A thousand years ago, the sky did not look like it does today. Back then, the clouds were not white; they were painted gray by the soot of a burning kingdom.
Kagetsu stood knee-deep in mud. The silence surrounding him was heavier than the screams of a thousand people. The scent of blood, mixed with rusty metal and fresh earth, scorched his throat. In those days, they called him the "Holy Sword." The hope of the people, the shield of the kingdom...
Kagetsu looked down at the sword in his hand. The hilt was fused to his fingers; he couldn't distinguish if the blood was his own or someone else's. As the final demon general collapsed before him like a mountain, Kagetsu thought only of drawing his next breath.
"Why..." the general rasped, as pitch-black blood soaked into the soil. "Why haven't you died yet?"
Kagetsu did not answer. He didn't want to. He took a step, and the wet sound of the blade piercing the general's heart was a noise that would haunt his dreams for a millennium. When the demon died, its body dissolved into a black smoke that poured over Kagetsu. In that moment, he felt that the smoke was not just a residue, but a legacy. His right eye began to burn for the first time that day.
That same night, there was a feast at the palace. Wine flowed like water, and laughter echoed off the stone walls. When Kagetsu entered through the gates, applause erupted. People wanted to touch him, to offer their gratitude to their "savior."
But as Kagetsu drew closer, the clapping slowed. Something was wrong.
Kagetsu's eyes no longer looked the way they used to. There was a void in his gaze, a depth; it was as if he could see the hidden rot beneath every joyful face in that hall.
The King, draped in his ancient and magnificent cloak, descended from his throne. "Kagetsu," he said, his voice trembling. "We owe you a life."
"A debt?" Kagetsu's voice sounded like the cracking of a frozen lake. "You owe me nothing but fear, my King. The smoke outside hasn't even cleared yet, but you have already forgotten."
The High Priest stepped forward, standing like a source of light in his gold-embroidered robes. "This is but the exhaustion of war, my son. You must rest."
Kagetsu opened his right hand. A black, sparking mist swirled in the center of his palm. Everyone in the hall took a step back simultaneously. In that moment, Kagetsu realized that heroism had an expiration date. People needed a monster to save them from monsters; but once the war was over, they no longer wanted that monster at their table.
Months later, only the whistle of a blade could be heard in the stone courtyard. Kagetsu wasn't practicing; he was dancing with the dark stain within him. The black mist had become a part of his sword. Every stone he struck melted, every blade of grass he stepped on withered.
The High Priest watched from a distance. His gaze no longer held gratitude, but the coldness of a merchant weighing a price. He leaned toward the King and whispered, "This power will not protect us, my King. It will swallow us."
The King remained silent. Perhaps he had searched for his old friend in Kagetsu's eyes, but he hadn't found him.
That night, a storm broke in the heavens. When Kagetsu stood in the center of the courtyard, he saw the seals around him begin to glow. It was a trap. A flawless cage prepared by the very people he had saved.
"Kagetsu," the High Priest said, his voice soft this time but sharp as a knife. "This is for the best."
Kagetsu let out a bitter laugh. "For whose best, Priest? For the kingdom, or for your own spotless conscience?"
He did not resist when the chains of light coiled around his arms. He could have resisted; he could have leveled that palace to the ground. But when he saw the pure terror in the King's eyes, something inside him snapped.
"Forgive us," the King murmured, averting his gaze.
Kagetsu smiled as he collapsed. It was the smile of a stranger, not a hero. "I have already forgiven you, my King," he said. "But this darkness within me... it will never forget."
As a massive pillar of light descended from the sky to bury him deep into the earth, the last thing Kagetsu saw were the lights of the city he had saved.
A thousand years later, those lights had long since gone out. But Kagetsu's rage had begun to breathe again in Hyoga's weak body.
Kagetsu sat up in Hyoga's bed. He was drenched in sweat. The memory of the past throbbed like a fresh wound.
"Do you hear it?" he asked the presence within, Hyoga. "Those who claim they will protect you are actually only protecting their own peace. Those men in white cloaks... they are the heirs of the King and the Priest."
Hyoga did not answer, but Kagetsu felt the great void within the boy tremble.
Just then, the window of the room tapped lightly. In the darkness of the night, a small, white feather lay on the sill. It was spotless, without a single grain of dust—a perfect and false purity.
Kagetsu walked to the window and picked up the feather. It instantly turned into black ash between his fingers.
"The game begins," Kagetsu said.