Quick A/N: Please read the footnote before reviewing.

Though the group he'd been part of had only traveled together for a few months, it was strange, at first, for Rokurou to suddenly be on his own. Not that he missed the company, per se - without his human emotions, he didn't have the capacity for such things. Still, it left him in an odd state. His family was gone, and so were his benefactors; what was a Rangetsu to do on his own?

At first, he did the only thing he knew: he hunted daemons, hoping one of them might put up a good fight and help him improve as a swordsman. He wasn't sure when, but after a while, it occurred to him that he was the only person left on the continent who knew the techniques of his ancestors; once he was gone, there would never be another Rangetsu. As a daemon, there wasn't much he could do about that, and though it went against his family's creed for one who didn't share their blood to know their methods, if the Rangetsu style was going to be carried out by future generations, it fell to him to find and teach pupils.

Without a home, he wandered the country, taking on whatever opponents he could, and when the opportunity arose, he would show off his technique to other people. It took a couple of years, but eventually he found a young man who wanted to learn from him. Rokurou agreed.

Having an apprentice gave Rokurou a sort of purpose, a grounding factor that he'd lost when Velvet sealed herself away with Innominat and the rest of the group broke up. The kid was bright, eager to learn, and even begged his parents to let him travel with the wandering swordsman, though of course they said no. Whenever Rokurou happened by the village, though, he would always seek out his student and pass on the way of his clan.

A few others came, over time, once Rokurou knew what potential students looked for and how to recognize them. As he traveled, he came and went between each one, some of them in groups of two or even three, and taught. With the knowledge that his family's legacy wouldn't die with him, he was free to pursue true strength.

But true strength was not so easily found.

The more he practiced, the more he trained, the less often he found a foe that was even worth fighting, and of those, very few taught him anything. It didn't really feel like he was improving, or gaining anything, though he focused hard. Sometimes he would start to feel bitter, and the malevolence that still permeated his being would start to consume him. When this happened, he would find a quiet place and meditate for a day, focusing on keeping it under control; if he wasn't himself anymore, then he could never achieve his dream. Still, his dream didn't seem to get any closer.

Weeks became months, months became years. Still, he traveled, and still, he taught. With each passing moment, he tried to shake the feeling that he was missing something, something vital, without which he could never be all he wanted to be. Surely he only needed more experience, more practice, more training…right?

His only real comfort was his students. The most enthusiastic of them were a group of three in Stonebury, two boys and a girl. As he watched them grow and spar with him and each other (though of course he never let anyone touch his own legendary blades), he couldn't help but think of himself, back before he realized how he truly compared to his brother, how far he had to go. They grew up, and eventually were wielding the Rangetsu style with a satisfactory level of skill, though they still couldn't begin to compare to him.

This could have gone on indefinitely, but unlike him, Rokurou's students didn't live solely to fight; they got jobs, lived lives, and eventually, had families. A day came when his oldest student, a man with red hair, told him that he was going to have a baby soon, and promised to teach the child what Rokurou had taught him.

Then he said something odd.

"Man, I'm getting old. I hope I show it as little as you do!"

For some reason, this stuck in Rokurou's head after he left to carry on his way. As little as I do? he thought. How much have I aged? The question consumed him, and the next time he got a chance to stay at an inn, he took the time to look at his reflection.

He looked the same. But that was to be expected, wasn't it? Daemons didn't change their appearance, not as daemons at least. Without resonance or malevolence, what would he look like? Now that Innominat was gone, humans couldn't see malakhim or daemons anymore, and though he could still see his daemon eye clearly when he brushed his bangs aside, with a lot of focus, it was possible for him to sort of…turn off the sight, and see things as humans did.

After a moment's effort, his vision blurred, and then he appeared to have two normal eyes. Besides that, though…he still looked exactly the same. Exactly the same, as he always had since escaping Titania.

Rokurou wasn't aging.

Do daemons just not age? he wondered for the first time.

He glanced at the hilt of Kurogane Stormquell. What would Kurogane have looked like, without the lenses of resonance or malevolence? A walking suit of armor? A cloud of dust? Or…or the same man he was when he let his obsession with creating a sword to rival Stormhowl consume him fully, just slaving away at his work as he always had? What would he have looked like after Rokurou cut off his head to use as material for his short swords, a headless man who still walked and talked? The thought that his blades might look like flesh beaten into the shape of weapons caused a faint flicker of something that might once have been amusement to briefly flit through his chest, and a corner of his mouth turned upward for a moment.

But it didn't matter. Staring at himself in the mirror, his vision restored and his daemon eye glowing red against black skin like a brand, it fully sank in what this would mean. If things went on as they were, his students would eventually realize that something was amiss about their teacher. All this time, he'd struggled to preserve the legacy of his family, and if they found out that the one who'd taught them these skills was actually some sort of monster, it would forever tarnish the Rangetsu name; they could never, ever know what he was.

He would have to leave them. Leave all of society, go into hiding, so no one would ever know what had walked among them, and his family name would preserve its dignity. Just disappear, never return, and-

No.

The simple solution was immediately torn apart by his pride. To just leave, abandon those who had agreed to carry on his family's legacy, without explanation? That, too, would tarnish the Rangetsu name. He, the last of his clan, would be remembered as a coward, as one who cared nothing for the people who had submitted themselves to his tutelage. That would not do. It was his duty to ensure that his family was remembered with respect, with honor, the honor his family valued above even their skills as swordsmen. Yet, he still couldn't stay…

No…they would have to think he was dead. Not just dead, that he had died in battle. It was the only legacy his pride as a Rangetsu man would allow.

For the briefest of moments, more faint and flickering than a candle in a storm, he considered actually allowing himself to die at the hands of an opponent, but that was immediately dismissed. He couldn't throw a fight, wouldn't throw a fight, wouldn't die a coward or a failure. On top of that, he still had his dream to pursue, the goal of being a more skilled and powerful swordsman than any the world had ever seen, and he would not give his life before he achieved that. For many reasons, he couldn't actually die. But to fake his death…well, that was the only solution he could forgive himself for, the only answer.

It had to work, he thought as he turned in for the night. There would be an opportunity, and he would take it. Let the world think him a dead man who had died an honorable death. Nothing else would suffice.

~o~

It wasn't for a few years still, but the day came when different factions of human civilization engaged in conflict. A war; irresistible to Rokurou the yaksha. Eagerly, he thrust himself into the heart of the battle, embracing the challenge of facing several opponents at once. Sure, the abbey, now under Eleanor's command, would soon to quell the fighting, but while there was a battle to take part in, take part he would.

The sheer chaos of war was nothing like a one-on-one fight; all around Rokurou, humans died, for whatever petty squabble had them at odds, he really wasn't sure, nor did he care. Clashing weapons, cries of victory and defeat and bravado, it was all exhilarating, and Rokurou fought anyone who came at him, regardless of which side they were on - presumably, each thought the other had hired him as a mercenary or something. For a while, there was nothing but the thrill of battle…until one man turned on Rokurou who looked strikingly similar to himself. Different hair color, different eyes, but an uncanny shape and build and skin color.

What had once been a pleasant pastime was now exactly what he'd been looking for: a chance to leave humans behind.

It didn't hurt that this opponent was actually halfway decent with a sword, either. Fighting him was a treat, a battle that actually took the use of both Stormhowl and Stormquell in a technique of dual-wielding greatswords that Rokurou had developed just for himself. In the end, though, the man fell before his superior weapons and strength. Then, there was a body, one that could conceivably be made to look like Rokurou, with some work…

Rokurou looked around; everyone was more concerned with their clash than with him. Seizing the opportunity, he grabbed the dead man and dragged him off the battlefield and behind some trees, out of sight. He stared, for a long minute, at the stolen life he intended to use.

"You were a worthy opponent," he murmured. "Worthy of bearing my likeness. Sorry if this bothers you."

With that, he drew his daggers and set about the task of mutilating a corpse.

Anything unlike him had to go, down to the most minute detail. Most obviously, the man's head had to be shaved perfectly - his hair was blond, no one would believe this was Rokurou if there was any trace of his real hair on his head. The eyes, also, had to go, and Rokurou gouged them out without too much difficulty, though figuring out what to do with them was more problematic; in the end, he decided to set them aside and hold on to them for the future, at least until he could feed them to some petty daemon or other.

Next, the clothes. This was harder than mutilation, as the limp sack of dead meat didn't cooperate very well, especially not when it came to getting Rokurou's unique outfit on him. It felt wrong to shed his Rangetsu garb and instead don actual armor, but he knew he had to. For a moment, he wondered if he ought to leave his swords with the corpse as well, so everyone would know, but though it was a good idea, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Kurogane Stormquell and the Kurogane Daggers had been forged for him alone, and Stormhowl was the Rangetsu clan's entire legacy, their near-sacred relic of the ancestor who had first come to this land from far across the seas; he couldn't leave any of them to be picked up by anyone else. Still, he took the man's weapon and shield, with the intention of maybe selling them a few decades down the line when he wouldn't have to hide quite so much. He put the tools with the eyes and hair and sighed.

Now came the hard part.

There had to be something, some part of him, left as proof that would convince the world that this body was him. This man presumably had a family, and they would probably guess that this was who it really was, even despite the clothes. Rokurou wiped off his dagger, and then brought it to his hairline.

This was the only way.

Slowly, with both precision and some regret, he began shaving his own head as he had the dead man's, bangs and all, leaving the ponytail intact. Once or twice, a bit of skin came with the hair, but that was okay - if anything, that was better. Once his scalp was entirely bare, he took his hair and began trying to stick it onto the man's head. Though he'd scraped it a few times, there wasn't enough blood, so he took the hilt of one of his short swords and bashed the empty skull until it was a mutilated mess that was sticky enough to serve his purposes. Though fine details weren't really his strong suit, he did as well as possible, arranging the ponytail and bangs as best he could…

It took some time for Rokurou was satisfied with his work; by the time he felt that it would pass at least a cursory inspection, the battle had subsided, the two factions retreating to rest and recover. Bodies littered the clearing, and now it was time to add one more. Rokurou left it on the outskirts, not far from his own hiding place, before taking what he had to make sure no one found and leaving. He could only hope that people would assume that a bird of some sort had pecked out the eyes and looters had taken his blades. It wasn't the most perfect solution, but he knew it was the best he could ever hope for, and it was up to luck that people not inspect the body too terribly closely. Then again, why would they? It was one body among many, and he didn't have any family who would want to claim the corpse and confirm it was really him.

With his ties to society severed, Rokurou walked into the wilderness, alone.

~o~

There were no regrets; Rokurou survived on the outskirts of society, hunting and fighting and living as he could. Without any obligations, and knowing his family's legacy would live on, he was free to pursue his dream of ultimate strength, and he threw himself into it single-mindedly.

But still, it never seemed to come any closer.

After enough decades had passed, Rokurou started stopping in on towns again, buying booze, new clothes, and food prepared by more skilled hands than his, even sleeping at an inn once or twice just for the luxury of a bed. Still, something was missing. The food paled in comparison to what Velvet used to make, and he had no comrades to talk to over the meals. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, nothing was ever satisfactory, and he never felt fulfilled.

He didn't really miss the old crew, not like a human would, since he didn't have the capacity for most emotions. It was more a basic sense of lacking that kept him awake at night, wondering what it was he wasn't getting. Sometimes, when he was especially drunk, he would see Velvet's golden eyes glimmering with amusement from the shadows in a corner of the room. Eleanor and Magilou were long dead by then, and human besides; Laphicet was Maotelus now, the divine Dragon of Light, there was nothing about him to miss but nothing to seek; Eizen was…well, Eizen, the Reaper, and though Rokurou wished he could catch up with his old buddy over a drink sometimes, strangely, that desire didn't arise nearly as much as a longing to see Velvet.

Velvet…the Lord of Calamity, who gave about as much of a damn as he did and yet still had honor, respect, even a kind heart deep down, though she rarely showed it. Was she still alive? Still sealed in the earthpulse, continuously eating and being eaten by Innominat? Did she know what was happening to her? Was she…in pain? Without feeling, Rokurou still found himself wondering these questions when he drifted off to sleep. Could nothing be done for her? Stemming from what was surely his sense of honor, the debt he had owed her, he found himself wondering if maybe she could be saved…

~o~

Years became decades, decades became centuries; eventually, Rokurou simply stopped keeping track. He took any opportunity to fight that he could, almost heedless of the changes in the land that happened over time, a result of Velvet awakening the Empyrians. What did it matter what the world looked like? So long as he could search for a worthy opponent, the ground beneath his feet didn't matter to him. And yet, though he never stopped searching, never stopped training, he couldn't achieve a level of strength or skill that he felt confident could have defeated Shigure in a one-on-one, greatsword-to-greatsword battle. Something was missing.

When he had to, he ate and slept, lived his life. His hair grew back, now unbound, into a shaggy black mane that he carefully kept over the right side of his face, just in case some human happened to have enough resonance to see his daemon mark. Still, his rest was never easy, no matter how much he drank beforehand; he would think of Velvet, sealed away deep within the earth, bound to an ancient monster, eating and being eaten forever, and wonder if there was something he could do, something anyone could do. Maybe now that Laphicet was the Empyrian Maotelus, he could consume what remained of Innominat, as Innominat had once tried to consume him; then Velvet would be free, and she could still live, since the source of her being wouldn't be entirely gone. It was an idle dream that he tried to ignore, but it nagged at him from the back of his mind whenever he wasn't off fighting. Something was missing.

No matter where he went, or what he did, something was always missing. And unless something drastic happened, something always would be missing.

He wandered, alone and unfulfilled, not knowing what to do, memories of Velvet haunting him endlessly.

And time went on.

Before anyone calls hacks on me basically giving Rokurou eternal youth, something similar is actually implied in Tales of Zestiria with Lady Maltran - one of the random bits of conversation you can hear while wandering around Ladylake is that she "looks as young and beautiful as ever." Why would that be in the game unless it implied something? And what's the one thing Lady Maltran has as a hellion that no one else has, besides my version of Rokurou? Total acceptance of her malevolence. Lailah even comments that Maltran "suppresses her nature", and she bears no hellion marks. So my headcanon is that fully embracing malevolence takes the corruption to a new level, a sort of permeation of darkness throughout one's entire being, that basically makes people immortal. Also, while Rokurou isn't aging or dead, he's not really alive either, it's more an undead sort of situation - notice that he can't ever find peace or fulfillment, no matter how long or hard he works at it. Call it hacks if you want, but I swear I'm not handing him immortality on a silver platter, I'm actually going somewhere with this.

Anyway, this was the setup/prequel thing for a crossover fic between Tales of Berseria and Tales of Zestiria, which I will publish immediately after this and call "Burn These Feelings". Again, the main reason this thing is tagged as RokuVel is because Burn These Feelings will be entirely RokuVel. Well…sort of… ;) Hope to see you there!