The city was no longer a place. It was a presence. Heavy, suffocating, alive in the way a rotting thing can still crawl. Its ruins didn't just stand; they loomed, crooked and leaning, pressing in like slow-closing jaws. The towers weren't just collapsed— they were broken spines, vertebrae scattered across the streets in the form of shattered concrete, tangled rebar jutting like rusted ribs. Chunks of the past were everywhere: a child's toy, cracked and caked with grime, a photo torn in half, its corners curling from dampness; the forgotten evidence of people who had once breathed here.
And yet, nothing breathed now.
No birds, no rats, not even the buzz of flies. Only the wind, thin and sharp, whispered as it slithered through hollow windows and fractured doorframes. It made the silence louder, more real. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums until you hear your heartbeat, faint and struggling.
The boy walked beneath this weight, but there was no resistance left in him. He moved like a shadow, dragging itself along the contours of the ruined streets. His bare feet shuffled, soles shredded and raw, leaving faint smudges of blood behind him, but he didn't bother looking back. The dirt was soft, layered thick over the asphalt like fine ash, swallowing his prints as soon as they were made. The ground breathed, just barely, dust rising and falling with the faint rhythm of the wind, as if the city itself exhaled in slow, dying gasps.
The sky didn't watch. It sagged above, swollen and sickly, the sun reduced to a pale smear behind yellow-gray clouds. Light fell without direction, pooling coldly in the cracks, skipping the boy entirely, as if he had become part of the ruin. The air tasted like metal, like licking the inside of an old pipe, bitter and stale, but he still swallowed it down because there was nothing else to drink. His throat was sandpaper. His lips had split, some parts so dry they peeled away without protest. When he blinked, grit scratched against his eyes. Even tears didn't bother trying.
The cloth on his arm, stiff with dried blood and soot, trembled in the wind, threads snapping one by one until it slithered away like a serpent, carried down the empty street. Beneath it, the wound pulsed. A deep, jagged gash, edges darkened, angry and swollen, but the blood, sluggish now, barely tried to escape. It clung to his skin in lazy rivulets, mixing with dirt until it became something else entirely, a color no one had ever bothered to name. His fingers twitched, uselessly, as if remembering they should care. They didn't.
Above him, a rusted sign swayed. Creeeaaak. The noise cut through the stillness like a blade, sharp, violent— but nothing followed it. Just the empty click of the sign rocking back. Then the quiet again. The unbearable, crawling quiet that felt like it was peeling the skin off sound itself.
His stomach wasn't growling anymore. Hunger had transformed. It was hollow now, an empty space he carried like a second ribcage. No sharp pangs, just a constant absence. His arms hung limply at his sides. His legs ached with every step, but there was no thought of stopping. Not out of resolve — just inertia. There was no plan. No destination. Only the next step, and the next, and the next, swallowed immediately by the endless sprawl of the forsaken city.
Time itself had begun to feel wrong. Hours bled together. Days felt like years. Or maybe it had only been hours. Maybe this was still the first day. The boy could no longer tell. He could no longer care.
And yet, he walked. Past the toothless mouths of empty buildings, past the hollow sockets of shattered windows, past the rusted bones of a world that had nothing left for him.
The city, vast and unsympathetic, simply watched without watching. Its silence pressed closer. It seeped beneath skin and bone, into the blood. Not cruel. Not kind. Just there.
And so was he.
Walking. Breathing. Barely.
His teeth clenched tight, grinding against each other until a faint metallic taste touched his tongue. His breath hissed out, shaky, uneven. Pain swirled in his arm like molten iron, each pulse of his heartbeat hammering against the raw wound. This is a pain in the ass... The words stumbled silently inside his head, heavy with frustration, heavier with betrayal. His throat tightened, and without realizing it, his jaw trembled. How could they... The thought pressed harder, sharper than even the wound itself. How could they abandon me? The words rang emptily inside him, echoing off hollow walls where trust used to live.
Ahead, partially cloaked beneath the overgrowth of dead vines and dust-choked branches, stood a house. Not grand— yet something about it demanded attention. It had two levels, yet from the front, it felt enormous, its looming facade towering over the broken street like a forgotten giant. But from the side, its width shrunk, compact, strange, like the house itself was bending under the weight of some unseen burden. The paint had peeled into curling strips, its color long devoured by weather and time, leaving behind a patchwork of faded grays and muted browns. Yet, against all logic, it still stood.
Desperation whispered. Hunger growled. The boy moved toward it.
He slipped through the doorway, which hung slightly off its hinges, groaning faintly as if protesting his entrance. Inside, the air was thicker— musky, stale, heavy with the scent of rotting wood and mold. The light outside barely crept in, yet enough of it spilled through the cracked windows to reveal the ruin within. Broken chairs lay like toppled corpses, tables were half-consumed by decay, and shelves sagged under the weight of dust and debris. Nothing useful. Only fragments. Only garbage. His eyes darted from corner to corner, hungry, hopeful. That hope, though, was fragile— a flickering candle on the verge of death. Yet it burned.
In that moment, his eyes were alive. If anyone had seen them, they would have seen more than hope— they would have seen the eyes of someone starving to live. Willing to crawl through dirt, to bleed more, to beg the bones of the earth itself if it meant finding even a scrap of bread. They would have seen the fire behind his gaze, refusing to die out, however small.
But there was nothing. Only the silence, mocking. Only ruined things that could offer no kindness.
He tipped his head upward. The stairs stood crooked, warped, but intact enough to hold him— maybe. Without hesitation, he climbed. His muscles screamed. His breath caught in his throat. The air thickened further as he ascended, every step creaking, complaining beneath his weight. At the top, the second floor yawned open into a pit of pitch-black. The boy hesitated, fingers curling slightly against the frame. He could feel his heartbeat, not only in his chest but in the wound, in his legs, in his temples. Fear was waiting in the dark, but so was the hope of survival.
Maybe there's some food... Maybe just a little... If I don't do this, I'll die anyway. The voice in his head sounded smaller than before. Yet, with a sharp exhale, he pushed forward.
The first step into the dark felt like crossing into another world. Cold, empty, absolute. He barely had time to notice the silence before it was interrupted.
Crack.
His eyes widened. The sound didn't echo. It came from beneath him.
Then— nothing to catch him.
The floor crumbled without a fight. His body dropped like dead weight, gravity yanking him into the cold mouth of the house. He didn't even have time to scream. A cloud of dust exploded upward as rotten boards and splinters chased him down. His body struck the floor below with a brutal thud, knocking the breath from his lungs.
But it wasn't over.
A colossal slab of concrete— part of the house's ruined skeleton— gave way a heartbeat later. It crashed down with a noise so deep and raw it seemed to shake the very air.
And when it was over— silence again.
He gasped. His vision spun wildly. Pain stabbed into him like white-hot needles. He tried to sit up, but he couldn't. Something was wrong.
His eyes dropped, searching.
His leg— his left leg— was pinned beneath the concrete. Crushed flat. Bones shattered beyond recognition. Flesh split, twisted, soaked dark with blood, dirt, and dust. The leg didn't even look like his leg anymore.
I... I can't feel my leg... The thought barely formed, confused. He blinked, hoping it was a trick, hoping it would fade.
But the sight stayed.
The boy's breath hitched. His heart raced unevenly. Tears welled without permission, spilling down grime-streaked cheeks. He shook his head, mumbling broken words as if denial could reverse it. His hands scrabbled weakly at the concrete, fingers bleeding against the rough surface.
Nothing.
The weight was absolute. Cold. Immovable.
He sobbed, quiet at first, then louder, until it echoed faintly through the ruined house like a song nobody wanted to hear. His cries were not for help— there was no one left to hear them— but simply the breaking of a dam. The cold truth seeped through him faster than the blood beneath the stone.
There was no escape. There would be no help. Only the slow approach of whatever came next.
And so, beneath the fractured bones of the house, the boy waited. Breathing. Crying. I listened for footsteps that would never come.
Waiting for the angel. Of death.
Suddenly, the silence cracked.
A sharp whoosh, a metallic hiss— unmistakable, terrifying. The sound of a sword cutting through space, but space does not scream. It felt too near, too real. The boy's head snapped toward the source. He didn't crawl. He didn't rise. He didn't even flinch beyond the subtle tilt of his neck. His body, pinned, drained, and defeated, only allowed his head to turn— slowly, like rusted gears forcing themselves into motion. His gaze combed the room, searching the haze and shadows for what had broken the silence.
Then he saw it.
A figure emerged, tall— impossibly tall— each step deliberate, like it didn't simply walk but claimed the space it stepped into. The shadows warped around it, refusing to touch it directly, bending shyly away. With every slow stride, an invisible pressure swelled. The air thickened, heavy like wet cloth pressing against the skin, pressing into the chest. His breath stilled without permission. His thoughts froze. His blood itself seemed to forget to flow.
And then, as the figure came close enough, it stopped.
Now, the boy could see.
The armor was not just armor— it was history, weight, and purpose. Layer upon layer clung to the figure, forged not merely for war but for the burden of something far older and far darker. Its ivory pauldrons curved like the worn edges of ancient bones, their surfaces dulled by time, yet veins of gold ran through them— not decoration, but symbols, lines, like the veins of a dying leaf. Down his arms, heavy plates were bound by crimson cords, the knots deliberate and masterfully tied, as if sealing something dangerous beneath.
Beneath the metal, deep violet fabric clung tight. Every thread whispered of an artisan's hand, delicate gold embroidery tracing swirling, alien patterns that neither time nor ruin could fade. The sash— a band of crimson— was wound tightly around the figure's core, holding more than just the armor together. Talismans, small charms, and tiny metallic trinkets swung gently with each breath the figure took. Their faint, hollow clinking filled the silence like the murmurs of restless spirits.
His legs were wrapped in pleated hakama, thick but graceful, patterned with symmetrical golden motifs that told no story the boy could recognize. Gilded greaves, aged but polished, protected his shins, etched faintly with markings— runes or letters, perhaps — long softened by time. Even the sandals, wooden and worn, reinforced by intricately woven straps, whispered of a culture that had long since bled out.
But it wasn't the clothing that paralyzed the boy.
It was the weapons.
In the figure's left hand, a sword, if it could still be called that, jagged and broken as if it had been torn from the earth itself. Its uneven edges dripped with a violet glow, the color sickly, poisonous. The veins of pulsing energy running along the blade seemed alive, shifting, creeping along the metal like something organic— like it wanted to move. The leather wrapping the hilt was frayed and aged, soaked with sweat and something darker. There were no insignias, no crests. Only weight. Only the terrible truth that this was a weapon that had seen— and caused— horrors.
On the right, a spear. Tall, elegant, but terrifying in its restraint. Its shaft gleamed like forged starlight, spiraling engravings climbing its length, their meanings locked beyond memory. The spearhead tapered into a point so sharp, so precise, it seemed to hum with quiet threat. The metal itself glowed faintly, gold and steady— as if containing something that did not wish to be contained. While the sword rotted, the spear commanded.
The boy couldn't move. Not even if he wanted to.
His chest tightened. His breath quickened. His eyes locked onto the figure's hollow presence, wide with disbelief and terror. No words. No cries. Only silence — the silence of one who knows they are seen, and seen by something greater.
And yet, there was no violence. Not yet.
The figure stood still, watching.
Then, without warning, the boy's sight faltered. The edges of the world softened. His vision blurred like frost creeping along glass. The silence was no longer silence — it was underwater. Distant. Muffled. As if he was sinking, faster and faster.
Oh no… This shouldn't…
The boy's consciousness folded inward. Darkness flooded his mind, wrapping itself around him like the chill of a long-forgotten tomb. Just before everything slipped away completely, just before the world abandoned him to nothingness, he saw it:
The figure's hand, armored and massive, reaches towards him. Not striking. Not yet.
Perhaps to help. To end.
The boy's body slumped, eyes rolling back as the world vanished, leaving only the hand reaching through the void.
And then, nothing.
Then—
His eyes shoot open. The world was still. Frozen. Cold.
He lay flat upon an unforgiving slab of stone — not smooth, but coarse and cracked, each jagged edge biting into his skin. The floor's chill seeped into him like a living thing, curling around his bones, climbing up his spine. He could feel every heartbeat echo against the stone. Slowly, he blinked, the fog in his vision parting to reveal the bitter truth.
It's… cold. His thoughts stuttered. Where am I?
And then — like a blade sliding silently across the throat of memory — it struck him.
The man.
His breath caught. His pulse quickened. He spun his head left, then right, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from his crushed leg. His eyes flicked through the dim space, desperate, frantic.
And there. There he was.
Sitting in silence. Watching.
The man— no, the towering figure— loomed from the shadows, perched upon a small wooden chair that groaned beneath the absurd contrast of his sheer size. The chair, too small, seemed like a relic plucked from a child's room, dwarfed by the immensity of the armored man who used it. Yet the chair remained intact, carrying the burden without breaking, much like everything else in the room that dared not defy him.
The figure's sharp gaze pierced through space, locking onto the boy with terrifying precision. His eyes were steady. Silent. The kind of stare that didn't simply look but understood. The weight of it slid under the boy's skin, pressing against his ribs. His shoulders tensed instinctively, his heart hammering against his chest.
He's… so big.What will he do to me?
The thought flickered like a dying candle. Yet outwardly, the boy remained still, face stoic, lips pressed tight— a child pretending not to fear the dark.
Then, without effort, the man rose.
His towering form unfolded, the sheer act of standing enough to send the chair skidding backward with a hollow scrape, tumbling several feet away as if swatted by an invisible hand.
The boy could only watch.
Standing tall now, the man gave a slight, deliberate nod— not friendly, not hostile, something in between, something far older. His voice followed, deep but not monstrous, measured yet holding some subtle, undeniable charm. A voice that seemed to cradle the boy's name even if it hadn't yet spoken it.
"You have returned alive... that is enough," the man said.
No joy, no malice— only truth.
"Although a long time has passed, it seems you still have the same eyes as before."
His words were not a greeting. Not a question. Simply... a fact.
A fact draped with the weight of countless stories left unsaid.
The boy's breath trembled. He tried to rise, planting both hands against the stone, but his leg betrayed him. Pain flared, white-hot and unbearable. He collapsed back, panting. His eyes slid downward, falling upon his limp.
Wounded. Crushed. Mangled beyond repair.
No... no... His mind screamed in silence. He wanted to cry— truly cry— but no tears came. Only the sting remained. Only fear.
And the man?
The man simply smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just... satisfied.
"You should just lie down," he said calmly, the corner of his mouth curling into something faint— something unreadable.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The wind outside stirred, slipping through the broken walls, shifting the dust between them. It almost whispered.
"And yet..." the man continued, voice lowering to a near whisper, "you still hesitate before speaking to me."
He tilted his head slightly, like one observing a small, frightened animal, adjusting his expression into something softer, less sharp. It worked. The suffocating tension loosened by a thread.
"Relax your shoulders."
A pause.
"It's not like you're going to hell today." His words came with a faint, almost mischievous smile, carefully controlled so as not to frighten the boy further.
Then—
"Oi, Shingen! Come out!"
A sharp voice barked from outside, muffled but clear, echoing through the hollow structure. A human voice. Familiar. Male. Not as heavy as the armored man's, but carrying the same accent as the boy's— same homeland, same roots.
The boy's stomach sank.
I know that voice.
Yet, confusion flooded him.
Why here?
Why now?
What was this?
The man— Shingen, as the voice called him— didn't so much as flinch. He calmly reached for the weapons leaning against the stone beside him. His hand, wrapped in plated gauntlets, brushed gently over the jagged sword first but passed it in favor of the golden spear, lifting it with reverence.
Shingen glanced down at the boy one last time, eyes soft, distant.
"It's time for me to go," he said.
His voice, this time, felt lighter. Regretful.
"Stay alive... and one day," he added, turning toward the exit, spear in hand, "I will meet you again."
His shadow vanished beyond the threshold. And with it, the warmth. And with it, perhaps... hope.
Suddenly, Shingen vanished.
Not like a person walking away— but like smoke devoured by the wind. He left no sound, no afterimage, not even a shift in the dust on the floor. It was as if he had never stood there to begin with.
The boy barely had a second to process before—
"Hey, I forgot to give you this."
The voice, calm yet sharp as a blade, cut through the silence right behind him.
His entire body seized.
He hadn't heard a single step. Not a breath. Not the weight of armor clattering. Nothing.
His heartbeat hammered as he slowly turned his head, stiff and mechanical.
Shingen crouched in a deep squat, relaxed yet impossibly present— like a beast watching prey. One arm rested lazily on his knee while the other dangled loosely, fingers curling slightly as if plucking unseen threads in the air. His eyes glinted faintly under the shadow of his helm, expression unreadable, posture unreadable, intent unreadable.
The boy's throat dried instantly.
Between Shingen's fingers, a small fragment hovered. It shimmered faintly, a shard of fractured moonlight. But as the boy stared, something was wrong. The glow wasn't still— it moved, like something inside it was alive. Wisps spiraled and twisted behind the surface like trapped spirits.
"I found this while carrying you," Shingen said casually. "It caught my eye. It craves attention, doesn't it?"
The word craves made the boy's skin crawl.
Shingen tilted his head. "It has no use for me. So, if anything happens... take care of it."
His hand lifted without thought, without permission. His instincts shrieked for him to stop, to recoil— yet something unseen, like invisible strings of fate, pulled him forward, inch by inch, toward the impossible.
The moment his fingers touched the fragment, it collapsed.
No, not collapsed— peeled. Like reality itself folded open. The fragment liquefied into slithering tendrils of silver and violet light, which lunged into his veins with horrifying speed.
He gasped—
Stumbled—
Clawed at his arm—
It was too late.
The glowing veins pulsed violently beneath his skin, winding from his fingertips up through his arm, burning, freezing, and numbing all at once. His body arched in shock, yet he couldn't scream. Only his eyes widened, trembling, as if he were being filled with something he could not comprehend.
The markings on his skin flickered wildly, then faded, vanishing deep inside him.
Gone.
The fragment was gone. No, it was inside him.
He fell to his knees, chest heaving.
Shingen stood watching, unreadable. A brief flicker of surprise crossed his features, but only for a heartbeat.
"I didn't know you could do that," Shingen chuckled darkly. His voice now carried something heavier— like he expected this but pretended he didn't.
The boy clutched his wrist, shaking. "W-What… what was that?!" His voice cracked, eyes darting wildly, searching for an answer— from Shingen, from the room, from anything.
Shingen just turned away.
"You'll understand eventually."
Without another word, he disappeared again— no ripple, no breeze, not even dust displaced.
And then—
"Congratulations."
The boy froze.
That voice...
It wasn't Shingen. It wasn't even human. It slithered inside his head— smooth, mechanical, yet hollow, like the echo of a machine pretending to feel.
The boy's pulse skyrocketed. His head whipped around. Nothing.
His hand trembled as a faint glow began to manifest in the air.
It wasn't a glow. It was a screen.
A floating, translucent panel with words scrawling themselves into existence— slowly, deliberately — as if something beyond the veil was watching him.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
His heart dropped. His breath grew ragged.
[INHERITANCE DETECTED]
[FRAGMENT ABSORBED: ???]
His heels scraped against the rough concrete, scrambling for distance as the screen floated closer, shifting with a fluid, alien rhythm— less a machine, more a predator. The air grew thick, every breath shallow and sharp.
[Welcome to the Trial.]
His hands clawed at the ground. His breathing turned shallow.
"N-no, no, what is this?!" He shook his head violently, expecting it to vanish.
It remained. Silent. Patient.
And deep down— beyond the panic, beyond the fear—the boy felt it. The raw, suffocating power of something far greater than himself, pulling him like a puppet on strings.
Something had just noticed him.
And it was watching.
To his surprise, the boy caught a glimpse of Shingen standing among a group of strangers. They weren't ordinary people— that much was clear. Their weapons gleamed with enchantments, their stances trained and sharpened, and their eyes— though wary— held purpose. Among them were a tall man with blazing red hair, a quiet priestess gripping a glowing staff, and a beast-like warrior nearly as tall as Shingen himself.
It looked like the start of something serious.
But there he was, Shingen, right in the middle— grinning.
Not politely. Not nervously.
He was smiling— teeth and all— like a child caught off guard by a birthday party. Yet, nothing about this resembled a celebration, except for the twisted joy shimmering in his wide eyes.
The boy blinked, utterly baffled. What is he doing out there?
He leaned closer, forehead resting on the window frame, his voice just a whisper. "He's not even trying to hide it…"
And then— Shingen disappeared.
No wind. No flash. Just gone.
Gasps erupted. The priestess recoiled, stumbling back. The red-haired warrior shouted something the boy couldn't hear, raising his blade just as a shockwave exploded through the group.
SLASH!
The boy jumped back as the sound hit him— a slicing roar that felt like it had weight. Dust lifted in slow spirals from the ground as one of the warriors was launched backward, his sword snapping in half mid-air before he even landed.
Another spell lit up— a circular glyph forming above the priestess— but before she could even finish her chant, Shingen appeared behind her, hand already reaching for her shoulder.
She shrieked— but not from pain.
From knowing.
Knowing she wouldn't finish the incantation in time.
The boy watched, frozen, as her spell fizzled out into scattered sparks and her knees buckled under her.
The red-haired warrior charged in with a furious scream, flames swirling around his blade, eyes burning with vengeance. Shingen turned his head lazily. As if he were curious.
Then— clash.
The two met— blade against spear— and for the briefest heartbeat, the world stood still. Sparks bloomed like fleeting stars, the earth beneath them splintering under the sheer force. It seemed, for an instant, like a clash of equals.
But then, in just two seconds, the illusion shattered.
On the third second, something shifted.
Shingen's body twisted, smooth and unnatural, like a marionette finding the right angle. With a sudden pivot, his heel crashed into the red-haired warrior's gut. The impact was sickening— a wet, crunching sound echoed across the ruined field. The warrior lifted off the ground, eyes wide in horror, limbs flailing like a puppet with its strings cut.
Before gravity could reclaim him, Shingen's spear followed— not with its sharpened point, but with the blunt, merciless back-end. It connected with the warrior's spine with a sharp crack, folding him in half mid-air, and then—
He slammed into the dirt with the force of a meteor. The ground ruptured outward, dust and fragments of earth exploding into the air as if the world itself recoiled from the violence.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then the dust cleared, revealing the warrior crumpled in the crater, limbs twitching, mouth agape but silent.
The ground shattered, and a crater formed where he landed. He didn't move.
Another warrior roared and charged from behind, twin daggers shimmering with pale, icy light— maybe frost magic— and he was fast. Fast enough that most wouldn't have seen him coming.
But Shingen didn't turn.
He sidestepped as if bored, dragging the spear lazily across the ground. Its edge lifted just enough, and the rushing warrior impaled himself mid-stride. No scream, no defiance — only the sharp gasp of air fleeing collapsing lungs. His body slumped, skidding lifelessly through the dirt.
Silence.
Except for the trembling breath of the priestess standing just beyond the carnage atop the remnants of a shattered wall.
Her lips quivered as she wove fragile runes into the air. Pale golden strands of magic stretched desperately toward the fallen warrior, flickering like a dying flame.
Shingen's gaze, slow and deliberate, turned to her.
Not hatred. Not anger. Something worse. Curiosity.
"You're wasting your strength," he murmured, almost gently.
The words fell like lead, heavy and inescapable.
The priestess flinched but stubbornly pressed on. The light faltered, but she forced it back to life, her hands shaking, teeth clenched, tears streaking down her dirt-smeared face.
Yet, Shingen took another step forward.
The earth beneath him shuddered as if the ground itself feared to hold him.
"You know it won't change anything," he continued, softer now. His voice sounded almost disappointed, like someone watching a child ruin a precious toy. "But you can't help yourself, can you?"
The glow from the healing magic sputtered again. Not because her spell was failing— but because her will was.
The priestess felt it. Deep down. Hopelessness.
Like a slow, cold hand wrapping around her heart.
And Shingen smiled. But it wasn't cruel.
The beastly warrior lunged next— not with a mere weapon, but with his bare hands twisted into monstrous claws, each finger elongated by an aura of concentrated force. It wasn't just energy— it was something more sinister, almost alive. The claws shimmered with a dark crimson glow, extending several meters ahead of his actual fists, carving trenches into the ground with every step.
The sheer pressure of his presence warped the air, forcing the bystanders to their knees as if gravity itself had thickened.
His roar wasn't just sound— it was a vibration, a pulse that rattled bones and shattered what remained of the stained-glass windows behind the boy.
And yet— Shingen moved faster.
A blur of black and red streaked forward. The beast's claws swiped, severing air, stone, and steel— but not Shingen.
He stepped inside the warrior's range as if the lethal aura meant nothing to him. His spear barely rose, but when it did, it wasn't to defend— it was to punish. He pivoted and with one precise sweep, shattered the aura claws at their source. The energy cracked like broken glass, the fragments dispersing into sparks.
The beast staggered, eyes wide.
Shingen didn't stop.
His spear's shaft slammed into the warrior's gut, forcing the air and life out of him. The creature barely had time to gasp before Shingen dragged the spear upward, tearing through flesh and energy alike.
The hulking warrior collapsed in a grotesque heap, twitching in the dirt.
Shingen's eyes, however, weren't on him.
They were on the priestess— far behind, trembling, still desperately weaving fragile healing magic. Her lips trembled. Her light barely reached anyone. And yet she tried.
Shingen tilted his head.
Why? Why still try?
For a fleeting moment, his gaze softened— not out of mercy, but curiosity.
"Still wasting your strength?" his voice murmured past the wind like a breath against her ear. "Is it for them… or yourself?"
But before she could answer— before her mind could even piece together the weight behind his words— Shingen was already gone, stepping without hesitation into the next clash.
All that remained was the echo of his voice and the crushing realization that perhaps, all along, it wasn't them he pitied— but her.
And the dread of knowing... he might have been right.
The priestess, eyes wide, still tried to complete a summoning, tears now welling in her eyes. A pillar of light started to rise from beneath her.
The boy thought, Run. Just run.
Shingen stepped through the light as if it were nothing at all. To him, it wasn't.
He reached out— slow, unfeeling— and pressed a single finger against her brow.
There was no pain. No violence. Just a quiet severing.
She dropped, eyes wide for a fleeting second before fading into unconsciousness, like a candle snuffed out mid-prayer.
Four down.
Eight left— all panting, trembling, faces pale.
The red-haired warrior had somehow gotten back up, face bloodied, holding a broken blade. He looked around, chest heaving. "We underestimated you… we—"
Shingen vanished again. A blur.
The sound came— shrill, sharp— like a blade carving through thunder.
Then, silence.
A warrior was flung across the air, head severed, spinning like a broken wheel, before the body thudded to the earth.
It didn't twitch. It didn't bleed. It simply... stopped. As if life itself had been denied.
The red-haired man stood still, sword shaking in his hand. He muttered, "We were supposed to win…"
The boy, watching it all, whispered the same thing to himself. This… wasn't a fight.
Shingen reappeared slowly this time, walking through smoke and rising dust. His boots echoed— no rush, no threat— just calm. His eyes glowed faintly, and the smirk on his lips hadn't faded one bit.
The red-haired warrior fell to his knees.
"I thought… we could hold you off…"
His red hair began to darken, as if drained of flame, turning black strand by strand. He looked down at his reflection in a puddle of blood and dirt.
"We're lucky to be alive," he muttered.
Then came the beast again— barely breathing, a ruin of torn muscle and shattered bone — yet still he moved. He did not crawl like a broken man. He dragged himself like a warrior too proud to accept defeat, his claws gouging trenches in the dirt as if the earth itself should make way for him. Blood poured freely from his mouth, yet he clenched his teeth, refusing to show weakness.
He reached for Shingen's leg— not begging, not pleading— but gripping it with the defiance of a warrior who refused to die without leaving a mark. His voice, hoarse and cracked, barely pushed out the words.
"Not… yet," he snarled, eyes blazing. "I will not die… beneath you."
Shingen's gaze dropped. Amusement flickered in his eyes— not mockery, but a grim sort of respect. His hand rose slowly to cover his mouth, hiding a small, knowing smirk. Yet in those golden eyes, there was no mercy.
That grin. Those eyes. Mocking. Cruel. Enjoying this too much.
"That tickles."
The priestess stirred, eyes fluttering open to the cold horror still unfolding. Her vision blurred, but the weight in the air was undeniable— something monstrous was walking the battlefield, and she knew exactly who.
Her breath hitched. The faint memory of Shingen's finger tapping her forehead returned for a brief second. The touch had been gentle, almost kind, yet it forced her into unconsciousness like swatting a fly.
The priestess's trembling hands barely managed to weave the last sigils into the air. The ground rumbled faintly beneath her as if the world itself feared what was about to happen. Cracks split open beneath her feet, golden veins of radiant light spilling out like molten divinity, etching a sacred summoning circle with frantic urgency.
The glow it emitted was unlike anything so far— not calm, not gentle, but desperate, strained, as if the heavens themselves were unsure if they should be interfering.
Her lips quivered as she tried to hold the chant steady, eyes wide with both terror and determination. Sweat mixed with tears as she forced herself to stand, clutching her staff with white-knuckled fingers.
The circle pulsed.
For the first time, even Shingen paused. His golden eyes slid toward her— not in fear, but in mild curiosity, like a beast watching a wounded animal try to bite back. His amusement deepened.
Yet still, the priestess pushed through.
"By the names forgotten," she gasped, voice breaking, " by the pact unbroken... grant me strength."
The circle flared violently. The battlefield fell into a heavy silence— not the stillness of peace, but the suffocating pause before a storm.
The boy's eyes widened. He wasn't well-versed in magic— barely knew the basics taught in village tales— but even he could tell this wasn't right.
The air thickened like wet ash, and the golden veins beneath the priestess's feet throbbed with a light that looked far too alive. This wasn't just another spell. This wasn't the typical warmth of healing magic or the defensive charms used in shrines.
This was something older. Something deeper. Something that should've stayed forgotten.
The sigils she traced didn't shimmer— they pulsed, twitched, like they were resisting her, or worse, welcoming her.
And when the priestess uttered the final words, the boy could swear he heard voices— not hers, but many— whispering beneath the earth.
A distant chime rang— not a mere sound, but a tremor in reality itself. It was not the kind of chime that one hears but the kind one feels deep in the marrow, echoing through bones like an old bell tolling for a funeral long forgotten. The battlefield did not shift immediately. It hesitated, like the breath before a scream. The wind, once wild and chaotic from the clash of warriors, found itself caught mid-motion, frozen like a painting trapped between brushstrokes.
From the fractured soil, littered with the debris of shattered weapons and crumbling earth, something began to rise. Slowly, as if time itself strained to lift it. Not a beast, not a man — but a shape that defied simple recognition. A towering figure, cloaked not in mere armor, but in radiance itself. Its gilded plates were not hammered metal but light solidified, bending the world around it. Each movement, each inch it ascended, seemed to peel the color from the surroundings, draining everything into a monochrome silence. The soil beneath its feet blackened, not from corruption, but overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the thing.
The warriors present, even those near death, turned their heads not in hope, but in involuntary reverence. Even their injuries forgot to bleed for a moment. The red-haired warrior, who moments ago had roared with unshakable pride, whispered with cracked lips, "She actually… called it." His voice was nothing more than a breath carried by the wind, fragile, almost ashamed.
Inside the crumbling church, the boy stood, hands clutching the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles paled. He did not know what he was witnessing. Guardian? Angel? Salvation? His eyes begged for an answer, yet none came.
Then, it moved.
The wings were not wings— they were storms. Each unfurling gust warped the air, bending light and causing particles of dust to spiral like celestial orbits. There were no feathers, only streaks of burning gold, as if the creature's back had torn open the sky itself to borrow fragments of the sun. When it extended fully, every remaining fragment of glass in the boy's view trembled under the sheer weight of the unseen pressure. It was not beauty. It was truth— too real, too honest, too divine.
Yet, amidst this spectacle stood Shingen. A single figure against a manifestation of heaven. He didn't step back. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something disturbingly calm, as if recognizing an old acquaintance in a crowded room. The spear at his side barely held upright, its tip lazily carving a shallow scar into the earth with each shift of his hand.
The beast warrior, battered and bleeding from countless wounds, still refused to yield. His arms trembled, bones grinding against one another, but he forced them to work. Crawling, clawing at the earth with fingers worn down to raw flesh, he dragged himself forward. His breathing was ragged, every inhale a battle of its own— but his eyes… his eyes burned.
Not with fear. Not with despair. With pride.
Even as his ribs caved under the weight of his injuries, even as blood pooled beneath him, staining the dirt, he clenched his broken fists and slammed them against the ground. Not to attack— but to remind himself he still could. His pride howled louder than his broken voice.
"Y-You... imbecile..." His words came out between gritted teeth. His voice, barely audible, carried the weight of a mountain refusing to crumble. "You... won't survive... this time..."
And yet, as he said it, he knew it may be a lie— but his pride wouldn't let him die silent.
He reached for Shingen's leg, not for mercy, not for hope — but to defy. His cracked nails digging into Shingen's boot was the only statement he had left. I will not die crawling.
But Shingen's response was not anger, nor concern. It was a chuckle.
Not the laugh of a madman. Not the arrogance of a villain.
But something infinitely worse— familiarity. Nostalgia, perhaps. He had seen this before. More times than anyone in that clearing could fathom.
The boy's stomach turned. His knees nearly gave out, not from fear but from the unsettling realization— Shingen wasn't surprised.
Above, the angel raised its greatsword, a blade that wasn't metal but pure concept. The sky dimmed as if the heavens themselves had inhaled in anticipation. The clouds swirled like grinding gears, forming a crown of storms above the battlefield. The priestess, far too distant to intervene properly, poured every drop of remaining strength into the spell circle beneath her. Veins throbbed on her hands as she fought against the crushing weight of failure.
Then it happened.
Shingen moved.
But it wasn't movement in the sense of stepping or lunging. He arrived. He slipped through space like a thought, like a memory finally remembered. The spear rose not with effort but inevitability. And when its rusted edge met the descending celestial blade—
— The world shattered.
Not cracked. Shattered. The trees didn't sway— they folded. The earth did not tremble— it broke like brittle glass. The boy's ears didn't ring— they failed him entirely, leaving him in the deafening void of silence. And at that moment, every living being knew, without question, that they were witnessing something forbidden.
The angel, the so-called savior, was faltering. Veins of dark cracks splintered across its pristine body. It struggled to hold its stance, grinding its teeth— though whether it was out of determination or panic, no one could tell.
The priestess whispered, as if refusing the words even as they left her lips, "No…"
With nothing more than a shift of his wrist— small, almost lazy— Shingen unraveled it.
The angel did not fall. It disintegrated. It broke not like stone or steel but like a fragile illusion exposed to cold, bitter reality. The shards rained down like dead stars, vanishing before they could stain the ground.
The sacred circle fizzled into meaningless scribbles. The wind returned only to whisper the silence louder than before.
And Shingen stood there, unmoved, dust curling lazily around him.
Smiling.
The boy collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as if the air itself had grown too thick to breathe. His chest tightened painfully, eyes wide, fixated on the crumbling remnants of the angel. Shards of light— no, glass? Stars? He couldn't tell— fell like snow, vanishing before they could ever touch the ground.
He gripped the windowsill, knuckles pale.
He… broke it.
The words stumbled in his mind, heavy, confused. He broke the heavens? The boy blinked rapidly, expecting the world to correct itself, for the sky to stitch itself back together, for the angel to reform— but nothing came.
The fracture remained.
"What... was that?" he whispered to no one, voice trembling. "Who... is he?"
But deep down, the boy knew. Not the answer, but the feeling. Whatever had just happened wasn't supposed to be possible. Not by men. Not even by the gods.
And yet, there stood Shingen, casually brushing dust off his spear as if all he did was swat away a common insect.
The boy's throat went dry.
This wasn't strength. It was something else. Something worse.
The warriors stared in horror. Even the proud red-haired swordsman now seemed like a mere child lost in the dark.
One by one, their bodies slackened— not by wounds, but by pure dread.
The beast warrior still clung to Shingen's leg, but his strength failed. His grip loosened, fingers trembling. His lips quivered, desperate for words that would not come.
Shingen placed a hand on his chin as if pondering a puzzle, then knelt slightly to meet the beast's terrified eyes.
"That tickles." His voice came soft, almost affectionate.
The remaining warriors could only watch— silent, defeated, understanding now why the old tales of the "Dark Star" were whispered, not spoken aloud.
Suddenly, the air itself seemed to split— not with thunder, but with a sound so sharp and delicate it almost went unnoticed. Like brittle glass fracturing deep beneath a frozen lake. A jagged crack bloomed across the space between the corpses, pulsing faintly, not with light, but with something colder— like the glow of a dying star, sickly and wrong.
The rupture wasn't wide, barely tall enough to fit an average man.
But what stepped through made even the silence recoil.
From behind the tear, a figure emerged— calmly, deliberately— peeling back the edges of reality as though it were nothing more than damp cloth. His attire? A simple black suit. Crisp, spotless, paired with a plain gray tie. Something so banal, so human, it only made the sight worse.
But there was nothing human about the way he moved.
Each step was too steady, too smooth, as if gravity had forgotten to apply. His very presence bent the world in quiet ways— faint distortions, flickers, and unnatural stillness followed in his wake. The breeze itself halted. Dust floated midair, refusing to fall. Even the flames from shattered spells flickered weakly, as if unsure whether they should continue to burn.
The boy could only stare. Not out of bravery, but because his body refused to obey. His instincts screamed at him to run, to look away, to do anything— but all he could do was watch as this thing calmly adjusted his cuffs like an office worker clocking in for another shift.
The battlefield was already dead. Now it felt buried.
Behind the suited figure, more followed— one after another— each stepping casually through their fractures, as if the sky itself had been reduced to brittle porcelain. They came without urgency, without purpose, faces blank and distant, eyes devoid of life. They weren't just calm— they were unbothered, detached from the scene before them like museum-goers passing by a painting.
They wore variations of ordinary clothing— faded coats, simple uniforms, mismatched suits— but on each of them, something was off. Too clean. Too precise. As if their clothes had never once been touched by dirt or wind. Their very presence seemed to drain the world of color, leaving the once-vibrant battlefield dull and washed-out.
Shingen's expression twitched.
Not in fear. Not even in caution.
His lopsided grin, so often hiding amusement or mockery, faltered for a heartbeat... then bloomed wider, fuller. His teeth showed. His eyes lit up with the kind of joy only found in twisted surprises. This wasn't a smirk— this was genuine. A real, Duchenne smile that reached his eyes.
Not because he feared them. But because he welcomed them.
The boy, watching from afar, didn't understand— couldn't understand. His stomach sank as he realized Shingen wasn't concerned, wasn't defensive, wasn't plotting to escape.
The boy felt it before he saw it— a stillness, suffocating and absolute. The wind died. The broken bodies strewn across the field no longer bled, their wounds refusing to flow as if the blood itself refused to move under whatever presence was drawing near. The distant embers of spells that once crackled were now frozen mid-air, flickering but no longer growing.
Even Shingen's own shadow twitched unnaturally beneath him— elongating, contorting against the laws of light, as if something deep below was pulling at it.
A wet, dragging noise began. The sound of flesh? Or perhaps mud being torn apart. Yet there was no mud. Only concrete and broken soil. The boy's stomach turned as he noticed the bodies nearby— fingers twitching, jaws distorting, lifeless corpses writhing with the faintest of spasms.
And then, cutting cleanly through the suffocating silence, came the suited man.
He adjusted his tie, stepping casually from a jagged slit that hadn't existed a moment ago, as if the world had reluctantly opened a door it didn't want to.
"I apologize for the intrusion, Shingen," the man said, voice unnervingly polite, footsteps not echoing but thudding wetly on the ground. His words barely carried across the field, yet every ear heard them. "But I must ask you to understand—"
He stopped, head tilting.
Shingen's face was no longer grinning.
It was contorting— not in fear— but into a crooked, almost predatory gratification, like a wolf who had finally cornered something interesting.
"—your mere existence," the suited man continued, eyes narrowing like cracked glass, "is now considered a threat."
The boy wanted to scream. He didn't know why. His throat simply closed up.
Shingen chuckled. A quiet sound at first, then louder, twisted, the kind of laugh that made even his own distorted shadow recoil.
"Go ahead…" he murmured through sharpened teeth, eyes glinting like a predator ready to devour. "Try it. If you can."
The air tightened. The battlefield itself seemed to sink, like gravity had doubled.
And then, as if answering some cosmic command, the sky peeled open. Not like before. This wasn't a simple crack — it was a full rupture. A bleeding wound across the heavens.
No thunder. No roar. Just beams of immaculate light piercing down, shining too bright, too clean, illuminating every broken body, every trembling soul.
They weren't just here for Shingen.
They were here for all of them.
The boy could hardly keep his eyes open against the suffocating radiance. His breath hitched, every nerve screaming for him to look away. Yet behind the blinding veil, he could feel them.
Not a legion. Not an army.
Nine.
Nine descending figures— no more, no less— but the weight they carried distorted the very air. They did not fall; they lowered, untethered by gravity, their mere arrival making the ground heave with each step they didn't take.
It wasn't light they brought, but something that twisted it.
Their cloaks— regal, otherworldly— stirred without wind. Their faces were indistinct, less like people and more like memories trying to take form. Each held relics. Not weapons— but burdens. Objects worn, tarnished, marked with centuries of purpose. Symbols of punishment, not salvation.
The boy, clutching his chest, couldn't tell if it was fear or awe. They weren't here to save anyone. They were here to correct something.
The battered warriors below, hardly standing, seemed to sense it too. Their bodies trembled, but still, they rose— propped up by nothing but dread and pride, not courage.
And then there was Shingen.
He regarded them with no admiration. No anger. His lips barely curled, not even into a smirk, but something smaller— something unsettling. The kind of expression worn not by a man facing enemies but by one examining insects beneath glass.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, counting.
"One... two... three..." his voice was soft, amused, though amusement wasn't the right word— it was closer to satisfaction. "Two Blessed among you," he noted, raising a finger to point lazily at two of the figures. His words didn't echo, but they carried as if the world strained to listen. "Yet not fully contracted. Is this how far you've fallen?"
The suited man's expression flickered. Barely a crack. But it was there.
"You won't leave this place," the man said, voice colder than the light they carried.
Shingen blinked slowly. His stance shifted, subtle, yet final. The boy felt it immediately— like watching the tide recede, knowing a wave far worse would follow. Shadows thickened behind Shingen, not like smoke, but like a second skin peeling free, curling beneath his feet, claws waiting.
There was no battle cry. No grand declaration.
Only silence. And in that silence, every witness understood:
He wasn't preparing to defend. He was preparing to end.
And the boy— knees buckling, heart clawing against his ribs— could only watch, paralyzed.
This wasn't a battle. This was a massacre.
Shingen stood alone on the endless grid, yet he looked anything but alone. His body contorted backward, the deep arc of his spine resembling a puppet caught mid-pull by a cruel and invisible hand. His head flung back, exposing the stretched tendons of his neck like drawn wires, veins bulging, pulsing against paper-thin skin. His arms, limp but trembling, hung loosely, fingers curling and uncurling with eerie patience, like something inside was testing them.
His chest swelled unnaturally— ribcage visibly expanding— not with breath, but as if drawing in something unseen and rancid. The boy couldn't hear it, but he felt it. Like a thousand whispers pressed against the inside of his skull, begging to be let in.
The ground itself seemed to recoil. The grid flickered as if trying to reject Shingen's very presence.
Then, with a wet, organic sound, bone erupted from his forearms— curling, twisting, splintering through skin and flesh alike. The sound was unmistakable: the rending of meat, the grinding of tendon snapping. The boy gagged. The bone wasn't clean; it dragged with it shreds of muscle and tissue as it formed armor, grotesque and jagged, growing like a parasite feeding directly on his body.
Blood traced delicate patterns down his fingers, dripping steadily, yet Shingen remained still— calm, distant, utterly serene.
Then— movement. Shingen lunged, limbs moving without warning. The nearest celestial barely turned before the spear-armored with the gore-ridden bone— pierced straight through his gut. Not stabbed— pierced, bursting open like overripe fruit. Blood fanned across the grid in a perfect crimson arc. The man didn't scream. There wasn't enough time.
Shingen flung him aside as if discarding waste.
The others didn't even get to retreat. The second had his lower jaw ripped clean off, teeth clattering against the grid, followed by the rest of his head crumpling inward under a savage blow. Another tried to flee, but Shingen's bone-armored heel crashed down on his leg, snapping it backward, bone tearing through flesh with an audible crunch.
Shingen tilted his head. A simple tilt. A gesture almost childlike.
The priestess, barely conscious, could only watch through half-lidded eyes as Shingen paced forward— steps slow, deliberate, dragging streaks of gore behind him like a grotesque brush painting ruin into the earth.
"Is this even the Seven?" Shingen whispered, no trace of humor now, only bitter disappointment.
The previously defeated group, too battered to fight, could only stare— frozen. Their lips parted to speak, but no sound came. Horror robbed them even of words.
Blood pooled in every crack of the grid. The boy realized with suffocating certainty—
This could be the end.
Suddenly, a clean vertical slash tore down from above. The longsword's impact cracked the grid beneath Shingen's feet, dust and fragmented light swirling violently in the wake. One of the celestial warriors— garbed in brilliance, descending like judgment itself— had forced him back.
Yet, there was no fear. No surprise.
Shingen slid effortlessly across the grid, his heels carving twin lines in the broken floor. His posture remained loose, almost lazy. As the dust curled around him, a slow, deliberate grin unfurled across his face— not a smile born of defiance but of something far more dangerous.
He lowered his arm from the half-hearted block, shifting his stance. His feet pressed deeper into the fractured earth. Without fanfare, the skeletal growth along his arms began to creep further— slow at first, but then hungrily climbing his shoulders, wrapping around his ribcage like a second skeleton, ribs folding, spiraling, creating warped shapes that should not exist. It wasn't armor— it was alive, consuming him and the battlefield alike. It was darker— far darker— than the early crimson. Not just in shade, but in essence. It wasn't the red of blood, nor the black of shadow. It was the color of emptiness, of something hollow and starved, pulled from a place beneath even death. It swallowed light itself, dulling the battlefield until even the brightest glow seemed distant, struggling.
The attackers pressed forward— heavenly warriors whose very presence felt like hymns made manifest— yet nothing in their movements could mask the growing terror in their gazes.
Shingen didn't move like a man. He moved like a blur.
Every step, every lunge shredded the air, bending it unnaturally. Bodies scattered like broken dolls. Warriors, divine or otherwise, were reduced to silhouettes thrown across the grid, crashing into the dirt with wet, brittle sounds. Limbs bent where they should not, armor dented inward with bone-cracking force. And yet— no one died. Not a single fatal blow. Just enough to silence them. Just enough to humiliate them.
Because Shingen wasn't here to kill. He was here to enjoy.
The screams blended with the metallic whine of the grid, the ground itself groaning under the weight of his rampage. And amid the chaos, he laughed. It wasn't joyous. It wasn't cruel. It was something worse.
It was honest.
Despite the tears in his flesh where bone and muscle split unnaturally to make room for his monstrous growth, despite the crimson leaking steadily down his sides, soaking the battlefield like spilled ink— the grin never faded. Not for a second.
But it wasn't merely wounds and blood. His body, twisted and stretched, hosted the birth of something monstrous. From his back and arms, bone-like structures spiraled outward, jagged and uneven, resembling the warped remains of a skeletal frame— too large, too wrong to be natural. They didn't pierce him like foreign intrusions; they belonged to him. As if his very soul sculpted them from the inside, weaving tendrils of bone, claw, and horn into a warped shell.
Despite the agony his body endured, the blood loss, the visible cracking of his form— the grin never once faded. His eyes, wide and unsettling, glinted not with madness but with something worse.
Expectation. It simply was.
Eventually, the storm of motion slowed. Not because Shingen was tired but because there was nothing left to challenge him. The battlefield, marred by broken bodies, shattered weapons, and deep scars across the earth, lay still beneath the dying light.
Shingen knelt quietly.
No flourish, no declaration. His blade rested gently against the blood-soaked grid. His skeletal armor, cracked and malformed in places, still clung to him, glistening with both blood and ichor.
The air itself seemed hesitant to move.
A copper-scented silence settled like fog.
Those few still standing— trembling, gasping, clutching torn limbs— could only watch. Their eyes, wide and glistening with disbelief, saw a warrior slouched, dripping with blood, appearing on the brink of collapse.
But Shingen?
He raised his head slowly.
And in that single, agonizing motion, those still standing saw the truth.
Not the exhaustion. Not the damage. But the grin.
The faint, unwavering smile that had never once left him. No rage, no despair, no desperation. Only that quiet, knowing curve of his lips— like he had been waiting for this very moment.
Not victory. But this.
"Strange, isn't it?"
Shingen's voice slithered through the ruin of the battlefield, soft yet unyielding, slipping into the ears of the living and the dying alike. "A warrior's final breath is supposed to be one of regret… yet I don't find yours to be."
His feet pressed into the blood-drenched ground, the thick crimson rippling like disturbed ink. Shattered bones crunched beneath his heels— some his own, most not. The battlefield was a grotesque mosaic of twisted limbs, torsos torn open like defiled scripture, entrails steaming in the cold air. The scent of iron was suffocating, thick, sweet, almost intoxicating. Shingen stood amidst the ruin as if it were nothing more than an autumn field, rustling in the wind.
"I've walked this path for so long, I don't even remember where it started. Bathed in so much blood, I stopped keeping track of whose it was— mine, theirs, does it even matter?"
He exhaled, slow, deliberate, like it was the first real breath he had taken in years. His hand pressed against his knee as he pushed himself up. Joints cracked, and skin splitting in places where dried blood had hardened too thick to let him move freely. It didn't hurt. Or maybe it did, but pain had long since lost its meaning.
His shadow loomed over the bodies at his feet, stretching, twisting, devouring. The battlefield reeked of iron and rot, but underneath it, something else— something thick and timeworn curling in the air like smoke from a dying fire.
He glanced at the carnage around him and let out a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Death. That's all it ever is, isn't it?"
He exhaled.
"And yet..."
The wind howled through the silence, tearing through the abandoned banners that hung tattered, forgotten. It should have carried whispers, the voices of the dead, the cries of those still clinging to life. But the battlefield was empty of sound. Even the heavens seemed to hold their breath.
"The winds do not call my name today."
They stood before him, the last remnants of their so-called divine might trembling, barely holding their ground. Faces once hardened with divine conviction were now twisted into something pitiful— fear. They looked at him not as a man, not as an enemy—but as something unnatural.
"You all look at me as if I have lost," he mused, stepping forward, his movement fluid, eerily graceful against the carnage beneath him. "As if this is the end." His grin stretched, slow and knowing, revealing teeth painted red. "Tell me… which of you stands victorious?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Shingen tilted his head, his voice dipping into something almost gentle, cruelly. "Which of you… can strike me down?"
Not a soul answered.
"If death does not come for me, then I will drag it here myself," he murmured, flexing his fingers. Blood dripped, thick, warm. "If my blade still sings, I will make it scream. If my heart still beats, then I will live. Again. And again. And again."
Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, he sheathed his blade. The sound of steel sliding against the scabbard cut through the silence like a whisper in a dead man's ear.
"I accept my death," he chuckled. "But death does not accept me."
A shudder ran through the battlefield.
This was not a man at death's door. This was a man death had abandoned.
He turned his back to them, stepping through the blood-soaked remains as if it were nothing more than morning frost. The bodies beneath his feet shifted— some still warm, their final moments stolen only seconds ago— yet he walked on, unbothered, untouched.
Then the boy saw them.
The faces.
Familiar. Unmistakable.
His steps faltered, if only for a breath. His gaze traced the torn, lifeless figures sprawled across the battlefield. Recognition struck him like a blade to the gut. His team. The very ones who had abandoned him.
But why?
Why were they here?
His thoughts tangled, unraveling into questions without answers. Had they come back for him? Had they fought? Had they suffered? Or was this just another illusion— another cruel trick played by the gods who had long since turned their backs on him?
He stared at their ruined bodies, at the frozen expressions carved into their faces—anguish, terror, regret.
It didn't make sense.
It didn't—
His fingers twitched, the phantom sensation of a blade's hilt pressing against his palm. The silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating. He inhaled, slow and steady, the scent of iron thick on his tongue.
And then, as if to mock the flicker of hesitation in his heart—
The wind carried a whisper. Faint. Almost lost beneath the weight of the dead.
But he heard it. A voice.
His name.
"It's nice," he murmured, as though indulging in idle thought. "To finally be fighting you— The Twelve Apostles of Constellation, The Seven Deadly Sins… ah, and let's not forget the most delicate surprise of all…"
He halted mid-step, tilting his head ever so slightly— just enough to feel the tension coil, suffocating, stretched thin like a cord on the verge of snapping. His voice curved at the edges, curling into something amused, something cruel.
"The Nine Noble Virtues," he purred. "The so-called 'Savior.'" His eyes flicked toward them, dissecting, peeling away their resolve layer by layer. "Pretending to be one, no less."
He inhaled deeply— long, slow— as if drawing something from the very marrow of the battlefield. The scent of copper, of iron, of split flesh and open wounds clung to his breath. He let it slip from his lips in a languid exhale, thick with something cloying, something that didn't quite belong in the realm of men.
"I'm flattered."
His shoulders trembled. Not from exhaustion. Not from pain. And then, he laughed.
It began as a whisper beneath the wind— a hushed chuckle, barely carried through the ruin. But it grew. It rippled, peeled open, and unraveled into something raw, something that did not sit right within a human throat. A low, guttural sound, caught somewhere between hysteria and hunger. It clawed its way through the air, burrowing under the skin, embedding itself into the bones of all who heard it.
The warriors stiffened. Their weapons trembled. Their bodies betrayed them.
Then, as if a marionette's strings had been severed, Shingen's laughter stopped.
And the silence that followed was worse.
When he finally turned, the light caught his eyes— gleaming, reflecting the carnage in something too bright, too aware, too alive. His face was carved into an expression unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.
"But it does make me wonder…"
The wind twisted around him, but it was no longer just wind. The battlefield itself seemed to shift, buckle, warp. Shadows stretched and lengthened, moving with a will of their own. Black tendrils slithered beneath his feet, coiling, writhing, growing.
"Why the hell would the three most notorious factions waste their time…"
His fingers twitched. Bone creaked, groaned, split.
"…on me?"
At first, it was the eyes. A faint glow, like embers buried beneath dying ash, flickered in the dust-laden air. Subtle. Ominous. But when they ignited— fully, violently— bathing his face in a crimson light, the world itself seemed to dim, as if recoiling from what it had summoned. His gaze, twin blood-moons, cut through the battlefield, eerily still, yet brimming with an unspoken promise.
Then it came. A sound.
Not a sound— a trumpet.
Not merely loud, not merely bright— it was absolute. A note too vast for mortal ears, a command stitched into the fabric of reality itself. It rang through marrow, through thought, through time. It did not simply echo— it unmade silence.
And then the sky cracked. Not a gentle split, not a rift— it ruptured.
The heavens shattered like a brittle mirror, jagged, gaping, hemorrhaging golden light. It poured from the wound in the sky, thick and blinding, flooding the battlefield in an overwhelming, oppressive glow. The air turned leaden. Every breath burned like swallowing molten gold. The ground trembled beneath Shingen's feet, dust quivering in reverence— or terror.
And then the world… stopped.
The wind froze mid-howl. The distant rivers no longer rushed. The embers smoldering in the wreckage simply dimmed like dying stars. Not a single heartbeat sounded, not a single breath stirred, as if existence itself dared not move beneath the weight of what descended.
A figure emerged.
Not falling. Not gliding. Descending. As if gravity itself bent in supplication.
An angel.
Too radiant, too terrible to behold. His wings unfurled— endless, suffocating, and vast beyond understanding. Feathers shimmered as if spun from sunlight and void-light entwined. His armor, a mosaic of gold, silver, and something foreign, pulsed faintly— alive— etched in celestial script that shifted, unreadable, incomprehensible. His face bore neither mercy nor wrath— only the cold, mechanical certainty of an executioner. His eyes, twin burning suns, did not simply see the battlefield.
They beheld the truth.
And beneath him— a beast.
A warhorse, colossal beyond reckoning. It did not gallop— it descended, hooves striking the air as if the heavens themselves were solid ground. Each step sent ripples through the battlefield, inscriptions glowing across its armored hide, whispering in tongues older than stars. It exhaled golden mist, and the earth recoiled as though unworthy to hold it. Its molten-gold eyes did not burn with malice.
They burned with judgment.
Then— the impossible.
The sky moved. No. Not clouds. Not light.
Wings.
An ocean of them. A sea of divinity, shifting, coiling, swallowing the sky. A legion. Unfathomable in number. Tens of thousands? Hundreds? Millions? They poured from the breach like a divine flood, armored in celestial fire, weapons forged in the crucible of creation itself.
Blades that hummed without sound. Spears that crackled with stormlight. Hammers that rumbled like the birth of worlds.
Their descent was silent. Too silent.
Not a single war cry. Not a single battle hymn.
Onlythequietwhisperofdamnation. Among the doomed, he stood alone.
The weight of divinity pressed down on the battlefield, suffocating, inescapable. Knees buckled. Breath turned to fire in the throat, as if the very air had been transmuted into molten gold. Around him, warriors crumbled— not from wounds, not from battle, but from the sheer, crushing presence of what loomed above. Ragged gasps, stifled whimpers, prayers muttered through clenched teeth. But no one ran. No one could.
They had been pinned.
Shingen… grinned.
Not a smirk. Not bravado. Something sharper. Something wrong.
It carved his face like a wound, teeth flashing in something between amusement and hunger. And yet, for all his ease, a single bead of sweat slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away with a slow, deliberate motion. Not from fear. Never from fear.
From anticipation. Because for the first time—
He didn't know. Did he stand against a storm?
Or beneath a mountain?
The host of angels remained motionless, suspended in eerie, perfect silence. No war cries. No shifting armor. Their unreadable gazes locked onto the earth below, watching, weighing, calculating.
Then— the leader raised his sword.
And the heavens roared. Not a sound. Not a command. A decree.
It did not echo— it simply was. A force vast and immutable, unraveling the very marrow of the world. Mountains did not merely fracture; they convulsed, split apart as though something older, something greater had decided they no longer belonged. Oceans did not simply recoil; they shrank back in dread, tides abandoning their course as if fleeing from a judgment too absolute to defy. And far beyond the horizon, unseen but undeniable, cities collapsed— not by fire, not by war, but by the sheer, suffocating weight of a presence too immense to exist among men.
From the wind, from the trembling ground, from the depths of a world too small to bear witness—
The screaming began. This was a sentence.
A decree written into the fabric of existence long before any mortal soul had drawn breath. It did not need to be spoken, nor carved into stone— it simply was, waiting for the moment it would be carried out.
And that moment had come. Across the world, humanity crumbled.
The weight of what loomed above did not merely frighten— it unmade. There was no war yet, no clash of blades, no divine retribution. But the mere presence of the celestial host unraveled the thin veneer of order mortals clung to.
People turned on one another, not as enemies, but as animals driven past the brink. Some screamed until their voices gave out, throats raw and useless. Others fell into a catatonic silence, eyes vacant, as if their minds had simply refused to process what they saw.
It was a madness beyond fear.
A mother, sobbing, smothered her own child in shaking arms as if to spare them from something worse. A man laughed— howled— tearing at his own scalp, his nails carving into his flesh like talons. Blood dripped between his fingers, but he did not stop. He couldn't. He had already lost to the abyss yawning within his own mind.
Everywhere, across every continent, the same horror played out. Nations that had stood for millennia crumbled overnight, not to war or plague, but to despair. Kingdoms emptied their treasuries in frantic, meaningless offerings to the sky. Temples burned— some in defiance, some in sacrifice. The faithful knelt in fervent prayer, weeping, whispering, begging, but no answer came.
Because the gods were already here. And they had not come to listen.
They had come to an end, and Shingen… He smiled.
It was not a hero's defiance. Not some last, desperate act of courage.
It was something cruel. Something knowing.