The right flank of Hokori advanced as if the world were made of paper. The soldiers did not march. They slid. They were gusts of steel that vanished before the enemy could even scream. And at the front of them all: Narikami Goe. A man the gods themselves feared to face.
He had gone days without rest. Village after village. Explosion after explosion. Corpse after corpse. Until finally, at the edge of a region already pillaged, they set up a temporary camp. Narikami looked at himself in a small mirror hanging from a broken cart. His reflection stared back at him… but he did not recognize it.
"I am no longer that boy," he murmured. "Nor do I wish to be. …though sometimes… I wonder if something of him still remains."
His sword, wrapped in divine inscriptions—marks that seemed not carved, but sculpted by the gods—was entirely covered in dried blood. He walked to a nearby stream and began to clean it in silence. He also washed his uniform. The blood would not come out easily. Neither would the memories.
One of his soldiers approached and offered him some food. Narikami thanked him with a gesture and signaled for him to sit by his side. The silence was uncomfortable… but necessary.
"What do you think of this war?" Narikami asked without looking at him.
"I've seen innocents die, and soldiers who did not know why they fought," the young man replied. "We've taken back all of Hokori… but it continues. To me, it's stupidity."
Narikami allowed himself a faint smile.
"That is the King. He likes to watch the world burn. Possibly, as we speak, he is destroying another nation without our knowing."
Both laughed bitterly.
"I once wished to be a hero," Narikami confessed. "Not this."
---
Flashback – The Storm Before the Lightning
Narikami Goe was born premature, with such fragile health that doctors claimed he would not live past his first year. But his body clung on. Through surgeries, experimental treatments, and one desperate last resort, the doctors did the unthinkable: they forced the activation of his Shinkon… at barely one year of age.
It was a miracle.
The Shinkon answered. It shielded him. It began to heal him at superhuman speed.
But the price was high.
Internal scars. Muscles that never grew correctly. Chronic pain. And a childhood marked by isolation.
At the Seishō no Mori School, Narikami became the target of mockery. Even so, he rose each morning with a smile. His family adored him. His parents gave him all he wished. With his older brother, he always played and laughed. Until one day… his brother was recruited by the Hokori army. And never returned. Only one message: "Missing in action."
From that day, Narikami stopped looking at the stars… and began to look at the Kingdom.
At twelve, he entered the Central Military Academy. There he met Yodaku. Both excelled, yet they were opposites. Yodaku, cold, brutal. Narikami, idealistic. A white lightning and a black one… still unaware how far they would reach.
Narikami became leader of his squad. He believed he could change the Kingdom from within. Until the mission arrived…
The air was heavy. Too heavy to be natural. The mission: Kodoku no Jigen—"The Dimension of Lonely Poison"—was presented as a simple elimination exercise. Blue Entities: basic threat level. Savage creatures, yes, but manageable. Narikami went with his squad of cadets. All young. Inexperienced, but full of faith. It was a lie.
The spiritual rift opened without warning. From it emerged something that should not exist. It had no face—only a mask of fused bone. Its body was wrapped in regenerating flesh and arcane wires. A being born of science and curse. Its classification confirmed: Red Entity. Extreme danger level. An experiment. A beast with induced Shinkon.
"How…? This wasn't in the reports…" one cadet stammered. Those were his last words.
The creature moved like a living plague. Claws that shredded. A breath that corroded the soul. Screams of cadets mixed with the sound of bones snapping like dry branches. One was impaled through the stomach. Another split in half from the jaw down. Another… was absorbed. Yes. Absorbed. His body dissolved as if devoured by the laments of hell itself.
Narikami could not move. His legs trembled. His mind fractured. He tried to scream. His vocal cords refused. He was the only one alive. Still.
"STOP!" he finally roared. "STOOOOOOP!"
And then it happened. The desperation… the impotence… the rage of watching those who had followed him die… His Hizumi responded. Black bolts burst from his back like cursed spears. His body began to warp. His eyes glowed with a sickly light. And every ray that touched something burned it into ashes that refused to fade.
The beast attacked. Narikami faced it without technique, without strategy. Only instinct and horror. Ten minutes. Ten eternal minutes of screams, black fire, and acid blood. The creature died disintegrated. And Narikami collapsed.
Later… in the Observation Hall.
The nobles of the scientific court watched from hidden screens. Some were fascinated. Others horrified… but not by the corpses. By the "potential" they saw in the boy.
"Well, that child surely has a soul to burn," one laughed.
"And that was only a failed version of Hizumi. Imagine if we perfect it," added another.
Narikami was naked, with partial burns and an empty gaze, locked inside a containment capsule. He did not even cry. He only… breathed.
"They say he wanted to be a hero," a white-haired noble sneered. "What a waste… so poetic."
"Should we tell him all his companions died in a deliberate experiment?"
"What would we gain from that? Better he feels guilt. Trauma breeds obedience."
They all laughed. Except him. Narikami only stared at a fixed point. And so, the boy who wished to save the Kingdom… became the sword that would execute its sins.
---
He returned to the present. The soldier was still by his side in silence. Narikami finished cleaning his sword and fastened it to his belt.
"And why are you here?" he asked.
The young man thought.
"Because I still have someone left to protect."
Narikami nodded, with a faint smile.
"Then do not lose that someone. Because when they're gone… you become what I am."
The camp was burning. Screams. Explosions. Steel against steel. The sacred soldiers of Sainokuni had ambushed the right flank at dawn, just as the watch was changing. No warning. Only fire. And death.
Narikami woke to the sound of the first strangled scream. He did not think. He acted. In seconds, he had thrown on his half-fastened uniform, straps dangling, unsheathed his still-wet sword… and vanished into the trees like a bolt of damnation.
By the time he reached the battlefield, it was already too late for many. His soldiers lay mangled. Some impaled. Others incinerated. One still clutching his stomach, eyes rolling white as he bled out. Narikami did not speak. Did not shout. He simply entered. And became wind.
The first fell decapitated before he could blink. The second cut diagonally at the waist. The third never even saw him—he was dead before knowing he had been attacked. Narikami was precision. Tempered fury. Divine agility. Each step a calculation. Each cut, a sentence.
Then… one of the sacred soldiers collapsed in front of him, still alive. Eyes open. A photo in hand.
Narikami looked down. The image showed the soldier smiling. Beside him, a young woman and two small children. They looked happy. They looked human. Narikami froze. His fingers trembled. His breathing faltered. And suddenly… memory stabbed him.
The face of his mother. The smell of his father's stews. The voice of his brother when they were still a family. The dirt yard of the old house in Torinomi. The last embrace before he disappeared. It all returned. It all struck.
His soul vibrated uncontrollably. His Shinkon tried to stabilize… but failed. Emotional instability became spiritual overload. The lightning that was his body began to spark chaotically. Black sparks burned his skin. The air grew dense. His legs gave way. And before he understood… Narikami collapsed.
The fastest warrior of Hokori did not fall to a sword. Nor to an enemy. He fell to a memory. One he had tried to bury beneath a thousand corpses. …and it took only an image from the past to destroy the soldier of the present.
Night had fallen. The sky was clear… but the air still smelled of old blood and scorched earth. Narikami slowly opened his eyes. His body covered with a light blanket. His muscles still trembling involuntarily, as if his own power could not decide whether to protect him… or destroy him.
Around him, several soldiers formed a small defensive circle. Stained armor. Unsheathed blades. Gazes determined, though weary. One noticed.
"The General is awake!" he cried.
Many approached. Others simply exhaled in relief.
Narikami sat up with effort. Blinked a few times. Then, with a hoarse, broken voice, said: "Thank you… for not leaving me alone."
One soldier nodded. "We would die for you, General."
"Do not," Narikami answered with a sad smile. "Not yet."
He stood. Still staggering. But upright. He looked at one of his youngest men.
"Can you make me some tea?"
The boy, surprised, nodded at once. "Yes, sir! Right away."
Minutes later, Narikami held a steaming cup in his hands. He sat on an improvised chair before a window without glass. The night breeze caressed his face. The tea trembled slightly, like his fingers. He did not speak. He did not think. He only remembered.
The laughter of his companions. The voices that had gone silent in that trap. The boy who once swore to save them all. And then, in the purest silence, he apologized. Not aloud. Not for others. Only within himself.
"I'm sorry… I could not change the Kingdom. I could not save anything. All I know is to run… and kill. Forgive me for following a path I never wanted… but from which I no longer know how to turn away."
The moon shone over the camp. His soldiers believed they saw in him strength, power, conviction. But Narikami knew the truth: the only thing left of him… was a speed he could not even use to flee from himself.
The tea had gone cold. Narikami set the cup aside and straightened his now-dry uniform. His thoughts floated in memories, but his body had already returned to command. He called a lieutenant.
"I want the full report. How are the other divisions?"
A young soldier stepped forward. Short hair, serious face, hands stained with dirt and blood. Her name was Sumire Hanazuki.
"Sir, the latest reports state the following: General Yodaku, despite ravaging all before him… has been 'trapped' in a town."
"Trapped?" Narikami frowned.
"Yes, sir. A war contract imposed by the enemy. They say if he breaks any condition of the pact… he dies."
Narikami narrowed his eyes. "A pact? Contract magic? Did he sign without reading?"
"It seems it was provocation… which he accepted without measure."
"Idiot," Narikami muttered. "Though strong, he was always easy to manipulate if they stoked his pride…"
"On the other hand," she continued, "the War King, Kenshiro Gai, has managed to hold his front without significant losses."
"None?"
"To this moment, zero confirmed casualties. He is using terrain, weather, and logistics flawlessly. They say his army is an extension of his sword. He does not fail, even in sleep."
Narikami nodded. "That man… does not know error. Nor doubt."
"And General Kagemaru, sir…"
"What of him?"
"No visual reports. None have seen him in weeks."
"Missing?"
"Not exactly. His division has been leaking precise information to all fronts. Coordinates, enemy formations, traps. That same information is also reaching the King, now engaged in campaign against the Empire of Enketsu."
Narikami was silent a few seconds. The night was still, but his mind was not.
"Then…" he finally said, "it seems we are stable. But we must not trust in that. War is like this. The moment one believes they are winning… is exactly when they begin to lose."
The bonfire crackled softly, sending timid sparks into the night sky. The younger soldiers already slept. Others simply cleaned their weapons in silence. War was resting, but only out of courtesy.
Narikami remained seated on a rock, his uniform damp with dew. Beside him, standing rigid as always, was Lieutenant Sumire Hanazuki. Her back straight. Her face neutral. That impenetrable air that followed her like an invisible perfume. He observed her for a few seconds.
"Sumire."
"Yes, General?"
"Since your promotion… I have never seen you smile. Not once. Not even after victory."
She did not respond at once. Her eyes fixed on the darkness, as if searching for something that was not there.
"Why is that?"
Sumire took her time to answer. When she did, her voice was lower than usual. Not fragile… but as if speaking from a very distant corner of herself.
"Because my Shinkon… takes from me what you call a smile."
Narikami frowned slightly. She continued, without looking at him.
"'Hana no Shōshitsu'—The Disappearance of Flowers. That is its name. Each flower I summon… is a petal of happiness stripped from me."
"What do you mean?"
"The more I use it, the less things bring me joy. A laugh sounds hollow. An embrace… tastes of nothing. A beautiful story… no longer reaches me."
She placed a hand on her chest, as if trying to recall.
"The last time I laughed truly… was when I still did not hold this rank. Before I was forced to bloom amid the mud."
Narikami lowered his gaze. And for the first time in a long while, he did not know what to answer. Because he knew what that was. Losing pieces of oneself… not in battle. But in what it demands to survive it.
War does not always destroy bodies… sometimes it steals smiles, razes memories, silences souls that still wish to believe in something beyond orders and steel. And though men like Narikami keep running, and women like Sumire keep blooming with thorns, there comes a point when even the strongest must accept that the storm… is no longer outside. It is within. And long ago it ceased to rain… only to begin devouring them.
Thank you for delving into this second arc, where war is not only waged with swords, but with wounds of the past, decisions beyond return… and souls that have yet to choose which side they stand upon.