The fire hadn't started yet. But the smoke—the metaphorical one—was already in the air.
Kamui's fist was raw. Blood streamed from a cut along his cheek. Arma's shirt was in shreds, his chest burned with cracked Mabitake energy, and Argon, silent, held his ground, a thin line of red across his knuckles from his last counter-blade technique. Around them lay a dozen fallen warriors, some still twitching, others unconscious.
Kamui spat blood to the side. "Are they... done?"
"No Kamui, they are just getting started." Argon whispered, his eyes narrowing.
And then, a sound.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Out from the mist, a Black Arabian horse emerged, hooves silent against the gravel.
Seated atop it was President Kuzan Shoushiki—immaculate white robes, hair slicked back with not a strand out of place, and gloves too clean to have touched blood. And on his back, two giant cleaver-like blades rested.
His calm face watched the battlefield.
He saw the unconscious warriors. His recruits.
He sighed. "I have misjudged the state of this military. I choose the best of the best, the ones who have promised me that Ishido's head will be delivered in 10 minutes.
What I didn't expect was that more than 125 of these useless warriors would be lying dead on the floor."
And then—he stepped down. Not a sound from the horse. Just the sharp crunch of gravel under the President's boots. As he stretched.
As he stepped down from the horse, he went to each of the fallen warriors, most of them injured, begging the president to save them.
With surgical precision, he raised his gloved hand.
SLASH!
CRACK!
Kuzan took one of his giant cleaver blades from his back and sliced through them. Not out of mercy. But disappointment.
"I don't have time," he said coldly, "for warriors who fall to three children and a traitor. If this is what protects my throne, even I could be in danger.." As he chuckled
Kamui clenched his fists. Arma cracked his neck, stepping forward.
"Okay. The Mannequins pissed," he muttered. "Maybe with that stupid gloves you could have been more intimidating"
"Arma," Ishido interrupted quietly. "Quiet."
Kuzan smiled.
"You've taught them well, Ishido. They have the true fighting spirit."
And then—without warning, he was in front of Arma.
BOOM!
A punch roared toward Arma's chest.
But—
CLANG!
Ishido's katana intercepted it.
Kuzan's knuckles were blocked directly by Ishido's katana..
"Interesting…" Kuzan smirked, eyeing the blood trail along his glove.
Kamui lunged, his eyes locked directly on Kuzan, as his right fist was planning to land on Kuzan's ribs.
But Kuzan turned mid-lunge.
"You boys don't seem to understand. Your power is weak compared to mine. I have witnessed kings bleeding, people dying, by my own hands.
CRACK!
Kamui was slammed to the ground, back-first. He gasped, barely staying conscious, as he tried to dodge Kuzan's finisher.
And then, running as fast as he could, Argon.
He swept Kamui's arm over his shoulder and tumbled backwards, saving him from a second strike.
Kamui coughed. "Thanks."
Kuzan looked at them, pissed.
Argon didn't speak. His eyes were fixed. Calculating. Cold. Showing his maturity.
They were all injured.
And then—Kuzan moved again.
With one hand, he grabbed Ishido's katana blade, blood dripping from his palm. With the other—
BOOM! A punch to Ishido's chest.
CRACK!A leg kick to his ribs.
Ishido flew, slamming across the ground, crashing into the wall of the dojo.
"MASTER" Arma screamed.
His Mabitake flickered.
His body began to solidify, the trace minerals of his soul forming a rock-like armor around his chest and shoulders.
He roared—charging Kuzan.
The President sighed.
He caught Arma mid-lunge.
"Playtime is over. This is the true power of the Mannequin, dumb boy."
With no effort, he hurled Arma like a rag doll. The boy crashed beside Ishido, coughing blood.
Kamui stood again, staggering. Argon stepped beside him.
They prepared to charge, as both looked towards each other.
"Stop."
It was Ishido's voice.
From the dust, bruised, bloodied, but alive.
"This… this isn't your fight."
Then came the smell.
Smoke.
The dojo was burning.
From the front gate, walking slowly through the flickering flames, came a figure in a dark uniform. Cloaked in pride and malice.
Yoshiro Shinjiku, Argon's father, is the one who reported the Dojo and Ishido's teachings.
He stood at the threshold, the fire reflecting in his eyes, as he laughed like a maniac.
"It's over, Ishido, it's over," he declared. "You will never step outside freely. This time you have gone too far, and you will not make my son fall into propaganda."
"Try to touch him, noble freak. I will personally punch your head clean off." Kamui muttered.
"I'll kill you," Arma growled. Even Arma was dead serious.
But Ishido… he stood. He walked forward, blood on his lips, ribs cracked, and bowed.
"It's okay, my students, you can't win this."
He turned to his students.
"You fought bravely. More than anyone ever did at your age. Now—live, I will go with you willingly if you let the three go; they still have time to see themselves and decide what they want to be."
Kuzan approached from the side, amused.
"You know… I wouldn't mind if one day, these three were my students, let alone my guards. What do you think, Yoshiro?"
Argon turned. But his father grabbed him.
"Let's go, Argon. I will not let you be a part of this propaganda anymore."
The boy didn't resist. He couldn't. His eyes locked with Kamui's—full of rage, confusion, betrayal.
Then… he was gone.
Kuzan turned his back.
Ishido's katana clanged to the ground as they took him.
And the dojo burned.
Kamui dropped to his knees.
Arma beside him.
Their bodies bled.
Their spirits cracked.
And they fell unconscious, utterly defeated.
The village people tried to extinguish the flames, and then, an older lady saw the boy unconscious and she took him to her house in the village to treat him.
It was Kamui. But, where was Arma? Where did Argon go?
So many questions, yet no answers.