The night in Kinzoku no Hana was no ordinary night.
It was dense, almost tangible. A dark veil that not only covered the sky, but also began to suffocate the soul of the city.
Narikami walked through silent alleys, his boots echoing over the damp stones beneath him. The streetlamps flickered, as if the city itself was hesitating to stay lit.
Each step brought him closer to the coliseum—but also to the abyss.
"If we let that demon take control…" he murmured. "This city… this damned city will become a graveyard. Not by war. Not by hunger. But by fear."
The air smelled of rust, sweat, and despair. It wasn't the stench of a battlefield, but of a system that had already rotted from the roots.
He thought of the civilians, the slaves, the children…
He thought of what honor meant.
He thought of what justice meant.
And then he understood:
"There are no heroes anymore. Not like before. Now only those of us who are willing to stain our souls so everything isn't lost remain."
His Shinkon began to emit a faint light, as if responding not to his strength, but to his resolve. To his determination.
But then...
A shiver ran down his spine.
He stopped.
The wind ceased.
The nocturnal whispers fell silent.
Even the rats hid away.
Something—or someone—was near.
A presence that didn't feel alive, but wasn't dead either. It wasn't Yodaku. It wasn't Reiji. It wasn't an ordinary soldier.
It was something not even his experience as a General could fully identify.
"You're not alone…" he whispered into the air. "I know it."
His hand gripped the hilt of his sword firmly. The steel vibrated, as if warning of the beginning of something beyond redemption.
Narikami wasn't afraid.
He was angry.
He had purpose.
And for the first time in years… he was willing to kill without asking first.
---
The ground trembled with every shockwave.
Seita was breathing heavily. Though his body could still move, his soul… his soul was beginning to melt like snow under the sun.
Years of suffering, of repressed silences, and a Shinkon that consumed more than it gave were catching up to him.
On the outside, he still looked solid—but inside, he was breaking.
Seita advanced slowly through the mist beginning to fill the coliseum's halls. With each step, his breath grew heavier. Not from physical exhaustion, but because something… something inside him was beginning to crack.
In front of him, Kyomei, the warrior of sound, waited.
His presence was disturbing. He didn't shout, didn't move without reason. His Shinkon vibrated in silence, like a taut string on the verge of snapping.
"You're the ice dog who dared touch General Yodaku…" said Kyomei, in a deep voice that seemed to resonate through the walls, without needing to raise his tone.
And without warning, he snapped his fingers.
A wave of pressure cut through the air— invisible but brutal. Seita barely managed to leap aside, and still felt a ripping buzz in his ribs.
Another sonic strike hit his flank. It wasn't visible, but his flesh felt it. Every impact was like being slashed by a claw made of air.
"What... is this…?" Seita gasped.
"Soundwaves," Kyomei replied. "You don't need to see them to die from them."
An uneven dance began.
Kyomei glided like a specter, each snap of his fingers creating pressure that tore through the surroundings.
Walls cracked. Pillars vibrated. Blood filled the air—without a single sword yet unsheathed.
Seita endured. He dodged. He froze his legs to avoid being pushed back. But his breathing grew shorter. Not from injury… but from spiritual exhaustion.
His soul was starting to splinter.
The cold increased. Not just around him—but within.
And he wasn't alone.
In the distance, heavy footsteps echoed.
Yodaku.
He had noticed. He had sensed it. Reiji was no longer his priority. Something else was drawing him to this point.
"So you're the one pretending to be a hero…?" Yodaku said from the shadows, as the atmosphere grew colder by the second.
"I can smell it in your eyes. That idiotic desire to protect others."
Seita, wounded, rose to his feet while forming an ice sword. He gripped it tightly, even though his arms trembled.
"If protecting someone is a mistake… then I'll make that mistake as many times as it takes," he murmured.
Kyomei smiled—for the first time.
He unsheathed his sword. A black, spiked, vibrating blade.
The battle changed.
Now it was hand-to-hand.
Blows. Screams. Clashes of steel and ice.
Kyomei's sonic waves vibrated with every strike, but Seita defended, counterattacked, froze his surroundings—he used every inch of his body and soul.
Yodaku watched. Impassive.
And then, he spoke:
"You know, kid… those who dare risk their lives for others… are trash.
Not because of the risk—but because they think they're better than the rest.
They see themselves as martyrs in a world that won't even remember them."
Seita barely looked at him. He was bleeding. Gasping.
And with what little voice he had left, he replied:
"You… were never going to keep your promise.
Even if Reiji hurt you—you were going to kill us anyway.
Because you have no purpose.
You only destroy… because that's all you have left."
For the first time, Yodaku paused.
Not because it hurt—but because those words described him far too well.
Yodaku smiled. A smile like an executioner's before dropping the guillotine.
"You're not entirely wrong."
Then, without emotion, he raised his sword.
Kyomei did too.
A double strike. One of sound. The other—pure brute force.
Seita fell. Badly wounded. Bleeding. But not defeated.
Yodaku crouched down, looking at him with an inhuman gleam.
"I won't kill you yet.
I want to see how long someone like you takes to beg…
Or to betray what they believe in."
---
The field was filled with fractured echoes.
Seita, on his knees, gasped for air.
His whole body trembled—not from the cold he emanated, but from the edge of the soul he had been dragged to.
His arms hung limply, his sword had shattered into shards of ice. He was still breathing… but more out of habit than desire.
Yodaku approached with mockingly calm steps, as if he'd just woken from a nap.
"I like you, Seita," he rasped.
"I love seeing someone who no longer knows if they're alive or not."
Behind him, dragged by two guards, came an older man—fat, filthy, in noble garments stained with sweat and urine. Shackled hands, a face full of bruises.
"You know who this piece of shit is?" Yodaku asked with a twisted grin.
"He's your master. Hazekura Tōzen, a despicable merchant. A man who'd rather give up a thousand lives than lose a thousand coins."
From a distant gallery, Donyoku and Chisiki watched from the shadows, their faces contorted. It wasn't just terror—it was the dread of realizing that even the purest ice can't withstand the fire of hell.
Hazekura fell to his knees too, stripped of all dignity, and began sobbing:
"Please, great Lord Yodaku! That bastard is just a broken tool! Don't compare me to that scum! Kill him, not me!"
Kyomei watched in silence, his sword resting on his shoulder. He muttered:
"Even in the face of death… he begs the devil rather than bow to his own slave. How pathetic."
Yodaku let out a hollow laugh.
"Alright, Seita. Here's the game:
You have to torture your master.
Do it like he did to you: with humiliation, with pain, with contempt.
If you don't…
Everyone here dies."
The air froze—literally.
Snowflakes began to fall inside the coliseum. The ground creaked.
The cold didn't come from the sky.
It came from Seita.
He stood. Not with power. Not with courage.
With doubt.
His steps were slow.
The master cried, begged, crawled.
"Don't you dare take another step, Seita… I bought you when no one else would…
You cried every day… begged for your mother…
I was the only one who believed in you… even though everyone told me you were a useless little shit…"
Seita's mind spiraled.
A blurry memory.
A cell.
Him—small, skinny, covered in mucus and tears.
Hazekura standing before him, pointing.
"Take another one, Lord Hazekura. That one's worthless," a merchant had said.
"No. I'll take him. He reminds me of my first dog.
He was noisy at first too… but he learned."
Days later…
Hazekura gave him a scarf. Cold. Ugly. But it was a gift.
Once… he saved him from punishment.
Another time… he taught him to read.
And once more… he called him by his name.
He wasn't a father. He wasn't a friend.
But… in that cruel world, he was someone who didn't completely ignore him.
Seita had his hand raised.
He was just half a step away from his master.
But he didn't do it.
He didn't scream.
He didn't attack.
He didn't choose.
And then the world shook.
CRACK!
Yodaku's sword pierced Hazekura's chest like wet paper.
A burst of blood. A choked scream. A frozen look of horror.
Hazekura fell—dead.
Without redemption.
Without glory.
Without forgiveness.
Seita didn't react.
He only lowered his head.
His lips didn't tremble.
His fists didn't clench.
But from his eyes, silent tears began to fall.
And inside, a voice whispered:
"You didn't love him.
You didn't hate him.
But in the end… it still hurt to lose him."
Yodaku watched him, satisfied.
"That's the true beauty of the human soul.
To suffer… even when it no longer knows why."
---
Seita didn't move.
The tears kept falling, silent.
His eyes were lost, his body frozen.
Yodaku watched him with macabre amusement, waving his sword still stained with blood.
"Well, well…
Even the hollow, the broken, the empty ones…
It seems they can cry too.
What a sad little show."
Kyomei turned his head, emotionless.
"Let's kill him. Before the ice takes shape again."
But Yodaku raised a hand to stop him.
"Not yet. I want to see if that scrap of lost soul can still break a little more," he said with a wicked grin.
Meanwhile, in another part of the coliseum, Reiji was running through cracked stone corridors, carrying Aika in his arms.
His body was at its limit, but his soul burned.
He entered an abandoned chamber and gently laid her down.
"Stay here, Aika. Please…"
Aika grabbed his arm with the little strength she had. Her face—bruised, pale, streaked with tears—tried to hold him back.
"Don't leave me alone… not again… please!"
Reiji didn't know what to say.
He wanted to stay. Hold her. Take her home.
But he knew that if he did nothing… the abyss wouldn't just swallow the coliseum.
It would swallow the whole world.
He stroked her head softly, and whispered:
"You'll be okay…
You're strong, Aika.
You're an incredible girl.
I hope you remember why we made it here…
And don't let the abyss pull you in too."
He left her, gritting his teeth to keep from crying.
And walked toward the battle.
---
Meanwhile, in a side corridor…
Donyoku trembled.
Not from fear.
Not from pain.
His Shinkon vibrated.
As if something inside him was screaming to be let out.
As if his very soul was begging for permission to destroy.
Chisiki noticed—his gaze sharper than ever.
"That man… Yodaku… he's not just a warrior.
He's an ideology in human form.
If we don't stop him… this will be the final story of the world."
Donyoku didn't respond.
His pupils looked like extinguished flames.
An insatiable hunger had begun to awaken.
He wanted to kill him.
Not for justice.
Not for revenge.
By instinct.
Chisiki was building a plan.
Thinking of routes, positions, traps… but then—
Their steps stopped.
Not by choice.
By instinct.
Something in the air had changed.
A salty smell. A strange dampness…
As if someone had been crying there for days.
"You did well to leave the room," said a soft, feminine voice.
"The show back there… was intense.
And honestly, very sad.
I never imagined I'd see a slave cry for his master."
They both turned at the same time.
From the opposite corridor emerged a thin woman, cloaked in a worn, dark mantle.
Every step she took left behind tiny droplets, as if the floor itself cried with her.
Her gaze wasn't furious or cruel… it was deeply broken.
As if her entire existence was an emotional scar.
"Who are you?" Chisiki asked firmly.
The woman stopped.
A tear fell from her right eye, and with a voice that seemed to carry centuries of pain, she answered:
"They call me Nakigoe…
Though it's been a long time since I had a voice that didn't cry."
Her eyes shimmered, not with compassion, but with restrained sorrow.
Her trembling hands held a long staff crowned with a rusted bell that didn't ring—yet seemed to vibrate to the rhythm of her grief.
"And now what?" she continued.
"Are you going to try to do justice?
Save your master?
Defeat the demon?"
A tear slid down her cheek, and without wiping it away, she smiled with the sadness of someone who has lost far too many times.
"Don't worry…
I'm not going to stop you for that.
I'm going to stop you because it hurts less than watching you fail."
And then…
The tears that hit the floor began to hiss like acid, forming thin cracks in the stone.
The air grew denser.
As if sorrow itself could kill.
---
Reiji's footsteps echoed heavily through the cracked corridors of the coliseum.
Each breath was a dagger, each heartbeat a war drum.
The dried blood on his side no longer hurt, but his body trembled with every step, as if one more order could make him collapse.
Then, the sound of a dull thud against the wall made him stop.
"So there you are…
Mikazuki Reiji. The fallen hero. The glorified traitor."
From the far end of the corridor emerged a hunched figure, arms covered in organic metal plates, as if his flesh had fused with blades.
His eyes were grey, devoid of light.
It was Haganezumi, one of Yodaku's ten lieutenants.
"Did you really think you'd walk away like that? After abandoning the fight like a coward?
Is your dignity worth so little? What happened to respecting your own name?"
Reiji didn't answer.
He just looked at him. A single glance. Nothing more.
But in that brief moment… the illusion began.
The corridor vanished. The walls crumbled.
And Haganezumi was trapped in a prison of his own fears:
A past he had tried to forget.
A figure staring at him from a field of corpses—his former master, disappointed.
The metal on his body rusting slowly as the flesh rotted from within.
Yodaku's voice telling him: "You're not even fit to die with honor."
Haganezumi screamed—but no one was there to hear him.
Reiji, with staggering steps, simply moved on.
His shadow stretched down the hallway like that of a warrior already dead… but not yet fallen.
His destination: Yodaku.
---
Within the fractured walls of the coliseum, hidden among ancient shadows, Shirota observed.
Not with fear, but with the curious glint of someone watching a tragedy performed by fools.
"What a filthy spectacle… and yet, so profitable," he whispered, adjusting his silk glove.
Then, five figures burst through the cracked walls. Yodaku's subordinates—each with an overwhelming presence—knew this spy wasn't ordinary. That's why they came as a group.
Akai Chō
A woman with scarlet hair and a disturbing smile. Her Shinkon, Hanabira no Mōsō (Petal Hallucination), induced visions through scent and eye contact.
Goruja
A monster with more muscle than brain. His Shinkon, Kōtetsu no Kūkan (Iron Space), allowed him to solidify air to crush and trap.
Jisei
A young man with drooping eyes and a poetic tone. His Shinkon, Shi no Uta (Death Song), altered emotions with melancholic whispers.
Banchō Kiba
Punk attitude and wild eyes. His Shinkon, Kemono Retsu (Beast Instinct), made him faster, more brutal, more feral.
Kōgai
A man dressed like a dark priest. His Shinkon, Uragiri no Kekkai (Betrayal Barrier), inverted any attack or promise made within its perimeter.
"Five against one," Shirota said with a smile.
"I'm not good at math, but this sounds overpriced."
They didn't answer. They jostled, arguing over who would kill him first.
"Ah yes, courtesy is dead," he snapped his fingers.
"At least introduce yourselves. Not every day you meet the best merchant in the region."
They ignored him.
That was their first mistake.
Akai Chō launched a floral illusion, but Jisei accidentally countered it with his sorrow.
Banchō charged… and accidentally struck Goruja.
Kōgai tried to set his barrier—but triggered it too early.
Shirota didn't move. He simply sipped his tea.
"Ah… the taste of chaos."
With soft words and imperceptible gestures, he began to whisper to Goruja, feeding his rage:
"Did you see that? Banchō hit you on purpose. He thinks you're a mindless brute. Are you just going to let that slide?"
Goruja growled. His eyes reddened.
Fury exploded. He slammed Banchō against a pillar.
Banchō roared. Jisei stepped back—but Shirota was already whispering in his ear:
"Isn't it interesting how everyone wants to be the main character?
But you… you're the poem no one wants to read.
Maybe you should leave… or stay and be useful?"
In seconds, Jisei became his guardian.
"One," Shirota counted elegantly, crossing his legs.
Akai Chō didn't understand why Goruja no longer protected her, or why Kōgai hesitated.
Then the merchant smiled.
The crack had formed.
"Two. And to think this was just the opening act."
The glances between Yodaku's subordinates were no longer of comradeship—but suspicion.
Betrayal hung in the air like a dagger.
And Shirota sipped his tea, calm, content.
His Shinkon: Gekijō no Kōen (Theater Act) was a pure manipulation dance.
He didn't strike bodies.
He struck certainty.
And none of it survived intact.
---
From a high corner, where shadows twisted into the shattered architecture of the coliseum, Shirota reclined with more elegance than the King himself.
With sickening calm, he pulled a scarlet-covered book from his cloak… a dubious erotic novel.
"Always good to feed the mind and the senses," he murmured with a mocking smile, flipping the pages slowly.
"Though I must admit, the groans of these idiots make for decent background noise."
Yodaku's subordinates burned with rage and frustration.
One after another, they launched attacks, curses, shoves—but none landed on Shirota.
Not because they missed completely…
But because they were sabotaging each other.
Banchō pushed Goruja again by accident.
Akai Chō screamed that someone was manipulating her senses.
Jisei covered his ears, trembling at verses no one recited.
Kōgai doubted whether his Shinkon was even his anymore.
Shirota, unbothered, sipped his tea. Then, he turned a page with theatrical flair and looked up.
"An exquisite performance requires three things: desperate actors, an ignorant audience…
And a director who knows when to laugh.
Today, I am all three."
Meanwhile, down in the coliseum, Yodaku continued his own show.
He toyed with nobles like rag dolls.
Some begged. Others screamed.
One even tried to gouge out his eyes to stop seeing what was happening.
But suddenly…
A thunderclap roared.
Not like lightning—like the roar of an angry god.
Everyone heard it.
Even Yodaku, who wore his twisted grin… stopped.
For the first time all night, something cut the air more than his sword.
From the coliseum's colossal entrance, through dust and flickering torches, a figure emerged—
marching with the rigidity of divine punishment.
The figure that stepped forth with the thunder was not just a man…
He was a symbol.
Narikami —the general who refused to die—
walked like a god of war, clad in a ceremonial uniform that seemed forged in the heart of a storm.
His jacket was black as night, imperial cut, with crimson edges that gleamed under nearby flames.
On his chest, the embroidered emblem of a two-headed dragon, its gem-eyes shifting with every step.
Each button bore ancient symbols only high generals could decipher—markings of battles won and betrayals crushed.
Upon his shoulders, reinforced dark-plate armor, engraved with roaring lions,
as if the beasts themselves guarded him.
His cape—long, heavy, whipped by the wind—bore the kanji for "Judgment" (断罪)
stitched in silver thread and dried blood.
Some thought it symbolic…
Until they saw the hem stained in crimson.
His boots struck the stone with finality—
each step echoing like the rhythm of an imminent execution.
And at his side… a sword inscribed with divine markings.
Not carved—sculpted by gods.
It was not a uniform made to parade.
It was made to march through corpses.
The aura was suffocating—
a blend of judgment, redemption, and death.
From a distant corner of the arena…
The Viper, body still slashed and toxins escaping with each gasp, looked up.
And for the first time in ages… she wept.
Not from pain…
But from fear.
"What… is that?" she whispered, her voice broken.
No serpent, no matter how deadly…
Can challenge the lightning that descends straight from the heavens.
---
When even monsters hesitate, and gods walk among ruins,
only those who face the abyss with open eyes remain truly human.
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.