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Summary
“My sword.”
Kyojuro mutters to himself, inflection laced with panic, and Akaza’s mind grows childishly primed by the prospect of returning the object to the man.
“It’s likely somewhere up there, Kyojuro. Don’t worry, I will recover it for you!”
Rubbernecking for a glowing hue, Akaza sears a visual trajectory into the unlit brow they plummeted down.
He whips his gaze around, however, when the man on the ground speaks again.
“You will deliver me the weapon I intend to silence you with?”
The eyes glued to demonic ones don’t offer a glittering of sarcasm, only etchings of grave contemplation.
