The edge of fear cut through the air.
Donyoku didn't think. He just leapt.
He leapt with all the force desperation gave him, with the tremor in his bones, and the hatred caged inside.
Before him, a soldier of Sainokuni raised his spear while reciting:
"You look like a plague... You think that because you're children we'll show mercy. But no. Still, may God forgive and receive your souls in more—"
He never finished the phrase.
A punch charged with Shinkon sent him flying. The soldier's body slammed against a wall with a dry crack, raising dust and rubble.
The other soldiers didn't hesitate. They lunged at him with a fury that knew no age.
"No!" his mother cried from the ground, trying to drag her wounded body forward. "Don't hurt my son!"
Donyoku didn't listen. He only breathed, ragged and strained.
A rusty dagger, dirt-caked, lay among the corpses. He grabbed it without thinking.
That dagger didn't cut flesh… it cut the last boundary between a child and a monster.
And then the real hell began.
A thrust. A dodge. A slash to the arm.
Donyoku spun, gasping, driven by the same power that had once torn him apart inside.
The soldiers hadn't expected such ferocity. Still, there were six… and he was only a boy of fifteen.
One struck him with a kick to the torso. Another tried to pierce his leg. Sweat mingled with blood.
But he didn't fall.
He would not fall.
Because beyond him, there was his mother, and his younger siblings clinging to his clothes, as if he were the last good thing left in the world.
---
A broken kite hung from a roof. No one would ever run for it again.
A few meters away, Reiji kept fighting, trapping soldiers in illusions more cruel than divine punishment itself.
Each one who fell did not die by the sword, but by terror in their minds, by nightmares that made them tear out their eyes, as if that would stop them from seeing.
Seimei, for his part, could hardly breathe.
He had surpassed his limit minutes ago, but still stood. Each technique drew him closer to collapse, yet also closer to saving one more… even if it was the last.
And the village…
That village that once laughed, sang, celebrated…
Now only a handful lived by sheer luck.
And one boy, just one, still fought—not as a warrior…
…but as a brother not yet born to die.
---
Karakuri Mansion – Interior, sunset the color of wine
The pendulum clock struck five. But no one heard it.
The whole mansion smelled of cheap incense, withered flowers, and aristocratic decay.
Shirota Karakuri silently watched a floating chart that wavered with each passing second, like the rope of an execution.
It was a map of the black market: plunging lines, figures worth less than rotting fish wrap.
The red arrows looked like open wounds.
"Ouch… And to think level 2 soul-opium had been climbing so nicely," he murmured, crossing his legs with decadent theatricality.
Two servants, dressed in gray, waited by the door like nervous statues. One finally spoke:
"Lord Karakuri… the economic collapse has already reached the southern zone. The trade routes are in flames. People are selling more coffins than weapons."
The other added, head bowed:
"We believe… it's time to evacuate. Before the war reaches our doors."
Silence.
Shirota didn't move. He only rose slowly, as if gravity itself was a concept he sometimes chose to ignore.
He walked to the window. The sky was stained an unnatural red.
In the distance, even the clouds seemed to bleed.
Then he murmured, almost in disdain:
"Those who kneel before irrational beasts…
should not dare to call themselves human.
Let the rats hide. I… still have teeth."
The servants exchanged glances. That phrase was an ill omen.
Like that time… in Kinzoku no Hana.
Shirota opened his wardrobe as if searching for a sacred relic.
He drew out an absurdly colorful jacket, patched with velvet, chains dangling, golden snail-shaped buttons.
Then came the longest trousers he owned, dragging like an imperial carpet.
"If the market falls… we drop the prices!" he shouted, tossing a coin in the air with a hollow laugh.
"He's not going to escape, is he…?" whispered the younger servant, face pale.
"Shirota-sama never flees," the elder replied flatly. "He only throws himself… where the applause or the screams burn the loudest."
Shirota adjusted a black glove sequined in silver.
And before leaving, he stopped before the mirror.
"Sometimes I wonder…
is the jester mad for not fleeing the fire?
Or is the world sane for continuing to burn without reason?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
He only flung the door open with dramatic flair and vanished into a night that smelled of ruin.
And just when the darkness seemed to swallow him elegantly…
Shirota froze, as if the universe had whispered an unforgivable sin.
He spun on his heels, raised a finger skyward, and shouted with theatrical indignation:
"My Illustrated and Unlimited Edition of 'The Crimson Chains of Pleasure – Forbidden Version of the Southern Temple'!
That masterpiece doesn't burn without me!"
And with the stride of a Greek tragedy… he retraced his steps, cloaked in ridiculous layers and even more questionable choices.
---
The ground was slick.
Not with rain.
But with blood.
And Donyoku didn't know if it was his or theirs. It no longer mattered.
Four soldiers.
Four rabid dogs in mud-stained armor.
And him… just a fifteen-year-old boy with a rusty dagger and a heart ready to shatter.
His hand trembled.
Not from fear. But from fatigue. From rage.
From that feeling of fighting against the end of the world with one arm and no one left to name him if he fell.
In his head, an echo…
If I fall… if I stop breathing…
Who will protect mom? Jun? Rika?
Who will even know I existed?
No one.
No one.
No one.
His eyes burned, but no tears came.
There was no time for that.
One soldier slashed at his torso. Donyoku dodged, but the blade tore his shirt, leaving a shallow cut.
Another tried to seize his waist.
A third lunged for his neck.
And then… the dagger.
The only weapon.
He drove it into an enemy's thigh with a scream that didn't sound human.
"AAARGH!" the soldier roared, collapsing with the rusted metal still lodged in his flesh.
But the dagger stayed there.
And the others didn't wait.
One kicked him in the chest, knocking him down.
Donyoku felt the air leave him, his vision blurring.
His arms no longer obeyed.
His strength wasn't strength.
It was will.
Hunger.
A hunger to protect… so fierce it hurt more than any wound.
And then…
The Shinkon roared inside him.
Not like a wolf.
But like a child locked in a box.
His body moved faster.
Stronger.
Too much.
A fist struck an enemy's helmet with such violence it cracked like porcelain.
But with each blow, Donyoku felt something unravel inside him.
What if I break?
Who will protect me…?
The soldiers stepped back half a pace. They weren't fighting a boy anymore.
They were fighting someone who didn't yet know if he wanted to live… but knew he wouldn't let anyone else die.
And even without a weapon, even bleeding, even faithless…
Donyoku stood.
Because love, when it hurts… also knows how to kill.
---
"Chisiki! Donyoku's in danger!" Aika cried.
He heard her.
He heard everything.
But his body didn't move.
His hands shook.
His legs refused.
As if the ground itself had absorbed him.
The wind carried the scent of hot metal, smoke… and memories he'd never asked for.
---
That day.
The day his world turned to dust.
The massacre.
The screams.
The prayers.
The members of Clan Amatsu running, trying to shield their own.
His father… wielding a sacred staff with the conviction of one who already knew he would die.
His mother… spreading her arms.
Not to defend herself.
But to stop the arrow flying straight at him.
And then… the boy.
A face without definition.
Changing by the second.
As if he were no one.
As if he were everyone.
That boy was the one who murdered the Clan from within.
With a smile.
With countless names.
With borrowed identities like invisible knives.
Chisiki had seen it all.
Every body.
Every plea.
That was the day he stopped being "Chisiki of Clan Amatsu."
And became only "Chisiki."
The name was all he had left.
But even that… sometimes hurt.
---
Aika's voice rang out again, fainter now.
As if from another plane.
"Chisiki, what are you doing?! Donyoku is bleeding!"
A tear slid down his cheek.
Not from cowardice.
But from hatred toward his body for not moving.
From rage at still being a child that night.
For not saving anyone.
For not saving mom.
And then, in the middle of that storm, a single phrase struck his chest like a silent thunderclap:
"Are you willing to keep losing what you love… to what you fear to remember?"
His pupils widened.
But still, he didn't move.
Because sometimes, before saving another…
you must survive the hell within yourself.
---
The sound of battle was a distant roar.
But Seita had heard enough.
Without a word, he turned his face toward the barn.
His eyes—those deep wells of restrained silence—narrowed.
And then he ran.
He passed through bodies, fire, rubble with light steps, as if war itself could not reach him.
When he saw Chisiki blocking the entrance, he didn't hesitate.
He didn't shout.
He didn't plead.
He only said, with that soft, steady voice like a verdict:
"If you're not going to help him…
…then get the hell out of the way."
Chisiki didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His eyes were glassy, as if seeing something no one else could.
His lips trembled, forming a whisper barely audible.
As if speaking names no one remembered.
Or begging forgiveness from his past.
Seita didn't wait.
He slipped past in a fluid step and dashed into the barn, where blood already had a name and pain was called Donyoku.
---
Aika arrived seconds later.
She searched for Chisiki with the urgency of one afraid to lose a friend… and found something else.
She saw him standing.
But not truly standing.
He was held up by guilt.
By fear.
His face was pale, as if drained of soul.
And in his eyes…
There was no rage. No pride.
Only a child who never cried when he should have.
And now… could not stop.
His hands trembled.
As if each finger still clutched the memory of someone he couldn't save.
Aika drew closer in silence.
She didn't hug him.
She didn't speak.
She only stayed by his side.
Because she understood something:
Some wounds don't heal with words.
Only with company… in the middle of hell.
---
The barn smelled of fear, wet earth, and despair.
The heat of the earlier fight still clung to the air…
But the cold arrived with Seita.
Not the cold of weather.
But the kind born when death enters unannounced.
One soldier turned at his presence.
He barely managed:
"Who…?"
And it was the last thing he said.
Seita's Shinkon awakened.
Not with roars or flashes…
But with a glacial pressure, so dense the very space seemed to crack.
The enemies' bodies were sliced by thin lines of frozen energy.
No screams, only the subtle sound of flesh parting from soul.
Blood splattered the walls.
The barn was painted red.
And the cold… remained.
As if nothing human could disperse it.
---
Donyoku collapsed to his knees.
Not from cowardice.
But because his soul no longer knew how to hold his body.
His breath was ragged.
His gaze, lost.
His Shinkon still pulsed.
As if it hungered.
Hungered for more.
For something yet unclaimed.
His fingers dug into the dirt, as if to keep from exploding apart.
And then…
"My son…" whispered a trembling voice.
It was his mother.
She knelt beside him, her clothes torn, eyes still weeping.
She embraced him.
Kissed his forehead.
"You're alive… you're here. That's enough.
Thank you… thank you for not leaving us."
Donyoku's younger siblings rushed to him.
They held him, crying.
Not from fear.
But from relief that hurt.
Donyoku didn't reply.
He only closed his eyes…
And for a moment, let himself be loved.
---
Seita watched from afar.
His eyes didn't blink.
He saw the family huddled, wrapped in tears and human warmth.
But he didn't understand.
No one had died.
So why did they cry?
Why did they tremble so?
Why did it hurt… even if they'd won?
The answer never came.
And Seita only sought it in silence.
---
Outside, Chisiki still stood.
Or seemed to.
Aika was still beside him.
But said nothing.
Because… what do you say when someone breaks inside and you can only watch?
Chisiki breathed with difficulty.
His throat dry.
His soul, raw.
"Why?"
That word was a drum.
Beating.
Beating.
"Why?
Why didn't I move?
Why couldn't I save him?
Why am I trapped in this useless body?"
And suddenly, without thought…
The word burst from his throat:
"WHY AM I SO WEAK?!
WHY CAN'T I PROTECT THE ONES I LOVE?!"
His voice wasn't his.
It was hoarse.
Broken.
It was the voice of a child who was never heard.
"…Why…?
I just… want to know why…"
Aika said nothing.
She only looked at him.
And in her silence…
there was more compassion than in a thousand speeches.
---
The battle wasn't over.
Not even close.
Tsuyoi, the village that once smelled of steamed rice and damp wood, was now a symphony of screams, steel, and fire.
And the day… was already surrendering.
Because when even children lift stones with trembling hands,
when grandparents drive kitchen knives into the soil,
when the youngest cry without tears…
childhood is gone.
---
A notebook flew through the ashes.
Its pages turned in the wind, as if still believing in games and colors.
One drawing showed a clumsy house in crooked lines.
A smiling sun.
Three stick figures holding hands.
But then… the paper touched smoke.
And the smoke… turned it black.
The colors warped.
The sky in the drawing filled with stains.
The figures melted like wax under fear.
Perhaps the last drawing of an innocent child…
who would now have to learn to draw death with his own soul.
---
Reiji Mikazuki still fought.
His hands no longer felt fatigue.
Only duty.
He conjured illusions, nightmares, mirrors of his enemies' souls.
He forced them to face their dead parents, forgotten sins, the beasts still sleeping in their blood.
And yet…
his heart was quiet.
"Do I have the right to protect?"
That question followed him like a shadow in every battle.
"Who destroys can save?"
"Who condemns can forgive?"
It wasn't guilt.
Nor redemption.
Just a constant thought.
A crack in his soul:
"Those who destroy…" he whispered, "…have no noble desires… nor wicked ones.
Only desires."
And desires… burn.
---
It was already dawn.
And though the sun had not risen,
the sky was stained with gray.
Even the soldiers of Sainokuni retreated more than expected.
They no longer shouted.
They only pushed forward.
As if even they sensed that something was breaking in this village…
…something beyond bones.
Because in this battle,
the victors would lose too.
---
Ceremonial park of the capital. A midday without glory.
The wind scarcely dared to blow.
Hundreds of warriors gathered under the shadow of barren cherry trees. Some dozed with heads on their spears. Others laughed in disdain, as if war were just another wager without glory.
They wore different armors, insignias embroidered in red, blue, black, and gold.
They were the best.
The oldest clans of Hokori… gathered in silence, as if the world weren't already aflame.
Then, a figure crossed the stone arch.
No trumpets. No escorts. Only footsteps.
Kenshiro Gai.
The King of War.
The Undefeated Lion.
The man who, in a hundred battles, never left a single defeat behind.
He walked in a sleeveless coat, his bare chest carved with scars as if history itself had written on his flesh.
He stopped at the center of the park.
And simply said:
"Are you asleep…?
Or already dead, and no one told me?"
Silence sharpened into a needle.
One by one, the warriors opened their eyes.
And one by one… they rose. Not out of fear.
But because the air had grown denser. As if to breathe without permission were an act of treason.
Kenshiro took another step. The ground cracked, as though even the stone bowed before him.
"Half the army still holds.
But the walls are bleeding. The villages burn.
And the children… the children scream the name of the Kingdom as if it still meant something."
He looked at each clan leader. At the heirs of faded glories. At those who had sworn to protect, even at the cost of their souls.
"I have not come to ask you for anything.
Because the one who must ask… has already lost.
I came only to remind you…
that if we fall today,
let it be with our foreheads to the sun,
our swords in flames,
and the name of Hokori clenched between our teeth."
Then, without command, without shouts, without doubt…
They all stood.
The laughter died.
Hands seized spears.
Shoulders bore shields.
Their mouths sealed promises that could only be fulfilled in blood.
The youngest warrior of Clan Kurohō struck the ground with the base of his weapon.
The others followed.
A thunder rose—not of war.
But of an oath.
And in their midst, Kenshiro simply exhaled.
As though he knew the truth: that true power is never shouted.
It is only proven… when all follow you, even if you lead them straight into the abyss.
---
In that war, no one died entirely… but something inside each of them did.
For there are battles not fought to be won,
but to keep from forgetting who you once were…
before the world forced you into what you had to become.
Thank you for stepping into this second arc, where war is waged not only with swords, but with wounds of the past, choices with no return… and souls that have yet to decide which side they belong to.