— Personal Record of General Ren, preserved in the Imperial Archives
My name is Ren.
I was born in the years after my lord—
Marrick—
slaughtered the Blue Hands.
I am the son of two worlds.
My father was red-skinned Oni.
Free. Strong. Chosen by fate itself.
My mother… was not.
She was blue-horned.
One of the first of her kind to be enslaved under my lord's rule. One of the first to receive his grace—his mercy—his order.
Blue-horned Oni are stronger than most. Built for war.
But weak in magice.
Low mana. Poor control. Limited growth.
They are useful—but never great.
…
I should have been a slave.
That is the truth.
Half-blood. Mixed. Tainted.
But I was born with red skin.
Dominant.
Clean.
Acceptable.
So I was given freedom.
Not by chance.
By his will.
Everything is by his will.
I love my mother.
She raised me. Fed me. Protected me when I was nothing.
But I will not lie—
I love my red blood more.
Because it made me worthy.
Because it made me seen.
Because it allowed me to stand beneath him.
Marrick
He is the reason I joined the army.
The reason I lied about my blood.
The reason I rose.
Commander.
Captain.
General.
Each step taken with one goal—
To be seen by him.
To stand before him.
To be acknowledged.
Not as a man.
But as something… useful.
Something worthy.
Today—
that happens.
The city stretches endlessly.
What was once a tribe is now stone, flame, steel, and order.
Slaves move through the lower districts.
Chains. Brands. Silence.
Some mine.
Some build.
Some serve.
All exist because we allow it.
Because he allows it.
I walk past them without pause.
Without thought.
They are beneath consideration.
The palace rises above everything.
Impossible to ignore.
Impossible to approach.
Impossible to enter—
unless you are chosen.
Today—
I am chosen.
The guards stop me.
I present the stone note.
Marked.
Sealed.
Authorized.
They step aside immediately.
Of course they do.
Inside—
it is larger than anything I have seen.
Halls lined with polished stone.
Columns carved with scenes of war.
Victory.
Submission.
Order.
A slave guides me.
Green eyes.
Low caste.
She avoids looking at me.
Good.
If she had—
I would have corrected her.
But she serves in the palace.
She has value.
So she lives.
We pass statues.
Massive Oni.
Winged figures—Tengu.
Beasts I do not recognize.
Then paintings.
The Empress.
Ruke.
Beautiful. Composed. Untouchable.
High Xi'wu Fuxi.
Old. Wise. Dangerous.
Lady May.
Her beauty… unsettling.
Too refined for this place.
Lady Ki.
Strength made flesh.
Lady Han.
Calm. Controlled. Cold.
…
And then—
him.
Marrick.
The painting is not enough.
It cannot be enough.
Nothing can be enough.
I enter the war hall.
The generals are already there.
General Bai.
Blue-horned.
Pure.
Massive.
A reminder that strength alone is not enough.
General Li.
Tengu.
No magice.
Earned his place through skill alone.
General Qiu.
Red-skinned.
Master of the jiàn.
Precise.
Deadly.
General Yang.
A magice user.
Strong.
Too proud.
General Fu.
The only woman among us.
A tactician.
Cold.
Efficient.
Dangerous.
…
None of them matter.
Because he is here.
Marrick.
He stands above all of us.
Not just in height—
in presence.
His skin—
scarlet.
Not like blood.
Not like fire.
Something else.
Something greater.
His markings glow faintly across his body.
Yellow.
Like molten light beneath the skin.
His robe hangs loose.
Unconcerned.
Revealing strength that feels… excessive.
Unnecessary.
Like he does not need it—
but has it anyway.
His tusks.
His horns.
His gaze—
…
I lower my head.
Not out of fear.
Out of instinct.
Time passes.
Silence stretches.
Then—
"Finally."
His voice fills the room.
Deep.
Heavy.
Absolute.
"you are here."
My heart stops.
For a moment—
I think he is speaking to me.
Then—
another enters.
High Xi'wu Fuxi.
"I know, I know," he says, almost amused. "I was delayed."
Marrick's gaze sharpens.
"And what delayed you?"
"My daughter," Fuxi replies. "She wished to see the child again. I had to cast a sigil of true sight."
A pause.
"Ah," Marrick says. "I forgot she cannot properly use her magice while carrying."
"Yes," Fuxi nods. "But we can discuss that later."
His tone shifts.
"Let us begin."
Marrick turns to us.
All of us.
And in that moment—
nothing else exists.
"You may wonder why you are here," he says.
A faint smile forms.
"You already know the answer."
A pause.
Then—
"War."
The word settles over the room like weight.
Like inevitability.
"I will unite the tribes," he continues.
"The kingdoms."
"The remaining powers of these mountains."
He leans forward slightly.
"And we will kill an Elder Beast."
Silence.
Absolute.
Then—
he speaks the name.
Huǒ Róng Yuán
No one speaks.
No one moves.
Even breathing feels… incorrect.
"We will not fight it alone," Marrick continues.
"We will let them fight it."
A cruel smile spreads across his face.
"They will bleed it."
"Weaken it."
"Die against it."
"And when they are finished—"
His eyes sharpen.
"I will kill what remains."
In that moment—
I understand.
Not just the plan.
Him.
He is not waging war.
He is orchestrating slaughter.
On a scale beyond anything we have ever seen.
"But," he continues,
"they must not suspect."
His gaze moves across us.
One by one.
"And so…"
"We will send an army to join them."
A pause.
Honest.
Cold.
"That army will likely die."
No hesitation.
No deception.
Truth.
"If you survive," he continues,
"I will reward you beyond measure."
"Land."
"Title."
"Power."
"I will make you dukes."
"You will rule beneath me."
My heart pounds.
Not from fear.
From desire.
"Decide among yourselves," he says.
"Who will be the lamb."
The room tightens.
No one speaks.
No one moves.
I look at the others.
Bai.
Li.
Qiu.
Yang.
Fu.
Each of them calculating.
Each of them weighing survival against ascension.
I already know my answer.
"But this decision can wait," Marrick says, standing.
"The war begins in two years."
"We will meet monthly."
"Then weekly."
"And then…"
A faint smile.
"We end it."
And with that—
he leaves.
No announcement.
No dismissal.
No hesitation.
Just absence.
And yet—
his presence remains.
I stand there.
Still.
Breathing.
Thinking.
I will be the lamb.
Because if I survive—
I will no longer be just Ren.
Half-blood.
Hidden.
Lying.
I will be something else.
Something worthy of him.
Something closer to—
Marrick.
— End of Record
11 MONTHS AND 1 YEAR UNTIL THE WAR