The wind had died. No screams remained. Only ash, molten glass, and echoes of crushed bones blanketed the crimson earth beneath Dark's boots.
He walked alone.
Igor remained a distance behind, blending with the chaos like a shadow with its master. And ahead—among the twitching corpses and torn spires of obsidian iron, something stirred.
Not out of defiance. But because it hadn't died yet.
Dark's pace slowed.
Dark: The hell happened here?...
A few meters ahead, a body dragged itself forward. No arms. Barely any legs. The figure's breathing was heavy, wet, broken. Its black-scaled armor, ancient in make, was shattered and soaked in dark blood. Yet those glowing yellow eyes still flickered with something that refused to extinguish.
Will.
Dark stopped just over the body. His silhouette cast a long shadow across the dying creature, the contrast between them sharp, one standing as death incarnate, the other clinging to life with bare threads of purpose.
Dark: You're still alive.
The being didn't answer at first. It coughed, blood gurgling in its throat. Its voice came out rasped, but clear enough to be heard.
???: ...not for long.
Dark crouched, resting an arm casually on one knee.
Dark: Name.
The being's eyes blinked slowly, then narrowed with fading pride.
???: Boiurosaki...
Dark: Long name. Sounds royal.
Boiurosaki let out something close to a bitter laugh, which turned into a choking cough.
Boiurosaki: Used to be. Doesn't matter now... the army... they came. One point four million. We held as long as we could... just wanted peace for my people.
Dark's eyes didn't blink.
Dark: Peace?
Boiurosaki: We never wanted war. My kind only wanted a place to live. No fire. No blood. Just..
Dark: Just?
Boiurosaki: Just a place to raise our young... But they came anyway.
His voice cracked. Blood dripped from the side of his mouth. And yet, even now, he didn't cry. There was no pleading. Only fading honor.
Dark stood again.
Dark: You failed.
Boiurosaki didn't flinch. He nodded weakly.
Boiurosaki: I know.
Dark: But your will didn't break.
He raised one hand. The shadow beneath Boiurosaki rippled—like a lake of ink stirred by an invisible wind.
Dark: I can give you another chance. You'll live again. You'll be stronger. Much stronger. You will be yourself.
The shadows began crawling around the dying body like a cradle of obsidian vines.
Dark: You'll become one of mine. A shadow, forged in my name. You will have no needs. No chains. Only the will to follow me, be loyal to no one but me.
The shadow coiled tighter, almost like it was listening.
Boiurosaki: If I join... Will you bring my people back from the dead?
Dark: I can bring them back as Hollows that only listen to my commands, they have no soul, no life, no purpose but to be mine.
Dark's tone turned sharp. Merciless.
Dark: Now choose your path.
Dark: Or I turn you into a Hollow. No mind. No purpose. No self, you won't even exist, you will be just as dead as your people, so?...choose.
Boiurosaki closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slow. The weight of the decision seemed to crush down. Then, with a trembling nod—
Boiurosaki: My life ended the day I failed them. If this is the only way I can still protect something... then let me follow you. If you're building something that even resembles peace, then I—Boiurosaki—kneel to you. I offer myself to help you achieve that peace... however I can.
Dark's eyes narrowed.
Dark: Then rise...
The shadows erupted.
Dark: Your name is now, Biro.
Not violently. Not like before.
This time, they wrapped the body like silk, binding to his soul, knitting his broken limbs with blackened magic that glowed from within. The battlefield trembled softly. The air grew colder. And where once lay a broken warrior—
Now stood a figure cloaked in silent menace.
Tall. Refined. Wreathed in cold smoke. Two slit-yellow eyes burning from the darkness beneath his mask-like helm. Biro, The Hidden Shadow.
Dark didn't speak. He simply turned—ready to move on.
But as he did. The world rippled. Time slowed.
His vision turned white. Not with light, but with nothing.
A familiar cold washed over him, not physical but metaphysical, like his very thoughts were being peeled back by something ancient.
And then...
The Domain World whispered.
It didn't pull him in.
He walked into it.
One step forward, and the battlefield was gone. No ash. No wind. No shadows.
Only white.
White that bled with darkness at the edges. The canvas of creation undone.
He stood in it again.
The place he used to kill Nen.
Shiro No Yami Sakai.
Dark: (thinking) Why am I here... again?
But there was no answer. No voice. No Nen. No Sukojo.
Only silence.
Only that haunting, expansive glow—white and black, twined like fate and death, waiting.
Dark breathed.
Then stepped back.
And in that instant, he returned.
Back to Hell.
Back to Biro. Back to the battlefield.
He didn't react to the vision. Not yet.
His crimson eyes just narrowed slightly... then faded into calm.
Dark: (thinking) Not now.
He turned forward.
Dark's boots slid to a stop atop the smoldering hill of corpses.
He didn't speak right away.
His mind lingered on that vision. That place. That Domain. His Domain.
But only for a second.
He exhaled once. Cold.
Dark: Return.
Two shadows vanished before the sentence finished.
Igor, silent as ever, dissipated into smoke, disappearing like a collapsing star—drawn back into the void tethered to Dark's soul.
Biro followed—his presence flickering for a second, as if processing the meaning behind the command—then vanished in the same way. His golden-slit eyes the last to fade.
The battlefield was quiet again.
Dark stood alone now.
He looked ahead. The scorched fields, broken cities of Hell stretching beyond the horizon. Some of it still burned. Some of it twitched. But none of it lived.
Dark: (thinking) I came here to erase it all...
His eyes lowered slightly.
Dark: (thinking) But now... Astaroth's back. And I don't know if that changes everything... or nothing.
The silence around him wasn't comforting. It was... judgmental.
He turned his head, staring up at the sky of Hell—swirling clouds of magma and ruined cosmos, hellfire stars hanging like rotten fruit.
Then.
The skies above Japan stretched in serene indifference, untouched by the wars waged in other realms. Gentle clouds meandered through an endless blue, and a breeze carried the scent of blooming sakura down empty streets and polished stone. For a moment, it felt like time had forgotten what chaos was.
Then the world cracked.
A single point in the fabric of reality fractured like glass under pressure, a vertical line opening midair just above a marble platform in the heart of the city. It didn't explode. It didn't roar. It simply parted—as if the laws of space bowed to a will older than they were.
From that rift, Dark stepped forward.
His boots hit the ground with a muted thud, and the moment his foot touched stone, the portal behind him stitched itself shut without a trace. No sound remained. Only silence.
At first, the plaza stayed quiet. Those who had gathered—civilians, warriors, students from the academy, merchants, guards—merely stared, their minds trying to register what their eyes were seeing. Some had watched the infernal battles play out from afar, caught glimpses through enchanted broadcasts and clairvoyant magic. Others had simply felt it in their bones—that war was happening beyond their comprehension. And now the one who had stood at the heart of it had returned.
Murmurs rose like a tide, first unsure, then reverent. Whispers turned to gasps. Gasps into cries.
And then, without a cue, the cheering erupted.
A hundred voices shouted his name. Some with awe. Others with tears. A few simply bowed their heads in silence. Mothers lifted their children to see him. Students saluted. Even soldiers hardened by their own battles stood a little straighter.
They were seeing a ghost.
Dark didn't react.
His coat fluttered slightly in the wind, stained with traces of hellfire and blackened ash. His expression was unreadable, crimson eyes drifting slowly from face to face—not out of pride or curiosity, but something quieter. He hadn't come here to be praised.
He came back to check.
Each step he took forward was heavy in presence but light in sound. The crowd instinctively parted before him like ripples breaking around a stone. No words passed from his lips. The cheers didn't touch him. His mind, despite everything, was still somewhere else—still halfway in Hell. Still hearing Astaroth's words echo in his skull.
And then—
He saw them.
Four figures stood still near the edge of the plaza, beneath the blooming arch of a lone sakura tree. No movement. No expressions at first. Just stillness—like they'd been waiting there for lifetimes.
Tier stood closest, arms crossed, a strange flicker of shock and restraint barely hidden behind his usually bored gaze. Gilmuar was beside him, posture straight but eyes glassy, like he couldn't trust what he was seeing. Leona stood rigid, hands clenched at her sides, her jaw tight—she looked like she wanted to cry, punch him, and smile all at once.
And at the center of them—Cron.
Unmoving. Unblinking. As if his mind was calculating a hundred emotions at once and finding no words sharp enough to convey any of them.
Dark's pace slowed as he neared them. His gaze never faltered. There was no smile. No speech. Just a faint narrowing of his eyes as the faces he hadn't seen in what felt like a thousand years came into focus once more.
He stopped a few feet from them.
For a few seconds, neither side said anything. The plaza behind him had gone quiet again—voices muffled by the gravity of the moment unfolding. The wind stirred gently between them, carrying the soft rustle of cherry blossoms across the stones.
Dark didn't reach out. He didn't run. He simply stood.
Then it happened—like a crack in gravity, like a dam finally giving way.
The tension snapped, and in its place, chaos.
Laughter burst from their lungs. Broken, unfiltered, desperate. Leona wiped at her cheeks with the back of her wrist. Tier fell against a wall, shaking with half-held sobs. Gilmuar barked out a breathless laugh and choked halfway through it. Cron just let the silence crack in his chest.
But Dark didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.
Cron stepped forward first, his grin lopsided and tired.
Cron: Do you have any idea how long you took?
Dark's voice came low, indifferent.
Dark: It wasn't exactly a vacation.
Gilmuar strode in, arms already mid-swing with a slap that never connected. Dark's hand caught it inches from his face, fingers tight around Gil's wrist.
Dark: Easy now.
Gilmuar: You're still a prick.
Dark: And you still telegraph like a toddler.
Tier followed, tossing a gleaming silver device toward Dark—a restraint tool built to dampen aura fields. It hummed violently as it spun toward him.
Tier: Where the hell have you been?!
Dark didn't flinch. He raised a foot and dropped it clean through the device mid-air, shattering it with a crunch of metal and sparks.
Dark: Cleansing Hell.
Leona didn't wait. She launched toward him, arms open wide like a storm of affection. But Dark pivoted, sidestepping gently.
Leona skidded past, catching herself mid-step.
Dark: ...What are you doing?
Leona froze. Her expression cracked.
Leona: ...Dark.
But something was off.
He didn't laugh. Didn't banter. Didn't return the weight of their emotions.
His presence was quieter than it used to be. Sharper. Like a sword that forgot what it meant to rest.
Cron noticed first.
Cron: Dark?
Dark didn't answer.
His eyes dropped to the scorched dirt beneath his boots. Then he lifted one hand.
Dark: Rise.
The word echoed like a decree. A command from something deeper than a man.
Dark: Rise, shadows and hollows.
The ground responded.
At first, only silence. Then came the trembling. Faint rumbles, like breath beneath the earth. And then—eruption.
Pillars of black mist tore through the ground as dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of silhouettes began to rise. Not like soldiers. Like legends. Like a forgotten army returning to the realm of the living.
Igor emerged first—his massive frame cloaked in smoke, helmet glowing with cursed scripture, eyes like dying stars. Then came Clum, his claws twitching with unstable energy. Vel followed, his armor steaming with embers, then Malik, sword half-drawn as if already mid-war. Raz stepped out with his sickle resting on his shoulder, unmoved by the world. Biro drifted up like vapor, eyes golden slits, face unreadable beneath his mask. Then One—silent, poised, eternal.
Behind them, the hollows.
Hundreds of thousands.
Lining the fields like monuments of despair. Faceless, soulless. Each one breathing only because Dark willed it.
Cron's jaw tightened as he looked across the horizon of darkness.
Cron: ...Shadow Magic?
Dark nodded once. Slow.
Cron: Awakened, then.
Dark: More than that.
Cron didn't respond right away.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he vanished.
And reappeared directly in front of Dark.
The wind cracked behind the motion, a sonic distortion trailing him as he moved. Dark didn't even register the step. Didn't see the approach.
He only felt the uppercut.
It was devastating.
Cron's fist met his jaw with the force of a reality rupture. Dark's head snapped skyward, chin lifted toward the heavens as his body lifted off the ground. For a moment, time halted. A crackle of displaced gravity rippled around them.
Dark hung mid-air for a blink—
Then dropped.
Stumbled.
Caught himself.
Blood ran down his lip, but he didn't react to the pain.
He looked at Cron. And finally... something gave way.
His throat tightened. His eyes shimmered.
Tears fell—not like a storm, but like the first rain after drought. Quiet. Raw.
Dark: ...Please.
His voice broke.
Dark: Help me.
Dark: I've carried more than I can hold...
Cron didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and pulled Dark into him, arms wrapping around the friend who no longer knew how to ask for help.
Cron: Then let us carry it now.
Leona joined next, pressing herself into the hug from the side, holding back more tears. Tier moved in, resting his arm across Dark's back. Gilmuar followed, quieter than usual, slipping in with a hand on Dark's shoulder.
Dark: (barely speaking) I don't know what I'm doing anymore...
Dark: I was just a kid with a dream—peace, harmony, some dumb idea of saving the world...
Dark: Then I wished for strength... strength to cut down mountains with a sword...
Dark: And now... now I don't even know what the fuck I am.
Dark: I kill. I lead armies. I command shadows. I hold things I don't understand. I can't even feel things right sometimes.
He gritted his teeth, tears still sliding down his face.
Dark: Just... please don't let go.
Cron: Never.
No one said anything else.
Because in that moment, nothing needed to be said.
The strongest person they knew—the one who carried Hell on his shoulders, who stood against beings that were and are immeasurable, beings that changes everything—had finally broken.
Dark stood there, shoulders trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he refused to say aloud. Their arms held him—not as followers, not as admirers, but as family. As those who had seen the boy behind the shadow long before the world ever knew his name. The wind brushed past again, soft this time, almost reverent. The plaza around them was still, silent, like even the world had paused to let this moment breathe.
Cron didn't loosen his hold.
Tier's expression, usually cold or mocking, softened—like for once, he saw the scars beneath the strength.
Gilmuar looked off to the side, blinking hard, knuckles tight, as if beating someone to a pulp might help Dark more than anything else.
Leona... rested her head against Dark's shoulder, not saying a word, her eyes shut as if wishing time would stop right here.
Dark didn't move.
He couldn't.
It was the first time in what felt like centuries that he was allowed to collapse... and someone was there to catch him.
His voice cracked again.
Dark: I don't want to become what they tried to make me.
Cron: You won't.
Dark: I don't even know what I'm becoming anymore...
Cron pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. His voice was firm, but never cruel.
Cron: Then we'll find out together.
Dark swallowed hard.
Dark: And if I lose myself again?
Cron didn't hesitate.
Cron: Then we'll drag you back from the edge. Just like always.
Leona: (sniffling) Yeah... and if that doesn't work, we'll just beat the shit out of you.
Dark blinked, barely able to register what she said before Gilmuar chimed in.
Gilmuar: Preferably with something sharp.
Tier: Or something blunt. Depends on the day.
Cron: (shrugging) Or both. No rules anymore.
A low chuckle slipped from Dark's throat before he could stop it. Not forced. Not for them.
It just... happened.
Dark: You're all fucking insane.
Leona: And you love it.
Dark: ...I really do.
The moment cracked open like dawn through storm clouds. Not a full sunrise. Not peace. But a sliver of warmth in a world that had forgotten what warmth felt like. They weren't just hugging anymore. They were leaning on each other—scars against scars, weight against weight, none of them perfect, none of them whole. But together.
Cron pulled back, finally, clapping Dark once on the shoulder.
Cron: You're still ugly though.
Dark: And you're still short.
Cron: I'm taller than you!
Dark: ...Only when I'm dead.
Gilmuar: Okay, okay, enough dick measuring. He just came back from Hell—let the man breathe before we start calling out each other's height insecurities.
Tier: Says the guy who wears platform boots.
Gilmuar: THEY'RE STABILITY ENHANCERS—
Dark turned away, wiping his face without a word. His back straightened. That edge in his posture returned—but it wasn't loneliness this time.
It was purpose. Tempered.
He exhaled again, this time with intent.
Dark: I saw something while I was there.
Cron: In Hell?
Dark nodded slowly.
Dark: Not just flames and monsters. I saw... wrongness. Decay. Systems that shouldn't exist. Beings that weren't part of any natural order. Things that shouldn't have survived.
Tier: Sounds like any day in this timeline.
Dark: No, this was different. It wasn't just Hell being Hell.
Dark: It was infected.
His tone shifted.
Dark: Something's crawling underneath existence.
The jokes faded.
Leona's eyes narrowed. Gilmuar stopped fidgeting. Cron tilted his head, processing.
Cron: Infection?
Dark: There were roots. Not literal ones. But... metaphysical. Some deeper force wrapped around everything. Hell, Earth, even the edges of the veil. I felt it in my Domain World too. Like something is... buried beneath reality.
A silence fell. He didn't need to convince them. Not anymore. The look in his eyes said more than enough.
Cron: ...So what now?
Dark looked forward. Toward the skyline. Toward the academy tower piercing the clouds. The temple in the distance. The sea of cherry blossoms waiting just beyond the streets.
Dark: I don't know what it is yet.
Dark: But I'm going to find it.
Dark: And then I'm going to kill it.
The others didn't question it.
Cron: Then we're coming too.
Gilmuar: If it bleeds, it can cry. And if it cries, I can probably stab it.
Tier: What's the name of this infected mess?
Dark's eyes glinted faintly.
Dark: I don't know yet.
Dark: But we'll call it what it is.
Dark: A mistake.
He stepped forward, leaving the cracked stone plaza behind, his boots echoing against the road ahead. His friends followed. Not behind him, but beside him.
To Be Continued....
End Of Arc 5 Chapter 22