The sky was covered in sorrowful grey, as if it KNEW, what was about to unfold.
Ishido Shogo stepped outside the dojo with the calmness of a man who has been through more battles than someone would ever think was possible. He had already faced death; for him, this was just the start.
He wore nothing but a plain, white kimono. No armour. No banners. Just the man, his blade, and a silence as old as the mountains.
And beyond the silence: firelight.
Torches lit up the hillside as if they awaited an army, not just one man. The mountain path was crowded with cavalry on their horses, soldiers, riflesmen, and the sharpest killers the government could have summoned.
Over 200 warriors, samurai, spearmen, and cavalrymen have begun circling the dojo from every side.
On horseback at the centre of it all, riding a black Arabian horse dressed in a ceremonial black robe, with his twin giant swords on his back, sat President Kuzan Shoushiki himself.
He hadn't changed.
The same stiff posture. The same icy grin. The same eyes that once stood beside Ishido during the war now led an army to kill him.
Kuzan rode through the sea of torches until he stood at the front of his battalion, then dismounted. Every soldier stopped. The mountain held its breath.
"Ishido Shogo," Kuzan said, loud enough for all to hear, "It's been a while. Ever since you lost your first student… all those years ago."
"I thought you would've learned your lesson by now. But here you are. Still clinging to ghosts. Still finding new children to fight for your broken truth."
Ishido tilted his head. He wasn't angry. Not yet. "These boys," he replied, gripping the hilt of his sheathed katana, "are not replacements. They are not shadows of my past. They are this country's last light."
"And you, Kuzan—you broke our promise. You spit on what we built. You changed everything we fought for."
Kuzan smiled bitterly, stepping closer. "You talk of promises. But you abandoned the capital, remember? You are the one who abandoned the seat right next to me because of a power that doesn't even exist! You ran away to this old husk of a mountain while I had to rebuild the world, without the help of my once right-hand man."
"I didn't run," Ishido said. "I stepped away... to preserve what you tried to erase. I wanted my peace after the war."
"I wanted to keep being myself; that's what you lacked. That's why I stayed behind to remember who we were."
Kuzan's smile faded. His voice dropped cold. "You will let me through, and you will come with me. Or we will burn in this place. The boys won't find out the truth. No one will."
Then, without ceremony, he raised his hand—and dropped it.
The world ignited.
Two hundred warriors charged. Horses screamed. Rifle fire cracked through the air. Flames licked the edges of the dojo.
Swords gleamed like lightning as they raced down the mountain's throat, straight for Ishido.
Time slowed.
From Ishido's perspective, everything fell into silence. He stood alone, from the countless battles he had fought, countless face-to-face meetings with death itself; this was nothing new for him.
Then he began unsheathing his blade.
Pink light burst from his katana, as the cherry blossom petals began spiralling into the air.
"Mabitake..." he whispered, "Hankyō no Hana."
In an instant, Ishido vanished from sight—and reappeared in front of the first wave.
His blade moved like breath, his feet like wind. He struck with grace and soul, each cut painting the air with memory. Petals bloomed with every slice—soft, delicate—and then torn by blood and steel.
Bullets were sliced midair.
He didn't dodge randomly—he listened. Calculated.
He stepped between the bullets, letting two pass by his shoulder and slicing the third in half.
One glancing shot tore into his rib, but he never flinched. His eyes locked on the rifleman.
He darted forward and slammed the flat of his blade against the man's rifle, redirecting the muzzle downward into the soldier's foot, then sliced the weapon's barrel off.
Spears were redirected. Two spear-wielders came at him, one from the left, one from behind.
He ducked, slid between their legs, and severed their hamstrings in a perfect cross-cut as he passed.
They screamed and fell, weapons crashing beside them.
He ran up the bodies of charging men, flipping from shoulder to helmet, parrying three strikes at once, moving faster than their eyes could follow.
He did not fight to kill—he fought to protect.
He spun through enemies with a rhythm that belonged in a temple, not a battlefield.
But no matter how many fell, more came. Gunshots rang. A spear grazed his arm. A bullet tore through his side. Blood flowed. But Ishido did not stop.
When a torch was hurled at the roof of the dojo, he jumped high, springing off the heads of three soldiers, one by one, as he kept slicing the torchs mid-air, sending embers scattering into harmless dust. And the warriors were visibly stressed and annoyed by this fighting style.
But it was too much. One massive brute, armoured in black steel, managed to catch Ishido by the ribs and threw him with earth-shaking force through the dojo wall.
The warriors roared in triumph.
The brute marched into the hole he had created, pulling out a massive axe. "It's over, old man."
And then—something was thrown back out of the dojo.
The guard's body.
Crushed. Broken. Silent.
From the dust and broken wall emerged Master Ishido, bloodied, breathing heavy… and standing beside him, sword drawn and eyes burning with conviction, was Argon Shinjuku.
The boy stepped forward without hesitation. He held his katana, the hilt low at his hip, the blade tilted forward. As he looked straight forward into Kuzan's army.
And then he vanished—godlike speed—blurring into the line of bullets. With precise movements, he deflected shots, slicing rifles in two, parrying downward strikes, ducking under spears. He fought like a dancer—trained, angry, but focused.
A moment later, the ground trembled.
From the east ridge came a furious war cry.
"HHHAAAAHHHHH!"
Arma lunged from the top of the mountain trail like a tank, as his entire path was covered in smoke, and his rage could be seen so far from him. He emerged forward and slammed into the enemy line, sending dozens of warriors flying all around the Dojo, mostly dealing severe injuries.
He stood tall, arms crossed, absorbing blasts and blades, his skin glowing with some kind of material, as if it was his Mabitake controlling it, or it was him controlling the Mabitake! Using it as a shield... as at the same time he blocked, he crushed skulls. At just the age of 12, the boy was trained like an experienced killer.
He turned his head toward the sky and screamed:
"KAMUI!!!"
From above—so high they couldn't see him until it was too late—Kamui dropped like a meteor. He crashed into the centre of the army, targeting larger and more tank-like warriors, sending bodies flying in all directions. Smoke rose from the crater he formed.
The soldiers staggered back in shock. And then they saw them:
Kamui. Arma. Argon. Ishido.
Standing together.
The old master. His three disciples. Ready.
The reunion was wordless. Their eyes said it all.
The warriors reformed their lines, uncertain now. Even Kuzan turned slightly on his horse.
Ishido stepped forward again, holding his blade, his eyes blazing with the kind of fury that only comes from loss and resurrection.
"This is your final warning," he said. "You will not take them. You will not bury the truth. This country is not yours to control."
Kuzan narrowed his eyes.
"No. It's mine to control, not only that, it's mine to burn Ishido."
He raised two fingers.
The second wave came.
And so began the battle of the mountain—not just of blades, but of belief. Ishido and his students, standing against an empire.
And yet—this was only the beginning.