The raw, anguished echo of Juro's scream echoed,"I THOUGHT WE WERE FUCKING BROTHERS, TAKESHI!" still vibrated in the Plaza's oppressive air, a psychic wound ripped open high above the maelstrom of light and void below. Up here, on a narrow ledge formed by a grotesque, weeping statue of some forgotten Astralon champion, the air was marginally clearer, though no less foul. The stench of the mountain's deep decay , wet stone, ozone, and the cloying sweetness of preserved rot, mingled with the metallic tang of Juro's own sweat and the distant, muffled cacophony of battle: the CRACKKKK of clashing energies, Akuma's resonant void voice, the choked gasps of the desperate.

Juro stood sentinel, his twin Frostguard axes, held loosely but ready at his sides. His knuckles were white on the leather wrapped hafts, his breath pluming in ragged clouds that vanished instantly into the chill. Two years. Two years since the exile, since the disgrace that shattered his world and severed the bond, he'd thought unbreakable. His gaze, sharp and wary beneath the rim of his fur lined helm, scanned the treacherous path leading to this isolated perch, a natural choke point formed by the statue's massive, ice slicked base and the sheer obsidian wall of the Plaza's inner vault.

A flicker of movement. A shadow detaching itself from the deeper gloom near a fissure in the rock wall. Juro tensed, axes coming up instinctively, muscles coiling like springs in the frigid air. Then, recognition slammed into him, harder than any physical blow.

Takeshi.

Not a Blackcloak apparition, not a void phantom. His brother. Just 10 days older, but the separation felt like centuries etched in frost. Takeshi moved with the familiar, economical grace Juro remembered, the same lean build honed by fathers drills, though now clad in the stark, unadorned black leathers of the Void Guard, devoid of insignia save for the subtle, chilling shimmer of void touched thread at the seams. His face, once open and quick to smile beneath the shared dark hair, was a mask of controlled neutrality, but the eyes… the bright defiant ruby eyes Juro had known since infancy, eyes that had held shared secrets, shared scrapes, shared dreams… they were different. Colder. Distant. Like glaciers calved from the same source but now drifting apart in a frozen sea.

For a heartbeat, a treacherous, impossible warmth bloomed in Juro's chest, pushing back the Plaza's chill. He came. He found me. The old nickname, forged in childhood camaraderie, escaped Juro's lips in a rasp, rough with disuse and the Plaza's dry air, but carrying an echo of that lost warmth: "Take…"

He didn't lower his axes, but the aggressive stance faltered. Hope, fragile and stupid, flickered. Had Takeshi defected? Had he come to fight beside him? To explain? To apologize? The questions tumbled through Juro's mind, a desperate counterpoint to the battle raging far below.

Takeshi stopped a few paces away, just outside immediate axe range. His expression remained unreadable, but he offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Not hostile. Not yet. He took another step, closing the distance slightly, his posture relaxed, almost… conciliatory? His right hand rested casually near the hilt of the void sword sheathed at his hip, a Void Guard blade, Juro noted grimly, its pommel a simple, dark sphere that seemed to drink the faint light.

"Juro," Takeshi's voice was calm, level, devoid of the void distortion that marked Akuma's speech. It was just his brother's voice, slightly deeper than he remembered, but achingly familiar. "It's been a long time."

The sound of it, so normal amidst the cosmic horror surrounding them, was almost disorienting. Juro's grip on his axes loosened another fraction. The frozen knot of two years worth of betrayal and loneliness threatened to crack. "Too long," Juro managed, his own voice thick. "What… what are you doing here, Take? How did you find this place?" He scanned Takeshi's face, searching for any sign, any flicker of the brother he knew.

Takeshi took another step. Now he was well within striking distance. His calm facade didn't waver. "Following orders," he said simply. His gaze flickered past Juro, towards the ledge overlooking the distant fight, then back, meeting Juro's eyes directly. There was something in that look… not warmth, but a weary sort of acknowledgment. "Just like always."

The words were neutral, but the implication hung heavy. Orders. Void Guard orders. Juro's flicker of hope dimmed. "Orders?" he pressed, the edge returning to his voice. "Orders to what? Bring me in? Kill me?" He hefted the axe on his left slightly. "You know I won't go quietly."

Takeshi sighed, a soft exhalation that plumed in the cold. He looked almost… sad? Or was it just exhaustion? "It doesn't have to be like that, Juro." His hand, resting near his sword hilt, moved. Not a draw. Just a subtle shift. A settling of his grip. " It's… complicated."

Complicated. The word was a spark landing on dry tinder. Juro's eyes narrowed. The familiar gesture, the tone… it was the same tone Takeshi used when trying to talk him down from some reckless childhood stunt. But this wasn't a stolen apples. This was exile. Disgrace. The shattering of everything. "Complicated?" Juro's voice dropped to a low growl. "What's complicated, brother? You stood by while they cast me out. You wore their fucking black while they branded me traitor!" The old fury, banked but never extinguished, began to heat his blood, pushing back the cold dread.

Takeshi's expression hardened, the mask of weary neutrality cracking for the first time, revealing a flash of something colder beneath. "You brought it on yourself, Juro. You always did leap before you looked. You never considered the consequences. For anyone else." His hand tightened definitively on his sword hilt. The movement was still casual, but the intent was suddenly, horrifyingly clear. It wasn't a settling grip. It was preparation.

The treacherous warmth in Juro's chest froze solid. The flicker of hope died, replaced by a cold, sickening certainty. Takeshi hadn't come to reconcile. He hadn't come to fight beside him. He'd come for him. The betrayal wasn't just in the past; it was happening now, right here, on this lonely ledge.

The realization was a physical blow. It stole his breath. It tore through two decades of shared blood, shared laughter, shared pain. It reduced the unbreakable bond to ash in an instant. The raw, wounded fury that had fuelled his scream moments earlier surged back, amplified a thousandfold by the fresh, intimate knife twist of this deception.

"WE WERE FUCKING BROTHERS TAKE!" The roar ripped from Juro's throat, raw and primal, echoing his earlier cry but infused with a new, devastating layer of personal agony. It wasn't just a question; it was an accusation hurled across the chasm his brother had just carved between them.

As the final syllable tore from his lips, Takeshi moved. The conciliatory posture vanished like smoke. Calm became lethal intent. In one fluid motion, too fast for thought, his sword cleared its sheath. Not with a ringing cry of steel, but with a chilling hiss. The blade itself was a shard of darkness, forged from the same obsidian material as the Plaza, but its edge… its edge gleamed with a sickly, luminous blue sheen. Void venom.

It licked out, not in a wild slash, but in a precise, calculated thrust aimed straight for Juro's weapon hand, a disarming blow, swift and merciless, exploiting that microsecond of heart shattered hesitation.

"A brother doesn't disgrace the other and then leave him exiled, Juro," Takeshi stated coldly, his voice devoid of any warmth now, only a chilling finality as the poisoned blade sought its mark. "You made your choices. This is the consequence."

Instinct, honed by years of survival in the frozen hells beyond Astralon, overrode the paralyzing shock. Juro didn't think; he reacted. The axe on his right came down in a desperate parry. CLANGGGG! Frost forged steel met void touched obsidian. The impact jarred Juro's arm to the shoulder, sending needles of cold agony up his nerves, not just from the force, but from the unnatural chill radiating from the venomous edge. Sparks, white hot and defiant, flew and died instantly in the frigid air.

Takeshi didn't pause. His movements were a chilling blend of familiar Frostguard efficiency and a new, predatory void touched fluidity. He flowed into the opening created by the parry, his blade becoming a blur of dark, venom tipped lethality. A low sweep aimed at Juro's ankles, forcing him to leap back onto the precarious ledge. A high feint followed by a vicious thrust towards his ribs. Juro blocked, deflected, gave ground, his twin axes whirling in defensive arcs, the clash of steel on dark ice a brutal counterpoint to the distant battle sounds.

He was fighting defensively, driven back step by step by the ferocity and precision of Takeshi's assault. The initial shock had cost him. Takeshi pressed the advantage, his face a mask of cold focus, his defiant ruby eyes reflecting only the Plaza's jaundiced light and the lethal intent of his strikes. Each blow was economical, aimed to disable tendons, joints, weapon hands. He wasn't trying to kill immediately; he was trying to break, to capture.

"Still relying on brute force, Juro?" Takeshi taunted, his voice cold as the venom on his blade as he forced Juro into a tighter space near the weeping statue. A swift disengage and a flick of his wrist sent the poisoned tip slicing towards Juro's leading forearm. "Some things never change. You never learned control. Never learned to think before you shattered everything."

The taunt, laced with a brother's intimate knowledge of his flaws, stung deeper than the near miss. It ignited the battle hardened fury beneath Juro's grief. The defensive posture snapped. With a guttural roar, Juro stopped retreating. He planted his feet, grounding himself against the yielding ledge. Left axe slammed in a brutal overhead chop meant to shatter Takeshi's blade, while the right one swept horizontally in a disembowelling arc. CRACKKKK! WHOOOOOSH! Takeshi flowed back, deflecting the chop with a circular parry that sent shockwaves up Juro's arm and sidestepping the horizontal sweep with unnerving grace, the poisoned edge missing his abdomen by inches.

The fight erupted into pure, visceral chaos. No longer defender and aggressor, but two titans of equal strength and skill, their movements a deadly dance written in steel and shadow. Axe met sword in a furious exchange, sparks flying like frozen stars. They grappled briefly, strength against strength, before breaking apart with grunts of effort. Juro used his axes weight and leverage, powerful sweeps and crushing blows fuelled by rage and betrayal. Takeshi used speed, precision, and the insidious threat of the venom, his void touched blade darting like a serpent's tongue, exploiting openings Juro left in his fury.

They fought across the narrow ledge, boots scraping on ice slicked stone, ducking beneath the weeping statue's frozen tears, their shadows monstrous and warring on the obsidian wall. The air filled with the grunts of effort, the sharp clang and hiss of clashing weapons, the rasp of their breath. Below, the battle seemed momentarily forgotten; this was a personal apocalypse.

During a brief lull, blades locked near the statue's base, faces inches apart, breath mingling in frozen plumes, Takeshi's mask slipped again. Not into sadness, but into something darker, uglier. His defiant ruby eyes burned with a hatred Juro had never seen directed at him before. It wasn't just duty; it was personal, searing loathing.

"You think exile was the worst of it, Juro?" Takeshi hissed, his voice thick with venom that had nothing to do with his blade. He shoved hard, breaking the lock and forcing Juro back a step. "You think you suffered? You ran. You hid. But Istayed. I bore the weight of your disgrace." He launched a furious flurry, forcing Juro onto the defensive once more. "They stripped me of my rank. Took my command. The respect I'd earned, the future I'd built… gone! Because of you! Because I shared your blood!" His next thrust was savage, aimed straight for Juro's heart. Juro barely deflected it, the venomous edge screeching along right axes haft. "I lost everything, Juro. Everything I worked for. Everything I was. Because my brother was a reckless, honourless fool!" The words were flung like daggers, each one finding its mark in Juro's already shattered heart. The hatred in Takeshi's eyes was terrifyingly real. A mask, perhaps, but one crafted from genuine, festering resentment.

Juro staggered, not just from the physical force, but from the sheer, unexpected vitriol. The fight raged on, perfectly balanced, axe against venomous sword, brother against brother, the ledge their crumbling world, the echoes of Takeshi's bitter hatred hanging heavier in the air than the mountain's stench. The consequence of disgrace wasn't just exile; it was the annihilation of kinship itself, played out in steel and venom high above the Plaza of Screams.

The Plaza's oppressive hum faded beneath the brutal symphony of clashing steel. Takeshi's venom tipped blade hissed past Juro's throat, missing by a hair's breadth as Juro threw himself sideways, left axe scraping sparks off the obsidian ledge. The cold fury radiating from his brother was a physical force, colder than the void venom, colder than the Plaza's depths. It fuelled Takeshi's relentless assault, precise, economical, void touched strikes exploiting every fractional opening Juro's rage created.

Juro fought back with the raw power honed in exile, his twin axes, carving arcs of frost forged defiance. He matched Takeshi's speed with brute strength, parrying the serpentine thrusts, deflecting the crippling sweeps aimed at his knees and elbows. Their movements were a deadly echo of a thousand sparring sessions in the Fujiwara dojo, yet twisted into something monstrous. Takeshi knew Juro's favoured combinations; Juro anticipated Takeshi's defensive pivots. They were mirrors reflecting only violence.

Juro blocked a low thrust aimed at his hip, the venomous edge screeching along the right axes haft, sending a fresh wave of unnatural cold up his arm. The impact jarred him, but it was Takeshi's words that truly struck deep, resonating in the hollow space where brotherhood had once lived.

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"You were always Father's favourite," Takeshi spat, his voice devoid of its earlier deceptive calm, now laced with a bitterness that felt ancient. He disengaged, flowing into a guarded stance, his defiant ruby eyes fixed on Juro with that terrifying, personal loathing. "Even when I bled on the dojo mats, pouring everything I had into every kata, every drill... his eyes always found you. The natural. The true heir." He launched forward again, not with a killing blow, but a rapid series of feints and probing jabs designed to wear Juro down, to find the crack in his defence or his spirit. "Did you ever even notice? Or were you too busy basking in his approval?"

The accusation landed like a hammer blow to Juro's soul. It wasn't just anger in Takeshi's voice; it was a lifetime of perceived injustice, raw and festering. Juro deflected the jabs, the impacts sending shivers of cold venom through his axes. "Why?" The word tore from him, low and ragged, more a gasp than a question, lost in the clash of steel. It wasn't just about the Void Guard, the betrayal now. It was about everything. Why this hatred? Why now? Why does it feel like I never knew you at all?

CRUNCHHHH! Juro caught a vicious overhead chop on both axe hafts crossed above his head. The force drove him down onto one knee, the obsidian ledge biting into his armour. Takeshi loomed over him, the venomous blade pressing down, its sickly blue sheen inches from Juro's face. Takeshi's expression was a mask of pure contempt, yet… for a fraction of a second, as their eyes locked over the crossed weapons, Juro thought he saw a flicker. Not hatred, but something else, pain? Exhaustion? , deep within those familiar defiant ruby eyes. It was gone instantly, replaced by hardened ice.

"This isn't you, Takeshi!" Juro roared, straining against the downward pressure, muscles screaming. The proximity, the sheer intimacy of the violence against his own flesh and blood, was a unique torture. "What did they promise you? Power? Status? Revenge against Father? What poison did they drip in your ear to turn you into this?"

Takeshi's lips twisted in a humourless sneer. He leaned his weight into the blade. "Promises?" The word was a frozen dagger. "I didn't need their promises, Juro. I needed execute my vengeance my path my will and desire my only soul goal." He shoved hard, breaking the lock and forcing Juro to roll desperately away as the venomous tip stabbed down where his head had been. "Vengance for the life you stole. The future you shattered when they me out like garbage because of YOU!"

Juro scrambled to his feet, chest heaving, the cold venom numbness spreading from his axe hafts into his hands. Takeshi's words were arrows finding gaps in his armour he hadn't known existed. Vengance? For exile? It felt disproportionate, insane. Yet the raw conviction in Takeshi's voice, the depth of the loathing in his eyes… it was terrifyingly real. Why? Why does it burn so deep? The question screamed silently in Juro's mind with every beat of his heart, every clash of their weapons. He saw the brother he trained beside, shared secrets with, trusted implicitly… and saw only a stranger forged in bitterness.

Takeshi pressed the attack, his movements regaining their lethal fluidity. He drove Juro back towards the massive, weeping statue, its frozen tears dripping thick, dark fluid onto the ledge. Juro fought defensively again, parrying, dodging, the psychological weight of Takeshi's hatred a tangible force slowing his reactions, clouding his judgment. He saw openings but hesitated, second guessing, the question Why? echoing in the split second decisions of combat.

Then Takeshi executed The Pheonix Wing, their father's signature combination, drilled into them both since they could hold wooden swords. A blindingly fast low sweep aimed at Juro's ankles, designed to force a high block or jump, immediately followed by a committed, powerful overhead thrust targeting the exposed centreline.

As Takeshi dropped into the low sweep, blade hissing inches above the stone, time fractured.

Fujiwara Dojo, Ten Years Earlier loomed into reality….

Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. The scent of polished wood, sweat, and leather wraps filled the air, a stark contrast to the Plaza's decay. A younger Takeshi, face set in fierce concentration, executed The Phoenix wing against Juro. Their father, Lord Takahashi Fujiwara, a stern but proud figure, watched intently from the sidelines. Takeshi's sweep was perfect, forcing Juro to leap. The follow up thrust was fast, true… but Juro, quicker, stronger even then, twisted mid air, using his wooden sword not to block, but to hook Takeshi's thrusting arm, leveraging his momentum to slam Takeshi hard onto the mats. THUDDDD!

"Enough!" Lord Fujiwara's voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the dojo. He strode forward, his gaze fixed not on Takeshi, winded on the floor, but on Juro, who stood poised, barely breathing hard. "Juro. Again. Show your brother the commitment required. The thrust must be unstoppable, not a feint to be exploited." He turned to Takeshi, his expression hardening. "Control, Takeshi. Precision is wasted without the will to finish. You hesitate."

Takeshi pushed himself up, face flushed with exertion and humiliation. He met his father's gaze, then Juro's. There was no hatred then, only a deep, burning frustration and… something else. A flicker of desperate longing for approval Juro seemed to garner effortlessly.

Then a snap back to present..

The overhead thrust descended, a shard of venomous darkness aimed at Juro's heart, identical to the one in the flashback. The echo of his father's voice, "You hesitate" seemed to scream in Juro's mind alongside Takeshi's current hatred. The psychological battlefield within Juro collapsed into a single point of terrifying clarity: He blames me for Father. For everything.

Instinct, muscle memory forged in that sunlit dojo, took over. Juro didn't try to block the thrust head on. Instead, he mirrored his younger self's desperate move. He dropped his left axe, letting it clatter to the ledge, and used his now free hand to grab Takeshi's thrusting wrist just below the guard, exactly as he'd hooked his arm years ago. Simultaneously, the right axe, not to attack, but to brace against Takeshi's chest, using his own momentum against him.

THUDDDD SCRAAPEEEEE!

It wasn't a clean throw onto mats. Juro lacked the leverage and space. Takeshi stumbled forward violently, his venomous blade scraping harmlessly against the weeping statue's base as Juro wrenched his arm and shoved hard with the right axe. Takeshi crashed shoulder first into the slick, obsidian wall beside the statue, the impact jarring a grunt from him. He rebounded, momentarily off balance, his sword arm trapped awkwardly against the stone.

Juro stood panting, his axe still extended, the other one lying useless near his feet. The Plaza's stench flooded back. The distant battle sounds roared in his ears. He stared at his brother, pinned for a moment against the weeping stone, the mask of pure hatred momentarily fractured by shock and the jarring impact. Takeshi's defiant ruby eyes met Juro's, wide with surprise and… something else? A flicker of the boy from the dojo? Or just the shock of a tactic he hadn't expected Juro to remember, let alone use?

The hesitation was microscopic. But it was there. A crack in the facade of absolute vengeance. Juro saw it. The question Why? transformed into a desperate, silent plea: Who are you now, brother? And who made you this way?

Takeshi recovered fast, pushing off the wall, his venomous blade coming up, the hatred snapping back into place, colder, harder. "Sentiment?" he sneered, the word dripping with contempt, though his breathing was slightly quicker. "Still your weakness, Juro." He settled back into his fighting stance, ready to renew the assault. The moment of vulnerability was gone, buried again beneath the mask of the Void Guard enforcer and the brother consumed by a bitter, burning need for revenge. The deadly dance on the crumbling ledge was far from over.

The crack in Takeshi's mask, that fleeting glimpse of the brother Juro knew, vanished as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath a fresh wave of icy hatred. "Sentiment? Still your weakness, Juro," Takeshi spat, settling back into his lethal stance, the venomous blade gleaming with renewed menace. The enforcer was back, the brother lost once more.

Something within Juro shattered. Not hope this time, but restraint. The sight of that familiar pain flickering in Takeshi's eyes, instantly smothered by the void forged persona, ignited a supernova of pure, unadulterated fury. It wasn't just battle rage; it was the incandescent grief of two years of loss, betrayal, and now, the unbearable torment of seeing the ghost of his brother trapped behind enemy eyes.

"NO MORE!" Juro roared, the sound raw enough to scrape his throat bloody. He abandoned defence. He abandoned finesse. He became pure, relentless offense, a force of nature fuelled by anguish. Both axes became extensions of his fury, whirling in devastating arcs that forced Takeshi back, step by desperate step, towards the weeping statue. The ledge seemed to tremble under the onslaught. Takeshi parried, deflected, but the sheer, overwhelming power and speed of Juro's assault, driven by a grief that transcended pain, pushed him beyond his void touched precision. The cold calculation in Takeshi's eyes flickered, replaced by genuine surprise, then dawning alarm.

"WHAT DID THEY PROMISE YOU?" Juro bellowed, tears streaming freely down his battle grimed face, hot against the Plaza's chill, freezing instantly into icy tracks. Each word was a hammer blow punctuated by the clash of steel. "POWER? A TITLE? YOUR PATHETIC RANK BACK?" CRACK! A blow jarred Takeshi's sword arm. "WAS IT WORTH SELLING YOUR SOUL?" SCREEE! Venomous steel shrieked against frost forged haft. "WHAT DID THEY DO TO MY BROTHER?" The final scream tore from Juro's soul, raw and broken, echoing Takeshi's own earlier cry of betrayal. "WHAT DID THEY DO TO TAKE?"

The sound of his childhood name, screamed with such profound, tear streaked agony, was the detonator. Takeshi's defence faltered. His defiant ruby eyes, moments ago filled with manufactured hate, widened. The void hardened mask didn't just crack; it shattered. Raw, unguarded emotion flooded his face, shock, profound sorrow, and a desperate, aching love that had been buried, not destroyed. He lowered his blade a fraction, his mouth opening, not to snarl, but to speak, to explain, to plead.

Juro, blinded by the white hot haze of his own fury, the tears blurring his vision, saw only an opening. He saw the lowered guard, the hesitation of the enemy. The brother was lost in the red mist. With a guttural cry of finality, Juro lunged, committing all his weight and momentum into a single, brutal thrust with left axe, aiming not for a disabling blow, but for the heart.

PUNCHHHH SQUELCHHHHH.

The sound was sickeningly intimate. The frost forged point of the axe punched through Takeshi's void leathers just below the collarbone, skewering deep into the meat of his shoulder, missing vital arteries by inches. Not a killing blow, but a grievous wound. Ichor, dark and steaming, welled around the blade.

Juro felt the impact jar up his arm. He expected a cry of pain, a snarl of defiance, the death rattle of a traitor. He didn't expect the soft gasp. He didn't expect the hand that came up, not to claw at the blade, but to rest weakly on his wrist. He didn't expect the smile.

Through the haze of rage and tears, Juro saw it. Takeshi's head was tilted back slightly against the impact, but his eyes were locked on Juro's. And on his lips, despite the agony, despite the dark blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, was a smile. The real smile. The one Juro hadn't seen in two long, desolate years. The lopsided, genuine grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes, the one reserved for shared triumphs, stupid jokes, and moments of pure, uncomplicated brotherhood. It was a beacon in the Plaza's gloom, utterly incongruous and devastatingly familiar.

Juro froze. The white hot fury evaporated, replaced by an icy wave of shock that washed away the battle haze. He stared, his own breath catching, the tears still flowing but now born of confusion and dawning horror. What? The question screamed silently in his mind. The hatred he'd fought, the loathing he'd believed in… it wasn't reflected in that smile. Only pain, relief, and… love?

Takeshi's grip on Juro's wrist tightened weakly. The smile remained, fragile but unwavering. "J..Juro…" he gasped, blood staining his teeth. The voice was weak, stripped of Void Guard coldness, stripped of bitter resentment. It was just Take's voice, strained with pain but achingly familiar. "I… I could never hate you… brother." Tears welled in his own eyes, spilling over and tracing paths through the grime on his cheeks. "Never… no matter what… I knew… our paths diverged… it was just… destiny…"

Juro's hand trembled violently on the haft of the axe. He tried to speak, but only a choked sob escaped. Takeshi continued, the words tumbling out in ragged bursts, each one a hammer blow to the wall Juro had built around his heart.

"I wasn't… good enough… to be Head of House Fujiwara… Father knew it… I knew it…" A shuddering breath. "But you… Juro… when you stood… in the ceremony… the mantle placed on your shoulders…" The smile widened fractionally, filled with a painful pride. "I was there… in the shadows… watching…" He coughed, more dark blood appearing. "I was… so overjoyed… I couldn't hide it… truly… brother… I love you… I've never… harboured hatred for you… How could… I… after all… we are brothers…"

The confession hung in the air, shattering Juro's world. The exile, the Void Guard, the venomous blade, the bitter words, all a performance? Takeshi winced, pain flaring as he shifted slightly. "The reason… why…" he gasped, urgency entering his voice. "Father… conspires with Ryo… They plan… to destroy Nyxarion… We cannot… let that happen… I learned of this the night I got exiled…so… ive been acting…as… a spy"

Juro's eyes widened. Father? Conspiring with the Butcher King?

"Nyxara…" Takeshi pressed on, his voice gaining a sliver of strength born of conviction. "She is not evil… Only painted that way… so Ryo looks… the saviour… She fights… for her people… A true queen… That's all… I know…" He met Juro's stunned gaze, the love in his eyes undeniable. "But more than that… I'm glad… I could see you… Juro…"

The dam broke. Juro wrenched the axe free from Takeshi's shoulder with a cry that was half sob, half scream. He dropped both axes, the clatter echoing dully on the ledge. He didn't see the wound, the blood, the Void Guard leathers. He only saw his brother, broken but finally, finally here. He lunged forward, not with violence, but with desperate, crushing need, wrapping his arms around Takeshi in a hug that ignored the injury, the pain, the years of separation. He buried his face in Takeshi's uninjured shoulder, his body wracked with violent, uncontrollable sobs.

"Take…" he choked out, the word muffled, saturated with tears. "Take… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I love you too… brother… I love you…"

Takeshi groaned in pain but returned the embrace as best he could with his good arm, his own tears mingling with Juro's. The hatred, the Void, the Plaza of Screams, none of it mattered in that fragile, reclaimed moment of kinship.

After a long moment, Takeshi gently pushed Juro back, his face pale but resolute. "Juro… listen…" He winced, pressing a hand to his bleeding shoulder. "Volrag… down there… with Ryota…"

Juro stiffened, wiping his face hastily. "The traitor?"

"Not… by choice," Takeshi said urgently. "Twisted… by Ryo… by House Malkor… Poisoned… like they tried with me." He met Juro's eyes. "He doesn't want… to fight Ryota… He see's him… as his father… The only person… he cares for…" Takeshi's expression was grim. "It's all… for Ryo's plan… To destroy Nyxara… fracture the north…" He took a ragged breath. "Now… go! Help your friends… Our brothers… not in blood… but always… Haruto… the others… They need you… Akuma…" A weak, pained chuckle escaped him. "Akuma is… one twisted fucker… hah…"

Juro's gaze snapped to the grievous wound in Takeshi's shoulder, dark ichor welling steadily. "But your wounds…!"

Takeshi shook his head, forcing another faint, pained smile, the real one. "It's nothing… Don't worry… Your friends… need you… Now, Juro." His voice held the old, familiar note of command, softened by affection. "Go… Be the Head… of House Fujiwara… Protect your people…"

He gripped Juro's arm with surprising strength. "I hope… to see you… again… brother…"

Juro looked from Takeshi's earnest, pain filled face to the chaotic maelstrom of light and void far below. Haruto's desperate fight, Ryota's guttering star, Shiro and Kuro's defiance against impossible horror, they needed him. The cycle of hatred that had almost consumed him and Takeshi was broken. But the larger battle raged on. He nodded once, a fierce determination replacing the tears. He scooped up both axes, the axes feeling lighter now, purpose renewed.

He clasped Takeshi's forearm one last time, a warrior's grip, a brother's promise. "Stay alive, Take. I will see you again." Without another word, Juro turned and sprinted towards the edge of the ledge, leaping down towards the fray, leaving his wounded brother leaning against the weeping stone, a silent testament to a bond reforged in blood and tears. The personal war was over. The fight for Nyxarion demanded its due. But first comes Akuma.

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