The ruined storehouse smoldered, its ribs of blackened timber jutting into the night like a broken skeleton. Smoke drifted into the square, carried by a restless wind.
The soldiers had come close—rifles raised, boots stamping—but when the fire burst from Yoshiki's body and the ground itself trembled, the order cut sharp through their formation:
"Do not fire. Retreat. Hold observation."
With mechanical discipline, the line shifted. Rifles lowered, boots turned. They moved as one, peeling back into the darkness, their shadows stretching long across the square before vanishing into the treeline. Only a handful lingered on the ridges beyond, glass lenses catching faint glints of firelight as they tracked every movement below.
The villagers remained frozen, left with the echo of retreating boots and the memory of fire.
Yoshiki sat on the well's rim, hunched forward, his arms wrapped hastily in cloth. His palms blistered and bled, trembling as if the fire still burned beneath his skin. Each breath left a faint curl of smoke rising from between his fingers.
Whispers spread.
"He's cursed…"
"No—he saved us. The soldiers fell back, didn't they?" "If he brings their wrath, what good is it?"
Children peeked from behind skirts and sleeves, eyes wide. An old woman crossed herself, whispering prayers to the island. Others backed away, faces pale, as though Yoshiki might ignite again and burn them all.
Yoshiki's head hung low, his voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to scare you…"
From the edge of the crowd, an old farmer stepped forward, spine bent but eyes steady. "You saw it yourselves. Those men in uniform—always taking, always counting. Tonight they hesitated. They feared him." His trembling hand pointed toward Yoshiki. "Maybe we should stop fearing what might save us."
The square wavered, torn clean in two—fear against hope, dread against defiance.
Hikaru leaned in the shadow of the smith's wall, arms crossed. His jaw clenched at every muttered curse or monster. Yet he said nothing, the memory of the fire's heat still raw in his lungs. He feared it too.
Yuzuriha crouched nearby, notes spread across her lap, scribbling despite the tremor in her hands. "It wasn't random," she whispered. "The flames answered his vow. Emotional triggers, tied to resonance… It's not just fire. It's the island itself, responding to him."
Her words meant nothing to the frightened crowd.
A soldier's report crackled in hushed tones from the hill beyond:
"Subject Takahiro Yoshiki, male, eighteen years old… resonance type: Pyrokinetic. Codename: Infernal Sovereign. Villager morale fractured—hope and fear divided."
Miles away, Director Shiga read the words, gloved fingers tapping his desk. His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"Fear will shape him faster than loyalty."