Even as the name Suyomi lingered in her mind like a splinter beneath the surface, Chiaki showed no signs of submission. No visions stirred. No acceptance followed. That name may have existed in some shadowed archive of the past, but it had no place in her present—not in her voice, her memories, or her soul.
She had always been Chiaki.
And that would never change.
"…Even if Suyomi truly was my name," she said at last, her voice firm and resolute, "there's no part of me that wants to believe I was ever anything less than human."
Her eyes locked with Desmond's, unwavering.
"I have a human heart. A human mind. I breathe. I bleed. I feel. I am not just an experiment someone abandoned in a cold room—I am alive."
She took a step forward, refusing to be overshadowed.
"I don't care if my name was chosen, written, or borrowed. I would rather carve out a new life with the name Chiaki—a life that was offered to me by the people who believed I deserved one. That's who I am. That's who I choose to be."
And then, with a defiant surge of energy, she raised her arm and swept it powerfully through the air—
A clear, cutting gesture, as if severing the past from her present.
Droplets of sweat flicked from her skin, catching the sunlight as her voice rang out:
"I will never be Suyomi!"
Her declaration struck the still air like a blade, final and sharp.
And in that moment, she wasn't just denying a name. She was reclaiming her entire self.
With the sweep of her arm, a sudden current of wind spiraled around her torso, curling upward and outward as if pulled from her very will. It rushed through the stone-paved street like an unseen wave, brushing past the gravestones and scattering loose petals and dust into the air.
It wasn't elemental power.
It was conviction—manifested in motion.
A declaration of identity. Of refusal. Of freedom.
"If everything you've said is true…" Chiaki spoke calmly, her tone hardening like tempered steel, "then so be it. But I won't live chained to it. I'll walk my own path, on my own terms. No one gets to decide that for me—not anymore."
The wind tapered to stillness.
But her resolve did not.
Desmond stood quietly for a beat, watching the display with eyes that gleamed like polished glass. The edges of his smirk curved just slightly higher, as if he were watching a finely orchestrated performance reach its climax.
"Beautiful," he muttered, folding his hands behind his back. "Truly. You've turned denial into poetry."
Then his expression darkened, his tone turning cold and clinical.
"But unfortunately… I'm not here to admire declarations."
He took a single step forward, the echo of his heel crisp against the cobblestone.
"I've always stood with the Marines. With order. I didn't dedicate my life to childish games or sentimentality. I devoted it to the one mission that mattered: the Deadly Rain."
And with that final word, the atmosphere shifted.
A sharp burst of golden light split the air—too fast to trace, too sudden to prepare for. In a blink, a streak of radiant yellow surged forward, and from it emerged a figure—blurred, swift, and merciless.
Chiaki barely had time to widen her eyes before the impact came.
A heel, precise and brutal, drove into her abdomen with terrifying force, the blow sinking deep into her core and stealing the breath from her lungs in a single instant. Her body folded around the strike, and then she was airborne—launched like a weightless projectile.
She twisted uncontrollably through the air, limbs slack from shock. Then, with a thunderous crash, her back collided with the wooden face of a nearby house. The structure exploded into splinters as she was hurled straight through it, shattering beams, glass, and stone. Dust clouded the sky as she disappeared into the wreckage beyond.
A silence followed—sharp, jagged, and unnatural.
Only the settling debris spoke, falling like ash across the broken remains.
And in that silence, Desmond exhaled—satisfied.
Desmond dropped lightly to the ground, boots settling with precision as he turned to face the fractured wall where dust still drifted like smoke from the wreckage. His eyes narrowed as he spotted movement—an arm pushing up from beneath the debris, fingers trembling but determined.
Chiaki emerged slowly, staggering upright. Her frame bore fresh scrapes, dust clung to her hair and shoulders, and her breath came shallow—but her stance held.
Desmond exhaled through his nose, as if sighing at a disappointing conclusion.
"The truth behind Deadly Rain," he began, voice even, "was never about chaos or mercy. It was a calculated operation. The goal was to eliminate those Resonators deemed obsolete, dangerous, or burdens on society."
He took a slow step forward, tone sharpening.
"The ones with potential? Those with controlled power and clean records? They were meant to be shaped into this world's future. Weapons of order. Symbols of a new age."
His gaze settled fully on her—cold, unmoved.
"But you…" His lips curled into a faint sneer. "You denied all of it. The truth, your past, your purpose. You've clung so desperately to a name, to a mask, that you've rejected the very reason you were allowed to live."
He gestured vaguely toward the rubble behind her.
"Surviving by accident. Living by luck. That's not strength—that's wasted investment. And the fact that you still draw breath after everything proves only one thing to me…"
His voice dropped to a low, final note.
"You were a failed project from the start."
He lifted his chin, a glint of arrogance returning to his gaze.
"I'll complete the mission Rhaziel hesitated to finish. And when I do, I'll finally receive the recognition I've earned—status, reward, legacy—all from purging the one anomaly that slipped through."
Then, with a smirk of cruel satisfaction, he added:
"And with no one here to protect you… this becomes far easier."
"I'll prove once and for all that Resonators can be killed without soul severance," Desmond said coldly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Lately, there's been this growing myth… that your kind is immortal unless their soul is destroyed—that survivors like you are beyond conventional execution."
He took another measured step forward, his silhouette framed against the shattered structure.
"But that theory is nothing more than desperation wrapped in superstition. A convenient excuse for failure."
His eyes narrowed with grim satisfaction.
"Soul Severance was a failed experiment. Most subjects couldn't withstand the process. Their bodies collapsed. Their minds fractured. Those who survived did so by the thinnest margin, barely holding together the pieces of what remained. And even then, they were never stable."
He lifted a hand slightly, cracking his knuckles.
"The truth is simpler. Easier. You don't need to dissect a soul to end a life. You just have to know where and how to strike."
Desmond's gaze sharpened like drawn steel, locked on Chiaki with lethal intent.
"And I'm going to prove that you're not a miracle…"
A faint glow began to hum around his arm, subtle at first—like a current building under his skin.
"…You're just an overdue correction."
Chiaki remained motionless, one hand pressed tightly against her side where the blow had landed. Blood traced a line down her fingertips, but her voice didn't waver.
"So that's the reason, isn't it…?" she said quietly, her eyes locked on Desmond. "The letter to Lyvoria Crest—it was never an invitation for peace. Only I and Temoshí were summoned. The Empress claims she wants Resonators to survive, to rebuild, even to repopulate…"
Her voice sharpened, a bitter edge rising.
"Yet here you are—sent to execute us in secret."
Desmond chuckled under his breath, slow and composed, as if she'd just asked a question with an obvious answer.
"Oh, Chiaki…" he said, amusement flickering behind his eyes. "You're still assuming the left hand knows what the right is doing."
He straightened his posture slightly, voice taking on a colder timbre.
"The Empress's vision is idealistic. Symbolic. She speaks of hope and legacy. But the Marines—true order—we act on something far simpler: preservation. Controlled futures. Predictable outcomes."
He tilted his head.
"Resonators like you? You don't fit into that future. You're a wild variable—impossible to regulate, too dangerous to ignore, and too emotionally unstable to be trusted with shaping the next generation."
His gaze darkened.
"The Empress may wish to protect your kind, but her reach doesn't extend to the shadows where real decisions are made. And right now, in this moment…"
He pointed at her, the glow on his arm intensifying.
"You're not a guest of the Crown. You're a threat that was never meant to leave this island alive."
The silence that followed was heavy. A sharp gust stirred the dust at their feet as the air thickened with unspoken violence.
Chiaki, still bracing her ribs, stood upright despite the pain—her next move ready to ignite.
To be continued...