No Way Forward

Pain is a slow knife, peeling away certainty, carving doubt from the bone. Kame had always thought himself strong. Unshakable. He had endured years of hardship in the service of the Kolat, believing in the great work, in the slow, careful unraveling of the Celestial Order. Now, stripped bare and broken beneath Agasha Sumiko’s justice, he found only weakness within himself.

At first, he cursed the boy. That foolish, untested whelp, barely more than a child, whose reckless anger had shattered their plans. If only he had kept his composure. If only he had stayed his hand, let the Lion cub bark his challenges unanswered. They could have completed their mission. Kakita Toshimoko would be dead. The tournament would be in chaos. The Kolat’s hand would remain hidden.

Instead, the boy had drawn steel when he should have smiled. He had given them away, and Kame had been forced to act. Forced to cut him down. A necessary sacrifice, he told himself. The boy had been weak, unready. He had not yet understood what it meant to serve the cause.

The pain grew sharper. Hot metal hissed against his skin, the scent of burning flesh thick in the cell. Kame gritted his teeth but did not cry out. He would not give them the satisfaction. He had endured suffering before. He would endure it now.

But endurance did not stop the thoughts from creeping in. The Lion whelp had interfered. Higanbana, was that his name? A little flower with sharp claws. And the Crab, Anaguma—he should have seen them coming. Should have accounted for their meddling. But he had been so focused on his goal, so certain of his plan. Had he grown careless?

No. He had been betrayed by incompetence. His subordinates had failed him. The boy had failed him. That was the truth.

Another lash of pain, deeper this time. His vision swam, the chamber twisting in the half-light. He thought of Ide Gakhai, the frightened child they had taken. He had meant to die for the plan, but now he sat under Imperial protection, likely spilling everything he knew. A loose thread in the grand tapestry the Kolat had woven. Another failure.

Kame felt his breath rasp between cracked lips. The truth slithered toward him, and he recoiled from it, but the agony left nowhere to hide. It was not the boy’s fault. Nor the Lion’s. Nor the Crab’s.

He had failed.

He had underestimated his enemies. He had overestimated his own cunning. He had let his hatred of the Kakita blind him, had rushed when he should have waited. It had all unraveled because of his arrogance.

The Kolat had no place for arrogance. Had they not taught him that? Had he not preached that same lesson to his own disciples? And yet, here he was, bound and beaten, awaiting a death that would mean nothing.

The next stroke came, but Kame barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere, sinking beneath the weight of his own mistakes.

There would be no more schemes. No more plans. The Kolat would move on without him, as they always had. His life, his pain, his death—none of it mattered now. The great work would continue, with or without him.

Kame let out a shuddering breath, and the knife of pain twisted one last time.

Then, silence.