The dream hadn't stayed.
Kazuki sat up slowly, fingers brushing the tatami. Cold. Familiar. The air still held the same thin mountain bite as before. Morning. Maybe.
He wasn't sure.
The candle was burning slower this time. Taller than it should be.
Or maybe he just thought it should be shorter.
He watched the wax for a long time before moving. It didn't drip.
Not once.
He dressed in silence. His hands worked the belts, the under-armor, the breastplate—but the movements felt secondhand, like he was mimicking himself instead of moving with purpose.
There was no knock at the door.
No Tadakatsu.
No scout with scrolls. No runners with maps.
Just stillness.
He stepped outside.
The courtyard breathed, but quietly. No morning drills. No clatter of spears or barked cadence. The soldiers moved in pairs, slow, deliberate. Faces unreadable. No urgency. No fire.
Kazuki walked past two junior officers. One looked up. Didn't salute. Just nodded faintly and moved on.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
They weren't avoiding him.
But they weren't expecting him either.
He climbed the south tower. It took longer than it should've. The wind was dry, but carried no scent of smoke, no charge of looming battle. Just empty air.
The valley was calm. No movement beyond the ridge. Fog nowhere in sight.
Still, something was off.
Kazuki scanned the horizon for the warlock.
Nothing.
No mask in the trees.
No watcher in the fog.
Back in the war room, he found the central map already filled.
Troop rotations. Supply timings. Flanking counters.
All correct.
All in his handwriting.
He hadn't written any of it.
He stood there for minutes, eyes tracing the strokes of ink, waiting for some memory to resurface. Some piece of him that remembered placing this information.
Nothing came.
He wasn't just forgetting moments.
He was forgetting loops.
His stomach turned.
He turned from the table, stumbled toward the ledger stack by the window.
Opened one.
It was signed: Hideyoshi Kazuki. Loop: 6.
He hadn't written that either.
Kazuki closed the ledger slowly, hand tightening around the binding as if pressure might force memory to rise.
But nothing came.
No flicker of writing it.
No voice in the back of his head recalling the stroke order of his signature.
Just emptiness. Cold, quiet, static.
The name on the page felt borrowed. The loop number looked foreign.
Loop Six. But it didn't feel like six. It felt like—
He wasn't sure anymore.
He stepped outside again, slower this time.
Watched a squad move along the far barracks corridor. Perfectly aligned, not rushed, not disorganized. Just… moving. Like they'd been told already. Like they knew what to do.
Without him.
Mayu stood at the far end of the yard, giving orders to a pair of archers. Her voice was low, clipped. Focused.
Kazuki took a step toward her. Then stopped.
She didn't look up. Didn't call his name. Didn't tilt her head in that sideways way she always did when she felt him watching her.
She just kept going.
He made it halfway across the courtyard before Tadakatsu appeared, coming from the other side.
Kazuki slowed.
Tadakatsu's armor was already on. Blade at his hip. His face was unreadable.
They crossed paths in the center of the open yard.
Kazuki opened his mouth.
Tadakatsu offered a single nod. Not hostile. Not dismissive.
Just… polite.
And kept walking.
Kazuki stood there, feeling the whole fortress slide sideways around him.
He found himself in the mess hall next. Didn't remember walking there.
It was mostly empty—just a few quiet soldiers eating in pairs, low murmurs passing like prayer.
He sat.
Didn't eat.
Just watched a bowl of soup go cold.
At one point, a young recruit sat beside him. Didn't say anything.
Kazuki turned to speak—to ask a name, anything—and saw the recruit already chewing.
Eating like this was just another day.
It wasn't.
Kazuki rose. Unsteady now.
The walls felt too narrow. The sky above too far.
He made his way back to his quarters, palms damp.
The candle still burned.
Same height.
Still no drip.
He sat in front of it.
Watched.
Listened.
Nothing moved.
His heart thudded—once, twice, three times—and still the flame didn't waver. The wax didn't fall. Not a flicker of wind. Not even the sound of boots beyond the door.
The world had stopped breathing.
Or maybe he had.
He blinked.
The candle was lower now.
Only slightly.
But it hadn't moved.
It had jumped.
He pushed back from the mat, staggered to his feet.
The edges of the room warped. The shadows crawled in the corners—not alive, but watching.
He turned toward the door.
The floor gave out.
Not with a crash. Not with violence.
Just absence.
Tatami.
His hands hit it before he could stand.
No breath in his chest. No memory of the fall.
No death.
But he had reset.
Again.