The paper doors slid shut behind him with a faint rustle, the soft clink of porcelain echoing as Lord Isshin set down his empty cup. The room was quiet serene bathed in the morning light filtering through the rice-paper windows.
Before him knelt three shadow-clad shinobi, their foreheads pressed low against the tatami floor, not daring to breathe too loud.
Their leader, an older shinobi marked with a deep scar across his brow, finally broke the silence.
"He is turning into a Shura, my lord."
Isshin's hand paused just above the teacup. The warmth of the tea still lingered, but something in that word pulled the air taut.
Isshin's gaze didn't waver, only drifted lazily from his teacup to the shinobi.
"And where is he now?" he asked, his voice calm as the still waters of a mountain spring.
The leader swallowed. "Locked beneath the fourth depth… the dungeon. All measures enacted. Ten seals. 500 guards on rotation. Layered paralysis wards."
Isshin exhaled softly through his nose. A dry, almost amused breath.
"That won't be enough."
The words struck like ice.
The shinobi visibly stiffened. One of them trembled, sweat beginning to bead down his neck.
Isshin stepped forward and reached for his outer robe. "He can leave that dungeon any time he wants," he said with quiet certainty.
He tied his sash in a single elegant motion.
"The only reason he remains there…" Isshin glanced at them now, eyes sharper than any blade, "is because he chooses to."
The tension grew so thick it could've crushed lesser men.
Then, Isshin turned to the side, sliding the door open with a whisper of wood and paper. Morning wind stirred his robes. His sandals tapped against the polished wood floor.
"I'll visit him myself."
The shinobi immediately dropped even lower, foreheads kissing the floor in synchronized reverence.
"As you wish, my lord."
And with that, the quiet echo of his footsteps vanished into the hall—toward the dungeon where the shura awaited.
The stone halls of the underground passage trembled beneath the echoing steps of Lord Isshin.
Torchlight flickered across the ancient walls, the flames bowing in reverence to the man walking with steady, unshaken purpose.
Every soldier stationed along the corridor—elite, battle-hardened men froze in disbelief at the sight.
He had left his quarters.
That alone was enough to stir whispers.
The First Sword Saint, the legendary man who had long since chosen silence and solitude, now walked the halls toward the deepest pit of their land.
One by one, they fell to their knees, bowing as low as their bodies could allow.
"My lord…"
But Isshin did not spare them even a glance. His eyes remained fixed ahead, the weight of his spirit pressing down heavier than gravity itself.
He had no words. Only purpose.
The final gate stood before him, marked with talismans, seals, and steel reinforcements engraved with runes. The two guards stationed there immediately stepped aside, barely able to meet his gaze.
The gate creaked open.
Cold, still air greeted him, carrying the scent of stone, metal, and something darker like scorched ash and old, dried blood.
And there he was.
Bound to an obsidian throne by layers of enchanted bands, steel bindings, and cloth soaked in spiritual suppressants.
His body remained upright, but only barely.
His head was slightly tilted, black bangs falling just over the blindfold that covered his eyes.
The silence was only broken by the slow rise and fall of his chest.
And then… he spoke.
A chilling voice, spiteful, and venomous.
"Well, what do we have here…"
His lips curled into a smile, cold and twisted.
"My very own master, coming all this way to visit his star student chained, beaten, locked up like some wild dog. How adorably noble of you, Isshin."
The taunt echoed.
Isshin stood quietly, unmoved. His expression unreadable.
The man tilted his head slightly, a twitch tugging at the corner of his lip.
"Ah, that silence. I missed that. So cold. So damn righteous."
Isshin finally spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the thick dungeon air like steel.
"…I'm utterly disappointed in you."
That broke him.
The chains rattled violently as the bound man began to tremble, his aura flaring so sharply that the stone beneath his seat cracked. His muscles strained against the bindings, his face contorting into a hateful snarl.
"Disappointed!?" he screamed.
"You who chose me as your successor over your very own son and now you dare to be disappointed in me!?"
He let out a dry, broken laugh twisted and haunted.
"HAHAHAHA! Oh that's rich, that's truly rich…"
Isshin looked at him with quiet pity and spoke."This is all my fault. Had I known you would go down this route—"
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW!?" the man bellowed, cutting him off.
His voice broke—cracked with a pain deeper than fury.
"You realise what they did to my…"
The words caught in his throat.
"…to my… baby…"
His voice dropped into a whisper fragile, breaking.
"She was only seven…"
Tears began to stream down from beneath the blindfold. His head hung low, shoulders trembling, rage lost in grief.
Isshin said nothing.
He turned.
His steps began to echo again, steady, leaving the chamber of the damned. His back now to the boy he once raised as his own.
And behind him, from the shadows of the dungeon, the man called out once more—his voice quiet, but raw.
"…I looked up to you, you know…"
"I admired you more than anything… The moment they sang your name… when you were crowned the First Sword Saint, I… I believed."
"But now…"
Silence followed.
Isshin said nothing. And just like that—he was gone.
Only the faint sound of distant footsteps remained.
And the weeping of the man once destined to carry his legacy.
Isshin stepped out.
He stood still for a moment, bathed in the soft radiance of the morning sun.
The sky stretched overhead in brilliant hues of blue and gold, a cloudless canvas painted by serenity itself.
Birdsong echoed faintly in the distance. The air was warm—not stifling, but inviting. A peaceful day, bright and almost too kind for the truths left unsaid.
He looked up at the sky.
And sighed long and heavy.
Then, without another word, Isshin turned and walked back to his quarter's.
---
Meanwhile, en route to Mount Yorei
The journey had taken them past stone-paved paths and into bustling markets nestled along the travel route.
Sofie had found herself stopping at nearly every vendor, her arms full of skewers, steamed buns, crispy rice rolls, sweet cakes, and anything that smelled remotely appetizing.
"This one's for later," she mumbled around a bite of mochi, holding up another skewer.
Tatsuki sighed in surrender, trailing behind her like a dutiful knight. "At this point, we'll need a second wagon just for the snacks."
Klaus walked a few steps behind them, his pace slower. He didn't speak, his expression thoughtful. His eyes weren't focused on the road they were fixed somewhere far beyond it.
"Kaen mentioned in the letter that Varnyx will be waiting … I wonder where he is."
His thoughts turned over like storm clouds gathering just out of reach. He barely noticed when Sofie turned back.
"Klaus!"
SLAP!
A pair of hands struck his back—hard.
"Ghk!"
The impact made Klaus stumble forward a step, almost tripping over a loose stone. He caught himself just in time, blinking in surprise.
"Wha..what the hell?" he muttered.
Tatsuki grinned mischievously. "You were walking like a ghost, man. You okay? Got the face of someone planning an interdimensional war."
Sofie tilted her head, chewing. "Yeah. You've been all serious. Something wrong?"
Klaus waved it off. "Nothing. Just… thinking."
Tatsuki leaned in, mock whispering,
"Thinking about Sofie in a wedding dress, huh?"
Sofie immediately choked on her bun.
Klaus blinked, then let out a low chuckle.
Sofie turned bright red, covering her mouth as she coughed. "T-Tatsuki!"
"What?" Tatsuki said innocently. "It's not like I'm wrong."
Klaus just smiled, shaking his head. "Let's just keep moving."
Sofie puffed her cheeks, shoving the last of the bun into her mouth. "Meanie…"
Tatsuki laughed, walking ahead. "I live to serve."
And the road to Mount Yorei stretched onward sunlit and calm for now but the moment cracked like glass.
The trio halted in their steps.
A murmur rolled down the street like a tide. A gathering of villagers and travelers had formed ahead dozens, maybe more. The air was thick with dread. And then they saw it.
Bodies.
Men in thick plated armor stood in a grim line, each carrying long iron rods—and impaled on those rods were corpses. Lifeless. Broken. Some still fresh, blood dripping down their ruined limbs.
But that wasn't what made Sofie gasp.
It was the children.
A group of terrified boys and girls, no older than ten, were being dragged by their hair—chained at the neck like animals. Their knees scraped along the gravel. One tried to cry but was kicked square in the stomach by a soldier's boot, forcing a sob to die in her throat.
Sofie stepped forward, eyes blazing. Klaus moved beside her, teeth gritted, hands curling into fists.
But before they could go further—thump
Tatsuki's hand landed on Klaus's shoulder.
"Don't," she said softly.
They turned, stunned.
"What are you talking about?" Sofie asked, fury in her voice.
Tatsuki's eyes were hard—tired. "They're debt collectors from the Upper Houses. This is their 'legal right' under imperial law. As disgusting as it is... there's nothing we can do."
Klaus's expression darkened.
He looked at her—really looked—and something inside him twisted.
"I thought you were my mentor," he said quietly. "Someone who'd fight when it mattered. Someone who wouldn't look away when something wrong was happening right in front of her."
Tatsuki flinched slightly.
Klaus's voice dropped to a low, cold growl. "I guess I was mistaken."
Then he brushed her hand off his shoulder.
And walked forward.
"HEY!"
His voice sliced through the air like a dagger.
Everything stopped.
The armored men halted.
The crowd turned, whispers rippling.
And then the soldiers looked at him.
Just a boy.
Just one boy… who dared to speak.
Klaus stood in the center of the road, wind brushing past him. His shadow stretched long behind him. His eyes were sharp, cold like an executioner's blade.
He raised his voice again. Calm, but laced with killing intent.
"Let them go."