The smoke choked the battlefield.
A choking haze of ash and cursed mana that curled in pale tendrils across the bloodied sands of Tsurara's shore.
Reinhardt Aratake stumbled forward, every breath a blade in his lungs.
His vision wavered—edges smudged by tears, ash, and sweat—until the world itself seemed to weep in gray.
"Lord... Satoshi..."
He leaned against a shattered shield, its lacquered crest shredded by blade and bullet. Around him lay corpses in every position of defeat: a Yoshitake spearman collapsed on his back, mouth loosed in a final scream; a Rokkau archer slumped over his bow, fingers still clasped in prayer; a lone cavalryman's horse, legs splayed, dead eyes fixed on the moonless sky.
Yet beneath the despair, Reinhardt heard the faint sounds of battle—the distant clash of steel, muted cries that rose and fell like waves.
Reinhardt's legs trembled. His white-hilted katana hung empty at his side. His plate armor was scorched and splintered; rivulets of blood ran down his left arm where a cursed bolt had grazed him. His heart pounded in his ears, each beat a tolling bell.
He swallowed, half-begging the gods for strength.
Not again
He staggered forward. The sand beneath him was soft and slick with blood—each step a slip. He coughed, tasting iron on his tongue.
His hands fumbled.
Please, not again...
Thwack.
A stray arrow, loosed from unseen bows, whistled. He felt its shaft slam into his shoulder, a new torment of pain.
He collapsed, knees buckling, vision narrowing to a tunnel of black and red.
He tried to cry out, but only a rasp escaped.
His eyes flicked upward—he could just make out distant ranks of warriors, huddled and battered, pressing toward the shore like wounded beasts seeking sanctuary. Beyond them, the dark tide of Tsuraran soldiers had ebbed back, leaving this strip of death in their wake.
Reinhardt's fingers clawed at the sand.
He saw, half-buried, the hilt of his white katana; he dragged himself forward.
With the last of his strength, he wrenched the blade free of the earth. The act sent a jolt of agony through his shoulder, but he gripped the weapon's rapier-thin tang and forced himself upright.
Blood poured from the new wound, slicking his side in hot rivulets. He pressed the blade point-first into the sand and leaned his weight on it, breathing shallow and fast.
His vision blurred. Find him, he thought—search for Lord Satoshi Sekai. The Sekai clan lord who had stood in defiance here, who had dared challenge Khagan Heishi at the very heart of his domain.
Reinhardt needed Satoshi's strength, his calm voice, something—anything—to anchor him from this spiraling abyss.
His eyelids fluttered as he nodded off, leaning on his blade as though it might hold him upright forever.
The smoke whispered around him, mocking his weakness.
* * *
Khagan Heishi strode down the beach in his silver armor, each footstep measured, each breath mocking. Beside him walked several Shikotsu clan enforcers as well as Heishi comrades, their crimson eyes gleaming in the flickering torchlight.
"Ugh, the smell of corpses are starting to hurt my nose." he announced to no one in particular, wiping blood from his gauntlet onto a dead man's tunic.
They strode among a line of chained prisoners—four Ayatori clan warriors bent at the waist, arms bound behind them. Their crimson-black armor was torn; their faces streaked with dirt and tears.
Khagan's boots squelched through the gore.
He laughed—a deep, resonant laugh that shook the broken shells of helmets around them.
"Ayatori clan," he called, voice carrying on the wind. "Noble protectors of Borodo's tomb. A shame such skill must go to waste in chains."
He paused, regarding them through the eyes of his amusement. "That said, rules are rules. Two of you will be escorted to the Abyssal Gate—I got something planned for you. The other two shall stay with me… for torture and information of course. Necessary sacrifices to secure lasting peace."
One of the chained men twisted his neck painfully to face Khagan. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a grizzled beard and defiant eyes.
Lord Okou Ayatori.
He met Khagan's gaze and sank to his knees.
"Spare them," he begged, voice raw. "Let them live. Let my brother and them go free—and torture only me. I'll bear the pain myself."
Khagan's expression softened into a warm, almost tender smile.
He knelt before Okou, fingertips brushing the sand. "How selfless," he murmured. "Truly."
He closed his eyes, as though recalling something. Then he opened them, the light in his Kokugane Eyes shifting.
"And yet…so was the Yoshitake I disiplined earlier." He tapped his temple with one gauntlet. "Memory fails sometimes."
"You won't get anything from us."
Khagan smiled. "Oh, I disagree. You've already given me something: your loyalty. It's adorable. But misguided."
His smile faded, replaced by thin regret. "Believe me, protector of the tomb, I wish there were another way. But to uphold peace… this must be done. And you… will die today."
He reached out, caressing Okou's cheek. "You're a smart man. You'll understand soon enough."
He rose, stretching his back as if rising from a pleasant meal and snapped his fingers turning the attention to his men.
"Take two of them to the chamber."
"No wait!!" one of the Ayatori women screamed—Lina Ayatori, her face drenched with tears.
"By the old blood… seal my soul…"
Okou began chanting under his breath. His hands trembled. Glowing marks began forming across the sand.
Hiroko Ayatori, older, fierce—lunged forward, screaming "NO BROTHER STOP!"
A curved blade slashed through the air.
SCHLICK.
Okou's jaw hit the ground first. His body followed.
"AAGH!"
He gurgled—screamed—a bubbling, animalistic howl of agony, grasping at his lower face where his mouth had once been.
Khagan sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Now that was entirely unnecessary, was it not?" he muttered.
He walked over and grabbed Okou by the neck, lifting him like a child.
"You don't understand where you are," he said, voice growing harsh. "You don't chant in my presence. You don't defy my peace."
Then—he slammed Okou's head against the sand. Okou's body went limp. Khagan traced a boot across the fallen man's chest, crushing ribs with a satisfied crack.
"Tell me, Lord Ayatori," he taunted, voice rising as he hopped on one foot to balance. "Do you remember your last words? About self-sacrifice?"
He raised the toe of his boot and drove it down into Okou's stomach. The prisoner retched, blood springing from his mouth in a gurgling fountain.
Khagan's face was feral. "ANSWER ME!! HUH, WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU ANSWERING MY DAMN QUESTIONS!"
Khagan's voice rose in fury. "I told you—"
STOMP.
Okou coughed blood.
"—don't defy—"
STOMP.
"—my PEACE!"
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
Bones shattered. Blood sprayed from Okou's mouth, eyes wide with terror.
Khagan exhaled, wiping his blood-soaked boot on the beach.
"I'm sorry," he said mockingly. "Was I unclear earlier?"
Okou didn't respond. His arms twitched.
Khagan's breathing slowed.
"Hm. Looks like I was."
Lina sobbed uncontrollably. Hiroko's face was a mask of hate.
Hiroko didn't look at Khagan. He looked at Okou's remains. "Fuck you…"
"You monster! I'll kill you! I SWEAR you'll die!!!" Lina screamed.
"Oh good," Khagan smirked. "This'll make it easier to break you."
He pointed to his soldiers. "Take those two—Hiroko and Lina Ayatori—to the Abyssal Gate. I want them branded before dawn."
"And the last one?" a Tsurara soldier asked, motioning to the quiet, older Ayatori warrior who hadn't said a word yet.
Khagan glanced. "Him? Take him to the Chamber for torture and information. I want to see what three days of isolation does to a guardian of tombs."
Khagan's eyes turned to the fresh corpse and laughed, a sound of pure triumph. He wiped the blood from his foot on the earth. "Rest in peace, hero," he said. "May your selflessness bring true harmony."
Okou twitched, viscera pulsing against the sand like a grotesque heart made of worms.
Khagan walked on, boots splashing through rivulets of blood and ichor. Ahead stood a waiting carriage—black lacquered wood, framed by iron spikes. Two massive oxen with scarlet harnesses pawed the ground, nostrils flaring in the acrid air.
Inside the carriage, draped in shadows, sat Lord Satoshi Sekai.
His robes were torn; one shoulder hung limp. His face was drained of blood and light, but his eyes—those ancient, defiant eyes—dripped contempt as Khagan approached.
Khagan dipped into a bow so deep his silver hair swept the sand. "Lord Sekai," he said warmly, voice filled with regretful ceremony. "I was worried my little love tap earlier might've broken your back and your neck. I hope you're still able to sit without pain and find it in your heart to forgive me, Lord Sekai."
Satoshi said nothing. His glare alone was accusation enough.
"You're lucky," Khagan went on. "Most men I fight don't survive that long. You should cherish it."
Satoshi remained silent.
"You could at least say thank you," Khagan chuckled. "After all, your stay at Tōgakujō Castle will be… comfortable. I've had the walls blessed to keep in great men like yourself."
Still, Satoshi didn't speak.
Khagan leaned in close.
"But, don't worry, old friend," he whispered. "Kurota will burn. Slowly. And I'll save a seat for you at the top—so you can watch every last inch of your empire you fight for crumble."
"Hpmh. Go fuck youself Khagan Heishi."
Khagan, smiling, pulls the carriage curtain closed.
* * *
Reinhardt pushed himself to his knees.
His vision was a haze of red and gray. His fingers traced the familiar white hilt of his katana—embedded in the sand. He had lost everything but that blade, and it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
His gaze drifted upward, catching sight of a dark carriage moving across the blood-spattered shore, lantern light bouncing off its iron spikes. And inside—Lord Satoshi Sekai, held captive yet proud, head lifted defiantly.
Reinhardt's heart clenched in his chest.
He remembered Satoshi's words moments before the battle: "We stand together, or we fall alone." He had failed his lord once—he would not fail him again.
But as the carriage lurched forward, Reinhardt felt a tear trickle down his cheek. His knees gave way, and he collapsed against the sand.
His eyes widened with a jolt of adrenaline. His fingers dragged against the mud, reaching for the sword.
"I'm coming my lord..." he whispered—his prayer, his curse, his last hope in a night without mercy.
Reinhardt blinked.
And the world returned in full.