Hokori advanced. It was no longer a march. It was a purge. Villages reduced to ashes. Soldiers fleeing while praying in vain. Shrines turned into mass graves. Streets that still remembered the stench of twenty years ago… and now breathed it once again. Sainokuni was collapsing, though its prophets refused to admit it.
Beneath the earth, far from any light, in a depth so secret not even faith could sanctify it, the Central Laboratory—Level 7—throbbed with an artificial darkness. The walls dripped with dampness and blood. Test tubes mingled with shattered crucifixes. And in the sealed windows… distorted images of a faceless "God." A being with broken wings, countless unblinking eyes, and a smile painted on by force.
Dr. Hinzoku Tsukimura—filthy coat, vacant stare, trembling hands—clutched his teacup as if it were the last thread keeping him human. Beside him stood his assistant Rikuto, a young man barely past twenty, gazing at him with a mixture of respect, dread… and doubt.
"And…?" Rikuto finally asked. "Do you think any of the surviving subjects will be the chosen one?"
Tsukimura did not answer right away. His eyes wandered across the seven bodies connected to fluids and cables. Some still breathed. Others only twitched. One smiled.
"I don't know," he murmured. "But we no longer have time to wait for the perfect candidate."
Rikuto frowned. "Doctor… you always said this was only theory. That we could never create true life without understanding the soul…"
Tsukimura sipped his tea. "And I still believe that. But when hell knocks at your door, sometimes you must be the one to summon it first."
The laboratory itself resembled an open wound. Cables dangled like veins. Documents littered the floor: impossible anatomical blueprints, ancient studies on fragmented Shinkon, forgotten symbols from primitive eras.
"The Holy Lands of Reimei would burn all this if they saw it," Rikuto whispered.
"They will," Tsukimura replied coldly. "Which is why we must finish before Hokori destroys everything." He rose slowly. "And for that… we will have to trust Shinsei Kōji."
In the observation hall, the lights flickered. One of the capsules cracked open, and a figure emerged, gasping, eyes pure white—yet alive. Tsukimura smiled for the first time in days.
We don't need a perfect God… only one strong enough to make all kneel.
The left flank of Hokori was not a formation—it was a collective sentence. Yodaku marched as ordered. Methodical. Cold. Lethal. Yet even without disobedience, his step was the most devastating of the war. His troops did not seek glory. They only wanted to scream to the world that Hokori was crueller than any god. They passed through villages… and erased them. Not military targets. Just hamlets. Homes. Common folk. Yodaku entered, executed, bathed in blood… and slept among corpses.
That night, he lay down in a small cabin where once a happy family had lived. Now… the house reeked of ash, flesh, and silence. He closed his eyes. And in the darkness of his mind, memories devoured him.
Years ago… little Yodaku had not cried when he saw the bodies of his parents. No tears remained. It had all begun with what would later be known as the Crimson Bowl Incident (紅碗の災厄 – Kōwan no Saiyaku): a mass attack within the kingdom, where an entire village was used for tests with forbidden weapons. He survived. And at only five years old, he was dragged into Hokori's Military Academy. Among uniforms too large and pupils too hollow, Yodaku stood out. Not by smiling. But by hitting harder than anyone. By never trembling where others faltered. By breaking bones… and laughing.
All his peers feared him. He was the boy who never blinked at blood. The one who never played. The one who spoke to his shadow… because his shadow spoke back. At fifteen, he was already used for executions—nobles, deserters, "dangerous" innocents. "You do it for the Kingdom," they told him. Yodaku nodded. For it was the only way he knew to excel.
At seventeen, his Shinkon awakened. It was not a divine voice or a burst of light. It was a colossal shadow erupting from his back like a foreign entity. A faceless, boundless spectre, mimicking his movements. A deformed echo of himself… staring at him every time he killed. Yodaku feared it.
But King Genshin did not. He watched from afar and found the perfect tool. "You are not Reiji Mikazuki, that much is clear," he once told him. "But you don't need records. You break bodies. And that… is useful." At twenty-three, Yodaku was promoted to General. No ceremony. No applause. Just an order: "Keep executing." And so he did. Shattering bodies. And more than that… shattering minds.
His reputation crossed borders. The A.S.E. classified him as a Red Entity—a threat level reserved for the unquantifiable. Not as a soldier. But as a monster.
And in the cabin, among the remains of what had been a family, Yodaku awoke. He opened his eyes slowly. A fly landed on his chest. He brushed it away. He smiled. Not in joy. Not in triumph. But in the simple, twisted pleasure of doing again the only thing he knew well: killing… with no need for redemption.
The sun had risen, yet it warmed nothing. It only illuminated the battlefield as if to expose each corpse, every trace of blood. Hokori pressed forward, unstoppable. Each fallen city of Sainokuni fell without glory—only with drowned prayers and shattered walls. Yodaku's division advanced like an ancient hunger, every step a whisper of death. Until the wind shifted. Not with shouts. Nor with cannons. But with footsteps.
A single man appeared, walking over the hill. No weapons. No shield. No guards. Only a scroll beneath his arm and a gaze so empty it shook the living.
"And now what…?" Yodaku muttered, yawning.
"General," one soldier whispered, "that is Setsura Kaname. The most renowned diplomat of Sainokuni. The face of peace. The voice of God."
"Ah…" Yodaku laughed mockingly. "So they've run out of soldiers to kill in God's name… and now send the diplomat to bargain in His stead."
Setsura said nothing. He walked on. Passing through Hokori's soldiers, none dared to move. Until one, blinded by stupidity, raised his weapon. Yodaku lifted a hand to stop him. "Wait. Perhaps he's here to bargain for a gentler death. And if so… let's at least listen."
Setsura approached Yodaku without fear. Every step upon the blood-soaked earth defied the very notion of war. Yodaku studied him like an insect—or an anomaly that did not belong in the chaos he adored.
"So then, diplomat," the Executioner growled, "did you come to pray with me… or to die like the rest?"
Setsura halted two paces away. His eyes were as cold as his voice. "I came to propose a deal."
Yodaku tilted his head, mocking yet intrigued.
"If I manage," Setsura continued, "to kill one of your men without drawing a weapon… you will sign a pact of my terms."
Silence fell sharp between them. Yodaku laughed, dry and genuine. "And if I win?"
"Then I will sign yours."
Without hesitation, Yodaku gestured to one of his hardened men, Rensan, seasoned in executions. "You. You're the test." Rensan hesitated, but would not show weakness. "What's the challenge?" he asked.
Setsura raised an open hand. "Very simple: neither of us may move a single muscle."
Both stood face to face. One minute. Two. Then Rensan twitched. A nervous tick in his neck. Enough. A glowing –1 burned upon his palm. On Setsura's, a 1.
Rensan was slammed to the ground. He tried to speak. "What is—" Another mark seared: –2. He coughed blood, veins blackening. Setsura stood immovable, yet a 2 now burned on his hand. Rensan collapsed, his skin cracking as if torn from within. The numbers vanished. A skull remained. The pact had been broken thrice. His judgment was sealed. He died without a scream, only with eyes fixed on a death he could not comprehend.
Yodaku was silent. Then he applauded. "Brilliant," he murmured, half-smiling. "An execution without weapons. Even I am impressed."
Setsura still had not moved. The blood was fresh, yet he spoke as though none of it mattered. "And thus works my Shinkon," he said, calm as one who had already seen death and dismissed it. "Keiyaku no Saiban. The Judgment of the Pact."
He stepped closer. "It is a living law. A justice without judges, trials, or appeals. Only one condition. One promise. One agreement sealed by word, ink, or blood. Break it, and you lose something. First, the intangible: your energy, your memories… the names you loved, the places you wept, the voices that once calmed you. Break it again… the price becomes physical: an organ, a sense, a piece of your humanity. And a third time…" His gaze rose. He was no longer a man. He was a warning incarnate. "Then comes the Judgment. And it is not I who decide. It is the rules you accepted… that execute you."
Yodaku tapped his fingers against his sword, amused yet intrigued. "And why tell me this? Do you mean to frighten me?"
"I tell you," Setsura replied, "because I know you will break it. And I want you to remember I warned you." He leaned in, whispering so only Yodaku could hear. "Because I know you are a fool. And fools never understand the rules until they are branded into their flesh."
Yodaku clicked his tongue. "You speak like a noble, but your eyes are those of an executioner…"
"Accept the pact," Setsura said flatly. "At least then you may keep killing until the next village."
Yodaku grinned, a little more serious now. "I've seen monsters. I've broken bones. I've made the dead speak. But you… you are the only one who has turned a battlefield into a courtroom."
Setsura extended the scroll. Yodaku still could not decide whether to laugh… or to sign in blood.
The wind stilled. And for a moment… even the war seemed to listen. Setsura unrolled the parchment like a priest unveiling sacred scripture. He read the clauses with unwavering voice, each word chiseled as though from stone.
Rule One: You may continue your operation up to the next village marked on this map. Not one step beyond, until further notice.
Rule Two: Execution of civilians, innocents, or unarmed prisoners is forbidden. Killing without active threat will be deemed an infraction.
Rule Three: Torture, physical or psychological, is penalized.
Rule Four: Cultural, religious, or symbolic structures may not be harmed. No monuments, temples, or sacred texts.
Rule Five: If during the operation any violation occurs under your command or by your order, the infraction will be attributed to you.
Rule Six: The agreement will end only with the official conclusion of the war.
When Setsura finished, he handed him the quill. "Any comment?"
"Yes," Yodaku growled. "Either I sign, or I suffer another sermon from your imaginary god, right?" And he signed.
Instantly, his hand burned. Not in flesh, but in the soul. A –1 carved into his palm. In Setsura's hand, a 1. Yodaku stiffened. Something was missing. Something had been erased. "What was that?" he demanded.
"Insulting God in such a manner breaks the pact's religious neutrality. First infraction," Setsura answered.
"I feel nothing."
"You shouldn't. Except… you've already forgotten something."
"What?"
"Exactly."
Yodaku fell silent. A hollow inside him. A candle snuffed. He did not know what was gone. But he knew: he had already begun to lose. And still… he kept walking. Like the warhound he was. Biting still… even if he no longer remembered whom.
The massacre was swift. Predictable. Sacred soldiers resisted, but could not withstand Yodaku's division, much less the Executioner himself. None survived. The ground was mud and blood. The walls were ash. The streets… pure silence.
Yodaku sat upon a still-warm body. "Tch. That was all…" No decent rival. No thrill. He spoke no word. But for the first time… he felt not like the hunter. But the prey, unaware of its cage. His hand still burned faintly, the –1 etched into it. He ignored it. He only thought of advancing. Until his step halted. A chill. A weight upon his back. He could not move on. Not from fear. Not from fatigue. But the pact. The rules. He could only operate in this village. No further. If he broke it, the number would fall again. And something more would vanish. He clenched his teeth. Looked to the sky. "Damn diplomat…"
In the distance, Setsura Kaname closed his folder, already mounted with an escort. He did not celebrate. He did not smile. He only murmured, voice cold and unyielding: "A demon that cannot advance is nothing but a beast in a cage." He sealed the scroll. "And sooner or later, even beasts learn to fear the cage."
And so, without raising his voice, without a sword in hand, Setsura had done the unthinkable: he had chained the Executioner… with rules.
In a world where gods can be created and demons bound without a drop of blood, the true war is no longer fought with swords or banners, but with invisible pacts, sharpened words, and the fear of forgetting who you were before it was stripped away.
Thank you for stepping into this second arc, where war is waged not only with blades, but with wounds of the past, choices with no return… and souls yet undecided on which side they stand.