"In the end, we all become what we were meant to be, whether we like it or not."
Rentarō's eyes narrowed as he stood face to face with the figure emerging from the darkness. It wasn't the familiar, comforting presence he expected—it wasn't the face of an ally. No, this figure was a shadow, a reminder of everything Rentarō had fought to protect.
And then the light flickered across the man's face.
"Shoma," Rentarō whispered, disbelief freezing him in place.
Shoma Nagisawa—his senior in the Tendo-style martial arts, once a close companion—stood before him. But this wasn't the man he remembered. This man was cold, distant, his eyes like shards of ice. The warmth of their past camaraderie had evaporated, replaced by a void Rentarō could hardly comprehend.
Shoma's body was scarred, his movements lethargic, as though every step had been burdened with the weight of too many years and too much pain.
"Shoma," Rentarō repeated, taking a cautious step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "What happened to you?"
Shoma's eyes flickered to Rentarō, but there was no recognition in them, no trace of the camaraderie they had once shared. The senior who had once mentored him, who had fought beside him during the toughest times, was gone. In his place stood someone entirely different—someone who had been broken and remade.
"I'm not the man you knew anymore, Rentarō," Shoma said, his voice hollow, devoid of emotion. "That man died in the war."
Rentarō's chest tightened. "But you—how are you alive?"
Shoma chuckled bitterly, the sound like gravel grinding together. "Grunewald," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "He saved me. He gave me another chance. But it wasn't a gift—it was a curse."
Rentarō didn't speak for a moment, processing the words. Grunewald—he had heard of his name, the man who wielded power over those who were broken, but to think that Shoma, of all people, had been subjected to it... it was almost too much to bear.
"But why?" Rentarō asked, his voice shaky now. "Why would you accept his help? What's happened to you, Shoma?"
The older man's expression hardened. "What's happened to me? What happened to all of us?" he shot back. "We fight for a future that'll never come. You think the world can still be saved? You think there's hope left? You're just clinging to a dream, Rentarō."
"No!" Rentarō snapped, his voice rising. "I won't accept that. I'm not just going to give up!"
Shoma's eyes darkened. "You don't get it, do you?" He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his posture now shifting into something more familiar. It was a stance Rentarō recognized from their training. But it wasn't the stance of a man trying to protect—it was the stance of a man who had long since abandoned hope. "You haven't seen what I've seen. You haven't felt the despair I've felt. This world—this cursed, broken world—is beyond saving. And all you're doing is throwing your life away for something that will never be."
Rentarō's mind raced. He remembered the days when they had trained together, when they had fought side by side, when their goals had aligned. Shoma wasn't like this. He couldn't be. But everything in Rentarō's gut told him otherwise. This was no longer the man he had known.
Shoma's eyes narrowed as he took another step forward, his hand inching toward the weapon at his side. Rentarō's fingers twitched toward his handgun instinctively.
"No," Rentarō said, his voice quiet, but resolute. "I won't believe that. I can't."
Shoma's face twisted into something darker. "Then you'll die with that foolish hope of yours."
Rentarō didn't hesitate.
He drew his gun, aiming it squarely at Shoma. "I won't let you stand in the way of my fight," he said, his voice steely. "Not now, not ever."
The two stood locked in a standoff for a tense moment—two former allies, now on opposite sides of a war that neither had fully understood when it began. Rentarō could see the hesitation in Shoma's eyes, the conflict between the person he had been and the person he had become. But the longer Rentarō stared at him, the clearer it became: Shoma had chosen his path. And Rentarō had to choose his.
"You don't have to do this," Rentarō said softly, his voice almost pleading. "You can still come back. We can still fight together."
Shoma didn't reply. Instead, he lunged forward with startling speed, his hand whipping out to strike at Rentarō. Rentarō barely had time to react, his own training kicking in as he blocked the strike and countered with a swift move of his own. The two were locked in combat once more—no words, just the brutal exchange of blows.
Shoma's strength was formidable, honed by years of training and the modifications Grunewald had forced upon him. Rentarō was forced to backpedal, his mind racing as he tried to find a way to outmaneuver his former friend.
They were like mirrors of each other, two sides of the same coin, bound by the same martial tradition but split by their experiences. Shoma's strikes were filled with anger, while Rentarō's were tempered with something deeper—something that refused to give up.
And yet, as they fought, Rentarō couldn't help but wonder if there was a chance to save Shoma. But the longer they fought, the more he realized: some people were too far gone. Some paths couldn't be reversed.
With a final, desperate maneuver, Rentarō disarmed Shoma and knocked him to the ground, panting heavily. But as he stood over him, Rentarō hesitated, his heart heavy with the weight of the situation.
Shoma's eyes flickered as he lay there, breathing heavily. "You've won," he said quietly. "But it won't matter."
Rentarō stared down at him, his gun still trained on Shoma. "It's not over. I'll stop this war."
Shoma's lips twisted into a faint smile, but it held no warmth. "Then keep fighting. But know this—when it's all over, you'll be the last one standing. And you'll have nothing left."
Rentarō's grip on his weapon tightened.
But he didn't pull the trigger.