The road wound narrow through the forest, half-swallowed by roots and shadows. Shiba walked first, her greatsword strapped across her back, every muscle taut. Behind her, Aiko trailed in light steps, hood drawn, humming some wandering tune. Vio brought up the rear, staff slung lazily across his shoulders, his eyes drifting but never missing a thing.
For hours, the silence pressed heavy, broken only by Aiko's faint melody. Shiba's nerves screamed with each rustle in the underbrush.
Then came the sound she dreaded.
A crack of twigs. A breath too close. The forest shifted.
From the dark, rebels burst forth, their blades flashing, faces twisted with fury.
"Run!" Shiba barked, but they were already surrounded.
Steel clashed against steel in a storm of chaos. Shiba's blade carved through the first man, splitting him open shoulder to gut. Blood sprayed hot across her armor. Another swung an axe for her head—she pivoted, took the blow on her pauldron, and answered with a brutal kick that shattered his knee.
Aiko loosed arrows as fast as she could, her eyes wide, breath uneven. One shaft pierced a rebel's throat, but her hands trembled, nearly dropping the bow.
Vio moved with almost lazy precision, his staff cracking against skulls, sweeping legs, each strike economical. Yet even his composure was strained under the sheer number pressing in.
The rebels fought like animals, driven by rage. Every swing, every thrust carried murder. Shiba's arms grew heavy, her strength ebbing under the endless tide. A blade slipped past her guard and scored her side. Another knocked her back against a tree.
They were going to die here. All three of them.
And then something inside her snapped.
Lightning cracked across her vision, blinding white. The greatsword in her hand thrummed, steel ringing like a bell, the air itself shivering. Power surged up her arms, burning, violent, alive.
When she swung again, the blade carried thunder.
The man before her split apart mid-scream, his body torn open not by steel alone but by lightning that ripped through flesh, bursting veins and boiling blood. Another came at her and she turned, the sword singing as it struck — his body exploded into fragments, skin and muscle tearing in wet, hideous bursts.
Every stroke left charred remains, twisted black and smoking. Sparks leapt between corpses, snapping and cracking, filling the night with ozone and blood-stink.
Aiko stood frozen, her bow slack in her hands, eyes wide. Then, slowly, wonder bloomed across her face. Her lips parted, and she whispered, almost breathless:"Shiba… you're amazing."
The admiration in her eyes glittered — and it was terrifying. To her, this wasn't horror. It was awe.
Vio leaned on his staff, untouched, watching with a detached calm. When the last rebel fell, when the lightning finally sputtered and Shiba's arms shook with exhaustion, he exhaled softly.
"So," he said, tone light but edged, "you finally decided to use it."
Shiba froze, blood dripping from her blade.
His eyes met hers — calm, piercing, unamused."You could have done this before. Back then." He tilted his head, as though considering her. "But you didn't."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Shiba clenched her jaw, her hands trembling. He saw through her — knew she had unleashed this power not out of necessity, but for Aiko. To soothe her sister's fear, to make her believe she was safe.
Shiba said nothing. Aiko's laughter broke the silence, bright, childlike, as if none of it mattered. She hummed again, stepping lightly past the blackened corpses, her boots splashing in blood without hesitation.
They walked on. Shiba kept her composure, but every glance at Vio's faint smile twisted her gut. Something about him was wrong — or worse, too right.
By dusk, exhaustion dragged at them. They stopped in a hollow where the trees bent close, gathering fallen branches for a fire. Flames flickered soon after, casting their faces in uneasy orange light.
Aiko curled close, still humming. Vio sat opposite the fire, shadows painting sharp lines across his grin. Shiba leaned back against her greatsword, trying to calm the storm still raging inside her veins.
Then, in the stillness of night, it came.
A sound split the quiet — sharp, alien. A crackle, low and resonant, not of fire, not of thunder. The air grew tense, the ground trembling faintly, like something vast stirred beneath the soil.
Shiba's eyes snapped open, her hand closing on her blade. The firelight flickered, dying, as if swallowed by some unseen force.
And from the trees, a glow pulsed — white, cold, alive.
The night held its breath.