”

He hugged them back anyway, arms tightening and tugging them closer because the warmth was comforting, and so was the relief. His brain chose the worst possible moment to notice how soft the hug was as their oppai was felt on his chest and immediately tried to file it under “mental health benefits,” because he was still him, even when he was half-dead.

Tamamo pulled back first, just enough to start inspecting him. Her golden eyes narrowed into slits as she pawed at his face, turning his head left and right. “You’re covered in dirt and scratches! And blood! Whose blood is this?! Wait—Is it yours?!”

Yuuka kept gripping his jacket like she might shake answers out of it. “Of course it’s his! Look at him! He looks like he got run over by a truck, then reversed over for good measure!”

“I do feel like that,” Issei admitted, forcing a grin through the ache.

Misuki, standing nearby with her arms crossed, sighed the kind of sigh only a grown woman with too much patience could produce. “Honestly, Issei… at this rate, we’ll need to stock medical supplies specifically for you.”

Issei lifted a hand as if to dismiss it. “Hey, you should see the other gu—”

Yuuka’s glare could’ve cauterized wounds. “Finish that sentence and I swear—”

He shut up.

Across the room, Sakura stood a short distance away, fingers curled tight at her sides. The room was now loud and alive. Full of touch and scolding. It still didn’t feel real to her, like she’d stepped into someone else’s dream and hadn’t been kicked out yet.

Her thoughts flickered toward a different house. A quiet, cold home where the laughter felt wrong. Where silence was safety. Where every breath had to be earned. The contrast made her stomach twist. She hovered, uncertain, not sure if she should step closer or stay small and invisible like her body still insisted was the safest choice.

Then Issei’s gaze found her. His grin softened. The teasing edge dulled into something gentler, something meant for her. He crouched down until he was closer to her height, ignoring the way his joints complained. Without hesitation, he reached out and ruffled her hair. “You okay?” His voice dropped, softer, like he didn’t want the question to bruise her.

Sakura stiffened instantly from muscle memory. Her body braced for cold hands, for punishment disguised as affection. Her breath hitched. But his palm was warm with no cruelty waiting underneath. “I…” Her throat tightened. She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell him the world still didn’t make sense. That freedom was terrifying because it meant she had something to lose now.

But then she saw the exhaustion in his face. The way his smile tried to hide how much he hurt. He had fought for her. Bled for her. Guilt clawed up her chest. “I… think so,” she managed, voice small.

Issei raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but he didn’t push. He ruffled her hair again, lighter, a little playful, like he was trying to remind her that she didn’t have to flinch forever. “That’s good.”

Something faint and hesitant sparked in her chest. Warmth—strange, unfamiliar.

Misuki cleared her throat, pulling everyone back to the urgent reality. “We got your message,” she said, tone shifting into practical focus. “We’ve been discussing the next step and packing our bags.”

Sherri’s voice came through the watch with crisp certainty. “The Dimensional Watch is almost ready. We leave Fuyuki at midnight.”

Issei exhaled and rubbed a hand through his hair, eyes sweeping the room to Tamamo, Yuuka, Misuki, and Sakura. The ones he’d dragged into this mess and the ones who’d stayed anyway. “Then let’s start packing everything important,” he said, voice firm despite the fatigue. “We leave at twelve.”

He took one step toward the hallway. And immediately got herded toward a chair.

Misuki guided him with a hand that brooked zero argument. Tamamo and Yuuka flanked him like guards. Between the three of them, he didn’t stand a chance.

“Sit,” Misuki ordered, arms crossed. The look on her face said she’d raised people like him before, and she was not impressed.

Tamamo huffed dramatically, ears flicking. “You better not think about getting up, husband. We won’t allow it.”

Issei lowered himself onto the couch with a wince, body screaming the moment the cushions shifted under him. But he still tried to grin. “Really? I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches.”

Yuuka’s eyebrow rose slowly, dangerously. “A few scratches? You’ve got cuts everywhere. Are you trying to impress us with your ‘tough guy’ act?”

Before he could answer, Tamamo and Yuuka were already working on his bloodied jacket. The wet fabric stuck in places, dried blood and grit making it cling to torn skin. The first tug made Issei hiss through his teeth.

“Hold still, idiot,” Yuuka muttered, hands steady and careful despite her harsh tone. There was no gentleness in her words, but there was plenty in her touch.

Tamamo, meanwhile, clicked her tongue, fussing over his arm. Her fingers hovered over a deep gash, eyes narrowing with a mix of anger and worry. “Look at this… What did Goldie do to you?!”

Issei let out a weak chuckle. “Oh, you know. The usual. Trying to murder me.”

Yuuka dabbed antiseptic into a wound and he jerked. She shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve been a spell. “You think this is funny?”

“It’s not—” Issei started.

“Good,” She snapped, then softened just a fraction. “Because you’re lucky you didn’t lose an arm out there.”

Tamamo gave Yuuka a pointed look, then focused back on bandaging. “He’s tough,” she said, voice sweetly venomous, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t treat him like the fragile idiot he is.” She tied the wrap with a little flourish, as if sealing the final word into the knot. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid again. He’ll listen to me.”

Yuuka rolled her eyes, finishing a bandage around his leg with practiced efficiency. “Sure he will. Just like last time.”

Issei opened his mouth to protest but Misuki’s stare made him close it. And for the first time since the night began, with hands on him that weren’t trying to kill him and voices yelling at him because they cared, Issei let his shoulders drop and allowed himself to be taken care of.

While they worked, Sakura hovered near the couch like she was afraid the floor might give way beneath her if she stepped too hard.

Her gaze kept flicking towards Issei’s bruised hands, the red stains on his clothes, Tamamo’s nimble fingers tying bandages, Yuuka’s steady grip as she pressed gauze into place.

She wanted to be closer, wanted to be part of it the way they were but the feeling was foreign enough to make her body freeze up, like she’d been invited to speak a language she didn’t know.

Then Yuuka glanced over and smiled at her. “You’re not gonna just watch us, are you?” she teased, voice gentle. “Come on, help out.”

Sakura blinked, startled. “H-help?”

“Yeah!” Yuuka grabbed a bowl of water and offered it to her. Warm steam curled from the surface. “Clean his face. He looks like he crawled out of a war zone.”

Sakura hesitated, eyes drifting to Issei.

He wasn’t smiling like he was expecting something from her. He wasn’t watching her like she might mess up and deserve correction. He just gave her a small, tired look, soft and encouraging, like he’d already decided she belonged here.

Her chest fluttered in a confusing little burst.

Swallowing her nerves, Sakura took the bowl with both hands and knelt beside the couch as carefully as if she might break something.

Tamamo beamed like she’d just recruited a new accomplice. “That’s the spirit! Don’t let him fool you, little one, he’s always a mess.”

“I heard that,” Issei muttered, but it came out more amused than offended.

Sakura dampened the cloth, wrung it out, and then—slowly, hesitantly—dabbed at the grime and dried salt on his cheek.

He flinched once when she brushed a tender spot, and her hand froze midair, panic flashing through her like lightning.

“S-sorry—!”

“It’s fine,” Issei said immediately, voice low, calm. “You’re doing great.” 

The words landed heavier than they should’ve. Sakura lowered her gaze and kept going, a little more carefully this time, cleaning the corner of his mouth, his jawline, the faint smear of blood under his eye. The closeness made her cheeks heat, and she hated how fast it happened, like her body was betraying her by reacting to simple kindness.

Issei watched her for a moment, then his eyes softened even more. “Thanks, Sakura,” he said quietly.

Her fingers faltered. “D-don’t mention it, Onii-chan…” she mumbled, staring hard at the cloth like it contained the secrets of the universe.

Yuuka and Tamamo exchanged a glance, one of those quick, wordless looks that meant don’t tease her. Not yet. Then they went back to their work, hands moving with practiced rhythm as they finished dressing the last of Issei’s cuts.

When they were satisfied he wasn’t going to leak out onto the floor, Tamamo snapped her fingers with theatrical authority. “Unfortunately my reservoirs are still empty!” She declared. “But hopefully this will keep you alive. For now you need to eat. You haven’t eaten since last night, have you? You’re practically a walking skeleton.”

Issei grinned, the usual bravado trying to crawl back onto his face despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “I can still keep going.”

Yuuka’s stare could’ve pinned him to the couch. “Don’t give us that crap. You’re eating now. No arguments.”

Misuki nodded once, already walking away with the air of someone who’d decided this in her soul. “And after you eat, you’re taking a bath. Then you’re resting.”

As she disappeared down the hall, Tamamo’s ears perked and Yuuka’s eyes narrowed. They then  looked at each other. A silent, competitive tension sparked in the air like static.

Issei, sensing danger, very wisely pretended he didn’t.

—--------------------

Breakfast appeared fast, warm rice, miso soup, and simple grilled fish. The smell alone made Issei’s stomach twist painfully with how hungry he was.

The moment he sat down, he was practically mobbed anyway: Tamamo slipped in close on one side like a satisfied cat, Yuuka hovering on the other with the expression of a guard dog making sure he didn’t try anything stupid—like standing up.

Issei laughed under his breath as he accepted the bowl. “You know… you guys are way too clingy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tamamo leaned into him, making herself comfortable with zero shame, resting her head on his shoulder. “We’ll make sure of that,” she purred, a teasing grin returning. “Can’t have you running off to get yourself murdered again.”

Yuuka shoved the rice a little closer like it was a command. “You’re staying here all day. Rest. We’re not letting you out of our sight until you recover. Got it?”

“…Got it,” Issei muttered, and this time his smile softened into something more honest as he started eating, savoring every warm bite like it was proof the world hadn’t ended.

Sakura sat nearby, quiet, hands folded in her lap. She tried not to stare at how normal this was, the way they bickered while caring for him, the way he let them, the way nobody demanded anything from her for simply being in the room.

The house felt warm. The food smelled safe. Their attention, overzealous as it was, didn’t suffocate her, it wrapped around her like a blanket she wasn’t sure she deserved. Her chest fluttered again, smaller this time. Less frightening.

—------------------------------------------

Tohsaka Manor

In another wing of the Tohsaka Manor, golden light bled through the cracks of a once-opulent chamber, now reduced to a ruin of splintered wood, shattered stone, and scorched velvet. The air itself tasted of ozone, heavy and sharp, as if the room had been struck by lightning and never stopped smoldering.

A chandelier lay in twisted pieces across the floor. Elegant chairs had been reduced to kindling. Even the walls built to endure the whims of magi were carved with deep, vicious gouges where treasures had appeared and vanished again and again, like the afterimage of a tantrum too grand to be called childish.

At the center of it all stood Gilgamesh.

He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His presence alone dominated the space, regal, absolute, and terrifyingly controlled. Yet control, in this moment, was a thin sheet of gold over a furnace. His crimson eyes burned with a steady, simmering fury, and the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed the storm he refused to let spill outside the room.

His fingers flexed once, slowly, the sound of metal creaking from his gauntlet echoing in the ruined silence.

“That clown…” He murmured through a growl

The words were quiet, but they carried weight, each syllable sharpened like a blade. His jaw tightened as the memory replayed: the sudden shift of space, the impact from behind, the audacity of it. Not merely an attack, an affront. As if fate itself had dared to show him a future where the King of Heroes could be struck, could be pushed back, could be treated like something that moved when told.

“He dares,” Gilgamesh continued, voice lowering further, “to stand before me… to defy me… to exist in a world where such insolence can even be imagined.”

A thin crack spiderwebbed across the stone near his feet—no weapon, no strike. Just pressure. Just the consequence of his wrath tightening around the world like a fist.

For a long moment, he stared at nothing at all, as if looking through the manor, through the city, through the night itself, searching for the exact point where that “clown” had fled, the exact thread to pull until the boy’s luck unraveled.

Then, slowly… Gilgamesh’s expression shifted. The fury didn’t fade. It refined. His lips curved into a smirk, razor-edged, cruel, and perfectly composed, like a king deciding the manner of an execution. “Very well,” He said softly, almost amused now. “If the clown insists on making a spectacle of himself, then I shall grant him that.”

Behind him, the air shimmered.

A golden ripple spread outward, smooth as liquid sunlight, and the Gate of Babylon answered his intent with a low, eager hum, doors unlocking one after another in anticipation of indulgence.

Gilgamesh turned his head slightly, crimson eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. “Run,” He whispered, as if speaking directly to the one who wasn’t there. “Struggle. Hide behind others. It will only make the moment I break you… more entertaining.”

The golden glow swelled, filling the ruined chamber with a holy, merciless brilliance. And in that light, the King of Heroes stood smiling—calm, certain, and utterly decided. The hunt had begun.

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