[i][b]What is the meaning of power?

Is it a sword to slay your enemies, or a sword to protect your friends?

Is it something that you hid out of sight, a treasure that belongs only to yourself?

Or is it something to be flaunted, a bountiful wealth to elevate your own position?

Well? What do you think?[/b]

No, you idiot. You’re talking about the usage of power.

There is no meaning to power. You gather it up, but there’s always people who have more of it.

What matters though, is that you’re satisfied with how you will never have the most.

What matters though, is that you will use your own power.

Because you are a child of Izanami-no-Mikoto, the Mother of the Land of the Rising Sun, and the Mistress of the Underworld.

And she has not breathed life into you for you to live in the shadows of another.

After all, we’re oni.

It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about fighting.[/i]

Arata opened his eyes to a scene that he was becoming more and more accustomed to. A white ceiling with fluorescent lighting, and the sharp, septic stench of rubbing alcohol. The hard, clean bed felt good against his back, and the phantom pain of his missing arm and half-dissolved chest could still be felt. The oni hurt all over, but it wasn’t a crippling pain, nothing that could stop him from getting up. Rising up with a grunt, the sun-haired boy looked to the side. Looks like Rollanda restored his clothes too, huh? His white cloak hung on a coat rack, and his shirt and shorts, purchased from a second-hand store, remained as bland and simple as always.

The oni sighed, and closed his eyes.

He could catch vestiges of his memories, the hatred and the blood, the pain and the laughter, everything mixing together in a hodgepodge of glorious and inglorious violence. It should have been enjoyable, but at the same time, it was like every other fight that he had fought since arriving at the Academy.

It was too short, too sudden, and…too pointless.

Juliann’s skill was beautiful, but he couldn’t reciprocate that.

Victarian’s power was interesting, but both of them restrained themselves.

And this last fight...could it really be called a fight?

Another long sigh, before he got out of bed, removing the hospital scrubs and pulling on his own clothes once more. Resting his once-skeletal hand on the brass coat hanger, the oni reminisced, delving into his centuries-long memories of a different time. The meaning of power, huh? In the end, regardless of how that man had responded, it still didn’t answer the central question.

For what purpose should he wield his power? Was it fine just to fight for the sake of fighting? Or was that just his instincts as a warmongering oni speaking?

He desired a hard-fought, hard-won fight against someone equal or greater to him in strength, but was that all? Would he be satisfied just with that? Back when the Night Parade was still one thousand, and they ravaged the battlefields with their iron clubs and superhuman strength, did he truly enjoy fighting the armies of man? Or did he enjoy being together with his allies?

Without thinking, Arata’s grip tightened on the coat hanger, slowly deforming it.

Too many questions once more. He was thinking too hard, and thinking too hard was pointless. With a sigh, he draped his cloak around his shoulders, pulling the hood over his horns. With heavy steps, the oni walked out of Rollanda’s hospital.

If he decided between like or dislike, he’d have to say that he still liked punching Iravis in the face.

If he decided between right and wrong, he’d have to say that he believed his own convictions and ideals were right, that there was no purpose in strength if you relied on the overbearing strength of another.

But regardless, of all that, regret still clung onto him. 

He was alone, even with 999 souls dormant within him.

And, alone, he headed towards Liseranna Academy’s library.

Iravis can have her army, her champions, her servants.

Arata will show her that one doesn't need any of that if they have themselves.