The central prison of Hokori had no shackles.
It didn't need them.
Those who dwelled there…
were not prisoners.
They were weapons the kingdom had chosen not to unleash.
Yet.
The corridors smelled of ancient dust, old blood, and unspoken regrets.
Torches barely lit the stone walls.
And each step of the visitor echoed like a sentence.
The King of Hokori walked without an escort.
Genshin no Ikkaku.
The man who could move armies with a gesture.
The one who held the kingdom in his closed fist.
He reached the final section.
Two cells.
Two shadows.
In one, Narikami, the strategist obsessed with order.
He sat upright, facing a blank wall.
His eyes… ever more sunken, ever more broken.
He murmured about justice.
About whether he had lost his way.
About whether the absolute cleansing of the Kingdom justified the cracks in his soul.
A half-written diary lay upon his table.
The handwriting precise. Sick with perfection.
In the other cell, Yodaku, devourer of souls by vocation.
He played at kicking the remains of his broken bed.
He had destroyed it "by accident"… while practicing a torture technique on his pillow.
He hummed softly.
A military chant… but rewritten to speak of entrails.
When he saw the King, he smiled.
"Majesty~...
Have you come for me, or for my boredom?"
Genshin stopped between them.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not ask if they repented.
He explained nothing.
He only said:
"If you eliminate the enemy…
you will be free.
And your provinces will once again fear you as before."
Nothing more.
Narikami rose.
He spoke no word.
He began arranging his cell with movements almost ceremonial.
He folded the blanket.
Aligned the books.
Straightened his table.
Then… he left.
He walked past the King without so much as a glance.
For what he saw was not a man.
It was a command.
An echo.
Yodaku…
had nothing to put in order.
He had used the mattress as a target.
The bed as bone.
He only walked out, stretching with sickly joy.
"Finally!
I thought you'd left me here to rot without tearing out anyone's teeth!"
He gave the King a couple of pats on the shoulder.
The guard watching from afar nearly fainted.
"Thank you, Majesty. I promise I'll make it beautiful."
Genshin did not reply.
He only walked.
Because when his will is carried out…
words are unnecessary.
The wind on the borders carried the scent of ash.
Shinsei Kōji, the self-proclaimed Chosen of God, observed the landscape from a balcony carved of jade.
His robes, of celestial silk embroidered with gold, rippled as if the wind itself revered him.
On his back, the symbol of the Kyōjin no Kami (狂神の神 – God of Divine Madness) pulsed as though it had a heartbeat of its own.
Beneath his feet, war advanced like an army of blind ants.
Villages razed.
Mountains split.
Soldiers kneeling before their distorted faith.
And yet…
He did not smile.
"We have already conquered half a dozen bastions.
The defensive lines have collapsed.
And still…"
He fell silent, gazing northward.
"Hokori does not fall."
He turned slightly.
"Not a single one of their three generals has appeared.
Not even Kenshiro Gai… the King of War.
And far less his personal guardian.
Kyomu… the one they say has no soul."
He gripped the edge of the balcony with ring-covered fingers.
"I don't know if he underestimates me…
…or if he is weaving a strategy greater than I can see."
A low laugh answered his thought.
Behind him, wearing a coat of dark scales and holding a cup of red wine, stood Zanka, dictator of Enketsu.
A man whose gaze was as sharp as his disdain for rules.
Though the Supreme Assembly of States had forbidden external interference…
Zanka sent weapons, reinforcements, and mercenaries with each new moon.
"Passive, you say?" he murmured, sipping slowly.
"I find it strange as well."
He approached the balcony's edge.
"Genshin is no fool.
Much less soft."
His eyes —two smoldering coals— narrowed.
"That man does not unleash his hounds…
until he knows exactly whose throat they will tear out."
He sighed.
"I do not know what he is plotting…
But whatever it is…
is terrible."
He lowered his voice, as if speaking to himself:
"Or so…
my sins tell me."
Shinsei did not reply at once.
The sun was setting.
And his silhouette, draped in golden robes, looked like a divine statue stained by the world's shadow.
At last, he said:
"Then let them come.
Let them release their monsters.
If it is the will of their god…
I will be the one to execute it."
The provinces of Hokori were collapsing from within.
Markets toppled like towers of soaked paper.
Nobles fought over coins worth less than the mud they stepped on.
Families locked themselves in, not to pray… but to die before the war knocked on their door.
And in the midst of that hell…
A forgotten church endured.
Small. Cracked.
Its altar covered in dust and dampness.
There, a girl of about eight prayed in silence.
Her hands clenched.
Her lips trembling.
Her eyes swollen from so much weeping.
She prayed.
Not for herself.
But for her missing mother.
For her brother who never returned.
For her cat that no longer meowed.
And then…
Shirota Karakuri entered through the main doors, as if he were the lead in some absurd play's final act.
He wore a ridiculously colorful jacket, stained with mud, ash… and a little wine.
On his back hung his travel bag.
From it protruded the corner of a red-covered book, its title censored with black tape.
He looked at the girl.
Then at the statue of the central god.
And sighed.
"You know, little one?"
The girl slowly turned, tearful eyes meeting his.
Shirota smiled, but not mockingly.
With a sadness wrapped in sequins.
"You're praying to the very god…
who allowed this massacre."
The girl blinked.
Her tears hesitated, caught between falling and hiding.
"But don't worry," he added, lighter.
"He was surely busy watching another war.
Or on one of those divine retreats where gods fast from compassion."
The girl let out a sob between laugh and sorrow.
Shirota approached, pulled out an absurd handkerchief covered in ducklings, and offered it.
"Here. It's from my private collection. I only use them when someone dies… or when someone cries without deserving to."
She took it, not quite understanding.
But her crying stopped, if only for a moment.
Shirota turned, gazed at the statue with theatrical indifference.
"Well, dear God.
If you won't answer her…
at least let me entertain you."
He pulled out his erotic novel:
"The Chains of Crimson Pleasure – Illustrated and Unlimited Edition."
He sat on a front pew, lounged as if at the theater…
and began to read aloud.
"…and it was then that the priestess, clad only in her ruby mantle, discovered that true divine power… did not descend from the heavens, but from the hips…"
The girl stared.
She didn't understand.
But for the first time in weeks… she smiled.
The statue of the god did not move.
Because when the world burns…
the gods always keep silent.
In Tsuyoi… there were no screams left.
Only echoes.
Smoke covered everything.
The houses were skeletons.
The streets, ash.
It was no village.
It was a sigh on the verge of extinction.
Donyoku walked among the ruins, blood still fresh upon his clothes.
His steps heavy, yet his gaze… steady.
Amid the remains of a collapsed temple, he found two daggers.
Thin, curved, with inscriptions that seemed divine.
But they were not blessings.
They were elegant curses.
Words carved to condemn both enemy… and bearer.
Donyoku held them.
Felt them.
Not merely for defense…
But because he liked the design.
"They're pretty," he murmured, half-smiling.
"Like I was… when I still had faith."
He tucked them into his belt.
The Shinkon within him pulsed.
Hungry.
Chisiki saw it all…
until something else caught his eye.
Two children.
About to be skewered by the spear of a Sainokuni soldier.
This time…
he did not hesitate.
His Shinkon awoke.
Not with fire, nor ice, nor light.
But with disappearance.
The soldier's arm simply vanished.
As if it had never existed.
The man screamed, collapsing to his knees.
Writhing, frothing, cursing.
"May God damn you… for what you've done to me!"
Chisiki stared, unwavering.
His eyes…
were no longer those of a boy who doubted.
They were the eyes of one who had accepted his wound.
"If God curses me…
at least it will mean I exist for Him.
To be damned…
is better than to be forgotten."
Aika, meanwhile, opened doors with trembling yet resolute hands.
She found elders hiding beneath tables, in jars, behind broken walls.
"Come… there's no time," she urged, with a voice that knew how to hurt and heal at once.
She helped them walk.
Carrying some, shielding others.
Because even when war claims everything…
someone must tend to those who can no longer run.
Seita had built an improvised refuge with his Shinkon.
Made of ice and silence.
Cold, yes.
But warmer than the inferno outside.
From there, his gaze swept the field.
Each time a soldier entered his range…
he did not leave.
His power sliced.
Separated.
Reduced bodies to broken lines in the air.
And he did it without emotion.
For Seita's soul…
no longer understood human warmth.
Donyoku, now striking with Shinkon-hardened blows,
felled enemies like memories he refused to keep.
Each punch was a promise.
Each thrust, a scream unspoken.
Reiji, panting, his face drenched in sweat and blood,
had arrived just in time.
Seimei was surrounded.
On the verge of collapse.
Reiji grabbed his arm, dragged him from the fire's heart.
Seimei coughed, barely able to walk.
"I'm sorry… I'm a burden," he whispered, guilty.
Reiji did not answer at once.
He only looked at him.
Then said, almost in a murmur:
"I'd rather work with a burden…
than with a thousand beasts without reason."
And they kept moving.
Because no one else would.
The village of Tsuyoi fell.
Not from cowardice.
But because the soul…
can also break.
Sainokuni's soldiers kept pouring in, like blessed rats.
And the defenders, out of arrows, out of tears, out of faith… surrendered.
The screams were dead.
Only silence remained, harsher than any explosion.
They had lost.
But not alone.
Many soldiers of Sainokuni had fallen too.
Yet they did not weep.
They did not kneel.
They did not whisper names.
They only stared at the corpses and declared as one:
"May God keep their souls…
in hell.
For they were not worthy to represent Him."
The survivors were lined up.
Twenty-eight souls.
Some elders, some children.
Many wounded, more hollowed.
Donyoku was silent.
His hands heavy with soil, blood, and memories.
He no longer knew if he was alive.
Aika's eyes were fixed on nothing.
The smoke rising from a still-burning house seemed more real than her heartbeat.
Seimei breathed with difficulty.
Leaning on Reiji, he felt that even begging forgiveness… was a luxury undeserved.
Seita stood so still he looked like a corpse death had forgotten.
His Shinkon… no longer fought.
Not from exhaustion,
but because even the soul knew when to surrender to emptiness.
Chisiki observed.
Even broken, even in ruins, his mind searched.
And then… he noticed.
Among the soldiers, one did not belong.
He did not speak.
Did not curse.
Did not laugh with the rest.
He did not merely look. He analyzed.
His eyes moved slowly, as though measuring the world on an invisible scale.
He seemed less man than equation.
His name… still unknown.
But his presence… already a shadow unseen until too late.
Then he arrived.
The Captain of Sainokuni.
He rode a white horse like a beheaded angel.
He dismounted with cruel elegance.
Surveyed the ruins.
The corpses.
The stains of shame his own soldiers left behind.
He frowned.
"This? This is what cost you a wretched village?"
None answered.
And then… without hesitation, he ordered his squadron's commanders brought forth.
Three men and a woman.
Wounded.
Exhausted.
"In the name of God…
I grant you eternal pardon…"
"…in the form of punishment."
And without changing tone, he slit their throats with his own blade.
Blood splattered a boy still clutching a charred toy.
"Let their ineptitude not spread… like a plague," he muttered.
Then, his eyes swept over the survivors.
And stopped on one.
"You…"
Reiji lifted his head, empty gaze unflinching.
He did not move. He did not defend.
"I offer my life…
if you spare the village," he said.
As one who lays down his last card in a game he never thought to win.
The soldiers laughed.
But the Captain did not.
He froze.
His eyes widened.
"You… You are
Reiji Mikazuki."
Silence fell absolute.
"The Tragic One.
The man who led Hokori's army.
The one who alone destroyed thirty provinces.
The one who slew the King with his own hands.
The one who crowned a child, turning him into a symbol of terror."
The Captain trembled.
"And I…"
His voice cracked.
His laughter warped.
"I will finally have my revenge, Mikazuki!"
Reiji did not react.
Because he did not remember him.
Because in that war twenty years past…
he had no memory.
No face.
Only an aim: destroy.
Each step of the Captain made the air crack.
Not by weight of flesh.
But by the pressure of accumulated hate.
As if the atmosphere itself knew something was about to break… or be born.
He stopped before his men.
From a chest, he withdrew three sacred objects, veiled in blessed cloth:
instruments of subtle torture,
elegant,
infernal.
"Bring me Reiji Mikazuki," he ordered.
Reiji did not resist.
He walked to the circle's center like one condemned who knows by heart the road to the abyss.
At least… he thought…
this time I will die seeking redemption.
The Captain stared, fire in his eyes, foam on his lips.
"You…
You slaughtered my family entire, Mikazuki!
My brothers!
My children!
My wife!
All of them!"
He laughed.
But it was hollow, shattered.
A broken cackle…
camouflaged beneath the phrase: "all in God's name."
He began with the little finger.
Crack.
The sound was dull.
The flesh resisted a moment… then yielded.
Reiji did not scream.
Not once.
Donyoku tried to move.
Aika too.
Chisiki had already stepped forward.
Seita clenched his fists.
But Reiji stopped them with a look.
"Do not come near…"
His voice was not a martyr's.
It was one who believed he deserved to bleed.
"I have carried too many dead.
I have razed nations.
Burned temples.
Ripped hope from its roots."
He looked at the Captain again.
"Why should a monster like me…
be saved by children?"
The Captain, mad, roared between laughter.
"YOU ARE THE TRAGIC ONE!
YOU BROUGHT THE END!
YOU DESERVE THIS AND MORE!
FOR THE GLORY OF GOD!"
And he went on.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Each finger, broken slowly.
As if redemption could be counted in bones.
But then…
The soldier who had observed the village stepped forward.
His name was Hazami Riku.
Until now he had been shadow.
Eyes that did not see.
Silence that only measured.
Now he spoke.
"Captain.
I found something. In one of the houses.
You should come see."
The Captain did not even look at him.
"Return later! I am in the midst of something glorious!"
But the soldier lifted his head.
For the first time.
And his eyes… were empty.
No emotion.
No hatred.
No faith.
Only a calm that frightened.
"Captain… come.
Or I won't be responsible for what happens to you."
His voice was not threatening.
It was… inevitable.
The Captain looked at him.
And something in his instinct —something he had not known he possessed— told him that command could not be ignored.
He dropped the bloodied tool.
"I'll be back," he said, pointing at Reiji.
"I'm not done with you yet."
And he left, following the soldier.
---
The Captain of Sainokuni walked behind Hazami Riku with irritation, though he still couldn't understand why… a strange chill ran down his spine.
"What kind of joke is this?" he scoffed. "I've seen enough corpses to fill three temples."
Hazami didn't answer.
He only led him to a half-ruined house, where a sheet covered something that smelled of death—
but not of defeat.
Hazami stopped, crouched, and pulled back the cloth.
Beneath it…
a corpse.
Young.
Pale.
Identical to him.
Same face.
Same hair.
Same scar on the brow.
The Captain staggered back.
"What the hell…?"
Hazami remained silent for a few seconds.
And then he said:
"At least he died without suffering."
He stood up.
"But you… you'll fall into despair before you end the same way."
The Captain drew his sword.
"What the fuck are you—"
He didn't finish.
Hazami had already drawn his knife.
A black metal, heavy with accumulated grief.
And without hesitation, he drove it into the Captain's arm.
The Captain screamed.
Not from the cut.
But because the pain was unbearable, as if his nerves had turned into liquid fire.
He tried to raise his sword with the other hand.
Hazami stepped forward.
And with surgical precision…
he severed all five fingers.
In a single stroke.
Silent.
Cold.
The Captain fell to his knees.
Tried to scream.
But his soul…
wouldn't let him make a sound.
---
Then… Hazami changed.
His body.
His face.
His voice.
Now he was another man.
The Captain's brother.
"No…" the Captain whispered, trembling.
"It can't be… you're dead… I saw you die!"
Hazami wept.
Wept with that face.
With that borrowed soul.
"I felt… all his pain," he said, trying to smile. "I see it every time I take his form.
I feel his fear. His hatred. His love.
It feels like hell."
He tore strands of hair from his head.
Hunched, panting.
And then he rose again.
The Captain, desperate, managed to draw his sword with his uninjured arm.
He raised it.
Pointed it at his enemy's head.
Hazami moved.
Fast. Silent. Precise.
The blade cut through the air.
And tore out his eyes.
The Captain fell, howling.
Beating the ground like an animal.
Hazami knelt before him.
And took his other hand.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The fingers… one by one.
And he whispered in his ear:
"This war is only beginning.
And you've awakened a beast that had slept for far too long."
Then…
the blade slid through his neck.
And the Captain remained there, kneeling…
as if still waiting to pray,
though his God never answered.
---
Hazami walked away.
His silhouette twisted.
The body shifted.
Now he wore the Captain's face.
His voice.
His stride.
And with every step…
the world grew more uncertain.
For no one knew anymore
whether that man had truly died…
or had simply begun to live inside someone else.
---
The Kingdom did not fall that day…
But something within it changed forever.
Because when faith becomes a blade,
and heroes crawl among ashes,
there is no homeland left…
only survivors, bleeding with the name of Hokori still clenched between their teeth.
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.