Greetings, readers:
Thank you for reading this fan-made work...
I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I, Wissumi Wizaki, wish you a happy reading
1050 B.N.
July 7th
The full moon reigned in the firmament, guarding a sky where the stars were scattered like forgotten promises. Giotto walked in silence, searching for answers that the day would not allow him to find. At this hour, the children were resting, but the young leader's mind was an engine that refused to stop. As he moved forward, the path near his home was decorated with the flickering of fireflies and the invisible weight of responsibility.
Giotto strayed from the usual path, venturing into an area where the vegetation grew dense and rebellious. There, protected by an embrace of thorny bushes and vines that seemed to guard a sacred treasure, lay a great shell. Its surface was of a pearly white, so smooth that it repelled the dew and shone with a faint, almost spectral luminescence that recalled the lunar glow.
As he placed his hand on the object's cold and perfect curve, a shiver ran down his spine. It had been nearly seven months since that shell had been his cradle in this rebirth. He remembered the uncertainty of those first days and the weight of his ambition: to build an organization capable of changing the order of this world.
"How can I raise an underworld with only children under my charge?" He felt lashed by this question a thousand times.
Although the System's rewards had been his compass and hope, he feared for the boys he cared for. He did not wish to repeat the mistakes of his past life; he did not want to become that Luciano who ended up dead at the hands of his own disciple for not knowing how to give the love he himself received from his grandfather.
The possibility of summoning his Vongola Guardians—companions who would possess the experience and maturity of an adult—restored his calm, lifting the weight from his shoulders. However, the current children were blank canvases, free from the corrupt ambition that usually rots the hearts of men. Their loyalty would not be bought, but forged in the fire of a shared destiny.
"Daiki, Sana, Haru... and the two who are missing," he whispered their names as he hid the precious object once more among the undergrowth.
Giotto took a few steps away from the great shell and stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the rustle of leaves and the intermittent glow of fireflies. Seeking an answer within himself, the suffocating weight of leading children into a world of shadows overwhelmed him.
"System," he invoked mentally, his voice heavy with a painful doubt, "I feel I won't be able to fulfill this mission. I cannot build an empire upon the broken innocence of children. I will not sacrifice their purity for my ambition, and time does not wait."
After a brief silence, a voice devoid of emotion but charged with absolute authority resonated directly in his consciousness, as if the very air of the forest had learned to speak.
"You must understand the nature of the threads you weave, Giotto," the entity began. "Those who have accepted your path are no longer simple infants at the mercy of chance. The moment they swore to follow you, their cognitive capacity was elevated; although they may retain the vitality and purity of their childhood before the world, their loyalty and operational cunning will mutate into those of a seasoned adult."
Giotto listened with a racing heart as the voice continued explaining the transformation:
"Under your tutelage, betrayal in the future will become a biological impossibility. Their world begins and ends within your vision, forging an unbreakable loyalty that no older man could ever match. Furthermore, you must not fear the fragility of their bodies; I have optimized their internal development so they can withstand the rigor of executive-level training—they will be stronger and more intelligent than the average."
Giotto closed his eyes, allowing every word to sink into his soul. If the System guaranteed that their childhood would be up to the task, the landscape changed drastically. The fear of corrupting them transformed into a sacred responsibility.
"Then," he whispered to himself, with a determination that made the air vibrate around him, "my only task is to be the pillar that never yields. I am not just their tutor; I am the architect of their destiny."
"It is time to sleep," he finally thought. With one last glance at the Great Shell, Giotto left the thickness of the forest to seek the rest that his body—the engine of this new era—so desperately needed.
…
The following day. The dawn light filtered through the trees like threads of liquid gold, bathing the clearing where Giotto stood. The morning air in this new world had a fresh quality, steeped in the scent of damp earth and wild flowers he still did not quite recognize.
For half a year, he had not sought the power of the Sky Flames of the Dying Will, but rather the temper of steel. His routine had been relentless, driven by the daily mission that allowed him to build compatibility with the flames within the physical body created in this world by the System.
Runs under the scorching sun to expand his lungs.
Extreme calisthenics so that every muscle fiber would be capable of withstanding the tension.
Meditation in absolute silence to discipline a mind that must now see beyond the obvious.
Today, his body finally felt like a solid and firm foundation, ready to channel the elevated energy of his previous world and manifest everything this new world demanded of him.
[Daily Mission Assistance]
[Reward: Flame Synchronization: +0.01%]
[Active Dying Will Flame Synchronization: 2.1%]
He closed his eyes. He inhaled the pure mountain air and searched deep within his being for that spark he had felt pulsing for months. It was no longer a mere premonition; it was an urgent necessity.
"It is time to train the flames," he whispered.
His voice, though soft, carried the weight of a leader who has finally reclaimed his crown.
He gathered his breath. In the center of his palm, the air began to distort from the heat. An amber spark emerged from nothingness, growing until it became a vibrant sphere: the Sky Flame of the Dying Will.
The flame did not burn his skin, but it emitted a pressure that made the leaves of the nearby bushes tremble and consumed his physical endurance with every second he held it. It was a pure energy, vast and serene, like the firmament itself. Giotto felt that force flowing through his veins, filling every corner of his body with an unbreakable determination.
Under the light of the rising sun, Giotto was no longer just a young man lost in a strange world. He was the axis upon which a new form of vital energy would begin to turn. The organization was no longer a child's dream; it was a reality that was beginning to burn with an orange and irrevocable glow.
The roar of the nearby river was the only thing that filled the silence of the mountain, a constant reminder of fluidity and strength. Giotto stood upon a flat rock, his bare feet feeling the coldness of the stone—a necessary contrast to the heat he was about to invoke. According to the records of the will residing in his memory, the balance of a complete sky lay not only in purity, but in the duality of its emission.
He took a deep breath, allowing his heart rate to slow while he visualized the flow of energy traveling down his spine, branching toward his shoulders and descending through his arms like torrents of molten gold.
The atmosphere that morning was dense, heavy with the dew that still clung to the thickets. Giotto observed the sphere of energy in his hand; the amber color of the Sky Flame of the Dying Will vibrated with an intensity that seemed to respond to his own heartbeat. It was an energy of harmony, yes, but also of absolute leadership.
He extended both hands in front of his chest. At first, there was only a tremor in the air, a thermal distortion that made the river landscape look blurred, like a mirage on the edge of dawn. Then, the burst.
From his right palm sprouted a violent and crystalline flare. It was not a conventional flame; it was a high-density energy explosion. The color was an intense orange, almost reddish at the core, with edges that vibrated erratically, as if trying to tear through the barrier of visible space. The sensation was one of overwhelming physical pressure, like holding a miniature jet engine. The tendons in his forearm tensed to the limit, resisting the recoil of a force that wanted to project itself and devour everything, giving his body no respite for even a single moment.
In his left palm, the contrast was absolute. A pale, translucent orange flame emerged, flowing with the delicacy of silk floating on water. It did not vibrate or emit that electrical hum of the right one; it simply existed, stable and harmonious. To the spiritual touch, it felt warm and enveloping, designed for stable propulsion and balance. It was the center of gravity that prevented his own strength from tearing him apart from the inside.
Giotto grit his teeth. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead as a sting of fatigue bit into his muscle fibers.
"The body is the engine," he murmured between short breaths, "but it is also the limit."
Maintaining both flames simultaneously was like trying to tame two beasts of opposite natures: one that roared to destroy and another that whispered to sustain. And he, at the center of both, was the only thing holding them together.
Despite six months of rigorous physical conditioning, the use of the Dying Will Flames demanded a high metabolic tribute. Giotto's muscles protested against the internal "combustion" necessary to generate the pressure of the hard flame; it was a struggle of pure endurance. If his physical foundation faltered, the soft flame would destabilize, and the raw energy from the right would hurl him backward with a brute force capable of fracturing his bones in the process.
Giotto shifted his gaze toward the course of the river. The hard flames were like that current hitting the rocks with violence, capable of piercing through any defense. Conversely, the soft flames recalled the water that adapts to the riverbed, allowing for movement and harmony. A leader of the family could not be only destruction, nor only calm; he had to become the Sky that contains everything.
He concentrated his will. Slowly, he began to move his hands in circles, trying to ensure the erratic vibration of the right did not disturb the absolute peace of the left. The synchronization system did not lie: the responsibility was immense, but as long as he felt that sacred heat coursing through his blood, he knew the sacrifice of his body would be worth it to protect what he was about to build.
"More control…" he whispered, as the orange glow illuminated the dancing waters of the river. "I need my will to be stronger than my pain."
The flames grew, reflected in his eyes with the promise of a power that was only beginning to awaken. The training by the river had left Giotto with his muscles vibrating under an electric fatigue, but the silence of the mountain was abruptly broken. The echo of erratic footsteps and heavy breathing announced the arrival of Daiki, who appeared among the trees with his face distorted by panic.
Giotto felt someone approaching and extinguished the flames from his hands in a fluid motion, though the residual heat still emanated from his skin like an invisible aura.
Haru appeared running, his breath broken and his face pale. He was so out of himself that, as he tried to stop in front of Giotto, his feet caught on the roots and he nearly ended up on the ground.
"Boss! They took him!" Haru shouted, as he rubbed the blow with a suppressed groan, letting it out all at once, his voice cracking from the effort and the panic. "There is news circulating in the village about the village chief's son! They say some bandits have taken him!"
Haru's words took a second to land with their real weight. Giotto, observing the youth with a calm that contrasted violently with Haru's chaos, processed every syllable with the coldness of one who has learned to separate emotion from analysis. To him, the news was an incomplete datum. He did not know the village chief, he did not know who the child was, and above all, he did not understand why that should interrupt his important day.
Although something stirred deep within Haru's chest, it was not out of fear, but something different: the immediate recognition of an opportunity disguised as a calamity.
"Since when?" Giotto asked, his voice icy. "And why are you so anxious about a matter that does not belong to us? Haru, do you know the victim?"
Haru tensed. For a second, Giotto's question seemed to hit him harder than the ...exhaustion from the run. He stood silent, clenching his fists, searching for a way to justify his anguish without completely exposing himself.
"They say it was last night," Haru responded, averting his eyes toward the forest, avoiding Giotto's gaze. "And I care because... because Reijiro is a good kid."
Giotto did not move. His analytical gaze swept over Haru's rigid posture, noticing that there was something more than simple neighborly concern.
"There are many 'good kids' in the world," Giotto replied with neutrality. "Give me a reason that isn't being a Good Samaritan for this to be our priority. Is it personal?"
Haru remained silent, swallowing hard. He knew Giotto operated with logic, but his heart dictated something else. Finally, in a sharp and reserved tone, like someone releasing a painful truth, he confessed:
"He helped me. When my parents died... before Daiki and Sana appeared, he was the only one who didn't look at me with pity. He gave me food when I had nothing. I owe him, Boss."
Giotto processed the words. He didn't need a complete biography to understand the weight of loyalty. He looked at the trembling in Haru's hands and, for an instant, the rigidity of his posture softened. It wasn't a logical reaction, but a spark of empathy: he recognized in Haru the look of someone unwilling to fail their convictions.
"I understand," Giotto said, relaxing as he looked at the sky for a second to think.
Giotto held that silence for seconds. To him, it felt like the village chief were merely pieces on a board he was just beginning to map out. He didn't know the chief, much less a son he had never heard of. But Haru did, and perhaps this was the push he needed to begin one of his moves to proceed into the underworld.
"...If it is a debt of honor, then it stops being the village's problem and becomes ours—the Vongola's. Let's investigate; we don't have much time."
"Haru, let's go. Tell me all the details on the way," Giotto said, starting to run with Haru at his side.
"Last night, they say. This morning, the woman who cared for Reijiro was found mistreated, soaked in the blood of one of the bandits at the city gate, all in tears. The boy went out to play near the edge of the forest and never came back. Mr. Aldino, the captain of the town soldiers, sent his men to find him, but..." Haru swallowed hard. "They only found his sandal. And marks in the mud."
Giotto nodded slowly. The machine inside him was already turning.
Since his first day in this village, he had mapped its structure with the same precision a general studies a terrain before battle. Aldino Bravar, the captain of the guard: a man in his forties, broad-shouldered with a tense jaw, whose authority rested on three unbreakable pillars: his fortune in lands, the respect he had earned mediating disputes between neighboring villages, while the village chief was the most influential merchant around here—also a very cowardly being.
And this was, without a shadow of a doubt, a very dark moment for that man.
"Very well," Giotto said, picking up his shirt from the trunk where he had left it. "Go find Daiki. Tell him to clean himself up and wait for me at the village entrance, while you and Sana stay at the house."
Haru blinked.
"Why do you want Daiki?"
"Because we are going to find that child ourselves," Giotto replied with a naturalness that was almost irritating.
Haru nodded without arguing; deep down, he also wanted to go and rescue Reijiro.
…
At the village gate
The heat still bit at his skin when Giotto stopped at the village threshold.
It wasn't the heat of the sun—that had already yielded hours ago, crushed by the afternoon humidity. It was the other heat. The one the flames left behind when they took something with them. It ran through his forearms like a second pulse, hypersensitizing every nerve ending until he could feel the weight of the air, the movement of the grass three meters away, the smell of burnt wood that had not yet finished dying.
He waited.
The wooden structure marking the edge of the village creaked slightly behind him, as if the entire village were holding its breath. Behind him, the last houses looked still, almost too still, with that specific stillness of places that have just witnessed something bad and do not yet know how to process the noise they made.
Daiki arrived two minutes later.
Giotto heard him before he saw him—not out of clumsiness, but because Daiki was young and urgency did not yet fit properly in his body. He moved with his chest open, strides longer than necessary, adjusting something at his belt as he walked. A small dagger. Practical. Giotto recognized the gesture: a bit of nervousness, but also preparation. There was a difference.
The boy planted himself in front of him and spoke directly, without beating around the bush. He had learned that well.
"Haru caught me up while I was gathering my things," he said, his breathing still somewhat accelerated. "The chief's son. Reijiro." He paused briefly, his eyes fixed on Giotto's. "What are we doing here, Giotto? The village soldiers already left through the main road."
There was something more in that question. Not questioning, exactly. Rather the need for someone to say it out loud so it would take a real shape.
Giotto looked at him for a moment before responding. He studied the clenched jaw, the way Daiki's fingers brushed the handle of the dagger without gripping it yet. The boy was holding it together. Good. At this point in the mission.
"The soldiers are going to follow protocol," Giotto said, and his voice came out low, without urgency, with the specific weight of things that do not need to be shouted to be serious. "Main road, formation, grid search pattern. Men who are more afraid of the brush than of the person they are chasing."
… The pressure in the environment was tangible; the air seemed to thicken, becoming heavy and electric as they approached the kidnappers' hideout. Giotto did not feel fear, but a cold, sharp determination that ran down his spine like the very "molten gold" he had channeled minutes before. The Sky of this world was about to prove that, even though it inhabited the body of a youth, its will was capable of subduing any man who dared to stand in its way.
"Let's move, Daiki," Giotto whispered, his eyes fixed on the ground, tracking any disturbance in the dew on the thickets. "Harvest time does not belong to them."
Despite the fact that his muscles still vibrated under an electric fatigue and his muscle fibers felt the "sting" of his previous effort, Giotto forced his body to be the engine he needed. He knew that his Dying Will Flame synchronization barely touched initial levels, but the orange and irrevocable glow of his resolution was already a reality that would not turn back.
Daiki nodded slowly.
"We are going through the inside."
"We are going through the inside." Giotto held his gaze for a second longer. "You are the only one of the three I've trained, aside from the other two, who won't break when the forest starts making noise."
It wasn't a compliment. It was a map of expectations, and Daiki understood it as such: he nodded once, with his chin, and said nothing more.
Giotto turned and entered the forest.
The forest near the village had a reputation, and it deserved it.
The first five meters past the threshold were enough to understand why. The air changed texture—it became dense, humid, with a deep green scent that wasn't exactly pleasant or unpleasant, but ancient, like earth that has gone centuries without seeing direct sunlight. The canopy closed over their heads with a silent brutality, turning the afternoon light into oblique fragments that fell at impossible angles between the branches, looking more like spears than sunbeams.
Every crunch under their feet sounded too loud.
Daiki controlled his footing well—that wasn't new either—but even so, every dry branch that gave way under his boot resonated in the silence with a disturbing clarity, as if the forest were taking note of their presence. Giotto moved without making a sound. The naturalness with which he did it was almost irritating, as if there were no difference between him and the ground.
Giotto had a vortex of memories as he pursued through the woods; he remembered his previous life. In the Amazon…