Far from the Ryomen compound—high in the mist-wreathed peaks of the northern ranges—stood a secluded temple. No cursed energy defiled its grounds. Here, monks channeled a different kind of power: pure divine essence, sacred and ancient, untouched by the stains of sorcery.
Inside the prayer hall, silence reigned. Dozens of monks sat in perfect stillness, their breaths synchronized, bodies weightless in meditation. The head monk—an old man with silver brows and skin like ancient bark—floated inches above the ground, eyes rolled back, deep within his inner sanctum.
Then—
He was thrown from his trance.
His body crashed to the floor with a loud thud, shaking the incense burners and snapping the silence like a cracked mirror. Gasps erupted. The gathered monks rushed to him.
"Master!"
"What happened?"
"Is it an attack?"
The head monk's eyes darted wildly, his hands trembling. Sweat poured down his weathered face, and his lips quivered as though fighting to hold back a scream.
"...It happened!," he whispered. "A monster has descended."
The room froze.
"A true demon... not of this world. Not born of man or curse, but of something far older. The world is unprepared."
He clenched the prayer beads at his wrist until they cracked beneath his grip.
"This is the being we were meant to seal. The one our ancestors warned us about. We were too late... we have failed."
Panic rippled through the temple like wildfire. Monks broke formation, voices overlapping in fearful chants and desperate questions.
"Where did it appear?"
"Can it still be stopped?"
"Was the Divine Seal not enough?!"
For generations, they had trained, meditated, and fortified the sacred lands to prevent a single event: the return of the Demon King.
And now, without warning, it had begun—with the silent cry of a newborn.
---
The chaos in the temple slowly settled as a single monk rushed out under urgent orders. Moments later, footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
A tall young man entered the chamber—barefoot, robed in white linen, a prayer staff strapped across his back. His presence was still and quiet, like snow on a mountain's peak.
He knelt before the trembling elder.
"You summoned me, Master Kōgetsu?"
The old monk—Kōgetsu, revered for his visions and spiritual strength—looked up with eyes rimmed in fear.
"Yes, Senta… my disciple, listen closely."
A hush fell over the chamber.
"The worst-case we've trained our entire lives to prevent… it has come to pass."
Kōgetsu's voice trembled. "The incarnation has descended into the world. The Demon King—walks again. Or will."
Senta's brow furrowed. "Are you certain?"
"I was ripped from the inner world, Senta. That has never happened—not in ninety-three years of meditation. The balance is broken. The world… is not ready."
For a long moment, the young disciple said nothing. Then, he spoke—measured and calm.
"Master… with respect, we must not be hasty. We don't yet know the vessel's identity… nor the location of the rebirth. Charging blindly into the darkness will only doom us."
Kōgetsu closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
"Then what do you propose, my disciple?"
Senta rose slowly, his gaze steady.
"We prepare. As our ancestors did. Train harder. Sharpen our bodies and minds. Seek signs of the vessel. And when the time comes—we act not in fear… but in purpose."
The other monks, still anxious, found a strange comfort in his words. Even Kōgetsu, though aged and weary, nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said. "Begin the preparations. Strengthen the barriers. Ready the archives. From this day forward—we live for the end of the demon."
Senta bowed low. "Yes, Master."
Senta turned, walking toward the exit, but paused at the temple threshold. Without looking back, he added one final thought.
"…We should ask for their assistance."
The chamber fell into still silence. The other monks exchanged uneasy glances—but no one asked who he meant.
Outside the temple, a cold wind howled through the trees—like a whisper carried from a cursed cradle far away.
----
[KAMO INNER TRAINING GROUND – DUSK]
The courtyard was carved into perfection — a sacred arena of silent stone, where blood was not just spilled… it was dancing.
Kamo Yui — The bloodline's prodigy — was challenging Shugen-sama, the clan's sharpest mind.
Even from the rafters, a pressure can be felt, like the blood in everyone's body obeyed their presence.
They stood opposite each other, framed by the red dusk and silent trees. Yui with her hands already bloodied. Shugen-sama calm, unreadable.
They said Shugen could write contracts with blood no one could break. And that Yui… might be stronger than any Kamo born this century.
A battle is about to begin.
"You requested this," Shugen said, his voice like paper sliding across stone.
"Don't hold back."
"I won't," Yui replied. "But I wonder if you will, Uncle."
She fixed her posture. Her movement is like poetry.
A slash across her palm. Her blood obeyed like a trained hawk — rising, forming threads, shards, and an exploding lattice of crimson. I gasped. It was beautiful, terrifying. Deadly.
But Shugen-sama didn't even blink.
He raised a single finger, drew a glyph mid-air with his blood.
Everything froze.
The lattice collapsed. Just... died.
"Blood moves with intent," he said. "So I stopped the intent."
The air changed.
From below Yui's feet, blood tendrils crept — tiny veins twisting out of cracks I hadn't even seen before.
"He laid a trap before the battle…" she whispered.
Yui didn't see them until it was too late. Yui snared her wrists. A red scroll unfolded from the shadows behind her, written in blood glyphs. A contract.
"If you lie," he said, "or take a step forward, your muscles will rupture."
My fingers trembled.
Then, in a blink—
She vanished.
"A blood echo," Shugen whispered, stunned.
Yui reappeared behind Shugen — not a stumble, not a grunt. Just a precise, perfect strike — her hands lined with needle-thin blood blades.
She cut him.
He bled.
But the battle was not over.
Continued...