Every person in Yunara stared at the mark on his forehead.
They had heard stories about it.
But they had never seen it on a living man.
One of the soldiers — a warrior who had trained his entire life — now lay dead in the dirt with his head separated from his body.
The remaining soldiers stood frozen.
They did not understand what had just happened.
With a furious shout, one of them charged forward, katana raised high.
Raikaro inhaled slowly.
One breath.
Then—
A flash of steel.
The soldier's hands fell to the ground before anyone could even see the blade move.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
No one saw the strike.
No one saw the motion.
They only saw blood.
The soldier collapsed to his knees, screaming in agony, staring at the empty space where his hands had been.
Raikaro stepped forward calmly.
Without hesitation, he drove his katana through the soldier's throat.
Silence swallowed the street.
The final soldier trembled. His katana slipped from his shaking fingers. He stumbled backward, then turned and ran.
No one in Yunara could believe what they had just witnessed.
Suddenly, loud voices echoed from the far end of the road.
Boots thundered against stone.
More soldiers rushed into the street — dozens of them. Among them were elite guards, their faces hidden behind carved, expressionless masks.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
These were not ordinary men.
Raikaro noticed.
He did not panic.
Instead, he turned and walked toward the small boy who stood frozen beside the food stall.
The child was shaking.
Raikaro placed a hand gently on the boy's head.
He pressed a few coins into the boy's palm.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Then—
He disappeared.
No smoke.
No sound.
No one saw him move.
The soldiers arrived to find only blood… and bodies.
As the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, shadows stretched across Yunara. One by one, doors closed. Windows shut.
But the city would not forget what it had seen.
That day, there was only one topic in Yunara.
The mark.
⸻
Inside a small, dimly lit house at the edge of the city, a child sat beside his grandfather.
"Grandfather… who was that man?" the boy asked softly. "Why are people afraid of the mark?"
The old man was silent for a long moment.
Then he took a slow breath.
"Four hundred years ago," he began, "long before Yunara existed… there was a clan."
The candle flame flickered between them.
"They ruled more than half the known world. Their warriors were unmatched. Their blades decided the fate of kingdoms."
The boy listened with wide eyes.
"But then," the old man continued, "a demon rose."
His voice grew heavier.
"The greatest battle mankind has ever seen began. Cities burned. Lands shattered. In the end… the demon destroyed the clan. Every last one of them."
The room fell silent.
"Because they were the only ones who could stand against him."
The boy swallowed.
"But some say… a few survived. Hidden. Waiting."
He looked toward the dark window.
"And now that the demon is dead… perhaps the last of them has returned."
The boy's voice trembled.
"Grandfather… what was the clan's name?"
The old man's eyes reflected the candlelight.
"The Ra Clan."
⸻
Night fell completely over Yunara.
Darkness covered the city.
In a quiet, abandoned corner far from the main streets, Raikaro sat alone.
The night air was calm.
For the first time that day, there was peace.
No voices.
No soldiers.
No blood.
Only wind brushing against stone walls.
His eyes were closed.
Still.
Silent.
Then—
A faint shift in the air.
Steel whispered from the darkness.
A katana shot toward his throat.