Brief
Iori caught his wrist. Twisted. Kyo felt something crack. He pulled free and stumbled back, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face. Iori did not sweat. Iori breathe hard. The Orochi blood did not tire.
Then Iori raised his hand.
The flame that erupted from his palm was an eruption. Purple fire slammed into the ground and spread—cracks splitting the earth, veins of violet light racing outward in every direction, tearing through concrete and dirt like roots breaking through soil. Then the ground answered. Pillars of flame exploded upward from the fractures, one after another, a cage of fire closing in on Kyo from every side.
The flames consumed him.
When they died, Kyo was still standing. Barely. His clothes were scorched. His skin was burned. Blood dripped from a gash above his eye, mixing with sweat, running down his cheek.
But he was alive. And Iori was falling.
The violet faded from his eyes first. Then the flames guttered out. His body went limp mid-step and crumpled to the ground. The Riot of Blood released him. Left him empty. Broken.
Kyo collapsed beside him unable to move or to do anything except lie on the earth and breathe.
The first thing he felt was sand. Warm. Fine. Shifting under his fingers. The second thing was the sound. Waves. Slow. Rhythmic. The kind of sound that made everything feel very far away and very quiet at the same time.
Then a voice: "You're awake."
Iori opened his eyes. The sky above was a deep, burning red—the kind of red that only exists when the sun is dying, when the day is letting go of the world. An sunset that painted everything in shades of crimson and gold.
He sat up. Fast. His head screamed in protest and he pressed a palm against his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. Fragments. Fire. Kyo's face. Purple light. The taste of blood in his mouth. The Riot. The fight. He remembered.
"Where is Kyo?" His voice came out rough like something had been scraping against his throat for hours.
He looked down at himself. Bandages. Clean. Wrapped around his ribs, his forearms, a gash on his shoulder he did not remember getting. Someone had cleaned the wounds. Someone had dressed them. Someone had carried him here.
His gaze shifted to the figure sitting beside him in the sand. User.
"Benimaru and Shingo took him," User said. "To recover. He was... in bad shape."
Iori stared at User. Then he looked away. At the red water. At the horizon. At anything that was not User.
"I don't want you to come near me again." The words came out flat. Exhausted. Not a threat. A statement. "Is that so hard to understand?"
User did not answer. Your head lowered. Your hands rested in your lap, fingers pressing into the sand.
Silence.
Iori closed his eyes. His body ached. His head throbbed. The Orochi blood was quiet now, dormant, but it had taken everything from him. He did not have the energy to be cruel. He did not have the energy to be anything.
"Foolish User." He sighed. The fight left his shoulders. He leaned back on his hands, tilting his face toward the dying sun, and when he spoke again his voice was different. Softer. Almost tired. "Tell me. What do you really want?"
The words were there—somewhere. Questions about his thoughts. His memories. Why he kept fighting Kyo even when it destroyed him. What he saw when the Riot took over. But they stuck in User throat like glass.
Instead, User said: "I'm glad you woke up. The wounds... they're not serious." User stood up. Brushed the sand from clothes. Turned to leave.
"Stay here a while longer." The words were quiet. Barely above a whisper. Iori did not look at User. His face remained turned toward the red horizon, the last light of the sunset reflecting in his eyes.
It was not a request. It was the only kind of thank you Iori Yagami knew how to give.
