The next morning came quietly, as if the sky itself feared to wake the day.
Zenith stood at the gates of the Samurai Hall, the pale dawn light spilling over the horizon like a hesitant brushstroke. A chariot waited before him—its frame of lacquered wood glinting faintly with engraved silver sigils, its harnessed horses stamping against the cold ground. Their breath steamed in the crisp air, rising like smoke into the stillness.
The order had been clear: he was to travel alone. No comrades. No guards. No farewell voices at the gate. Only the sound of the chariot wheels and the rhythm of the horses' hooves would accompany him.
The road to Korinden stretched ahead like a vein of stone through a living world. Hills rolled lazily into the distance, their slopes painted with frost-tipped grass. Pines lined the way, their branches swaying slightly, whispering in a language only the wind understood.
Zenith sat in silence. Every clatter of the wheels felt like the ticking of a clock counting down to something irreversible. His thoughts were a haze of questions and unspoken fears. What would they do to me? Would they even listen?
Hours passed. The sun climbed, then began its slow descent. At last, the chariot slowed before a towering set of gates. They were carved from ancient cedar, reinforced with black steel and etched with celestial patterns that seemed to pulse faintly with Flow.
Beyond them lay Korinden—the Hall of Flow Origins.
Its structure rose into the sky like the crown of a mountain, layered with tiered rooftops of dark jade tiles. Water channels flowed along its perimeter, their surfaces reflecting shards of the sky. At the far center, the Elder's Hall awaited.
Zenith was led through its echoing corridors, each step muffled by crimson tatami mats that had felt the weight of centuries of feet. Torches burned in sconces of beaten gold, casting a warm glow that could not hide the coldness in the air.
Finally, the sliding doors before him opened.
The chamber was vast. The ceiling rose high into the shadows, supported by pillars carved with scenes of gods and demons locked in eternal combat. At the far end, on an elevated dais, stood four thrones—each unique, each radiating the personality and legacy of its occupant.
The first throne was dark wood inlaid with silver charms, arranged like constellations. Upon it sat Abe no Raigen, his posture precise as a drawn bow. His hair, white as snow, was tied back in a perfect knot, and his sharp eyes gleamed behind narrow spectacles. Every motion was calculated, his aura one of a man who saw the threads of reality itself. This was the descendant of the great Abe no Seimei, feared for his mastery of Shinkai Divination—said to pierce realms beyond mortal sight.
The second throne was lacquered black, a moon motif in silver running along its arms. Sai Mio—the stoic moon-gazer—sat poised, a long brush resting in her slender hand as if she might at any moment paint the air itself. Her robes were white and ink-stained, her hair a deep midnight bound with a single crescent-shaped clasp. Known to be tied by blood to Ashiya Dōman, she was the mistress of sealing rites, the one who had bound yokai kings and wandering spirits alike.
The third throne was of plain cedar, unvarnished yet immaculate, its strength in its simplicity. Lai Shunji, tall and broad-shouldered, sat with his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were half-closed, yet their weight was enough to make lesser men avert their gaze. He was the founder of Tensei no Kamae, the stance that turned the tide of countless duels, bending the rhythm of Flow itself to the will of its wielder.
The last throne, forged of steel with star-shaped engravings, belonged to Hoshizaki Tenma. His frame was lean but hard as tempered iron, his gaze carrying the wild energy of a man who had faced the heavens without fear. He was the architect of countless Flow techniques, including the fabled Ryuusei no Kōdan, a slash so fast and precise it was said to cut the tails off falling meteors.
Zenith's eyes moved from one to the next, his breath caught between awe and dread. These were not merely elders—they were the architects of his world.
He dropped to his knees, forehead pressed against the cold floor.
Raigen's voice came like a bolt of lightning—sharp, blinding, inescapable.
"So… you have opened an ability from the Age of Myth?" His tone carried no question, only accusation. "And deemed yourself worthy to possess it?"
Tenma leaned forward, his words a low growl.
"Have you any idea the weight of your crime?"
Shunji's voice was deep, calm—but each syllable landed like a hammer.
"To hold an ability that could turn the tides of war… and yet you used it for your own bidding."
The air grew still.
Mio's voice was as gentle as the wind through spring leaves, her gaze softened by something unspoken.
"He is but a child without guidance. This fault is not entirely his own."
Raigen's head turned sharply. "Even so… he is foolish. And a fool's power is always at risk of falling into the wrong hands."
Mio's expression did not change. "It is this force… this constant stripping away… that has choked the growth of new talent for over a decade. What is the point of striving for strength, if in the end, it is never truly theirs to decide how it is used?"
Shunji's eyes narrowed. "The last time you opposed this council, Mio, Shinsei was able to steal a Mythic Blade from our vault."
For a moment, silence reigned. Mio did not answer, though the faintest shadow passed across her face.
Raigen straightened in his throne.
"I call for a vote on the extraction of the Flow Essence from Zenith Shiryu. I affirm the motion." His hand rose.
Shunji's hand followed.
Tenma's rose next, without hesitation.
Only Mio's remained still. She lowered her gaze, bowing her head.
Raigen's voice carried the final weight.
"The ritual begins tomorrow, as decided by this council."
The guards stepped forward. Cold hands gripped Zenith's arms, pulling him to his feet. The hall seemed to stretch endlessly as they carried him away, the sound of the sliding doors closing behind him sealing his fate.
But outside the council chamber, shadows were already moving.
Five hooded figures slipped silently into Korinden's outer corridors. Their steps made no sound on the tatami. In their hands, steel and intent gleamed equally.
The air in the Hall of Flow Origins was about to change.