Hikauchi was dead.
The silence groomed itself over the scene like a heavy shroud. His body lay burned, one hand missing, his entire face torn open and unrecognizable. It was not a good end to his life—no honor, no dignity, only pain. Trail crouched beside him, his sharp eyes observing the remains.
On his mind, the question circled again and again: Why did they target Hikauchi? He was a retired higher-up, no longer a player in the politics of war. What could possibly be the reason?
The room around him was a mess. Everything was shattered—the bookshelves collapsed, the carpets torn, the table overturned, and the walls cracked with signs of violence. Outside, the castle was heavily guarded, soldiers standing in rigid rows, their armor glinting under the torches. Yet even outside those walls, chaos brewed. The soldiers raged among themselves, whispering and shouting, suspicion growing like fire.
"There were many packages coming," one soldier explained to the others. His voice was sharp, defensive. "But we checked them all. There were things inside, but no kind of explosives."
Trail stood up slowly, his boots crunching against broken glass. Something caught his eye—an odd paper lying near the remains. He slipped on a pair of black gloves, crouched again, and carefully picked it up. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he unfolded it.
There, written in blood, was a single word.
Mikana.
The meaning was unmistakable: The end is near.
Trail's eyes widened, but his expression remained calm. This was no ordinary message. It was a word of terrible weight, a word whispered only in times of despair. A word that carried prophecy, doom, and inevitability.
He tucked the blood-written note into his coat and stood tall. The guards entered, waiting for orders. Trail's voice cut the silence.
"Get the body to the detective room. No one touches anything else."
As they carried Hikauchi's charred body away, Trail's thoughts spiraled. Another war… How much more does humanity have to suffer? His eyes scanned the wreckage of the room—the ruined books, the splintered chairs, the scorched carpets. Yet no matter where he looked, one word carved itself into his mind:
Mikana.
Elsewhere.
The boys returned home. The day's work had drained them, sweat rolling down their foreheads, but they still carried themselves with quiet determination. Mr. Wood was in the garden, watering his plants. Beside him grazed Aron's goat, now bigger than before, healthy and strong.
"Ah, you boys are back," Wood said with a kind smile. He leaned on his watering can and looked at them with pride. "I've prepared some new tools for you. They'll help improve your muscle strength."
Aron and Carlos reacted weakly at first—their bodies sore, their hands blistered—but their eyes held a flicker of energy. They followed Wood, who guided them to the training ground.
There lay heavy metallic balls, thick chains, and crude wooden machines that looked more like torture devices than training tools.
"This will help you train," Wood explained, patting one of the weights. "I know you're tired today, but don't worry. You can start tomorrow."
Relief washed over Aron and Carlos. They both smiled, faint but genuine.
Carlos thought to himself: Finally. Maybe we're getting closer to real strength.
Elsewhere.
A heavy silence echoed inside the cavern. The air was damp, the walls slick with moisture, and the torches cast long, trembling shadows. A man in a black coat walked slowly through the darkness. His footsteps echoed with authority. When he reached the chamber's center, he removed his coat and sat on a chair carved from stone.
Zeiris smirked when he saw him. His eyes glowed faintly red, a predator's amusement playing on his lips.
"Haha, you're back," Zeiris said mockingly. "Good job killing Hikauchi."
Rogard bowed his head slightly. "You were right. I should have trusted you."
Zeiris leaned forward. "And the commander… did you put the message?"
"I did," Rogard replied firmly.
"Good," Zeiris said, his smirk widening. "Then the end is near." His eyes flashed crimson, the fire of malice within them.
Rogard hesitated. "Why can't we just kill the king and end it once and for all?"
Zeiris chuckled darkly. "That king is not the real king. He's nothing more than a servant's child. The true king is young, hidden somewhere in the shadows."
Rogard's brows furrowed. "Really? So the Wingman does not have the Black Stone?"
"You predicted correctly," Zeiris replied. His voice was cold, sharp as steel. "But once we conquer the city of Wingman, and claim the Armonal Deity, we'll track him down in one day. No more."
"Damn," Rogard muttered, anger simmering in his tone. "So the citizens don't even know they trust a fake king."
"They don't," Zeiris said. His smile was cruel. "That king takes orders from the higher-ups, just like a dog. Once we get rid of them, it will all be quite easy."
Rogard nodded. "It all makes sense now…"
Zeiris leaned back, his smirk never fading. "We just need to play the right cards."
Rogard's eyes sharpened. "And my reward?"
Zeiris raised his hand, revealing a vial of shimmering liquid. Without hesitation, Rogard snatched it, uncorked it, and drank.
The reaction was immediate.
Boom.
Red energy exploded, flooding the cavern. Rogard's body convulsed violently, his voice breaking into screams as his flesh tore and shifted. His hair turned pitch black, spreading across his skin as claws burst from his hands. His face stretched, twisting into the monstrous visage of a wolf. His body cracked, bones reshaping, muscles expanding, until he was no longer Rogard at all.
He was something else.
"What have you done to me!?" Rogard roared, his voice guttural, monstrous. His body was no longer human—he was a beast, a demon.
Zeiris's smirk grew into a grin. "Look at you. How does it feel, Rogard? From now on, your new name will be… Black Wolf."
The beast exhaled heavily, his new body radiating an immense, terrifying energy. The air shook around him. His old self was gone, exhaled like a memory.
"I will destroy everyone," Black Wolf growled, his voice trembling with power.
Elsewhere.
Aron and Carlos continued their work. Day by day, they trained tirelessly. Their bodies ached, but they refused to stop. They ploughed the fields under the scorching sun, delivered goods across long distances, carried heavy rocks on their shoulders until their bones screamed.
Wood beat them with bamboo sticks on their stomachs and backs, forcing them to harden their bodies against pain. They chopped down trees, removed stumps with bleeding hands, and split firewood until their arms trembled.
The days blurred together—sweat, pain, exhaustion. Yet through it all, Aron and Carlos pushed each other, lifted each other, refused to let the other fall.
Aron's goat had grown larger too, strong and stubborn, often trailing behind him as if it shared in his journey. The boys learned to grow crops, to cultivate food with their own blistered hands. Each sunrise was a trial. Each sunset was a victory.
And slowly, quietly, they grew stronger.