Chapter 5: The Ashen Road to Sarutobi
Aizashi awoke to the stench of blood and fire.
The once serene village, his home, now lay in smoldering ruin—its streets cracked and scorched, its trees reduced to charred skeletons. Smoke curled into a dark sky still red with flame. The cries of dying men and the silence of the dead hung in the air like a noose.
He blinked slowly, trying to move. Pain stabbed through every inch of his body, but especially the wound in his abdomen where his own Flame Blade had been used against him. Blood pooled beneath him. His limbs trembled, barely functional.
And yet, beside him, two blades lay undisturbed.
The Flame Blade—its hilt flickering with angry embers.
The Shadow Blade—dark and silent, but pulsing with grief.
The only remnants of his family.
He forced himself to breathe, shallow and ragged. Tears threatened his vision. His heart screamed for Katherine, for Levine, for Xzavier—but grief would come later.
He clenched his jaw, reaching toward the Flame Blade with a bloodied hand. It responded instantly, as if recognizing its master's will, its edge glowing with renewed heat. Aizashi turned the blade—inward, toward his gaping wound.
Without hesitation, he pressed the flat of the searing weapon against the gash in his side.
Sssssssss!
Flesh sizzled. The scent of burning meat filled the air. He gritted his teeth, but no scream escaped—only a muffled groan, the sound of a man too broken to howl.
The wound was cauterized. Sloppy, brutal, but enough to stand.
He staggered upright, gripping both blades, the flames flickering at his back like the wings of a dying phoenix.
In the distance, laughter echoed.
Barbaric laughter. Metallic clanks. Greedy voices.
From the smoke, a horde of scavengers emerged—bandits, mercenaries, looters from the Deadlands who had caught wind of the chaos. Some wore armor scavenged from fallen Wardens, others carried rusted axes or poison-laced daggers.
They hadn't come to help.
They had come to steal from the dead.
A bald brute with tusk-like teeth stepped forward.
> "Look what we got here, boys. Still breathing. Think he's guarding loot?"
Another chuckled. "Bet those blades fetch a pretty price."
The leader spat into the ash and drew a jagged cleaver.
> "No hard feelings, old man. You can die with your honor—"
> Aizashi: "Leave."
The word left his mouth like stone grinding against stone.
The leader laughed. "What was that?"
Aizashi's eyes flickered with red light. "I said: leave."
They didn't.
They never listened.
The first to rush him was cut clean through—split from shoulder to waist, the flame blade hissing as it passed through armor, flesh, and bone. His death was instant.
The second tried to circle from behind—a shadow blade sliced his throat in silence.
Then, everything moved.
Aizashi's body screamed with pain, but his blades moved like memory. He danced through the raiders like fire through dry brush. Every step a statement. Every swing a prayer of rage. The ground steamed beneath his feet. His cloak, still smoldering, curled behind him like a tattered banner of war.
Men burned. Others were torn apart in the shadows cast by his wrath.
Those who tried to flee were not spared.
He gave no mercy.
Ten.
Then twenty.
Then thirty bodies littered the field.
Only silence remained.
Aizashi stood among corpses, blades dripping, his breath ragged, and his body swaying on the edge of collapse. But he didn't fall. Not yet.
There was somewhere he had to go.
Somewhere he swore he'd never return.
---
The path to Sarutobi Academy stretched across leagues of dense forest, broken plains, and forgotten ruins. It had been a decade since he'd last seen its stone gates or the temple peaks that watched over the capital of Akira Nation.
He walked with purpose, each step driving splinters of pain up his spine.
His wound reopened halfway through the journey. He wrapped it in his old headband. Blood soaked through it anyway.
His memories whispered with every footstep.
The halls where Katherine once laughed.
The arena where Levine trained.
The field where Xzavier was meant to take his first steps.
He saw their faces in the leaves, heard their voices in the wind.
He passed through ruins still bearing the claw marks of the last war. Cities reborn after Titanus's age now stood as shadows again.
He avoided civilization. Not because he feared people. But because he feared he'd burn them all if he looked them in the eyes.
Days passed.
Then finally—on a windless, overcast morning, he reached the gates.
Sarutobi Academy.
The home of heroes. The stronghold of light. The place where he once stood as top of his class, as Aizashi Shishiroma—Warden of Flame.
The students were younger now.
Fresh recruits training in the outer fields, clad in basic tunics and wooden practice blades. Some laughed. Others failed at simple forms. It was the same… and not the same.
The guards at the gate froze when they saw him approach.
He was limping. Half-dead. His cloak torn to ribbons. His eyes hollow, wild, and soaked in fire.
One of the guards stepped forward cautiously.
> "State your name and intent."
Aizashi stopped. He looked up.
> Aizashi: "My name is Aizashi Shishiroma.
I'm coming home."
---
Inside, whispers followed him.
Older instructors exchanged worried glances.
Some bowed. Others turned away, ashamed.
His return meant only one thing:
Darkness had returned to Eidolon.
And its first embers were lit in flame.