And Still, He Walks

[Yukiiiiiiiiiiii]

Some children are born screaming, fighting the air itself as though their soul remembers something it never wanted to leave.

Not him.

The caretakers said he didn't cry, not once. Just blinked slowly, as if waking from a long sleep. They said his eyes were clear — not confused, not afraid — just quietly watching.

They named him Akari, because he seemed to glow under sunlight. Not in the literal way children imagine magic, but something subtler. A stillness. A peace. A light that didn't come from the outside.

He was raised in a countryside orphanage nestled between two small hills and a winding road. The building was old but clean, surrounded by rice paddies, wildflowers, and the rustle of bamboo groves. The children ran, scraped their knees, cried over broken toys.

But Akari… was different.

He never fought over snacks. Never raised his voice. Never held a grudge when another child pushed him down or took something from his bed. He simply smiled — not passively, but like he genuinely didn't mind.

It wasn't because he didn't feel.

He felt everything — the sadness of the girl who missed her parents, the silent frustration of the boy who couldn't read, the tiredness in the old caretaker's bones. Akari noticed. He always noticed.

And he gave what he could.

A hand on a shoulder. A blanket straightened. A smile in passing.

He didn't speak often, but when he did, people listened — even if they didn't understand why.

---

Foster families came and went.

At first, they were excited. He was polite, quiet, helpful. Easy to feed. Easy to manage.

But none of them kept him.

Not because he was a problem — but because he wasn't.

"He's too good," one woman said, after only three weeks. She wouldn't look the social worker in the eyes.

"I feel like I'm failing just by being near him," another muttered, returning him with shaking hands.

"He doesn't judge you," the caseworker once whispered to herself. "But he makes you see yourself. That's almost worse."

---

By sixteen, Akari knew the pattern.

People were kind, but they didn't stay.

He wasn't sad about it. Not exactly. Just… understanding. He never begged anyone to keep him. Never cried when he was packed up again.

"It's okay," he told the caseworker once, gently folding his shirts into a worn duffel bag. "Sometimes people are only meant to pass through."

She cried in the car ride back.

---

When he requested emancipation, the paperwork was quick. No objections. Even the orphanage, though saddened, understood.

He moved into a small, one-room apartment with an old gas stove and a creaky balcony that faced the sunrise.

It was quiet.

He liked quiet.

---

When it came time to choose a high school, Akari looked through the list provided by the city. Most were too far. Some were too expensive. Others just didn't feel right.

But one name stayed with him — Kuoh Academy.

He didn't know why.

No dreams. No signs. Just a quiet certainty.

Something pulled him there — not with force, but with familiarity. Like a path he'd walked before in another life.

He packed his bag.

He took the train.

He stepped into a new town like a drop of water falling into a still lake.

And somewhere far above — beyond sky, beyond stars, beyond the broken order of Heaven —

Something watched.

Not a god.

Not anymore.

But something that remembered what it was to be one.

It did not speak.

It only watched, and hoped.

---

The wind in Kuoh was different.

Softer.

It carried the smell of trees and pavement, of morning dew evaporating slowly from the schoolyard bricks. Akari Shouya paused at the gate of Kuoh Academy, hands resting lightly on the strap of his bag, and took in the sound of rustling leaves above him.

He'd arrived early.

The school wasn't busy yet — just a few students chatting in small groups or walking across the courtyard. Laughter, footsteps, the occasional ringing of a bicycle bell in the distance.

It was a nice kind of quiet.

The kind that wasn't empty.

The kind that felt like it had room for him.

---

The building was tall but not imposing. The hallways smelled faintly of chalk and floor polish. His shoes squeaked slightly on the waxed floors as he was led to his new class.

The teacher gave him a brief, polite smile.

"You'll be in Class 2-B. Most students here are kind, if a little curious."

Akari nodded. "I don't mind."

"You're living alone, correct?" she asked, glancing at the form in her hands. "Is the apartment situation alright?"

"Yes. It's small, but it's enough."

She looked at him for a moment longer than necessary. Then gave a soft, approving nod, and opened the classroom door.

---

"Everyone," she said, stepping in ahead of him. "This is Akari Shouya. He transferred here recently. Please treat him well."

Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward him.

He bowed quietly. "It's nice to meet you."

Some murmurs rippled through the class — not unkind, just curious.

Akari didn't look at them too long. He'd learned that people sometimes felt uncomfortable when he held eye contact. Not because he glared. But because he didn't.

---

He was seated near the window.

Second from the back. The desk was clean, a bit scratched. The window beside him overlooked the school grounds — trees, the track field, and further off, the sloping hills that led toward town.

He sat quietly.

Took out a pen.

Watched a bird settle in the branches outside.

---

"Hey, Matsuda," someone whispered a few seats behind him. "He kinda looks like a girl, right?"

"No, no — like a doll," came the reply. "Like one of those super pure types in dramas."

"Think he's a church kid?"

"Too soft. Church kids get mad when you curse."

Akari heard all of it. He didn't react.

Not because he was ignoring them. Just... because it didn't bother him.

It was normal.

People always tried to figure him out first.

Eventually, most stopped trying.

---

The teacher handed out worksheets. The first lesson was on classical Japanese literature — quiet reading, underlined kanji, the occasional group whisper over unfamiliar terms.

Akari finished his section early and set his pen down.

He didn't look around. Didn't tap his fingers. Just waited, gazing softly out the window.

The bird was still there.

He smiled a little.

---

Lunchtime came quickly.

He packed his things neatly and left the classroom without hurry. A few students passed him in the hallway, nudging each other, whispering, laughing. Some nodded politely.

He nodded back.

He wasn't trying to be invisible.

He just didn't mind being alone.

---

He ate under a tree in the far corner of the courtyard. Shade filtered down through the leaves, creating patches of light on the grass.

His bento box was simple — rice, pickled radish, and two slices of sweet tamagoyaki. Made by his own hands early that morning, like he'd always done since he left the orphanage.

He opened it slowly. Took his time.

A sparrow landed a few steps away, pecking curiously at the ground. Akari broke off a small piece of egg and laid it gently beside him.

The bird hopped forward.

Then another joined it.

Soon, four small birds gathered around him, pecking politely, not startled by his presence.

He watched them quietly, eating between glances. He never reached for them. Never tried to touch. Just shared the space.

---

He didn't notice the girl watching him at first.

She stood a short distance away, her fingers clasped in front of her skirt. Blonde hair, green eyes, soft features. Nervous.

Asia Argento.

Akari blinked at her. Then smiled.

She approached slowly, hesitating every few steps. She stopped a little ways off, like she was afraid of disturbing something.

"Um… you're feeding them?" she asked.

Akari nodded. "They looked hungry."

She crouched beside him, tucking her knees neatly. The birds flinched but didn't fly away.

"They're not scared of you," she said softly.

"I don't think I'm scary," he replied.

Asia giggled once, quickly covering her mouth.

She looked at him again, studying his face — not like she was looking for anything, but like she wasn't sure how someone could be that still.

"Do you like animals?" she asked.

"I like quiet things."

"Oh," she said, then nodded quickly. "Me too."

They sat like that for a few more minutes. Nothing important was said. They didn't trade stories. They didn't ask questions. They just sat in the quiet and shared their lunch with the birds.

When the bell rang again, they stood at the same time.

Asia bowed slightly. "It was nice sitting with you."

"You too."

And they left the shade of the tree together — not as friends, not yet, but as two quiet people who had shared a gentle moment in a noisy world.

---

From the second-floor window of the Occult Research Club, Rias Gremory watched them with a thoughtful expression.

"He's strange," she murmured.

"Not dangerous," Akeno replied, brushing a hand through her long dark hair. "Just… calm."

"Too calm," Rias said.

"Or maybe," Akeno said with a soft smile, "he's not hiding anything."

Rias looked down again.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"We'll see."

---

Evening came slowly in Kuoh.

The sun dipped behind the hills, painting the clouds in soft orange and pink. The town grew quieter with every passing minute. Schoolchildren walked home in clusters. Shops clicked off their lights. Stray cats stretched out on warm concrete before the night settled in.

Akari Shouya stepped off the bus and walked the rest of the way home.

His apartment was nestled in a quiet corner of town, above an old hardware store that barely stayed open. The stairs creaked under his weight, even though he was light-footed. At the top, a narrow walkway led to a small unit with a pale blue door.

He unlocked it and stepped inside.

It wasn't much — a single room with a tatami mat floor, a low table, a futon rolled neatly in the corner. The kitchen was just a sink, a gas burner, and a rice cooker that had seen better days. A tiny balcony stretched out behind sliding paper doors, just wide enough for two potted plants and a stool.

But it was clean.

And it was quiet.

And it was his.

---

Akari took off his shoes and set his bag by the wall. He knelt to sweep the floor, even though there was nothing visible to sweep. Dust had a way of finding its way into even the stillest places.

He straightened the cushion at the table. Opened the windows. Let the air breathe.

Then he changed out of his uniform and folded it carefully, placing it over the back of a chair.

The sun had nearly set.

In the fading light, he lit a single candle on the table.

Not because of power outages.

Just because it felt... peaceful.

---

Dinner was modest: leftover rice, miso soup from the night before, one soft-boiled egg. He added a pinch of salt with care, as if seasoning mattered more in quiet rooms.

He ate slowly.

Grateful for every bite.

He never rushed meals — not even alone. Especially not alone. He believed food tasted better when you respected it. And that even the smallest routines could be sacred if you treated them gently.

---

After washing the dishes, he opened his notebook and began to review the day's lessons. Literature first. Then math. Then a short essay for ethics class — the prompt asked what made a person "good."

He stared at the blank page for a long time.

Then, finally, wrote:

"Goodness isn't a goal.

It's not a set of rules or a reward.

It's how you treat things when no one asks you to.

And how you choose not to harm,

Even when it would be easier."

He didn't write more. Just closed the notebook softly.

Outside, the cicadas had begun their summer chorus. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent again.

---

Akari stepped out onto the balcony. The stool creaked faintly as he sat. Below, the town was settling into sleep. Streetlights hummed. A breeze stirred the leaves of the potted herbs beside him.

He looked up.

The stars weren't bright here — too much haze, too many lights — but a few still pierced through the sky. Distant. Steady.

He wondered if they ever got lonely.

He thought, sometimes, about people.

How they rushed. How they reached. How they hurt each other without meaning to.

How much noise there was in the world — and how much of it came from fear.

He didn't blame them.

But he didn't want to join them, either.

---

From deep beyond the night sky — further than stars, older than memory — something watched.

No voice. No command.

Just presence.

Like a breeze that always touched his shoulder, even when the wind was still.

Not to push him forward.

Just to remind him:

He was seen.

He was not alone.

Even here, in a small apartment at the edge of a town that didn't know him, Akari Shouya was not forgotten.

---

The rooftop was quiet.

Above the school, the wind moved with a hush, brushing through the railings and across the concrete like a breath that didn't want to disturb anything. The sun dipped low, the sky turning from bright gold to a soft, bruised lavender.

Akari opened the door slowly, gently. It creaked. He waited for a moment before stepping outside, as if asking permission from the silence.

Someone was already there.

A small girl sat near the edge of the rooftop, her back to the door. She didn't flinch, didn't turn, but her ears twitched slightly — not visibly, but enough for Akari to notice.

She had white hair and a stillness about her that wasn't cold. It was defensive, but not unfriendly. Like a wild animal that had learned not to run unless necessary.

He didn't speak.

He simply walked a little to the side — not close, but not so far that he seemed like he was avoiding her — and sat with his back to the wall.

The rooftop offered a wide view of Kuoh. Trees, rooftops, hills. The breeze smelled like leaves and faint exhaust. Peaceful, in its own way.

---

Minutes passed.

Not awkward.

Just quiet.

Eventually, the girl spoke without turning her head.

"You're not supposed to be up here."

Akari looked at her, calm. "Are you?"

She didn't answer that.

He didn't press.

The breeze whispered between them.

---

"You're not from around here," she said, more observation than question.

"No."

"Why are you here?"

Akari thought about that for a moment. Then replied, softly, "Because I needed to be."

She looked at him then, just slightly — not turning her whole head, just her eyes.

That answer wasn't one most people would give.

And yet, somehow, it made sense coming from him.

---

She reached into her bento box, pulled out a small piece of castella cake, and placed it on the ground between them.

He blinked. Then smiled faintly.

"You're sharing?"

"You don't look like you eat enough."

"Maybe I'm just small."

"Maybe," she said flatly.

He took the cake gently, as though it were something precious.

She noticed that — how even his hands moved carefully, like he was afraid of harming the world around him by mistake.

He opened his own small lunch: rice, a piece of pickled plum, and one neatly peeled slice of orange.

He slid the orange slice toward her.

She stared at it for a moment.

Then picked it up.

No words were exchanged over it. But something passed between them.

---

"You don't ask a lot of questions," she said.

"People talk when they want to."

"I don't."

He nodded. "Then we can just sit."

And they did.

---

A sparrow landed near Akari's knee.

Then another.

Koneko noticed. Her eyes narrowed faintly, but she said nothing.

Akari didn't move. Just broke a corner of rice from his onigiri and gently placed it on the ground. The birds hopped forward without fear.

"They don't run from you," Koneko said.

"They know I won't hurt them."

She studied him for a long time.

Most people had something inside — pressure, weight, noise. But he didn't. He was still in a way she had never sensed before.

"Have you ever been in a fight?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't think I would know how."

She tilted her head. "Then how do you survive?"

"I live."

He looked at her.

And somehow, that answer didn't sound naïve.

It sounded honest.

---

She didn't say anything more.

The bell rang not long after. But neither of them moved right away.

Eventually, Koneko stood, brushing her skirt with one hand. Akari did the same, folding his bento quietly.

She turned to him before leaving.

"You're not from the Church, are you?"

Akari blinked. "No. Should I be?"

She studied his expression — not confused, not defensive. Just calm.

"No," she muttered. "You wouldn't fit."

And then she left.

Leaving the rooftop just as silent as before — but now, it held a little warmth where they had sat.

---

The sun had dipped low, turning the stained-glass windows of the Occult Research Club into shimmering tapestries of ruby and gold. Shadows stretched long across the carpeted floor. Teacups clinked softly.

Rias Gremory sat in thought, fingers pressed together.

Around her were her household: Akeno, as serene as ever; Koneko, expression unreadable; Asia, nervous but attentive; Kiba, thoughtful; and Issei, half-slouching in his seat but listening.

The quiet was unusual — but not unwelcome.

Rias broke it.

"Akari Shouya."

Everyone looked up.

"The new second-year," she continued. "What do we think?"

"I think he's got better skin than half the girls in school," Issei muttered. "And his smile's kinda freaky, honestly. Like he's never been mad in his life."

"That's because he probably hasn't," Asia said quietly.

All eyes turned to her.

"I sat with him during lunch. I don't know how to explain it. It's like… being near him makes everything else softer. Like you're sitting in sunlight."

"That's holy energy," Kiba said. "Maybe a priest-in-training?"

Koneko shook her head. "No markings. No fear."

"He came to the rooftop," she added. "Didn't force conversation. Shared food. Didn't flinch when the birds came close."

Akeno raised an eyebrow. "Birds?"

"Sparrows," Koneko said. "They came to him. Sat by his knee."

Asia gave a little nod. "It happened in the courtyard too. Even animals seem drawn to him."

Rias leaned back, lips pursed.

"That would explain the sense of 'light' I felt," she murmured. "When I passed him in the hallway, it was like walking through a patch of still air."

"Doesn't feel human," Kiba added.

"Doesn't feel supernatural either," Rias said. "No aura. No residue. No pressure. Nothing."

"Maybe that's the strange part," Akeno suggested. "He's too normal."

Rias looked at Koneko again. "You asked him about the Church?"

"I did," Koneko said. "He didn't even know what I meant."

"Could be lying."

"He doesn't feel like someone who knows how to lie."

---

Rias stood and crossed the room to the window. Outside, students walked home. Akari was among them — alone, as usual. The wind passed through his hair, but he never looked rushed. Never distracted. Always just... there.

Still.

"You don't meet many people like that," she said quietly.

"What should we do?" Asia asked.

"For now, nothing," Rias replied.

"But we keep watching."

"Just in case?" Issei asked.

"No," Rias said, almost gently. "Because someone like him shouldn't exist without reason."

 

[Yukiiiiiiiiiiii]

In the beginning, there was light.


Not the light that blinds.
Not the light that demands worship.


Just... clarity.
A truth so quiet it could only be felt — not spoken.
A presence that warmed, forgave, and held all things without grasping.


And once — long ago — that light had worn human skin.


He had walked among them.
Not as a king.
Not as a warrior.
Not even as one who demanded to be followed.


He had broken bread with the poor.
He had knelt beside the sick.
He had wept when friends died and smiled at children who offered him flowers.


He had loved.
And he had been broken for it.


The world had not known what it was holding.

---

And when he died — when his blood soaked the dust and the skies darkened in mourning — the divine trembled.


Heaven did not shatter that day.


It fractured.


And in that fracture, the voice that had once shaped creation...
splintered.


Part of it vanished into silence.


The rest?


It followed him.


Not into death.


But into the spaces beyond time, where souls do not sleep, but wait.

---

Ages passed.
Names changed.
Kingdoms rose and fell.
Altars were built and destroyed in his name.


But the boy — the soul — remained silent.


Not gone.


Just waiting.

---

The remnant — what little remained of that divine clarity — drifted.
Weakened. Wordless.
But still watching.


Until it found him again.


Not in a stable. Not beneath a star.


But on a quiet doorstep in a countryside town, under soft morning light.


A baby, swaddled and silent.
Eyes wide, as if recognizing the sky.


He bore no halo.
No flame marked his brow.
No voice called him "Son."


But the remnant remembered.


The shape of his soul — so familiar.
So worn from love.
So wounded from memory.


And yet...


Still radiant.

---

It stayed close as he grew.
Not to awaken him.
Not to burden him.
Only to watch.


He did not preach.
He did not command.


But he forgave.
He fed.
He soothed.
He loved.


Not with passion, but with patience.
Not with sermons, but with presence.


He washed the feet of the world, even when it kicked him away.


He did not know who he had been.


But he still lived as he always had.

---

The world did not recognize him.


Even Heaven — broken and bleeding across dimensions — had forgotten his name.


But the remnant had not.


It would not call him "savior."


It would not ask him to die again.


It only hoped:


That this time, he would be allowed to simply live.

---

Let the devils plot.
Let angels doubt.
Let gods play their games.


He is not their pawn.


He is not their answer.


He is the question they fear:


What if goodness was never meant to rule — only to endure?

---

He is enough.


A light that did not return with thunder.


A soul that simply never left.

 

[Starman25]

Thanks for chapter

Click to shrink...

 

[trashtaker]

This isn't a YahWeh fic.

This is a Jesus Christ fic.

MY LORD AND SAVIOR