Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Third Quadrant, Shinkai (Seat-Planet of House Hikari)
Shinkai was mostly cliffs and brine-salted gusts. It had no sky. Or rather: it had one, but it looked more like an upside-down ocean than a firmament. Milky clouds stagnated low, veiled with violet sheens, and the sun only filtered through in thin blades, never whole. The light did not warm: it was a pale illusion reflected on the water.
One of the Hikari compounds rose right at the edge between cliff and sea. Dark pavilions, built of volcanic stone, were linked by hanging walkways that creaked under the wind. The load-bearing columns looked like claws raking the sky. There was no gold, no stained glass: only blackened wood and worn steel, as if beauty had been banished to make room for endurance. The flags at the bridge's edges hung motionless, soaked with salt.
Ryusei crossed the inner courtyard with slow steps, his ankles still trembling from the morning's training. Knuckles raw, breath short. He had forced on himself hours of exercises without pause, strikes repeated until his arms folded on their own. It was the only way he knew to stay upright: train until pain was snuffed out by other pain.
Each strike left a dry echo on the blackened wood of the practice dummies, reinforced for drills, and that echo came back like a hollow toll. Wind poured in from the pavilion's sides and dragged his breath away, making every slash heavier. Two young attendants watched him from afar: they didn't dare speak, but Ryusei felt their eyes on him, as if they were already judging whether he was worthy to bear the Hikari name.
The attendants followed at a respectful distance. No one spoke. Ryusei's gaze was fixed on the stairs leading to the upper pavilion, but he stopped when one of them approached and offered him a sealed datalogger.
The black shell bore an official mark: Listening Office – Woimar.
Ryusei took it. The device activated on its own, as if it had been waiting for his touch.
The synthetic voice enunciated cold words:"Energy anomaly confirmed. Sealed memories unlocked on contact."
Then, the blow.
It wasn't an outward vision. It was an inward explosion, as if a vault door had swung open inside his skull.
Faces. Screams. Blood.
And his father. Asano Hikari. Sprawled, pierced.
And another youth, wielding the Magatsu—the blade that throbbed like a cursed heart.
Ryusei staggered. For an instant he didn't understand: why was he seeing that scene? Was it real?
Then recognition speared his mind: he had lived it. They had torn it from him, and now it returned.
His throat locked in a strangled growl. It wasn't suspicion, it wasn't a story told: it was his memory. It was true.
The Devil's Saber.
The nickname drilled through his ears. Not a mythical title, not a whisper. A brand.
His eyes burned, but he didn't give. He inhaled, exhaled. The pain of muscle and the pain of memories fused into a single searing blade running in his veins.
"You…" he murmured, almost voiceless.
A moment later, his hand clenched into a fist. His legs still trembled, but he didn't stop. He went back to striking. Again, again, again.
Every punch was a name carved into stone.Every kick was an oath.
The wind whistled among the pavilion beams.
Training wasn't enough. Enduring wasn't enough.
Not while he was alive.
--
First Quadrant, Sines
The hovercar slid on the edge of warm wind, leaving behind the last band of ornate towers. Daisuke didn't turn to look. The city was a labyrinth of domes and metallic minarets, a forest of arches and balconies rising in waves, as if the sand itself had taken the shape of stone and glass. Down in the courtyards, the markets still bubbled with voices, trembling lanterns, and broken songs, but it was an illusion: you only had to rise a few lumi to see the heart was rotten. Entire districts emptied, mosaics shattered, domes cracked and dust-covered.
That was the city the Black Gospel called "sacred": a living relic, still inhabited enough to feign normalcy, corrupted enough to welcome the cult's plague.
The hovercar cleared the walls and plunged toward the desert. The low sun set the dunes ablaze, and the heat bent the horizon. No caravans, no tents: only eroded rocks and columns of sand spiraling up. And, in the distance, the monument.
A pile of bodies.
Daisuke saw it before the others. His eyes narrowed. Hundreds of bodies, perhaps thousands, heaped one atop the other, bone and flesh merging into a putrid obelisk, hundreds of lumi high. There were no ropes or pillars to hold it, yet it stood, against all logic. Wind did not bow it, sand did not swallow it. It was as if it had grown on its own, a fleshy plant of the desert.
On the top, a man.
Old, bony shoulders, a long iron-colored beard. He shouted at the sun, arms raised:
"THOUGHT IS DEAD!"
The voice rolled down the pile like thunder, bounced off rocks and came back to scratch the hovercar's windows.
"Thought is dead! Instinct alone is law!"
Daisuke clenched his jaw. It was the first time he'd seen him. He knew who he was: one of the new Apostles.
The vehicle stopped at a safe distance. Sand billowed red when the thrusters powered down. Daisuke's handful of men got out first, clearing the way. Then he did.
The heat struck at once, but he showed nothing. He advanced at a slow pace, eyes fixed on the pile. Every breath was iron and rotting flesh.
At the obelisk's foot, someone was already waiting.
Faruzan was the first to step forward. Dark hair poorly tied back, hands clasped behind her, an open smile that clashed with the smell around them. She looked like a girl who'd walked out of a garden, not a death cult.
"Oh, you really came!" she said, almost cheerful. "For a moment I thought you'd gotten lost in the markets. Happens to many, you know, in Sines. I hope I left the city in order…"
"Eh? What do you mean?"
She giggled. "Ah, then there were no problems. Maybe you were bored on the way. This desert feels endless, don't you think? Every time I lose patience, and then I distract myself counting grains of sand."
Daisuke raised an eyebrow. "And how far did you get?"
"Two thousand four hundred."
"Amateur."
The girl laughed heartily and motioned to the others.
The third new Apostle stood in shadow beneath the broken arch of a ruin. Skin pale like stripped bone, black tattoos running from hands to neck, vanishing behind the jaw. Dark eyes, fixed, without a flicker. He did not speak. He inhaled slowly, like a reptile measuring heat.
And then there was Jester.
Seated on an improvised throne of stones, legs crossed, white mask on his face. The sharpened teeth. Red dreads tied behind his neck. Head tilted, grayish finger drumming on his knee, as if hearing a music the others couldn't. As soon as he saw Daisuke, he clapped once, softly.
"The younger son!" he sing-songed. "With this fine gathering of newbies, I truly feel like an experienced big brother."
Daisuke chuckled.
The old man atop the pile stopped shouting, and with a jump of hundreds of lumi, he landed with a boom. He rose unhurt, eyes grim, hands callused, voice hoarse:"Welcome, brother. I am Eras. And I repeat: thought is dead."
Daisuke gave a faint smile and dipped his head a fraction."Could be. But bodies still walk."
Eras sized him up, then burst into a cavernous laugh.
The handful drew into a circle as the Apostles approached. The group stepped under the broken arch, where the light dimmed. The dunes served as walls, the desert as vault. It was their hall.
The meeting began without form. No table, no seats. Only circles of bodies and voices.
"Has anyone heard anything from Kathie?" Faruzan asked.
Jester laughed. "Please, it'd be a miracle if the princess answered a call. I keep her number as decoration among my contacts."
"True enough…" the girl admitted, then changed subject. "Gaia Prime. Isn't it a beautiful name?"
"A name that will fall," Eras snarled. "A cross that will break."
The tattooed Apostle spoke for the first time, low-voiced: "A seed to plant. And it will grow where it mustn't."
Jester snickered. "A breach, a seed, a fall. Words, words. Our bread. But I want the wine. I want the blood."
What the hell are they talking about?!
Daisuke stayed silent, listening to those lunatics talk in riddles. Fine. He'd make do. Gaia Prime was the destination, and he would demand the rest in due time.
"You'll have your blood," he said, convinced, after clearing his throat.
The old man nodded. "If you are truly worthy flesh."
It was a challenge. Not taken. Not yet.
That was when one of Daisuke's men stepped forward. He carried a dark cylinder in his hands."Boss. Sent by an office on Alay."
A datalogger.
Daisuke took it. Jester's gaze lit at once, as if he'd recognized the object before seeing it clearly.
The young Hikari activated it.
A flash cut through the circle. No holograms, no images.
Memories.
Hurled into their skulls like white-hot blades.
Daisuke jolted, clutching his forehead.
Ignar. The sky burning, buildings falling, screams breaking in throats.
And at the center… that figure.
A boy, Magatsu gripped in his fist. The Devil's Saber.
Daisuke reeled. His heart hammered like it hadn't in years.
It wasn't an illusion. Not a hearsay voice.
It was him.
Daisuke remembered him. How could he have forgotten?
Eras cursed, spitting into the sand. "Blasphemy! He should have been ash!"
The tattooed one said nothing, but his eyes were more alive than ever.
Faruzan blinked, confused. "Oh… what a curious vision. Truly curious."
Daisuke looked around, bewildered. "Eh? You saw him too?"
"I… I was there… I was there…" Jester laughed. Not a short laugh. Not a polite one. A laugh that swelled, that folded over itself, that became song. He stood, the mask reflecting the sunset, and applauded.
The laughter wasn't just noise. It was a wave filling the broken arch and vibrating on skin.
"It's him! He's back!" he cried, clapping. "How could I have forgotten him?! My rival, my mirror, my joy!"
The others stared at him in terror. But inside each of them, the nightmare was the same: they had forgotten, and now remembered.
Jester took two steps forward and tilted his head. "Say what you want. For me, the game begins now."
Eras stiffened, eyes fixed on the madman as if to silence him with a stare. The tattooed one half-closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, as if tasting that euphoria. Faruzan giggled softly, almost embarrassed, as if she truly found it amusing.
The desert fell silent.
The dunes shivered as if an ancient breath had shifted beneath the sand. And for a moment, even the bodies in the pile seemed to smile.
--
Unknown location
Hana slid her finger along the datalogger's edge. The screen trembled a moment, then opened without asking for confirmation. No code, no barrier. As if it had been programmed for her.
At first, nothing. Then a white flash, and blood.
Hana staggered, hands clamped on the table's edge. Not a dream, not a recording.
It was a memory being returned to her.
She saw her father, Asano. Heard him breathe, gasp, fade. Saw him die before her eyes again.
And she… she truly remembered. How could she have forgotten? Who had torn it from her?
Her lips trembled, but did not part. She watched the scene to the end, without looking away, even as her mind screamed.
When the image vanished, only her heartbeat remained—loud, painful, but hers again.
She closed the datalogger with glacial slowness. Set it on the table before her with a delicacy that sounded threatening.
On the table lay a small folded cloth, dust-stained. Hana ran her hand over it, as if to recall the smell of her father's sword. It was a gesture she'd done for years, but this time her fingers trembled a fraction. She stopped at once, as if she had betrayed her own discipline.
She drew a deep breath. Exhaled. Once. Then she murmured something inaudible, a message only she herself would deliver.
The rest of the room stayed silent.
--
Unknown location
Itsuki Hikari touched the datalogger without haste. The surface reflected her eyes for an instant, clear as glass. Then the screen opened.
The images came like a torrent. For someone else they might have been a burden. For her, no.
Itsuki tilted her head slightly. There was no surprise. Only acknowledgment.
It was not an invented tale, not suspicion. It had always been her memory. Stolen. Now returned.
"It's him."
The voice reached her from within. Not a whisper, not an echo: a parallel thought, razor-thin.
"I know," she answered softly, without moving her lips.
"He's back."
"Yes. He was always there."
A faint smile bent her mouth. Not irony: assimilation.
"Do you want to stop him?"
"No need. Why run?" Silence reclaimed the room. Itsuki closed the datalogger with a slow, almost bored gesture.
"Then we will win."
"We already have."
She left the device on the table and walked away without looking back, as if the information received were not an omen but merely one more datum, useful to confirm what she already knew: the game was already decided.