The silence after the final strike was not empty—it echoed like a song only spirits could hear. Dust hung in the air like gold-laced fog, and the faint glow of the divine weapon still shimmered in Sumiyoshi's hands. His breath was ragged. Sweat poured down his forehead, neck, arms—every inch of him screamed fatigue. But he stood still, unmoving, looking at the spirit who had trained him. The Guardian.
The Guardian Spirit stepped forward slowly. His ancient face, once stern and unreadable, now held something close to pride—soft, hidden, and powerful.
"You did it," he said in a quiet tone that cut through the silence like lightning through still skies. "And now... the curse of your bloodline has been lifted."
Sumiyoshi blinked, stunned. He hadn't realized it yet. The heaviness inside his chest—the cold, sinking weight he had felt since childhood—was gone. The blood that had betrayed him for years now pulsed freely with no shadows tying it down.
"The situation has changed drastically," the Guardian continued. "Well done, boy. Now go... and change the fate of the Divine Fang Order."
But before Sumiyoshi could even say thank you, the Guardian's body began to shimmer, slowly dissolving into the golden air. The training house, the stones, the very world he had trained in—all began to flicker like a dying dream.
"W-Wait!" Sumiyoshi shouted, running forward. But his hands passed through the spirit like air. "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!"
No answer.
In desperation, he ran around the training grounds, calling out for him, searching every corner, behind trees, rocks, near the cliffs—but nothing. The Guardian Spirit was gone, vanished like every other before him. Just like the legends said.
After a few moments, Sumiyoshi finally gave up. He stood at the edge of the now-empty dojo, staring at the quiet land with a bewildered, exhausted gaze. Then slowly, a grin spread across his face. A strange grin—half joy, half madness.
"Finally…" he whispered. Then louder. "FINALLY! Training's over!" he screamed to the sky, arms stretched wide. "Main ghar jaake araam se soounga! Bed! Real food! My brother!"
He twirled, laughing. Then suddenly stopped.
His grin faltered.
"Wait a minute....."
A pause.
A long silence.
Then a soul-piercing scream of despair:
I forgot the way to that village !!!!
And so began Sumiyoshi's strange, weary journey. He walked through woods, climbed down ridges, crossed rivers with trembling legs—asking every wandering villager or shepherd the same thing:
"Do you know a village nearby... I don't remember the name. I went away for training. I forgot the way back."
But he never told them the exact name. A part of him feared they'd think he was insane. Another part feared they'd actually know it—and then what? What if it was gone?
Days passed. Nights passed. Blisters formed and healed again.
In one quiet village nestled near the edge of a thick forest, he stopped. There, a kind family took him in. An older couple and their two children—and a young woman, perhaps their daughter or niece.
He played with the children, chased them through wheat fields and let them braid his messy hair. That night, they offered him dinner. Hot rice, vegetables, and soup—after weeks of dry roots and cave water, it felt like heaven.
"You'll sleep here tonight," the woman said, showing him a modest room with a cot and a blanket.
He nodded. But he didn't sleep. He couldn't. Not alone, not after everything. He lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling for hours. Every creek of the wooden house, every gust of wind sounded like footsteps of some unseen spirit.
He finally closed his eyes at dawn.
The next morning, he woke up late—well past breakfast time. But the young woman still greeted him with a gentle smile and a plate of food.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Before he left, she packed food for his journey and gave him rough directions based on what little he described. He bowed deeply. The children clung to his legs. And then he was off again.
Four more days passed.
He walked through more hamlets, crossed bridges, helped an old man push a cart out of a ditch, even climbed a hill thinking he'd spot his village—but nothing looked familiar.
Until the morning of the fourth day.
He reached a stretch of dirt path between two craggy hills—and there, on the horizon, rising between thick woods and stone towers—was home.
His legs almost gave out. But he laughed and ran. Sprinting like a madman.
Until two guards at the village's outer edge blocked his way with crossed spears.
"Halt!" one said. "Who goes—?"
"I—Sumiyoshi!" he blurted. "Sumiyoshi of the Divine Fang Order! I—I've returned!"
The guards exchanged glances. One pulled out a scroll, unfurling a long record list. After a few tense minutes, he nodded. "He checks out. Let him pass."
Sumiyoshi staggered forward, half in disbelief, half in joy. As he passed into the village, familiar buildings, smells, even sounds welcomed him.
He walked through narrow streets. His feet instinctively carried him to his small house—his home.
He opened the door—
But no one was there.
"…Brother?" he called.
Silence.
He searched the rooms. Nothing.
Then he stepped outside again, asking the first villager he found, "Have you seen my brother?"
The man blinked. "Didn't you hear? All Divine Weapon owners were summoned to a critical meeting. The Great Hall."
Sumiyoshi's chest tightened.
Without wasting a second, he ran—his breath quickening with each step, his eyes wide, his mind racing.
Something had changed.
And now, his part in this fate was only just beginning.