The train slowed as it neared Kuoh Station, the brakes squealing against iron with a shrill metallic cry. Raijin sat in silence by the window, chin tilted toward the passing blur of countryside. His reflection stared back at him from the glass—dark hair grown longer than he remembered, eyes harder than when he had left at twelve. The faint hum of draconic aura coiled under his skin like a restless storm.
He was sixteen now. Four years of endless wandering, training, bleeding, and forging. Four years of becoming something more than human, something the world's myths would whisper about. He had met gods, fought monsters, and learned to wield powers most men could never dream of controlling.
But all of that meant nothing the moment he stepped off the train and felt it.
A hollow void where his brother's presence should have been.
Issei was gone.
The words had reached him before he returned, whispered from a trembling messenger of the supernatural. Rogue fallen angels. A quiet execution in the shadows. The story made Raijin's hands clench so tightly that the windowpane cracked beneath his grip.
The train screeched to a halt. He exhaled slowly, prying his hand away. The glass bore the spiderweb imprint of his fury. He rose, shouldered his travel-worn pack, and stepped out into the air of his hometown.
It smelled the same—familiar pavement after rain, the distant sweetness of sakura trees in late bloom. But beneath it lingered the stench of blood and betrayal, a phantom carried on memory.
Kuoh hadn't changed. He had.
—Flashback: Rome, Age 12—
The forge roared around him, sparks leaping like fireflies in the dark chamber. His hands blistered, but he didn't care. Each hammer strike resounded like a heartbeat, the rhythm of a boy too stubborn to break.
The blacksmith—a broad-shouldered man with scars on his arms and wisdom in his eyes—watched him work. "Why?" he asked over the thunder of metal on metal. "Why does a boy your age seek the secrets of legendary smiths?"
Raijin lifted the glowing blade, sweat dripping down his brow. "Because a sword is proof of will. If I can forge a weapon worthy of the dragons I carry… then maybe I can forge myself into someone strong enough to protect what matters."
The blacksmith studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Then swing until your arms give out, boy. Every strike you make here will either kill your weakness… or kill you."
The boy swung. And swung. Until his arms went numb, until the anvil felt like an altar where his childhood was sacrificed.
Raijin's boots struck pavement now as he crossed through familiar streets. Kuoh Academy loomed in the distance, pristine and untouched, ignorant of the shadows crawling beneath its foundations. His fists trembled.
What was all that training for, if I couldn't even protect my own family?
The thought cut deeper than any blade. His travels, his victories, the reverence of gods—it all turned to ash against the grave reality.
What good was a sword that could revive the dead… if it couldn't bring back my own brother?
—Flashback: Norway, Age 13—
Snow lashed the mountainside where he faced the serpent. Jörmungandr's venom fumed like clouds, each breath scarring the earth.
Raijin stood, trembling but unyielding, blade gripped tight.
The serpent laughed, a sound like landslides and storms. "Little human, you dare drink my poison?"
He coughed blood into the snow, forcing his feet forward. "If drinking it means I'll never lose the people I love, then yes."
The venom seeped into his veins, burning like liquid fire. His vision swam, his body crumbled. But he did not fall. He endured. And in enduring, he absorbed.
The serpent's laughter broke into a hiss of approval. "Then take it, boy. Take my venom and carry it until the day your bite kills gods."
He carried that venom now, the aura of Midgard's serpent slumbering inside him. A weapon, a curse, a promise. And yet, Issei had still died.
Raijin clenched his jaw as he reached the quiet street where his family's home once stood. The windows were dark, curtains drawn. A silence hung heavy over it, the kind of silence only death could leave behind.
His mother's cries had reached him faintly through whispers on the road. His father's despair was a fog over the house. He couldn't bear to knock on that door yet.
Instead, he turned. His path led elsewhere tonight.
Toward the killers.
—Flashback: Shadow Garden, Age 13—
The boy collapsed, sword clattering from numb fingers. Blood painted the grass beneath him.
A shadow loomed overhead, blade resting easily against its shoulder. Cid Kagenou smirked faintly. "You're still thinking like a hero. That's why you're bleeding."
Raijin spat crimson into the dirt. "And you fight like a villain. Cold. Ruthless. Detached."
Cid's smirk grew. "And yet, you're still alive because of it. Think about that."
He offered no hand to help him up. Only turned his back and walked.
Raijin forced himself to rise. His body screamed. But he followed. He always followed. And in time, he learned. He learned how to bend magic to his will, how to turn barriers into prisons, how to wield power with purpose.
And he surpassed even his teacher. Though he never realized it.
Night descended fully as Raijin stepped into the abandoned church on the outskirts of town. His boots echoed against broken stone, the scent of rust and dust filling his lungs.
They were here.
He felt them before he saw them—wings of black feathers rustling in the dark, laughter sharp as knives. Fallen angels.
A woman stepped forward, violet hair catching the moonlight filtering through shattered glass. Her smile was cruel, her beauty venomous. "Oh? Another little boy wandering into our nest? Don't tell me you're here for revenge."
Raijin's eyes burned. His brother's blood stained this place. His brother's last breath lingered in its shadows.
He drew his blade slowly, the one he had forged with his own hands, tempered with dragonfire and grief. Its edge sang faintly, as though hungry.
"No," Raijin said, voice low and trembling with fury. "I'm here for justice."
The fallen angels laughed. Wings unfurled, light spears forming in their hands.
Raijin raised his sword. The barriers of Ladon flared around him, layered shields glowing like molten glass. His aura erupted, dragon's venom leaking into the air, making their skin itch and burn.
They hesitated.
Too late.
He lunged forward, faster than their eyes could follow, blade cutting through the dark with a roar that sounded less human and more beast.
—Flashback: The Sword of Reversal—
He remembered the day he had finished it. A blade that could catch a soul before it left, dragging it back into the vessel of flesh. The blacksmith in Rome had wept at its completion.
"With this," Raijin had whispered, clutching the still-cooling hilt, "no one I love will ever be lost again."
But Issei was already gone when the news reached him. Too late. Always too late.
Raijin's sword cleaved through the first fallen's spear, shattering it into sparks. He pivoted, scales of Grendel rippling across his arm as he smashed through her guard and drove her into the wall.
Another charged from the left—barriers flared, deflecting the spear as if it had struck steel walls. Raijin spun, venom lacing his blade, cutting through feathers and flesh alike. The angel screamed as poison ate into her body.
But their laughter didn't die.
"You think you're the first to scream about family here?" one sneered, wings flaring. "Your brother begged before he died. Begged."
The world turned red.
Raijin's roar shook the church. It wasn't human. It wasn't mortal. It was dragon.
And for the first time since his return, his blade tasted justice.
Outside, the moon shone down upon Kuoh, innocent and distant. Life carried on as though nothing had changed. Students laughed in dorms, lights flickered in classrooms. The world was blind.
But in the shadows of that old church, a storm had returned.
And it would not rest until every wing that had touched his brother's blood was broken.
To Be Continued…