The night still burned in ruins,
but at the heart of Sainokuni's camp…
it was nothing but festivity.
The soldiers ate with filthy hands,
drank from gourds stained with blood,
shouted hollow prayers,
and laughed as if hell were only another border they would conquer tomorrow.
Then, he arrived.
The Captain.
Or so they thought.
Hazami Riku, hidden inside that stolen body,
crossed the entrance with a calm that hurt.
Measured steps.
A straight back.
Eyes… darker than the uniform itself.
"Seems you're having fun," he murmured.
No one heard him.
Or they ignored him.
Euphoria blinded them.
But he hadn't come for laughter.
---
He stopped before Reiji Mikazuki, still on his knees.
Fingers broken, breath heavy.
The 28 survivors sat in a line,
watched over like cattle awaiting judgment.
Most… wept.
Others only lowered their heads.
Reiji, however, did not beg.
Not out of pride.
But because he had no pleas left.
Hazami looked at him with a face not his own,
but with a voice that still carried his core.
"You may return to your students."
Reiji stared at him, confused.
The voice.
The expression.
Something about it…
too neutral to belong to an enemy.
One of the soldiers, a sharp-faced man with piercing eyes, stopped laughing.
He studied him closely.
Something… didn't fit.
"Captain…"
Hazami turned slowly.
"Yes?"
"Captain, shall we chant the Prayer of Judgment as in the last campaigns?"
Silence.
The entire camp froze.
Hazami swallowed.
The pulse at his neck struck like war drums.
He did not answer at once.
And then…
Hazami did not blink.
He looked at the man with venomous calm.
Stepped closer.
And whispered:
"If you ever again ask something meaningless…
those might be your last words."
The soldier stepped back, uneasy.
"It's just… tradition. Nothing more."
He turned, and with slow steps rejoined his companions.
But Hazami… began to remember.
And suddenly, he was no longer fully pretending.
His eyes… welled with tears.
Not from weakness.
But because the memory of the body he wore began to scream within him.
Images, emotions, pain.
The death of his family at the hands of Reiji Mikazuki.
The tortures in the name of the "True God."
Scars still burning in the bone.
The insults. The chains. The forced promotion to Captain as currency for redemption.
The day he ceased being human to become a servant.
Hazami panted.
The memories were not his.
But he felt them as if they were.
And yet…
He remained standing.
For his mind had long since shattered…
and he had learned
to survive within every ruin.
---
"Captain… why are you crying?"
The voice was timid.
Suspicious.
One of the soldiers of Sainokuni approached with an awkward smile, watching as their leader —seemingly invincible— let silent tears fall.
Hazami gave no reply.
He simply turned and walked toward one of the ruined houses.
His steps were heavy.
Not from physical pain…
but from memories that were never his.
---
As he moved away from the noise, Hazami heard footsteps behind him.
Not hurried.
Not tense.
The steps of someone who did not fear being stabbed in the back…
because he knew the one ahead had already tried before.
"Crying again, Hazami?" said the dry, mocking voice.
"Swear I feel like bringing you a handkerchief embroidered with the Chosen One's face."
Hazami didn't need to turn.
"Jūzō…"
"Present and bored, as always."
From the shadows emerged Jūzō Karakuri, his uniform ill-fitted, his armor dangling, and his smile more dangerous than any blade on his belt.
"You killed the real Captain so grotesquely I thought you'd at least relax tonight. But no… there you are, carrying other people's traumas again."
Hazami stopped at the half-collapsed doorway of a ruined house.
He said nothing.
Only clenched his teeth.
"Does it hurt?" Jūzō went on, arms crossed, laughter barely held back.
"Has the poor bastard's memory sunk into your gut?"
Hazami finally turned his head, slowly.
His gaze was cold, trembling within.
"Shut up…"
"Hazami, brother… you know I can't.
If you fall apart crying, who else will remind you how fucked you really are?"
Hazami took a step toward him.
The silence sharpened.
"One more word, and I'll gift you to those zealots with their broken prayers.
See if they enjoy your flesh."
Jūzō raised his hands as if surrendering, though the smile never left his face.
"Alright, alright… no need to get tender with me.
I only came to make sure you don't forget who you are…"
He leaned in, voice dropping.
"Or worse, that you don't start believing you're someone else."
Hazami looked at him sidelong.
"Don't make me remember why I disliked you… back when I was still me."
"Oh, come now," Jūzō laughed as he drifted back into the smoke.
"You hate me because I'm the only one who remembers what your real voice sounds like…
And because I know that behind every stolen face…
you're still the same damned Kagemaru no Shūen."
And he vanished into the haze.
As always.
---
At the center of camp, Reiji remained silent.
He didn't understand what had happened.
Nor who had saved him.
Only that he was alive…
and that something in the "Captain" did not fit.
Aika drew near, eyes tearful, trying to reach him.
"Please… let me heal you," she whispered.
But a soldier saw her move.
"You! Stay in your place!"
He struck her, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Donyoku leapt up instantly.
"What the hell do you think—?!"
"Careful," another soldier cut in, stepping forward with a crooked smile.
"We might not kill you… but your mother instead."
Donyoku clenched his teeth.
Rage burned through his veins.
His Shinkon trembled.
But he stayed still.
For her.
---
Chisiki did not speak.
But he saw more clearly than ever.
Something in the Captain was different.
Not a shift of mood.
A shift of being.
A soul that was not there…
or one no longer the same.
---
Seimei remained unconscious,
breathing in jagged rhythm.
And Seita, silent, watched him from the coldest corner of camp.
His eyes vacant.
His mind… dissecting every angle, every word, every shadow.
But even he…
knew balance was breaking.
---
The "Captain" rose slowly.
The campfires burned low, as if hell itself still breathed faintly.
Hazami, with his stolen face, walked to the center of the village.
His boots struck the stone like marks at the end of an era.
He stopped before the gathered soldiers in their chaos.
"Gather up, idiots!"
Some ignored him.
Others went on eating, laughing, praying to their false god with mouths greasy and red.
"The game is over!" he shouted.
The echo froze the air.
"Hokori is reclaiming territory.
The sacred soldiers… are falling like ants.
And you…
you will pay for what you've done here."
One soldier laughed in disbelief.
"How would you know that, Captain? You see visions now?"
"Trying to scare us with tales?"
"Those Hokori rats can't last a single battle without crying!"
Hazami lowered his voice.
"Release them," he ordered, pointing at the survivors.
The soldiers froze.
One scoffed:
"Release the ones still breathing?
Are you insane?
They sell better than fresh meat!"
Hazami didn't argue.
He walked toward him.
The village watched, hushed.
Confused.
Afraid.
"What's wrong with the Captain?" whispered an old woman.
"Moments ago he was torturing Master Mikazuki…"
Donyoku, Aika, Chisiki—all of them watched, jaws tight.
Reiji could barely stand.
Hazami halted before the insolent soldier.
His eyes blank.
Breath steady.
And with inhuman calm…
He drew his blade…
and drove it into his throat.
No emotion.
No warning.
The body fell like a broken statue.
Silence absolute.
The soldiers tensed.
One of them, armored differently—etched with golden lines and a symbol of faith across his chest—stepped forward.
His gaze sharp.
"That Shinkon…
It isn't the Captain's. That energy… is older. Stranger.
You are not the Captain."
Hazami looked at him…
And clapped.
"Well then, I must be a terrible actor.
Sharp instinct, soldier.
You should've been a poet, not a martyr."
And his body… began to shift.
Skin quivered.
Muscles realigned.
The face melted away.
A new figure emerged from tremors of flesh and ashen light.
Long black hair. Sunken eyes. A smile that did not exist.
"My name is Kagemaru no Shūen. General of the Kingdom of Hokori.
And I came tonight to remind you… that even gods can be torn apart."
---
The soldiers scrambled for their weapons.
Some screamed.
Others tried to form ranks.
But before they could move…
A familiar laugh rose from the ruins.
Jūzō Karakuri.
"Always so dramatic, my friend."
He emerged from shadow with a scythe taller than himself.
The black blade trembled as if starved.
His eyes no longer human.
No pupils.
No reflection.
And then… his Shinkon exploded.
---
Utsusei no Shi (空性の死 – "Death of Emptiness")
A state of brutal transcendence.
His body warped:
legs lengthened, supple as a predator's.
Arms hardened.
Skin paled to living ash.
His back arched as if burdened by the weight of the souls he had slain.
The scythe began to throb.
Like a hollow heart.
And then…
all became dance.
Jūzō moved like a being who no longer remembered being human.
Every sweep of his scythe opened not only flesh…
but soul.
Soldiers fell.
Not one. Not two.
Twenty in three seconds.
One tried to beg.
Another fired.
Another fled.
All were cut open.
And every body that fell…
fed Jūzō.
His speed surged.
His strength grew.
But with each victim,
his veins blackened.
His skin cracked.
And his breath grew heavier.
For Death of Emptiness devoured…
but demanded payment.
A price none lived long enough to understand.
---
And as the camp burned,
as prayers twisted into screams,
and sacred soldiers crumbled like broken dolls…
Kagemaru and Jūzō walked the massacre as if it were a path of flowers.
For on that dark night,
the wolves ceased to howl—
and began to bite.
---
Silence returned after the slaughter.
Bodies still seemed to fall inside, though the scythe now rested.
The wind blew warm, as if it knew not what to say to horror.
Reiji stood… or tried.
His body wrecked.
His soul worse.
He watched the two men walking among the ruins of the camp.
Kagemaru no Shūen.
The faceless General of Hokori.
Jūzō Karakuri.
The limitless executioner.
Reiji knew them.
But said nothing.
His students understood nothing.
Only that they had been saved by… two monsters who claimed to be on their side.
The elders, the children, the few women and men left… wept with joy.
Not for justice.
But because they still lived.
---
Kagemaru approached Reiji slowly.
Not with arrogance.
Not with mockery.
But with an empty expression, as if seeing an idol in ruins.
"I can't believe it."
Reiji raised his eyes.
"Someone like you… kneeling?
About to die without fighting?"
Kagemaru paused.
"I… admired you as a child."
The silence stung deeper than rebuke.
"Now I understand why they call you the Tragic One.
It isn't a nickname.
It's an exact description."
Reiji gave no answer.
For he had no defense.
---
A few steps away, Jūzō wiped blood from his scythe as if cleansing his soul.
"Hey," he said, not looking at anyone in particular, "any doctors here?"
Silence.
Aika rose, bruised, eyes steady.
"I… know how to heal."
Jūzō turned, looked, and smiled like a child finding cake at a funeral.
"What a waste…
Such a lovely face, and now they've marked it."
Aika scowled.
"Are you trying to flirt with me?"
"Depends. Any of those guys back there your boyfriend?" he asked, pointing blindly.
Aika flushed red.
"W–What?! You're disgusting!
Besides, don't you know being with a teenage girl is a sin?"
Jūzō blinked.
Thought for a moment.
"Technically I've sinned worse, but… hey, that sounded bad.
I'm seventeen, okay?! I'm still a victim of the system myself!"
Aika palmed her face.
"Better I patch you up quick… and leave before I regret this."
Jūzō burst into laughter.
"Now that's the spirit."
---
Meanwhile, Kagemaru pulled a small scroll sealed with the emblem of Hokori.
He handed it to Reiji.
"This is your message."
Reiji took it warily.
"And this is…?"
"An order.
A summons.
It's time Hokori used… everything it has."
Reiji began to unroll it.
"Don't open it yet," Kagemaru warned.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not ready."
But Reiji opened it.
He read the first lines.
And…
His brow furrowed.
"'The crimson priestess's curves swayed like…'?"
Kagemaru snatched the scroll away at once.
"What the hell is this, Jūzō?!"
Jūzō raised a hand, still smiling as Aika tended to him.
"Oops. Must've mixed up the scrolls.
That's the uncensored edition, with author's notes.
A classic."
"That was a sacred scroll!"
"Now it's an invaluable literary piece."
Kagemaru bit down on the roll.
Reiji lowered his head.
"…this really feels like a comedy written by a sick god."
Jūzō raised a finger.
"With stellar reviews!"
---
The entrance to Hokori's Royal Palace was no mere hall.
Marble pure.
Fountains singing as if the world were still beautiful.
Golden-threaded carpets, columns so clean they seemed never to have known the dust of war.
And there, amid such perfection…
Shirota Karakuri argued with two guards.
"I demand to see the King!" he shouted like a child denied dessert.
"I bring something that can change the course of the war!
And if you don't believe me… I have proof!
Want me to read you a chapter?!"
The guards exchanged looks.
"You are not authorized."
Shirota flung himself to the ground.
"This is discrimination!
Oppression of art!"
And suddenly…
Fake tears.
"You don't know what it is to be a misunderstood genius!
Or how much it costs to write with emotional ink!"
One of the guards was already reaching for his spear…
When she appeared.
"Let him pass."
The King's secretary, clad in black as judgment itself, looked at him with a mix of pity and resignation.
"He's been granted audience.
Though… I don't know why."
---
Shirota, lugging his enormous backpack, strode through the palace halls.
Inside, his mind wasn't joking.
How can such a place exist…
so perfect, so pristine, so untouchable…
while the kingdom drowns in blood and hunger?
For once…
he said nothing.
---
The golden gates of the great throne hall opened with an echo that seemed to herald either a hero's arrival… or the birth of a tragedy.
And so Shirota Karakuri took his first step into the throne room.
He didn't walk.
He paraded.
Like an actor in his final scene, as if every tile were his own private stage.
His coat flared with unnecessary drama.
His ridiculous scarf danced without wind.
And his trousers… so absurdly long they trailed across the floor, as though they wished to greet the King before their owner did.
When he reached the throne, Shirota stopped.
He placed one hand over his chest.
Another behind his back.
And, with a turn laughably refined, delivered a bow so mocking it seemed to parody royalty itself.
"Majesty of silences,
King of marble untouched by dust,
man whose throne is stiffer than his decrees…
Accept my irreverent presence."
He smiled.
Not with respect.
But with malice.
As though daring the King to punish his insolence with style.
One of the guards stepped forward.
"That is an insult!"
Shirota ignored him.
He took half a step more—
And tripped.
The trousers—those cursed, overlong shackles of fabric—snared his own feet.
Shirota pitched forward, tumbled absurdly, and landed flat on his back before the throne, staring at the ceiling as though the whole scene had been written by a god with far too much time.
"Ow!" he cried with dramatic flair. "I have been undone… by elegance itself."
Kyomu didn't blink.
From the throne, Genshin said nothing.
But he looked at him.
Direct.
Into his eyes.
And the air changed.
A tremor, almost imperceptible, rippled outward.
The atmosphere grew heavy, suffocating.
The King's Shinkon, unseen to mortal sight, began to pulse like a silent sentence.
The guards lowered their heads, crushed by its weight.
Even the marble seemed to crack at the edges.
The King didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply stared.
As if that gaze alone could rip free truths, memories, and fear.
---
For a heartbeat, Shirota trembled.
Slowly, he brought both hands to his chest, as though stabbed by an invisible blade.
He widened his eyes with the face of infinite tragedy, arched his back kabuki-style, and wailed to the heavens in a trembling voice:
"AAAH!
No…!
I am having… an actual heart attack!
My soul cannot endure so much power with so little personality!
Summon me a poet, a doctor, or an ex who'll remind me I'm still worth something!"
And with that, he collapsed in slow motion, spinning upon himself as if dying on the inside—artistically, theatrically, painfully.
The King… kept his gaze on him a moment longer.
And then, simply… withdrew his Shinkon.
Not because the jester yielded.
But because he understood that some men cannot be broken, for they were born already shattered.
---
Genshin spoke.
"Stop pretending. Your jokes have no wit. And your acts, no weight."
From the floor, Shirota smiled.
A real smile.
Ugly.
He rose slowly.
"I would rather make a thousand jokes… than commit a thousand pointless massacres."
Genshin gave no reply.
"I come to offer all my products," Shirota continued, pulling out papers, books, obscene sketches, absurd illustrations. "Novels. Maps. Instruments. Scrolls. Existential philosophy with crude drawings. A full package!"
"I have no need for useless things," the King said.
"Useless?"
Shirota raised one book high.
"How can you say that without first reading The Seven Sins of the Puritan Princess?"
And with a clear voice, he recited the prologue:
"She did not know if her sin was to desire him… or to desire that he desired her."
Several guards laughed.
Others gripped their weapons.
Kyomu did not stir.
But Genshin… clapped.
"You have nerve."
Shirota bowed low.
"And merchandise of the highest quality."
---
He stepped closer to the throne.
Opened his giant pack.
And drew something else.
A Tsugumono.
The entire hall froze.
An ancient spiritual artifact, sealed, its power thought long lost.
The guards had no idea what it was.
But Genshin and Kyomu did.
"Where did you find that?" the King asked, his voice truly regal for the first time.
Shirota smiled.
"Sometimes, you don't seek things… they seek me."
---
The audience lasted longer than anyone expected.
They negotiated.
They argued.
They drank sake—brought by Shirota.
And when it finally ended…
Shirota left the palace singing victory.
Literally.
"I sold novels, I sold traps, I sold souls and even maps! And I did it all without pants in my size!"
His voice trailed off down the corridors… like the laughter of a madman who understands far too much.
---
In times when heroes bleed, jesters survive.
For in this kingdom of broken masks and wars disguised as faith, it no longer matters who holds power… but who dares to wield it with soul, with madness, or with a damned smile.
Thank you for stepping into this second arc, where war is waged not only with swords, but with wounds of the past, choices with no return… and souls that have yet to decide which side they belong to.