Night blanketed the outskirts of the city like dense silk—still, and devoid of hope. Oil lamps flickered at the corners, and the shadows stretched long, as if the world itself held its breath. Hikaru, walking awkwardly in a frayed coat, stepped out of a modest tavern where he hadn't paid for a thing. The owner took pity on him, perhaps because of the foolish grin on his face... or maybe because the scars on his back resembled those of a forgotten soldier.
"Hikaru..." whispered the wind.
It wasn't the wind. It was a voice.
Then he saw them.
Four figures surrounded the street. From rooftops, from the ground, from the mist—they emerged like ghosts clad in dark robes. They bore no insignias, but their eyes gleamed with trained cruelty. Assassins from the Kingdom of Sabaku. No introductions were needed.
One had his entire face bandaged except for the eyes—clearly a Hizumi user, warping the light around him. Another floated slightly above the ground, twin spears in hand, surrounded by energy dust—a Ketsuhō user who could manipulate gravity. The third, a woman with short white hair and dead eyes, maintained her Soukei in constant flow—her sensory field covering entire streets. The last one, masked, made no sound—not even the street dogs noticed him.
"Who sent you?" Hikaru asked, still smiling.
"You're a threat, even if you don't look like one," growled the spearman. "And a living insult to Hokori's army."
"Which makes me... what? A target?" He scratched his head. "How flattering."
And then it began.
The spearman struck first. With a snap of his fingers, the gravity shifted—Hikaru was slammed to the ground with brutal force. But he wasn't new to this. He rolled at the last second, just as a spear impaled the space his neck had just occupied.
He countered with a clumsy kick… which missed entirely and sent him spinning like a top. But the spin ended in a perfect elbow to the assassin's face, knocking him backward from the blow.
"How the hell do you do that by accident?!" shouted the second assassin, just before a blast of dark wind hurled him toward Hikaru.
The Hizumi activated.
The air rippled like shattered glass. The bandaged assassin struck with liquid shadows that sliced through space like blades. One grazed Hikaru's arm, tearing his sleeve and revealing burnt markings underneath.
"Damn it… this guy can rip the fabric of reality itself."
Hikaru dodged the best he could—more dancing than fighting. He fell, rose, stumbled... always barely evading death. But it wasn't enough anymore. The Soukei woman had him trapped—every move predicted, every reaction anticipated. The pressure built. One, two, three enemies at once.
A slash to the back.
A kick to the ribs.
A spear pierced his side.
He dropped to his knees, gasping. Blood dripped from his brow, mixing with the dust.
The Hizumi assassin focused, ready to unravel his body from the inside. The seal was already set. Hikaru lowered his head. For the first time, his smile vanished. His breathing steadied.
"I've got no choice…"
"Sorry... Reiji..." he whispered. "I didn't want to use it yet…"
He raised his arm toward the sky. A glow began in his chest—red, warm, and devastating. His Shinkon began to awaken. His veins lit up, and the ground trembled faintly.
"Back off!" shouted the Soukei woman, sensing something... ancient. Beastly.
ENOUGH!
A voice thundered like a storm. Not a shout—but a command spoken by a will that allowed no defiance.
The Hizumi dissolved. Gravity returned to normal. The Soukei faded.
The sky grew darker.
From a rooftop, a figure descended. He didn't fall. He landed.
As he touched the ground, the dust stilled. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Kenshiro Gai, the King of War.
A tall man, cloaked in what looked like battle-worn leather. His bare chest bore scars older than clans. His gaze was that of an ancient predator.
"What are you doing here, Sabaku trash?" he growled.
The assassins fell silent. Heads bowed. One trembled. The spearman tried to speak, but his lips wouldn't move—the air was too heavy to form words.
Kenshiro looked at Hikaru, still bleeding on the ground.
"And you? Is this how you plan to die?"
Hikaru raised his head. His smile returned, cracked but defiant.
"Dying… would be too easy. But thanks for ruining my dramatic entrance."
"Entrance?"
"I was gonna activate my Shinkon and look like a hero. Now I just look like a dying rag doll."
Kenshiro narrowed his eyes, analyzing Hikaru down to the last cell.
"I see great potential in you. I offer you a second chance. Join the army. I'll give you fame, rank, resources—and a battalion at your back."
Hikaru looked at him in silence. Then he laughed. A sincere, childlike laugh, almost musical.
"And become your pet? Your flag? Another statue in your hall of glory?"
"You'll earn true glory. Isn't that a fair deal?"
"No. That 'true glory' of yours is just a trend with an expiration date. The day I die, I'll be forgotten. Glory doesn't matter if it doesn't last."
He stood up, wobbling… and tripped. Face-planted in front of Kenshiro.
Silence.
One assassin stifled a laugh. Kenshiro gritted his teeth.
"...Only someone as pathetic as you could think like that. I don't understand how the captain lost to a man who can barely stand. The king's interest in odd, stupid people is beyond me."
"I'll take that as a compliment... thanks," muttered Hikaru from the ground, not getting up.
Kenshiro turned.
"Leave. Before I change my mind."
Still smiling, Hikaru crawled away.
"Does this count as a win?" he asked no one in particular.
And so, under the moonlight, the man who wanted no fame lived a little longer.
The city's murmur was swallowed by the night. Clouds veiled the moon, hiding the blood on the ground and the shattered dignity of those still breathing. Kenshiro vanished like another shadow, and the humiliated assassins dissolved into the Sabaku wind. Only the echo of a clumsy laugh remained in the stone alleys.
---
Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers west, the morning light touched the mountains surrounding the village of Tsuyoi. A clear sky promised more than good weather—it was the prelude to inevitable change. Birds sang timidly, as if sensing the village was sending some of its own toward an uncertain fate. In the main square, villagers gathered silently to watch Donyoku, Chisiki, Aika, and Reiji prepare their backpacks.
"Take care of yourselves!" shouted an old woman, waving a handkerchief. "And don't forget where you come from!"
Donyoku hugged his mother tightly—she could barely hold back her tears. His younger brothers, one on each side, tried to act tough, though one's eyes were clearly red.
"You'll be fine without me," Donyoku said with a forced smile, ruffling their hair. "Train like I showed you. Protect Mom."
His mother hugged him with all her strength.
"Promise me you'll come back… no matter what."
"I promise."
With one last glance at the village, the group set off.
…
Days passed as they crossed rivers, mountains, and scattered towns. Reiji used every night to train them quietly—rotating watch shifts, studying maps, reflecting on the kingdom's history.
The sun dipped behind the towering walls of Kinzoku no Hana, the most prosperous city in the Kingdom of Hokori. Its streets teemed with merchants, street performers, nobles, and mercenaries. Golden domes reflected sunlight as if the whole city were blessed by the gods. To any traveler, it was paradise. But for Reiji and his disciples, it was a minefield disguised as a sanctuary.
"Welcome to the Flower of Metal," murmured Reiji, arms crossed as he looked down at the city from a nearby hill. "Its beauty hides rot… like everything that shines in this kingdom."
Donyoku, backpack slung over one shoulder, scowled.
"And to think we came looking for answers. Couldn't we just burn down the royal library?"
"Effective, but impractical," replied Chisiki, adjusting his glasses with a crooked smile. "This city hides something more valuable than books: living information. Reiji believes that if we understand the kingdom's past... we might just figure out how to break its future."
Aika, eyes gleaming as she observed the city, asked cautiously:
"Do you think that'll lead us to a solution?"
Reiji looked at them, serious.
"I don't know. But if we want to end this era of war, we need to know how it started."
Chisiki wasted no time chatting with local merchants. In no time, he found a discreet and affordable inn—surprisingly clean and cozy. The beds were neatly made, the dining hall smelled of fresh bread, and the owner was kind, though quiet.
"Wow, Chisiki. Got a hidden talent for tourism too?" joked Donyoku.
"Multitalented. Like any genius," he replied, adjusting his glasses.
That night, Aika and Donyoku spent time on the balcony. She gazed at the city lights, chin resting in her hands. He glanced at her nervously.
"What's on your mind?" she asked, not turning.
"Nothing... just thinking about how much you've changed since you came to Tsuyoi," he said, scratching his neck.
"For better or worse?"
"For much better…"
She looked at him, smiling.
"You're clumsier when you try to be nice."
"And you're crueler when you smile," Donyoku replied, making them both laugh softly.
Near midnight, Donyoku and Chisiki, still awake, noticed several hooded figures heading toward the slums. Without a word, they exchanged looks and followed from a distance.
Through narrowing alleys, where even footsteps vanished into the dark, the air smelled of dried blood and rust—like the past still bled through the cracked walls.
They reached an old, abandoned slaughterhouse. Its doors stood wide open, revealing a chilling sight: mercenaries and nobles watched in silence as slaves were unloaded in cages. Some guards chewed dried meat; others played dice as if it were all routine.
The prisoners' bodies were bruised and scarred. Their eyes, dull. But one of them looked up—gaunt face, a shackle still on his neck. Despite the wounds, his gaze held neither fear nor plea. It was calm. Deadly.
"What kind of slaves are these?" Chisiki whispered.
Before they could act, they were spotted. Three guards lunged at them. Donyoku and Chisiki fought side by side, using their techniques with precision. In seconds, two were knocked out—but the third whistled.
The mercenaries stepped back. One of the slaves was released. His body looked destroyed, lips cracked and muttering something faint. Chisiki strained to listen—only one word reached him:
"…liberation."
At that instant, the temperature plummeted. The air crystallized.
The slave closed his eyes. A crack formed beneath his feet, and his Shinkon exploded: a pale blue aura engulfed the slaughterhouse, freezing even breath. Pillars of frost shot up like spears toward the sky. The air became unbreathable.
"Retreat!" shouted Chisiki, grabbing Donyoku.
They sprinted through alleys, dodging waves of ice that froze entire walls on contact. Just as they thought they'd be caught, a wave of energy enveloped them.
"…Ketsuhō: Reversal Vortex!"
A powerful gravitational wave pulled them backward just in time, lifting them over a collapsing wall of ice. They landed roughly on the roof of a building, coughing and shivering.
Reiji stood at the edge, one hand extended, eyes sharp as blades.
—"I told you two to stay quiet until we had solid information," he said without raising his voice, but the weight behind his words was heavier than the ice they had just escaped.
Chisiki coughed, adjusting his glasses.
—"Sorry… curiosity is a cruel master."
Reiji didn't reply. His gaze was fixed on the slaughterhouse, now buried under spears of frost and deadly silence.
—"That Shinkon… wasn't just ice. It was something deeper," he muttered. "A cry for freedom, weaponized."
Donyoku clutched his side, still breathing heavily.
—"Then we just woke up something terrible."
Reiji nodded slowly.
—"Yes. And now we have no choice but to dive deeper."
Far below, the slave who had unleashed the storm opened his eyes once more. Blood froze on his lips. The shackles around his arms cracked and shattered.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak.
But the war had already begun.
__
Thank you for reading this chapter of Chi no Yakusoku.
If you enjoyed it, don't forget to follow for the next step in this dark blood oath.