He woke before the candle.
The tatami was cold again. The air crisp with dawn. No shouting, no blood, no scent of smoke. Just silence.
Loop four.
He sat up and didn't move beyond that. Just sat there, breathing slow, listening to the faint creak of the compound waking around him. A soft brush of wind slipped through the window slats. Someone outside was sweeping gravel.
Kazuki didn't reach for his clothes. Didn't tighten his belt. Didn't grab the ledger scroll or ask for the day's reports.
He stayed still.
Last time, he'd played the part. Adjusted troop placement. Warned of spells. Called for Mayu's withdrawal seconds too late. Tadakatsu bled out on the west steps. Again. Again.
So now, he tried something different.
He did nothing.
Not out of surrender.
Out of fear.
Out of the quiet, clawing dread that maybe—just maybe—his presence was what made things worse.
The door slid open sometime after first bell.
Tadakatsu stepped in with a tray of tea and dry fruit. Steam rose from the cup.
"You're up early, Hideyoshi-sama."
Kazuki didn't look at him. "Didn't sleep."
"Understandable."
Tadakatsu moved with his usual calm. But there was a beat of hesitation in his step, a quiet shift in his voice. He set the tray down farther from Kazuki than usual.
"The morning drills are starting. Shall I call for your armor?"
Kazuki shook his head once.
Tadakatsu studied him. Just for a moment. Then gave a short bow.
"As you wish."
He left.
Kazuki remained still.
Every instinct itched to act. To correct something. To tighten formations. Adjust archers. Walk the perimeter.
Instead, he sat with the tea cooling beside him. Let the morning pass in fragments.
He told himself this was tactical. A test. A way to learn what the loop really wanted.
But he knew better.
This was fear.
Fear that maybe he wasn't fixing anything.
Fear that maybe the loop improved when he stepped back.
By midday, he was walking the inner courtyards. Slow. Detached. Listening more than seeing.
A sergeant called out orders to a foot patrol—correct ones.
Two junior officers discussed supply rotations Kazuki had usually handled personally. Their math was solid. Their routes efficient.
He passed a scribal runner delivering scout reports to Rikuya. Not to him.
No one questioned it.
No one looked lost.
He passed Mayu near the western barracks.
She was coordinating messenger birds, giving clean, crisp orders, one hand still wrapped from last loop's burn.
Except… there was no burn now. Not in this version.
Still, the wrap was there. Habit, maybe.
Or something stranger.
Kazuki stopped, halfway between saluting and speaking.
She caught his eye. Paused.
Then turned and spoke to the scribe behind her.
Didn't call him over.
Didn't ask for his insight.
Didn't tell him she'd missed him at morning briefings.
Just let him pass like any other officer.
Kazuki stood there, motionless.
He didn't speak.
Didn't step forward.
He just watched her finish issuing orders—the same ones he would've given.
Maybe better.
The horn blew near dusk.
Not urgent. Not alarmed. A low, steady note. The first signal of movement beyond the southern ridge.
Kazuki heard it from the inner courtyard, sitting where the shadow of the sakura tree reached just far enough to graze the stone steps.
He didn't move.
Didn't rise.
Didn't call for a report.
Instead, he closed his eyes and waited.
The compound came alive—but not with panic. Just practiced rhythm.
Tadakatsu's voice rang out, sharp and steady. "Form up second line. Archer relay—east wall. Mayu, I want confirmation from the western overlook."
Kazuki didn't need to watch. He knew Tadakatsu's commands. Knew how he operated. But something about the cadence was different—firmer, maybe. More decisive.
Not forced.
Confident.
Kazuki listened.
The sound of movement. No shouting. No missed steps.
From the high walkway near the inner garden, he watched them assemble. Mayu was already on the far wall, issuing orders, wind tugging at her cloak. Her face was calm. Eyes scanning the tree line.
Tadakatsu glanced up at her, caught something in her expression, and nodded once.
No words exchanged.
But they moved like they'd trained together for years.
Like they didn't need prompting.
Kazuki's fingers twitched at his sides.
He hadn't said a single word all day.
And somehow, they were doing better.
No fireballs.
No acid.
No screaming.
No breach.
The attack—if it was one—folded before it reached the walls. The scouts had reported early. The archers had shifted fast.
No deaths.
No resets.
Just clean response. Precise coordination.
Without him.
Later that night, Kazuki stood in the shadow of the watchtower, staring down at the yard where Mayu had once bled out.
She walked across it now, steady gait, a folded report in her hands. She passed a wounded scout, slowed for a second, clapped him on the shoulder, said something he laughed at.
Then she moved on.
Kazuki watched her go.
He didn't call out.
Didn't step forward.
Just watched.
Tadakatsu approached from the lower stairs, scrolls tucked beneath one arm. He slowed as he neared Kazuki, footsteps soft.
He didn't speak right away.
Then, in a voice low and measured—
"If you're working through something, just say the word. I'll hold the lines until you're ready."
Kazuki didn't look at him.
Didn't move.
Tadakatsu didn't press.
He simply added, "We've all carried too much before," then walked on.
Kazuki stared after him, throat locked.
They think I'm broken.
He returned to his quarters late, the candle still tall.
No blood on the stone.
No screaming.
No death.
No loop.
He sat on the edge of the bedding, eyes burning.
Then he picked up a strip of paper and wrote with an unsteady hand:
They don't need me.
They're learning around me.
Everything worked without me.
Then underneath that, in smaller script:
And that terrifies me more than dying did.