Deep within the sacred mountains, where no human foot had trod for decades, lay the Well of Souls. Its waters, dark and still as polished obsidian, reflected not stars but the very Scars of the universe—it was from here, it was believed, that the first Kokuro masters drew their power. The air hummed with ancient might.
A single path led to the Well, guarded by the Elite Guard of the Council—thirty warriors in gleaming armor, whose families had sworn for centuries to protect this place. When Akatsuki Magoro and Shiroyama Raidou emerged from the forest's shadows, the guard sprang into action. Swords were drawn in a single motion, thirty Kokuros of different styles flared, ready to grind the intruders to dust.
Raidou took a step forward. His white hair stirred slightly in the still air.
"Insufferable noise," he uttered, and his voice was quieter than the rustle of leaves, yet weighted with the force of eternal winter. "Allow me to cleanse this place for you, master."
He raised his hand. The tips of his fingers whitened, and the space before them began to... congeal. Not just freezing over. Light bent, slowed, getting caught in an invisible web. The air became thick as syrup and took on a bluish tint. It seemed as if something grandiose was about to be born—an absolute silence, a stop in time, "Frozen Time," a technique capable of burying an entire army in an eternal, silent sarcophagus. The reader could almost feel the soul-chilling cold and see the world freezing in anticipation of an irreversible end.
"Relax, Raidou."
Magoro's voice sounded calmly, effortlessly, interrupting the gathering power.
Raidou lowered his hand. The saturated blue dissipated before it could be born. It was almost a pity that this incredible and stunning technique was never revealed to the world.
Akatsuki Magoro walked past his servant. He didn't even look at the guard. He simply... vanished.
And appeared among them.
This was not teleportation. It was something else. He moved as if the laws of physics were mere suggestions for him. His body became a blur of ash and black. Only the rustle of his scarf, the snap of fabric, and... crunching were heard.
The crunch of bone. Quiet, dry, swift.
He did not strike. He simply passed by. His fingers touched armor—and the armor along with the ribcage inside folded into an unnatural accordion. His elbow touched a helmet—and the head turned 180 degrees with a quiet crack. He moved among them like a reaper walking through a field, and they fell like scythed stalks. No flashes of energy, no Scars. Only pure, unrefined physical force, applied with such precision and speed it defied possibility.
It took less than a second.
Magoro stopped at the edge of the Well, his kimono not even rumpled. He turned to Raidou, and behind the scarf, a shadow of a smile was discernible. His hands were clean.
"Why fight worms with magic," he uttered, his voice even, "when you can simply wipe them off your hand?"
He turned to the dark waters and stepped into the Well of Souls. The water did not splash. It accepted him like kin, closing over his head, and on its surface, for an instant, the visages of a thousand demons appeared before it became smooth and black once more.
Raidou remained standing guard, his icy heart filling with reverence. His master was perfection.
Meanwhile, in a deserted training hall on the outskirts of "Tenran," Akira stood before a bound and fear-maddened training dummy—a living criminal sentenced to death, on whom students sometimes practiced harmless illusions.
The scene at the Well of Souls and subsequent reports of the guard's mass death fell upon the academy like a thunderstorm. Powerlessness was a sour taste in the mouth. But in this powerlessness, a new thought was born.
«I cannot create Scars. But I can create "nothingness."»
He concentrated. Not on energy, but on its absence. He imagined his own essence—the void that repelled everything. He tried not just to be "smooth," but to... project that smoothness outward.
At first, nothing happened. The dummy thrashed in hysteria. Then Akira felt a strange tension, as if his mind was stretching an invisible skin. He extended his hand and aimed his palm at the dummy.
And then it happened.
A sphere about a meter in diameter appeared around the dummy. Inside it, colors faded, the sound of its cries became muffled, distant. Akira felt his own void being projected, creating a zone where Kokuro not only didn't work—it ceased to exist as a concept.
He stepped closer and touched the edge of the sphere. His fingers entered it, and he felt... absolute silence. Not physical, but metaphysical. The absence of everything.
He looked at the dummy. It was still alive, but its panic had changed to stunned, animal bewilderment. It was cut off from the world. From energy. From reality itself.
Akira lowered his hand. The sphere vanished. He was breathing heavily. His head spun from the unfamiliar effort.
He looked at his palms. All his life, he had been a shield. An invisible man. But now, for the first time, he felt he could be more than just protection.
He could be a prison.
He could be a trap.
If Akatsuki Magoro was the apotheosis of everything that is in this world, then he, Kiriyama Akira, could create a cell for him in the very prison of non-being. He could not kill the Emperor-Demon with force. But he could cut him off from the source of his power—from the world of Kokuro itself.
He left the hall. In his empty eyes burned the fire of purpose for the first time. He had found his path. And that path led not to battle, but to absolute isolation. He needed to become a living sarcophagus for a god.