The Hall of the Crown was in complete silence. The air was so thick it seemed to carry centuries of undigested history. Every noble, every general, every minister knew that what was happening at Kinzoku no Hana wasn't just an incident... but the possible beginning of the end.
The King, seated on his obsidian throne, didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just observed.
The ceremonial mirror showed Yodaku facing Reiji. Showed a slave named Aika bleeding, but not broken. Showed doubts. Showed dangerous seeds.
"Let's see," said the King, breaking the silence like a funeral bell. "How far will your hunger reach this time, Yodaku?"
That tone wasn't authority. It was curiosity. As if he already knew the war had begun... and only wanted to see how it would burn.
But then... the past called.
The present's echo was silenced by ancient memory. A scene carved with blood into the foundations of the Hokori Kingdom.
Years ago...
The young king, still without formal crown, walked among the smoldering ruins of a previous palace. His steps echoed over human remains and burned wood. The banners of rebel clans lay torn at his feet.
The nobles begged. Men dressed in gold wept on their knees, hands clasped like children begging for mercy.
"Your Majesty, please! We didn't know your soul was so powerful!"
"We only wanted to protect the throne... not usurp it!"
"We are loyal! We've always been!"
Lies. All of them.
The young monarch didn't look at them with hatred. Nor with contempt. Not even with disappointment.
He looked at them with nothing.
His eyes were empty. Like a bottomless well where not even light dared to enter.
And his Shinkon...
It was an entity that needed no physical form to provoke terror. Whoever dared hold his gaze, even for an instant, fell to their knees, invaded by visions of death, fear, and absolute despair. As if the soul were devoured by centuries yet to come.
"His gaze was a sentence.
His silence, a condemnation.
His sword, the end."
One by one, the traitor nobles began to scream, though none had been touched yet.
"Get me out of here! Get this horror out of my mind!"
"I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"
But the King wanted them dead.
He walked among them with a ceremonial katana bathed in gold and mud... and within minutes, a hundred bodies lay on the ground, severed, decapitated, or burned by his Shinkon.
None could defend themselves. None could even run.
In the villages, mothers covered their children's eyes as the nobles' screams arrived like storm echoes. Some villagers knelt in public squares, praying that this new king would be more just than the previous one.
But that night, there was no justice.
Only order.
Only fear.
And when dawn came, the young King sat on the throne for the first time, surrounded by blood, ashes, and silence.
A general dared to speak:
"And... and now, Your Majesty? What comes next?"
The King slowly cleaned his katana's blade and responded with a neutral voice:
"Now the Hokori Kingdom begins.
One where no one will ever forget what it means to betray their King."
---
The King slowly opened his eyes. The past's echo faded with a cold smile.
"If Yodaku wants to play with fire...
then he'd better remember who lit the first flame."
---
Yodaku stepped forward. His smile was wide, twisted, inhuman.
"Since everyone seems so moved by this pathetic spectacle... I propose a game," he said, raising his voice while his right hand rested on his weapon's hilt. "If this man... this broken old man, wounded and consumed by time... can truly make me bleed..."
His tone changed. Became sharp. Time-breaking.
"Then I'll let you continue your circus a while longer. But if he can't..."—he looked at everyone present, slowly turning on his heels—"then... my event will begin! And not just the slaves will suffer... you will too! Yes... you who enjoyed watching the weak beg... you will beg too!"
A dry laugh, almost animal, burst from his throat.
Ten more figures surrounded him, hooded warriors, tall, armed to the teeth. Each drew their weapons simultaneously with their leader.
It was as if the air itself was cut.
The nobles turned to Reiji with trembling eyes, not from compassion... but selfish desperation.
"Move already!"
"Make him bleed, useless!"
"We gave you slaves, win this damn fight!"
"Don't you dare fail, or you'll drag us down with you!"
Reiji heard every word.
And he felt no hatred...
He felt disgust.
"Do you really think your lives are worth more than my students'?
After everything you've done... you dare give me orders?"
His hands trembled, but not from fear.
It was his soul, his Shinkon, reacting to the truth.
He wasn't a hero.
He wasn't a glorious warrior.
He was a teacher who had failed too many times.
And now... he couldn't fail again.
He closed his eyes. Remembered Aika embracing him with tears in her eyes.
Remembered Chisiki arguing about philosophy even at the edge of collapse.
Remembered Donyoku, shouting with fury that he'd rather die free than live on his knees.
He opened his eyes.
And the fear disappeared.
"I don't fight for you.
I fight for them."
He drew his blade.
And for an instant, all screams fell silent.
---
The entire coliseum trembled under the weight of tensions.
Gazes shifted from Reiji, still firm despite his wounds, to Yodaku, whose expression was that of a beast impatient before the feast.
But not everyone knew when to stay silent.
From one of the main stands, a noble emboldened by fear... or hatred... stood up.
"This is a farce!" he shouted, without measuring the consequences. "The King controls nothing! Yodaku is just a rabid dog given too much leash! And you, the slaves, should be dead! This isn't justice, it's a bloody comedy!"
The murmurs ceased.
Some immediately moved away from the noble, as if the air around him had turned poisonous.
And then, a figure among Yodaku's ten followers rose.
He didn't roar. He didn't challenge.
He simply descended the steps with inhuman calm.
His nickname whispered by spies and assassins:
"Chi no Ude" — The Blood Arm.
He was a man with sunken eyes, pale skin, and veins marked like roots.
His Shinkon manifested with a repulsive and lethal gift: he could control his own blood, solidify it, sharpen it, turn it into whips, spears, or blades.
As he walked, small drops of blood began sliding from his pores.
They didn't flow violently. They flowed with purpose.
A crimson spear began forming from his forearm.
"Words without power... are just pig squeals before the slaughter," he whispered.
The guards stepped aside. They knew that even ten of them together couldn't stop him.
The noble trembled, retreated:
"Wait, I was just saying what many think! I wasn't serious! I—
The spear's blade gleamed for a second.
Nothing more.
Just one step. One flash. One cut.
The blood spear cut through the air.
It expanded like a liquid serpent, changed its shape mid-flight and sharpened into a thin blade...
it severed his neck with surgical precision.
The noble's body fell to the ground without a sound.
His head rolled slowly down the steps, leaving a warm red trail, until it stopped before a noblewoman who stifled a scream.
Silence.
A silence that pressed against the chest.
A silence that tasted of death.
Yodaku smiled.
Not from admiration.
But from habit.
"One less," he murmured, without looking away from Reiji.
Then, he raised his voice:
"Mikazuki... still clinging to your slave? Or will you finally give me a fight?"
His subordinate's blood still dripped from the edge.
Yodaku didn't seem worried. Rather... excited.
"If you can truly wound me, I'll let this rabble continue.
If not..."—his smile opened like a cursed crack—"tonight will be the beginning of my game, and the executioners will be yourselves."
Some nobles began pushing their slaves toward the coliseum center.
Others begged.
A few were already fleeing.
But Reiji didn't move.
Because though he feared for his life...
He didn't fight for the nobles. Nor for the spectacle.
He fought for his students.
---
Donyoku and Chisiki's footsteps echoed in the dim corridor. Slow. Cautious. With each meter they advanced, the air grew denser, as if the coliseum knew what was coming. They didn't know what was happening beyond, but each vibration, each echo, warned them that the worst had begun.
"Something's wrong..." Chisiki whispered, clenching his fists. "Very wrong."
The roar of the crowd, the choked screams from tension, the clash of metal against marble... everything merged into a symphony of chaos.
And then they saw it.
Reiji Mikazuki... walking as if each step were a curse. His muscles trembled, his breathing was broken, and his eyes—loaded with fire—didn't hide the pain. He was a man defeated by time, by wounds, by the sins of a world that was no longer his. But still, he stood.
Yodaku laughed.
"Is this all, Mikazuki? Where's the man who made gods weep with an illusion? The one who taught hell what true torment was?"
The edge of his sword gleamed with each movement. He wasn't playing: he was enjoying it. The combat wasn't between equals, it was the slow execution of a master who refused to die without purpose.
From the stands, Seimei and Bokusatsu watched helplessly. They were warriors, strategists, sages... but at that moment, they were just friends unable to act.
"What are we supposed to do?" Bokusatsu muttered, teeth clenched. "If we go in... we'll die."
"And if we don't go in..." Seimei said, barely audible. "He'll do it alone."
Donyoku took a step forward. Chisiki stopped him, but both knew they were thinking the same thing.
Will we let him die? Will someone else give their life for us again?
Aika, still curled in a corner, hugged her knees. Her tears no longer came from physical pain, but from the suffocating knot of helplessness. The master who had believed in her... was falling to pieces before everyone. And no one... no one was doing anything.
Yodaku's ten companions didn't move. Their eyes observed everything, as if they were living statues waiting for the perfect moment to destroy. They knew that any attempt to escape, any suspicious movement, would be punished without mercy.
Yodaku raised his sword. The audience, trembling, held their breath. Reiji could barely support his body, let alone defend himself.
The blade descended... straight toward his chest.
**KRSHHHHHH!**
A frozen thunder. A crystalline wall rose from the ground with supernatural violence. The sword's impact was contained by a layer of pure ice, brilliant, hardened like celestial steel.
Yodaku took a step back. For the first time... surprised.
Reiji, staggering, barely lifted his gaze.
"Ice...?"
From the top of the stands, a figure walked calmly. Frost drops fell from his arms, and each step was accompanied by a gelid mist.
Kōri no Seita.
"That man..." he said with a soft voice, but firm as winter. "Won't fall... while I breathe."
---
"You crazy slave!?" a man shouted from the stands. "You want us both killed?! Risk your life if you want, but not mine, you idiot!"
The man stood up, trembling with rage. He was Seita's owner, one of the most miserable noble merchants in all of Kinzoku no Hana. His face twisted with each shout, while his shrill voice sought to humiliate him publicly.
"Rot! I wish I'd never bought you! No wonder your mother sold you like a street dog! You're a disgrace to humanity, you bastard!"
The words hung in the air like daggers. Even among the screams and the combat's din, those phrases seemed to bounce with a cursed echo. And yet, Seita didn't flinch.
He remained there, standing, arms extended, summoning more and more ice fragments. His face reflected no anger or pain... only determination. A frozen and serene determination.
"Him... again," Donyoku whispered, throat tight. "He saved someone again... and I... I just tremble."
His voice was a broken lament, as silent as it was heartbreaking.
"How is it possible? How can he... keep facing giants? How can he be so strong?"
Chisiki didn't respond. Not even he, with his logical and sharp mind, knew what to do. He wanted to move, intervene, but his legs wouldn't respond. The fear wasn't just of death... it was of failure, of the judgment that would fall upon them if they acted wrongly.
Meanwhile, Reiji took advantage of the opening. Despite his wounds, he turned and ran among the coliseum's debris, fleeing through one of the side doors.
Yodaku noticed.
"Running, Mikazuki!?" he shouted with a mix of mockery and fury. "We're not done yet!"
Without thinking, he began pursuing him, pushing aside ice fragments with his cursed sword.
But Seita wouldn't allow it.
"Not so fast," he said firmly, summoning a wall of frozen stakes before Yodaku's path.
Then another figure slipped through the shadows. One of the ten.
A distorted whisper, almost like a song, floated in the air.
"Ice cannot silence sound... boy."
The attack came like an invisible wave. Seita barely managed to raise a wall in defense when a sonic force made him retreat three steps.
"Tsssk...!" he clicked his tongue, while the air vibrated.
Before him appeared Kyōmei, "The Voice of Destruction." One of Yodaku's most lethal followers. His Shinkon, "Kekkai no Hibiki" (Barrier's Echo), allowed him to manipulate sound vibrations and turn them into sonic blades, shock waves, or even auditory cages capable of breaking the senses.
"You shouldn't be here, defective ice chunk," he said with a twisted smile, his voice generating waves that made the ground tremble.
Seita raised his hands. The ice around him extended in intricate patterns, spinning, sharpening, hardening.
"And yet, here I am," he responded calmly.
And then, the duel began. Vibrations against crystals. Noise against silence.
Yodaku stopped for an instant to look... and for the first time frowned.
"That slave..." he murmured. "Who the hell is he?"
---
In an arena built to break bodies and wills, it was broken hearts that ignited the flame of rebellion.
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.