Khagan Heishi walked deeper into the mist, the shaft of his obsidian naginata gripped tightly in his hand.
He smirked.
The white mist of Seijaku coiled around his ankles like wary serpents, tugging against his momentum as though warning him to turn back.
But he wouldn't.
This silence, this cursed emptiness, could only belong to one man.
"Satoshi," he called out mockingly, his voice barely carrying in the thick, mana-draining haze. "Hiding behind silence again? Old habits don't die, do they?"
Silence answered.
Only the hiss of Seijaku's fog and the distant chorus of clashing steel drifted through the air. Khagan chuckled—a sound like grinding stone. He raised a gloved hand and beckoned.
"Don't keep me waiting, Lord Sekai," he taunted.
Khagan narrowed his eyes, activating the Kokugane Eyes—those eerie, golden irises gleaming through the mist. The world changed in that instant. The fog became layers, movement became outlines, and intent became pulses of light.
But not fast enough.
A flash.
Khagan's right ear was sliced clean off.
"Agh"
A spray of hot blood arced against the gray.
Khagan drove his one massive hand to his neck, instincts screaming.
For a moment, he staggered—blurred vision, the ringing in his skull.
Then he realized who stood behind him.
Satoshi Sekai, blade still dripping with fresh blood, eyes cold as winter steel.
"You're getting slower, Khagan," Sekai muttered.
"Hah!" Khagan exhaled in amusement.
Khagan kicked backward, his heel smashing into Satoshi's chest and sending him flying deeper into the mist.
A shimmering curve of fog-coalesced sword light flickered at Khagan's left shoulder.
He spun, but the strike was gone—replaced by a ripple in the air. He lunged forward, sweeping his spear in a low arc, but caught only vapor.
From behind, a muffled clang as Seijaku's spectral edge met his naginata shaft—an echoing ring that reverberated through the depths of the Kekkai.
Khagan grunted, pressing his weight into the haft, driving backward. The pressure forced Sekai's blade to bite into the sands of Seijaku's inner circle.
Sekai struck first—a horizontal slash that cut through the false echoes in the fog. Khagan barely raised his naginata in time, the blade screeching against steel as it deflected the blow. He countered with a thrust aimed at Sekai's stomach, a rapid three-inch stab meant to pierce ribs.
Sekai spun away, cloak streaming, and the blade nicked his sleeve.
"Not bad," the Khagan murmured, voice distant. "But you cannot sustain this forever."
The mist thickened, swirling around them in eddies of gray.
Each time, the older warrior's strikes slowed Khagan's momentum, sapping the naginata's balance.
But Khagan's training in Ikiho's martial academies had forged him into a weapon of raw power and patience. He closed his eyes, using his Kokugane Eyes not to see shapes but to sense pressure in the air.
He felt Sekai's weight shift before each strike, heard the faint hum of Seijaku's mana-draining aura as it caressed the edges of his cursed power.
"I'VE GOT YOU!"
Khagan hurled himself forward, spearhead leading in a brutal point-first charge—an unstoppable war spear smashing into Sekai's guard.
The force sent both men skidding backward through the fog, severing a sapling at its base.
Sekai gritted his teeth, struggling to maintain posture as blood trickled from his lip.
"Enough games," Khagan growled, stepping in close. He drove the haft into Sekai's chest, pressing until the man coughed steel-grey blood into the mist.
Sekai's eyes flared. He harnessed the Seijaku Kekkai one last time, pulling on the latent mana within the smoke. The mist snapped inward, compressing around Khagan like a vice, pushing him backward until he spat blood.
"ENOUGH" Khagan slammed his naginata into the ground and launched a shockwave.
When Sekai vanished, Khagan hurled stone debris blindly—until finally, a well-placed swing sent the elder flying out of the fog and crashing into the sand beyond the edge of Seijaku.
The Kekkai collapsed.
Khagan advanced, each step measured. Tendrils of smoke peeling away from Khagan's armor, drifting off into the night air.
"I should thank you," he said, voice calm. "I was getting bored. But I suppose I owe you pleasantries for inviting me into your little smoke trap."
Sekai said nothing, only watched with mistrustful eyes.
Khagan spun the naginata in a lazy arc, blade spraying the sand with blood. He continued, stepping closer. "Tell me, Lord Sekai, when was the last time you felt the edge of a weapon sharpen your mind rather than your armor?"
"Enough with the theatrics you piece of shit, you won't be dictating Tsurara nor us for much longer," Satoshi spat, dragging himself upright.
"You say that like it matters." Khagan smiled coldly. "You're alone now. No Yoshitake to bail you out. Heh."
Satoshi stood, despite the tremble in his limbs. He closed his eyes.
The earth rumbled.
The air above Sekai shimmered and split.
A colossal spectral dragon, its form a consisting of moonlight and vapor, emerged overhead with a thunderous roar that rattled the ribs of every warrior on the distant shore.
Khagan leapt aside, watcher of the dragon's descent. Its tail scoured the ground, carving out furrows in the sand.
Khagan's lips curved into a faint smile. "Well well," he said.
He vanished into the gathering smoke, the dragon's roar echoing behind him.
A spectral dragon of smoke and spirit energy rose behind him—Seiryu. It roared, shaking the very trees as it charged.
Khagan was flung into the sky.
Reinhardt Aratake and Raishin Ishidō crouched beside a battered makeshift well.
A handful of Nirei clan archers had erected it from driftwood and stones, channeling seawater through crude bamboo flumes.
The fresh saltwater dripped into wooden buckets—precious relief for parched and bleeding men.
Reinhardt pressed his sleeve to the gash in his shoulder, expelling a trickle of blood before dipping a cloth into cool water.
He glanced around at the field of corpses strewn across the dunes—contorted limbs, shattered armor, the pallid faces of the fallen.
"I don't know how much more of this I can take," Reinhardt admitted, voice low.
Raishin gave a half-laugh. "Yeah but unfortunately this fight will end one way or another—the cowards of Rokkau have gone far east, and now, it seems most of our comrades are either dead or have retreated. Although it seems the battle is getting more intense west."
Reinhardt winced as he bound the cloth tight. "Dammit...you saw them trickle off? My clan's flank devolved into chaos. I can't stand the thought—they were meant to hold the line."
Raishin's eyes were grim. "No time to mourn. We fight with what we've got." He wiped water from his brow, eyes sweeping the horizon. "That said—wait what is that!"
Reinhardt followed his gaze. Far above the dunes, a monstrous shape rippled against the night sky: a vast, coiling silhouette. Its form was too fluid, too massive for any normal beast. A shadow dragon—bound in smoke, with wings spanning half the beach—tore through the darkness. And astride its back, a figure draped in silver.
"The hell..?," Reinhardt whispered, rising to his feet so abruptly he nearly lost balance. "Raishin...that's—"
Raishin's brow furrowed. "That's what?" He squinted.
"No..." Reinhardt drew his katana from its scabbard. "It's him. Khagan Heishi. And that dragon..."
Raishin stared at the writhing shape, mouth agape. "Reinhardt...is that—"
Reinhardt sheathed his blade with a crisp snap. "Sorry," he said, voice tight, heart coursing.
"R-Reinhardt! Just wait for me!"
But Reinhardt was already gone, sprinting into the smoke.
Khagan hovered atop the colossal spectral dragon, the night wind tearing at his cloak. Below, the battlefield was a tapestry of fire and smoke, red-orange glow rivaling the moon's pale light.
Explosions of cursed mana and shouts of agony carried upward, blending into a macabre symphony.
Yet he grinned.
"So the summoning got stronger... good."
At his side hovered the silver-hilted naginata, still whole—a testament to his resilience.
Then activated his Kokugane Eyes.
His pupils dilated. The world sharpened.
Golden filaments sweeping the horizon, sensing every heartbeat, every shift in mana. Then, with a deft spin of his body and weapon, he lunged upward in a graceful arc.
The naginata's blade met the spectral dragon's midsection with a resonant clash. For an instant, blade and smoke coexisted, then—slice. The dragon's form ruptured as if a curtain torn.
Below, Satoshi Sekai stood perched on a jagged rock. His white hair whipped in the wind. He watched the dragon's fall, lips curled in fury.
Khagan smirked as he descended, guiding the dragon directly at Satoshi. "HAHAHAHA!"
"Watch out, old bastard!" Khagan Heishi mocked.
"Shit!" Satoshi dived behind a large rock as the dragon crashed down.
He spun his naginata in lazy circles, approaching the rock. Sekai dove behind its jagged bulk, panting. Khagan's eyes gleamed.
"You running out of tricks, Lord Sekai?" he jeered. "Or out of mana?"
Sekai spat blood and rose, blade drawn. His robes were shredded; his body battered. His eyes were sunken but resolute.
He pressed his back to the stone.
Think.
"Stop cowering, Lord Satoshi," he mocked. "You're making us look disgraceful."
The air thickened.
Mist.
Khagan groaned. "The Seijaku? Again? Really? I'm old too, Satoshi. But are we both just waiting to die of old age?"
He stepped forward—Then—swish. A blur of motion.
Khagan grinned. "Make a move already."
CLANG.
His naginata dropped in two perfect halves. No slice. No wound. Just... split.
Khagan's eyes widened with grudging respect as he caught the flying half-blade. "Huh," he muttered. "You sly bastard… learning such a forbidden cursed technique or sword art I should say.."
He tossed the broken shaft aside emmeding it into a rock and drew the short tanto from his belt.
Sekai's silhouette flickered, another phantom strike—a slash across Khagan's thigh that spun him to a knee.
"AGH!"
He coughed blood, mana attacks of Seijaku's field draining his reserves.
These strikes..
"You actually… got me. Very well. Never would've guessed you managed to use the Genso Senjin."
He limped forward, blade poised, eyes narrowed. "I'll admit—your trick is clever. But not clever enough. As we both know there's some holes within the Phantom Blade. But I'll bite since your making me use my eyes to the fullest."
He closed his eyes.
The world vanished.
His breath steadied as he closed his eyes. Within the haze of his mind, the world slowed.
Only pulses, thoughts, and premonitions remained.
There.
His nose bled.
A phantom strike came from the left—lightning fast.
Khagan's body reacted before thought. He caught the invisible blade by the wrist, turning it aside with extraordinary grip. Blood spurted from his palms, but he held fast.
When he reopened his eyes, he saw Sekai standing mere paces away, phantom blade in hand—his true blade, now manifested in mortal form.
"Apologies," Khagan said quietly. "My eyes should have caught it sooner. But. One of these holes within the ability is that this is worthless to those who possess special eyes like myself."
With brutal speed, he swung the tanto in a backhand arc. Satoshi's blade shattered in his hand—splintered steel clattering in the sand.
With a kick to the neck, Satoshi flew backward, crashing from the fog.
Khagan dropped to one knee, coughing, blood bubbling at his lips. Each breath was agony—but agony he savored.
He rose with difficulty and limped toward Sekai, who lay crumpled on the shore, hand clutching a ruined blade.
Khagan reached down and grasped Sekai's hair, pulling the head upright. "You've gotten stronger…smarter." he admitted, voice low. "But not good enough. Foolish to challenge me on your own."
He let go, allowing Sekai's head to slump. "You and the rest of Kurota can keep trying. But in the end, the people of Tsurara are strong. We will not negotiate under terms you spit upon."
His grip tightened on Satoshi's hair.
"You won't die tonight, Satoshi Sekai. You're going to be my prize. A gift to the people of Tsurara. And a message to Kurota."
Satoshi stared up at him, eyes glassy—but not broken. Even in defeat, he refused to give Khagan the satisfaction of begging.
From the shadows, Jōren Shikotsu, supreme head of the Shikotsu clan loyal to Khagan, stepped forward. His armor was the blackest of onyx; his Akugang eye pulsed with cruel light.
"We have captured a portion of their forces," Jōren announced, voice flat as obsidian. "Prisoners enough for interratigation and torture."
Khagan turned to the dancing flames on the shore. He lifted a gauntleted hand, silhouette regal against the horizon.
"Good," he said, voice carrying over the water. "Take what prisoners you will. Send word to Otoshi, our victory is assured."
He glanced back at Lord Satoshi Sekai, lying broken in the sand. Then he looked upward at the darkening sky—where the last tendrils of Seijaku's fog receded into nothingness.
With a final smirk, Khagan Heishi sheathed his tanto, and walked towards Satoshi for collection.