"You're going to visit, at least, right?" she asked, slightly muffled both by a stuffy nose and the might of her pride trying to stifle any outpouring emotion.

He took a moment to think.

Normally, there shouldn't have been anything to it—an obvious yes. Now, though, there was no guarantee of anything. Where he'd go, what he'd do—no guarantee at all.

Even then, a part of him still felt as if he would. There was no logic or reasoning behind the thought—just the gut feeling that eventually he'd find himself at the shrine once again, simply and plainly.

In that, he found his answer.

"I don't know when it'll be or how far down the deep end I'll have gone... but, I will. Count on it."

"I'll hold you to it then, Miscreant..." The girl nodded. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

Reika turned and jumped down to the ground, prompt as ever. As the last trace of her disappeared below the roof's edge, one last firework exploded in the distance, pink and blue mingling together before fading back into the night. He sat idly for some time, not sure if he'd spent two minutes or twenty doing nothing but reflecting.

Now, the reality of even this life of solace and solitude only being temporary became a realization that brought with it a seedling of adventure.

This time, ending his residency at the homestead wouldn't be denoted as a period of despair.

No—it would be the advent of his odyssey as a reformed soul, conquering his dreaded origin and condemning it to writhe in the pitiful shadows of defeat. It wasn't often that the boy committed such thought to a subject that had once conjured so much negativity, but the change in his outlook offered too much to go without consideration.

He was instructed to laugh, to cry, to reminisce—to regret, to resign, and to reform. Even if initially unknowing, he'd done what was tasked, and in that, he finally found a strange shred of comfort in the curious methods so wistfully appropriated by the lady Fate. It was then that Kyoya at last decided he was long overdue for some shuteye himself, sliding off the roof and landing lightly on the commons' entryway.

As he entered, the door to the young ladies' quarters creaked to a close, suggesting that this was the end of any more late-night pep talks.

Lanternlight was the only thing keeping the commons from being totally dark. The boy silently thanked Master Guran for leaving them on. He blew them out as he passed by one after another lining the hallway, the wisps of ember bidding him goodnight in orderly accord.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Eventually, he reached his little dwelling: a section of the main building's meeting room, a small-ish doorway shaped out of the wall and leading into a relatively quaint, 20-by-20 foot bedroom of sorts with a mat and pillow in it's center. The space served as where he usually 'caught Z's,' deservingly or not.

He didn't have much for décor, as his interests in the worlds of arts, music, and the like weren't exactly well developed. Instead, a single lantern hung from the simple dark-wood ceiling, as well as the lone window in the far wall. That window was the second most consistent burglar of his sleep-in hours.

As one might assume, Reika was the first.

A desk and accompanying lamp, along with a chair, were positioned just in front of the window—the place he'd come to call his 'study square.' It was given its name relatively early into his stay at the grounds, hence its awfully creative title.

Atop the desk rested a small jar of ink and several pointed wooden sticks to write with. On account of Master Guran's unwillingness to dig inside the homestead for the materials used in writing utensils, this was about as good as it got. The old man was one to find unprecedented value in the upkeep of nature's sanctuaries, only daring to tamper with them when life absolutely required it.

The boy had always found his master's principles noble, but they consistently lacked practicality in every sense.

Of course, now, he'd be a free soul: conscripted by neither order nor obligation, unbound to pursue whatever may tread upon the path he claimed as his own. Though, as he'd noted before, it wouldn't be all smiles—even if he'd managed to mostly numb the sting that reality had inflicted upon him.

There was a give-and-take nature to this, he'd discovered.

Freedom had truly never been so bittersweet.

Shaking the thought took a great deal of effort, but in doing so, he found enough peace to feel capable of a restful night. Kyoya's boots were taken off and placed neatly by his desk, and he quickly found the bedsheets calling for a warm embrace.

There was a cold comfort in the thought of dismissing his calling here in pursuit of a third destiny, which even still remained without guarantee. Sure, perseverance was key at times like these, but he only had one life to work with.

"Fate wouldn't keep me running for too much longer, right?"

Rather than spend too much energy in a vain attempt to dream up how he'd possibly survive on his own, Kyoya sighed and let the burden of thought lift itself instead. "Not much point dreaming up how I'll get bullied by Gods next," he huffed.

Once under the covers, he said a silent prayer to whatever may take the time to listen, asking that he make it through the night without the torment that had been brought forth the last time he'd ventured into dreamland.

The world of sleep had proven itself treacherous, but if the years past had anything to prove, it was that treachery was openly welcome to try it's hand against him. He lay vigilant, wielding a blissfully soft pillow as his sword and cozy warmth fancying his shield.