"In this world, strength is not a gift... it's the price we pay to stay alive."
"Kara is the life energy that flows through all things. Some shape it to create, others to destroy… but all depend on it to survive."
"When the breath of Kara fades, the heart stops beating, and the soul vanishes into eternal shadow."
(The scene opens on a black screen. Raizen's voice echoes, broken, gasping, as if he's reliving the scene over and over in a nightmare.)
Her name.
Why? Why was it my name she said?
I see it all. Over and over. The sound of chains. The scent of blood mixing with the rain. Her body… nailed to the pillar. By her own power. And that bastard… that bastard smiling.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw myself at him, bite him, rip his eyes out. But my body wouldn't move. Nothing. Just that pain in my shoulder, a fire that reminded me I was still alive.
Why me? Why am I still alive when she's...
(Raizen's vision becomes the camera's point of view. Blurry. Unstable.)
Shadows appeared. In a light that hurt the eyes. They were there. Finally. But too late. Always too late.
I think I saw Adams. His face was… different. Hardened. But there was something else. Anger. The same anger burning inside me.
He walked up to her. I turned away. I couldn't. I couldn't look anymore.
(Scene shifts. Raizen is now on a bed. The images are choppy, sounds muffled.)
After that, it's all a blur. Light. The smell of herbs. Voices. I couldn't understand anything. It was like being underwater.
I saw Danky. Unconscious.
And Diana… she was there, but she wasn't. Her eyes were open, but they saw nothing.
We were all broken. Shattered toys.
Hana was there. She was crying. Trying to hide it, but I saw. Her eyes were red. She placed her hand on my forehead. It was cold. Or maybe I was burning.
Then Adams walked in. He looked at Hana.
And she… she shook her head.
That simple gesture. That silent "no." It was confirmation. The end. The final point.
The thread holding me snapped.
The world went black.
(The point of view becomes objective.)
The healing ward of the Zenith Sanctuary was in crisis.
Usually a place of peace and serenity, it now buzzed with tense activity. Hana and two other healers worked over the three beds aligned at the center of the room, their hands glowing with Celestial Kara.
Adams stood near the door, arms crossed, his face an unreadable stone mask. He watched the scene, his silence heavier than any scream.
Adams (in a low, hard voice):
— Their condition?
Hana looked up, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. Her eyes were sunken, her voice shaking with fatigue and grief.
Hana:
— Critical. All three.
Danky is in a coma. His body's taken extreme damage—multiple fractures, internal bleeding… it's a miracle he's still alive.
Diana… her life energy is almost depleted. It's like she burned it all at once to power a force she doesn't yet understand. She's stable, but… empty.
And Raizen… he just lost consciousness. The shock, on top of his wounds...
Adams clenched his fist, the joints of his gloved hand turning white. He cast a final look at the three unconscious bodies—three near-extinguished promises.
Adams:
— Do everything you can. I'll make my report to the Stellar Zenith.
He left the room with heavy steps, leaving behind the sound of Kara monitors and the whispered incantations of healing.
(Transition to the Burning Hollow)
At the same moment, in a place lit only by magma and where the air was dry and scorching, a portal of shadow tore through the void.
Johan stumbled out, falling to one knee, gasping for breath. His mask was cracked, and blood dripped from a wound on his shoulder, staining the obsidian floor.
He lifted his gaze, eyes landing on the figure dominating the room.
At the center of a raised platform stood a simple dark wooden rocking chair.
Seated there, lazily swaying back and forth, was Shiro Takahashi, reading a leather-bound book. The gentle, rhythmic creak of the chair was the only sound disturbing the cave's silence.
He didn't even look up.
Shiro (in a flat voice, never stopping his motion):
— You're injured, Johan. And you took your time. I hope the show was worth it.
Johan gritted his teeth, not from the pain of his wounds, but from the disdain in his master's voice. He bowed his head—respectful, but confident.
Johan:
— The mission was a success, Shiro-sama. The Astroforge is dead. And I've found one of their access points.
The rocking chair continued its hypnotic rhythm.
Shiro turned a page.
Shiro:
— Details.
Johan delivered his report. Clear and precise, he described the location of the access point, the rift in the fabric of space through which the Zenith reinforcements had arrived.
Then he spoke of the awakenings.
The paradoxical blend of ice and healing in Diana.
The raw telekinetic force of Danky.
And finally, the intervention of "the thief," Raizen, who had figured out the mask's weakness—and cracked it.
The rocking chair stopped.
Shiro slowly closed his book, placing it delicately on a small table beside him. A glint of pure fascination lit his red eyes.
He stood, his silhouette stark against the lava flows below.
He descended the few steps separating him from Johan. His movements made no sound.
Shiro:
— You failed to kill three trainees. You allowed yourself to be wounded. And one of them discovered the weakness of your mask.
His voice was calm, almost gentle, but each word was a blade of ice.
Johan did not flinch, but a bead of sweat formed on his brow.
Shiro:
— And yet… you've brought back information far more valuable than their deaths.
Two spontaneous awakenings… and a strategist among them.
My brother has hidden his pieces well.
Shiro came closer, his shadow fully enveloping Johan.
He raised his hand slowly, his fingers subtly lengthening, nails transforming into sharp black claws.
Without warning, he plunged his claws into Johan's neck.
Johan stiffened, a groan of pure pain escaping his lips. He didn't scream, but his entire body convulsed, muscles twitching in agony.
Shiro's claws didn't just wound—they injected something into him. A dark energy that burned… and healed.
The bleeding in his shoulder stopped.
The crack in his mask sealed like magic.
His internal injuries healed in a torment of unbearable pain.
After what seemed an eternity, Shiro withdrew his claws. Johan's neck bore four black gashes that slowly closed, leaving dark scars behind.
Johan panted, forehead pressed to the ground, trembling from head to toe. He was healed, but the price was a pain he would never forget.
Shiro (cold, almost fatherly):
— Well done, Johan. You've earned your reward. Now, rise.
Johan stood slowly, his body still shaking with aftershocks.
Shiro (turning to the empty hall):
— It's time to prepare.
His voice wasn't loud, but it echoed through the Burning Hollow like an absolute command.
Shiro:
— My Pure Blood Burned. Step forth!
From ten dark alcoves surrounding the chamber, nine figures emerged, kneeling in a perfect semi-circle around Shiro.
Their presence was so dense, so saturated with Black Kara, the very air seemed to solidify.
These were the Ten Pure Blood Burned—Shiro's personal elite.
Shiro observed them, a predator admiring his weapons.
His gaze swept over each of them not like a general reviewing his troops, but like an artist inspecting his palette of poisons.
His gaze first stopped on Feynord Raki, the leader of his elite.
Still. Upright. His face a blank canvas.
Shiro knew that behind that calm exterior lay an army in a single man, ready to overwhelm any defense.
Raw force, he thought. Useful.
Then came Fullness Anemiya. Even kneeling, he seemed on the verge of exploding. An unstable energy radiated from him, a promise of emptiness and destruction.
Shiro smiled inwardly. The hammer. To break through the thickest walls.
His attention drifted to Morve Di Sun.
The tormentor wore a twisted smile, his eyes gleaming with sick curiosity. He scratched his arm absentmindedly—an innocuous gesture that made the air itself shiver.
Shiro already saw him at work—dissecting minds, collecting screams. A psychological weapon. Indispensable.
Beside him, Lyra Moon stood like a porcelain statue. Graceful. Silent.
But between her slender fingers, nearly invisible threads of shadow danced—wrapping and unwrapping like serpents.
Betrayal incarnate. To turn their own forces against them.
Shiro's eyes moved over Droneur Grande, whose sickly green aura seemed to rot the floor beneath his knees…
Then to Renji Dalek, holding a brush between his fingers with the reverence of a priest.
He saw Minamite Ren, the archivist, face hidden behind a strange book,
And Kai, whose very silence seemed to absorb all surrounding sound.
Lastly, he felt—more than saw—the presence of Luc Most Senior, cloaked in the deepest shadows of the room.
His secret weapon. His ultimate assurance.
Analysis complete, Shiro spoke.
His voice—calm and steady—rang out with an authority that allowed no dissent.
But beneath it was a weariness ancient as the world itself.
Shiro:
— It has now been thirty-seven long years since I was separated from my brother.
At the age of five, I understood my place in this world.
The walls of the chamber faded, replaced by the dark wood and scent of old wax from his maternal grandparents' house.
The memory was pristine—etched into his mind with diamond precision.
A young Shiro stood beside his twin, Kuro.
One with hair white as snow.
The other, black as ink.
Both absorbing the dim light of the sitting room.
Around them, the world of adults tore itself apart in a storm of hateful words.
But the two boys remained still—impassive faces like ancient statues witnessing a mortal quarrel.
They knew.
They had always known.
On one side, their paternal grandfather—a man as rigid as he was arrogant.
Paternal Grandfather (Side A):
— We have a right to these children. They carry our blood.
On the other, their maternal grandfather, his face wrinkled with sorrow and fragile defiance.
Maternal Grandfather (Side B):
— Yes—and ours as well! Your own son never wanted his children raised by you, his family.
He entrusted them to us. That is your shame.
The adults didn't understand.
They thought they were fighting over an inheritance, a bloodline.
They couldn't see the ancient souls within—bound by a fate they were merely fulfilling.
Paternal Grandfather (Side A):
— He had lost all reason. He was no longer worthy of our name. But that's beside the point…
Give us the boy. The white-haired one. Keep the other, and we'll leave.
Refuse, and you'll regret it.
The threat hung in the air—heavy and venomous.
Maternal Grandfather (Side B):
— You'll never have these children… Never!
And then, the twins broke their silence.
In perfect synchrony, Shiro and Kuro stood.
Their eyes met—and everything was understood.
Shiro turned to his brother, his small voice clear, without a trace of hesitation.
Shiro (as a child):
— You know how this must end, my brother…
We'll find each other again, in a few years.
Then, without a glance toward the family who had raised him, the five-year-old boy turned his back and walked calmly toward his captors.
The maternal family tried to intervene—
But Kuro's voice, equally devoid of childlike emotion, froze them in place.
Kuro (as a child):
— No. Let him go. You are not strong enough for this.
He said it without turning around.
As Shiro crossed the threshold, an invisible light pulsed between the brothers.
A shard of obsidian floated in the air—splitting into two perfect pieces.
One, jet black, settled in Kuro's palm.
The other, a milky white, appeared in Shiro's already-cold hand.
The memory closed.
Shiro stood once more in the command chamber—his face a mask of icy resolve.
Shiro:
— The next day, the consequences began. Natural reactions… but harmful.
I could no longer touch water.
No matter its nature, the moment it touched my skin—it burned me.
For Kuro, it was heat.
He paused, scanning his elite with piercing eyes.
Shiro:
— But now, at last, we have a lead on my brother.
And the shard… feels closer than ever.
A thin, predatory smile curved his lips.
Shiro:
— We will not attack their sanctuary.
That would be too predictable.
Before we burn the nest,
we'll break the hatchlings.
Final Scene...
Far from Shiro's cold command chamber, a very different energy filled the heart of the Tempio Zenith.
This place had not been built by mortal hands.
It was a manifestation of cosmic will itself.
At the center of that tranquil immensity, beneath a floating crystal, two figures stood.
One, kneeling, was Rajax, the Stellar Zenith—his humble posture in stark contrast with the immense power radiating from him.
The other, standing, was Kuro.
Thirty-seven years had transformed him.
If his brother had become a blade of ice, Kuro was a flame—pure, controlled, but intense.
Draped in flowing robes that looked woven from the fabric of night itself,
he watched the dance of stars above.
In his palm, barely visible, pulsed a shard of perfect black, radiating a soft, steady warmth.
The silence, which could have lasted an instant or an eternity, was finally broken by Kuro's voice.
Deep and calm, carrying the heat of a hidden inferno.
Kuro:
— Rajax… we are drawing ever closer to the inevitable.
I can feel it.
The great battle is near.
The resonance of his words did not disturb the serenity of the temple—
on the contrary, it became part of it,
like a long-awaited truth finally spoken aloud.
Then Rajax's voice answered—
Grave. Powerful. Like the rumble of a distant star.
Rajax:
— Then we must be ready.
Slowly, the kneeling man raised his head.
His face, imbued with unwavering loyalty, turned toward Kuro.
His eyes—like orbs of molten gold—reflected the universe's own resolve.
The time for reflection was over.
The time of peace was ending.
END OF CHAPTER 10