The kingdom of Velvet had never seen such a day.
Trumpets blared across the high walls of the capital, their sound breaking through the chaos that hung in the air. For days, whispers had carried from tavern to tavern, from slave to merchant, from noble to beggar: The mad king is dead.
Now, it was no longer whispers. It was screams.
The people had filled the vast plaza before the throne hall—millions packed shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising in a frenzy. The formalities were over; the dead king, whose reign had been soaked in blood and madness, was nothing more than a memory. His throne sat empty. His corpse had been burned at dawn, his ashes scattered to the winds.
And yet, the celebration had just begun.
"Yaaaaaay! The king is dead!" someone shouted, their voice swallowed by the chorus of thousands.
"Huraaaaay!" another screamed until their throat tore.
"The bastard is dead! The crazy, rotten king is gone!"
Voices blended into one another, madness feeding madness. Men and women wept tears of joy, clawed at their own chests, ripped their hair, screamed until they collapsed in the dust. The square shook with their thunder. The joy was not ordinary joy—it was the kind born of survival, of release, of finally tasting freedom after being trapped under a tyrant's boot.
For every soul cheering, a thousand more were missing. Tens of thousands had died under the late king's rule. Mothers, sons, fathers, daughters—erased. But who would count the dead, when the living still numbered in the millions? In the madness of the crowd, death was forgotten. What mattered now was this: the tyrant was gone.
And yet, a question hung in the air like smoke over a battlefield. Why had this happened? Who had ended him? And who would take his place?
Then it happened.
The crowd that screamed itself hoarse went silent in an instant.
A shadow appeared, cutting through the ocean of bodies. At first distant, then clear. A lone figure.
Everyone's eyes widened. Their breaths caught. Sweat ran down their foreheads, yet their lips curved into trembling smiles.
"He's coming," someone whispered.
"Our true king…"
The man moved forward, step by step. No guards surrounded him. No banners were raised for him. No golden crown shone upon his head. He walked alone.
He wore a long, ragged coat, its edges brushing against the ground, dragging dust in his wake. Beneath it, nothing—bare skin pressed against the air. His only garment was an absurdly long pajama, so stretched and loose that the fabric twisted against his ankles as he walked. He looked less like a ruler and more like a wanderer from another world.
Yet, the crowd did not mock him. Not a soul dared laugh.
This man was no ordinary man. He was his own bodyguard. His presence was heavier than the steel of a thousand soldiers.
He ascended the stairs to the announcement platform slowly, each step echoing in the silence. The millions held their breath, eyes locked on him, hearts pounding like drums.
At the top stood a priest, trembling, scrolls in hand.
"Quickly. Just quickly—do it."
The words came not as a request, but as a roar from the man's throat. His voice carried through the silence like thunder, shaking the bones of those who heard it.
"Y-yes… right away!" The priest dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he performed the ritual. With a knife, he drew a line from the new king's left ear, marking it as tradition demanded.
"It's done…" the priest whispered.
The man tilted his neck left, then right, stretching it with a slow crack. He tapped his left ear three times, almost casually. Then, raising his head, he spoke.
"Ahem. Can you all hear me?"
The crowd erupted at once: "Yes! Yes! We hear you! Yes!"
"Quiet." His hand rose lazily. "My ears haven't fully adapted yet. Keep peace."
The silence returned instantly, like a commandment etched into their very bones.
He stood tall, dust rising around his feet, the sunlight cutting across his face. His long coat fluttered in the faint breeze, and his hair fell wild over his eyes.
"So now," he began, voice ringing clear, "when all of you are here, I must announce—"
He slammed one hand onto the table before him, his other running through his hair with a grin that split his face wide.
"—I am your new king. My name… is Kizane Kurama."
The silence shattered.
The crowd exploded into screams louder than thunder, stronger than storm.
"Kurama! Kurama! Kurama!"
Millions of voices became one. They howled his name until the earth trembled, until the heavens themselves seemed to bend.
And in that moment, Velvet had a new ruler.
Not a tyrant. Not a madman. Something else entirely.
Kizane Kurama had arrived.
The desert stretched endlessly, a sea of golden sand shimmering under the merciless sun. The air shimmered with heat, each step dragging their bodies deeper into exhaustion.
Hakari and his companions pressed on, the hot wind stinging their faces. The silence of the desert was broken only by the crunch of boots on sand and the whistle of the dry breeze.
"Haah… Hakari, it's so hot," Yushi groaned, dragging his feet behind the others. Sweat dripped from his brow. "We've been walking for hours. Two at least. I don't even know why we aren't there yet. This feels endless."
Hakari didn't answer. His gaze was fixed ahead, eyes narrowed against the burning light.
Weller, calmer than the rest, finally spoke. "Look closely. We are here."
Yushi blinked at him, half-annoyed, half-confused. "What are you talking about? All I see is sand, sand, and more sand!"
"Can you explain, Kage?" Weller asked.
Kage cracked his knuckles, his lips curling into a grin. "With pleasure. Hai-Key."
He slammed his fist into the ground.
The earth split with a deafening crack. Sand and stone ripped apart beneath their feet, as if the desert itself had been nothing but a fragile disguise. A vast, hidden land was revealed below—an ancient desert city buried beneath the sands. The village of Akuma.
The ground gave way.
All four of them plummeted into the yawning chasm.
"Use your Commands! Protect yourselves immediately!" Hakari shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.
"Code: Lion! Command: Four Lion's Teeth!" Weller roared, summoning spectral fangs that slashed at the air around him, slowing his descent.
"Code: X! Command—Shift!" Yushi called, his body flickering with a shimmer as he twisted in midair.
"Hai-Key! Command: Fly!" Hakari's body surged with energy as he caught the collapsing wind beneath him, forcing his descent into a controlled glide.
Sand and rubble rained around them as they fell.
"Thanks, Hakari," Yushi gasped, clinging to him in midair. "For always catching me at the last moment."
"Don't mention it. Just don't die yet," Hakari replied with a faint grin.
The group landed hard, the ground trembling under their arrival. Dust and sand exploded outward, engulfing them in a blinding haze.
When the cloud settled, they stood within the hidden heart of Akuma. Towers half-buried in sand stretched around them, ancient stone etched with runes and scars of forgotten battles. The air was heavy, carrying not just heat but something else—something watchful.
They had finally arrived.
But they were not alone.
A voice slid through the silence, deep and mocking.
"So… you came back, Hakari."
The figure stepped from the shadows of a ruined archway, his presence sharp enough to pierce through the heat. His eyes glowed faintly, and a cruel smile stretched across his face.
"Well," the man continued, "I expected as much."
Hakari's expression hardened, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.
The long-awaited confrontation had begun.
---
Meanwhile, far from Akuma, the mainland of Koha was trembling under a different storm.
Akami stood alone within the royal chamber, the air around him crackling with invisible force. Rage surged inside him, his energy burning brighter than ever before. His fists trembled, not with weakness but with power struggling to be unleashed.
For so long, something had shackled him. For so long, his Commands had refused to answer, bound by chains he could not see.
But now—now the locks were breaking.
The air warped around him, his aura rising like a flame threatening to engulf the world. The stone beneath his feet cracked. His shadow stretched unnaturally against the walls.
He could feel it. His Commands. His strength. All of it returning, piece by piece.
Yet, Akami did not move.
He waited.
For what, even he did not fully know. For someone… for something.
His time was coming.
And when it did, the world would learn to tremble before him.