In a land once called The Kingdom of the Wise,
the flames never truly died...
They merely hid in the ashes.
The rivers dried of light, and the sky strangled its own blueness,
as if ashamed of a scandal,
ever since Raizen fell—
followed by the banners of demons,
dropping like curtains over a collapsed civilization.
But Sajibro did not send his commanders to wage war—
He sent them… to watch for its signal.
Arthur, bearer of the First Wound...
Ignos, the shadow of the scorched Empire...
They stood upon the ruins of a fragile tower,
beneath a lost sky that seemed to forget how to rage.
Arthur looked down at the ground where he once trained the Awakened—
a place once pulsing with knowledge, now reduced to the weary whispers of wind.
He said, in a voice bleeding with nostalgia:
> "Sometimes... all of this feels like one long dream.
But the embers, as you see, still await someone to breathe life into them."
Ignos replied, his voice scraping the horizon:
> "No… the nightmare hasn't even begun."
Then the earth stirred...
Not like an earthquake,
but like an ancient scream escaping the throat of time.
From a black crack amid the hills…
emerged the demonic army.
Twisted creatures,
their faces covered in soot as dark as distilled night.
Bodies infused with centuries of foul sorcery—
as if a curse between dimensions had clothed itself in dead flesh.
They were thousands…
And each of them walked like a sin made flesh.
Arthur laughed, raising his silver blade:
> "Good… I might learn something from this."
He fought.
He ran.
He tore through the air, ripped through corpses,
fell again and again… and rose every time.
Each strike trained his hand.
Each wound carved a path on his skin.
He thought it was a battle…
but it was really a slow execution.
For in the moment he believed he was chasing a fleeing commander—
a traitorous shadow crept from behind.
A treacherous stab, laced with demonic poison.
Arthur fell.
Kneeling.
Blood dyed the earth, and his heartbeat dimmed—
as if his body rejected him.
At that moment…
Ancient whispers trembled deep inside him.
The first voice wasn't human...
It was like the echo of a memory he never lived.
> "[Remember… the wound was never your curse, but your key.]"
Then came the second voice...
The one Sajibro had hidden within him since the beginning—
since gifting him the First Wound:
> "If you reach the edge of everything… the call will begin.
Rise, immortal shadow… and summon the Anthem."
Time froze.
His body trembled.
Then... he burned.
But not with fatal fire—
With a gray-silver aura,
dancing like a shadow setting itself ablaze.
His eyes became lapis lazuli embers,
and his sword stretched, its blade cracking—
erupting as though drinking from cosmic wrath.
And with a voice free of hesitation, he said:
> "Wound of Immortality... Eternal Anthem of Shadows."
Time stopped.
Wind ceased.
Sound became a sacred silence before a storm.
Far away, Ignos was still fighting…
But the moment he felt that wave, he turned.
He gasped—unconsciously.
> "This… isn't mere magic.
This… is an announcement of immortality."
Arthur was no longer… Arthur.
He had become something beyond shadows.
Beyond pain.
His strikes no longer tore flesh…
They cut time itself.
Those who approached—fell,
like leaves in a gray hurricane.
The soldiers fled,
but even escape lost its meaning.
For those who remained…
their souls slipped from their bodies—with no known reason.
As if the "Call" wasn't a voice,
but a cosmic verdict of annihilation.
Within minutes…
the demonic army was reduced to ashes,
and the echo of souls.
In the Kingdom of Shadows...
where the sky wore night like a heavy veil,
Sajibro stood before the black mirror,
watching everything.
He didn't speak immediately.
His eyes didn't observe as a commander—
but as one who had foreseen this long ago.
Then he spoke, in a tone that resembled the whisper of a god:
> "The wound… has been summoned."
Everyone fell silent.
The silence spoke louder than fear.
Then he added:
> "From this day on… the name Arthur shall echo in the ages to come.
Not as a mere warrior,
but as a shadow eternal, born from ashes—
one whose reputation precedes him,
and before whom swords bow… not from fear,
but out of respect."
End of Chapter Thirty-Five