Weeks had passed since the failed gathering of the Supreme Assembly of States.
And as if diplomacy were nothing but a cruel jest, empty words had now given way to blood.
The Kingdom of Sainokuni, beneath the golden banner of its god, marched with iron resolve upon the eastern lands of Hokori. Entire cities, once quiet and forgotten since the war twenty years past, now burned without mercy.
White standards marked with sacred sigils rose amid the infernos, as if prayers had been painted in fire. Border towns like Hoshizora, Yukue, and Daichi… all were reduced to ash.
The soldiers of Sainokuni were not soldiers.
They were zealots.
Men and women with eyes wide in delirium, their skin inked with holy scriptures, their smiles twisted into rictuses of possession rather than triumph. They fought not with strategy, but with devotion.
—"In the name of the Lord!"
—"By the judgment of light!"
—"Let the infidels burn, let the deniers bleed!"
These were the chants as they set homes ablaze with families trapped inside. As they toppled statues and temples of Hokori. As they ravaged those who begged for mercy.
The old were dragged through the mud like refuse.
The young beaten senseless for failing to bow quickly enough.
Women and girls violated as part of "divine punishment," while war-priests sang hymns of praise. Many were nailed to crude crosses, their bodies left dangling as warnings.
The forests were next. Bonfire after bonfire. Smoke covering the heavens as though God Himself refused to witness what was done in His name.
High upon a fortress turned cathedral, Shinsei Kōji, the self-proclaimed Chosen of God, watched from his terrace. His faded green eyes traced the bloodstained map of Hokori.
He smiled.
"God is merciful… but I am not.
Let the children of sin burn like cursed firewood.
And if any soul is spared… let it crawl forward only upon its knees before my voice."
One of his priests bowed deeply.
"My lord, the advance has been swifter than predicted. Three villages today, perhaps five tomorrow…"
"And the prayers of the fallen?" asked Shinsei, toying with a chalice of wine that looked more like blood than drink.
"We have gathered them… along with their screams."
"Perfect," Shinsei answered, rising slowly.
"For the kingdom of heaven is not for the living… but for those who die believing in me."
And with those words, the fire of Sainokuni spread further still.
---
The Throne Hall—once a place of spectacle and imperial banquets—was now a nest of silence and dread.
King Genshin no Ikkaku sat upon his obsidian throne, fingers drumming with fury against armrests carved with golden lion heads. The border cities fell one after another to the armies of Shinsei Kōji, the self-proclaimed Chosen of God. And this time, there was no glory in the blood. Only impotence.
He studied the military map unfurled before him, red marks scarring the parchment like open wounds. He did not blink. He did not speak. His clenched jaw was the sound of betrayal grinding in his teeth.
"This war cannot be won from a throne," he murmured coldly.
The doors burst open. Footsteps echoed like war drums.
It was him.
Kenshiro Gai, the so-called King of War, strode into the hall without bowing, without announcement. He needed none. His presence alone silenced the chamber. His ceremonial garb was a union of regal robe and scaled armor, clinging to him as though steel itself obeyed his will. On his chest gleamed an emblem: a dragon devouring a lion, symbol of his lineage and his fury.
Yet most striking of all… was the absence of true armor. He wore only a battered steel vest, scarred by decades of battles, as if declaring to the world: I need no more than this to kill a god.
"Shall I take his head already?" he asked bluntly, eyes on the map—not on the king.
Genshin did not answer. He only nodded, slow and deliberate.
Elsewhere, deep within the damp walls of the Central Prison, Enma no Amatsu opened her eyes to the dark. A faint smile tugged her cracked lips. She had dreamed—or perhaps seen—the rivers of blood to come.
"Let us see," she whispered to herself, "whether the fates shown to me dare fulfill themselves… or falter."
The board was set.
The pieces in motion.
And the lion… had awakened.
---
The war had not yet reached Tsuyoi… but its shadow already lay across every roof, every corner, every hushed breath. Streets once noisy with the laughter of children and the cries of merchants now stood hollow, as if even echoes had fled.
The youngest were confined indoors. Their games replaced by whispered questions that met no answers. Adults kept watch from hillsides and from makeshift towers of timber, clutching old spears and hunting bows as though they might matter.
At the village's heart stood Reiji Mikazuki—not as mentor, but as protector. He moved among narrow streets and crude shelters, his words steady, his presence a shard of certainty amid the fear. He organized watch shifts, checked provisions, bowed humbly to the elders as though peace still lingered somewhere in this broken world.
The sick had been moved into dark, damp bunkers. Alongside them lay the wounded from nearby villages that had escaped Sainokuni's advance. Tsuyoi had become, unwillingly, a sanctuary. A last station of humanity.
Donyoku, standing at the window of his home, stared upon the empty streets. His eyes caught the silhouettes of armed men in the distance, of mothers cradling children with lullabies trembling more from fear than melody.
He knew Hokori was collapsing… not only outwardly, but from within. The proud pillars of the kingdom now seemed built of mud. And when mud is wet with blood… it crumbles.
"Even if we win this war," he murmured to himself, "how many innocents will remain to celebrate?"
His little brothers slept on the futon, blissfully ignorant of the chaos threading itself beyond those paper-thin walls. His mother, tireless, prepared rations of rice and salt for the villagers. Shadows clung beneath her eyes, yet she smiled still—like all mothers who, even in war, hold the world aloft with broken hands.
Thus Tsuyoi fell into a silence nearly sacred. The kind of silence so deep even the wind seemed to bow.
The silence that precedes something.
Something already on its way.
From the humblest corner of a hut, a small child—still too young to understand—asked with restless curiosity:
"Mother… when the war ends, will we be able to sing again?"
The mother, her hands worn and wounded, froze.
She did not answer.
She only lowered her gaze, silent.
That kind of silence…
Not born of doubt,
but of fear—fear of breaking the heart of someone still capable of dreaming.
---
Near midnight…
The wind shifted.
A savage gallop thundered in the distance, as if the earth itself were dragged by judgment. From the hills, silhouettes of riders rose like golden specters. They bore banners of the "God of Redemption," symbol of Sainokuni. Cloth flailed violently, embroidered with gold threads reflecting the moon like celestial fire. Yet there was no divinity within them—only arrogance and cruelty.
Their armor gleamed as though forged in temples by priests. Each set unique: some etched with prayers, others adorned with polished bone… others still stained with dried blood in the shape of spirals and crosses.
Several lancers carried something more grotesque still: the severed heads of villagers from other towns, skewered upon their spears. The eyes still open, the faces frozen in their final pleas. Trophies. Warnings.
Tsuyoi understood in that instant.
These were no soldiers.
They were apostles of a false god, come to evangelize in blood.
Without warning, arrows rained upon the village's crude barricades. One pierced a welcome sign. Another shattered a rice basket. Another landed near the shelters. No one screamed. All already knew what had come.
Reiji Mikazuki wasted no breath. The strategist within him awoke like a blade unsheathed. He leapt upon a crate at the village's heart and raised his voice:
"Seimei will take the front! Half of you follow! Defend the gate! The rest guard the homes—protect the children, the sick! Do not let them through the first cordon!"
His voice was not that of a general. It was that of a father. Of a man who knew the cost of a war misled.
Chisiki rushed to him, eyes burning.
"And us?! Why won't you let us fight? Do you still think we're the same as before?!"
Reiji met his gaze. His face showed no anger. Only pain long buried, a scar carried from the coliseum.
"It is not that I cannot see your growth, Chisiki… It is that I saw what happened when I cast you into the hell of Kinzoku no Hana. That was when I understood there are wounds no child should ever carry. That is why… I will not throw you into this."
Chisiki bowed his head, wordless. War was real. But Reiji still sought—desperately—to save their souls.
Aika arrived, breathless, hair wild, eyes wet.
"It doesn't matter! This is our village too! Our people! How can you tell us not to fight for them?!"
Reiji turned to them, weary, his katana still sheathed but gleaming beneath the moon. His tone, now harsher, paternal, unyielding:
"If you have not yet learned to protect your own lives…
how will you protect anyone else's?"
Silence fell, heavier than stone.
Chisiki. Aika. Even Donyoku, who had crept closer in silence, felt the words like wounds carved deep.
Without looking back, Reiji strode toward the defense line, his figure limned in torchlight, his katana shining like the last star over a sky collapsing.
The war had arrived.
And they had seen nothing yet.
---
In war, time is not measured in hours.
It is measured in screams.
And in how many you can endure before you break inside.
Donyoku, Chisiki, Aika, and Seita hid in a decrepit barn at the village's edge, stinking of rot and potato sacks. No one spoke.
The howls outside were enough to silence hope itself.
Each scream, each plea, each "please" drowned in blood crept through the cracks of the wood.
Donyoku lay back, eyes fixed upon the fractured ceiling. His Shinkon pulsed faintly, like a beast stirring—not for justice, but for something older. The lust to fight. The hunger to taste war. To destroy anything that threatened what mattered.
It was not rage.
Not heroism.
Something darker.
A yearning to test the world, even in its ugliest forms.
A refusal to be just another survivor.
Aika sat beside him, her knees brushing his. For a moment, the massacre outside dimmed before her soft voice.
"Don't worry, Donyoku… this too shall pass."
He exhaled slowly before answering.
"Yes. It will pass.
But some things never return.
People who won't come back.
Others who won't even be remembered.
That… that is what cuts deepest. Not pain. Not death. But oblivion."
Aika lowered her head, wordless, hugging her knees.
Chisiki, silent, pulled out his dust-ridden book. He whispered fragments at random—broken verses, wandering reflections. They consoled no one. But at least they made him feel alive.
Seita… simply watched.
Cold. Motionless.
Eyes tracing the others, as though trying to understand why they still suffered. Why they still cared.
And then he remembered.
He had ceased being a child long ago.
And with that, had lost the ability to feel many things.
---
Blood already drenched the soil.
The screams so countless Reiji no longer distinguished friend from stranger.
All died the same.
Seimei, usually elegant in his control, now barely stood, his breath ragged, hands trembling. For every foe he struck down, two more rose.
Reiji clenched his teeth. His katana dripped. His Shinkon blazed.
But his soul ached more.
For no matter how he fought, no matter how he roared—his people were dying.
And he could not save them all.
---
"No!" Donyoku shouted, his face pale.
From their hiding place, he saw a golden-armored figure striding toward another barn. The one where his mother and siblings hid.
Sainokuni soldiers were forcing their way inside. Torches flared at the door. Their demonic laughter was the same that haunted his nightmares.
Donyoku surged to run—
But a hand seized him. Chisiki.
"Don't! They'll handle it!"
"Handle it?!" Donyoku's voice broke with inhuman fury. "Do you not understand?! Have you ever watched YOUR FAMILY crushed like garbage?!"
Chisiki faltered, his gaze dropping.
Donyoku tore against the grip, but Chisiki, trembling, struck him—
A fist to the face.
Donyoku reeled, stunned.
Chisiki was crying. Not shouting. Not defending himself. Only speaking through a broken voice:
"I've seen my own die more times than you can imagine…
I've heard their screams beneath whips and blades…
And I could do nothing. Nothing!"
His fist bled.
"You think you're the only one who hurts? The only one with someone to save?
The truth is… we're only children.
And out there… we're nothing but burdens."
A silence stretched. Endless.
Donyoku rose again. His heart thundered like a war drum.
"Maybe so," he said at last.
"But I'd rather be a burden… than stand and watch as they kill what I love most."
And without waiting, he bolted into the smoke—toward the barn where his mother screamed.
Chisiki, left behind, closed his eyes.
And for the first time… wished he had not been right.
---
The throne itself trembled as Genshin no Ikkaku stood.
His steps rang like hammers upon the polished stone of the Crown Hall.
Before him, the great window revealed a horizon painted red. Not with sunset, but with the flames devouring Hokori's land. War had crossed the border. Blood was now the language of the present.
"This is madness—we are losing more than if we had simply accepted the ultimatum!" cried one noble.
"We must negotiate with Sainokuni!" begged another. "Or there will be no kingdom left!"
"This war will damn us all!"
Genshin stood silent, statue of obsidian. His eyes, dark pits, unblinking. His fists clenched. His jaw locked.
Then he spoke.
"How curious…" His voice was calm, heavy as the air before a storm. "When I brought you the ultimatum, it was you who called it humiliation. You who said Hokori does not kneel. That we must prove our strength. That this land was sacred and never to be yielded."
He turned upon them slowly.
"And now that blood touches you… you want to retreat."
The silence was absolute.
Genshin climbed the marble steps to the throne. He cast aside his black cloak, letting it fall like an old symbol discarded.
"I would rather see this kingdom burn," he said, smiling with savage fire, "than crawling like a trembling dog."
And with eyes fixed upon the distant blaze, he murmured:
"Prepare yourselves.
For this war… has not yet truly begun."
---
The war did not arrive with a roar, but with twisted prayers and blades dripping in faith. And as the innocent fell, the gods remained silent.