Vescrutia: Legacy

The hall of the Yaarou Compound hung heavy with mist and silence. Beyond the lacquered gates, the ancestral home of the Yaarou Clan waited, breathless, for the return of its sovereign champion.

It had been nearly three months since Hitomi had departed aboard a Hyperian escort vessel, answering the call of an alliance forged in blood and necessity. And for three long months, uncertainty gnawed at the council.. her absence has created a void.

Now, only whispers heralded her return.
The defeat of a Bhalian Armada.
The death of a Mazoku Executioner.
The claiming of the treasure hidden upon the Owaki map.

Among the gathered council—Elders Jhun, Hayate, Ayune’, and others draped in flowing ceremonial robes—there was both awe and unease.

"This borders on myth," Hayate muttered, his voice sharp, tinged with disbelief. "One Mazoku Executioner could lay waste to cities. An armada could swallow nations whole... to face them alone is sheer lunacy."

"And yet," Ayune said softly, "Our new allies claim it is true. She was victorious."

"Hyperian reports," Hayate scoffed, his voice thick with disdain. His gnarled hands twisted the folds of his robe. "Foreign words, soaked in honey. No footage. No witnesses. Only promises spun from distant tongues—and we are expected to accept them as law?"

"You underestimate her," Ayune countered, pulling back her hood to reveal ivory locs coiled like molten rope beneath the torchlight. Her tone was calm, unyielding. "You always have. If I didn't know better, I'd think you wished for our Xhi’on to fail."

Hayate hissed through his teeth, scoffing bitterly. "I exercise caution and foresight—and you take it as treason?"

His crimson eyes narrowed into vindictive slits as he turned to the wider council. "I do not doubt our Xhi’on's prowess. I doubt foolishness parading as certainty. We have seen the cruelty of B'halia, the monstrous power of the Mazoku. I underestimat folly, Ayune’, not my enemy." His words struck the hall like iron on stone. "And stories born in foreign lands are worth less than ash against such power."

Jhun, silent until now, rumbled forth with a voice like shifting earth. "Then you would have us ignore Hyperia’s tributes? Their armories, their resources, their oaths of allegiance? These are not the gifts of deceivers."

Hayate's hands curled tighter beneath his robe. "..And if this is a trap?" he pressed, his voice low, infectious. "We have not seen nor heard a single word from our Xhi’on directly. How can we be certain she returns victorious... and not shackled in B'halian chains?"

Tension coiled through the council chamber like a drawn bowstring.

Even Jhun and Ayune’ exchanged uneasy glances.

"Your reports on the Owaki’s political stance were skewed at best," Hayate added, his voice cutting. "You believed the Serpent’s Heir had fallen, yet the ruins of Taka No Kami say otherwise. Your credibility lies broken among their ashes." A sly smile flickered across his lips. "I, for one, will not be so easily deceived."

A heavy silence punctuated his final words.

The recent fall of the Owaki Skyfarm—its burning towers visible from half the continent—had shattered long-held assumptions. Doubt bled from Hayate’s lips and found root even among the devout.

Still, Ayune' held firm. "Perhaps. Yet your skepticism borders dangerously on cowardice, Elder,"she said, her own knowing smirk flickering like a blade. "You would be wise to greet our Xhi’on with a softer hand."

Jhun raised a hand, bidding silence.

Beyond the misty gates, something stirred.
A low, steady hum thrummed across the courtyard.

The Hyperian cruiser descended from the heavens like a blade—its sleek frame of polished obsidian and silver slicing through the cloud cover. The ship's reinforced hull gleamed beneath the dying light, casting monstrous shadows across the Yaarou Compound’s enchanted stones.

The ship settled with a hydraulic sigh.
The boarding ramp extended, creaking under unseen weight.

From the mist emerged Dr. Cyvell, flanked by mechanical carriers bearing Hyperian weaponry—each crate marked with a unique sigil chosen by the Xhi’on herself.

"Esteemed Elders," Cyvell announced, bowing deeply. His voice carried through the courtyard, sharp and clear. "Our Monarch, Di’yami Vale, sends his most humble regards. And all of Hyperia extends its gratitude. The Xhi’on’s victories have shifted the very winds of this war."

Hayate peered from beneath his hood like a wolf from its den. "And where is she?" he demanded, voice plain, cutting.

Cyvell straightened, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "She is coming. Her wounds have been seen to by our finest. She will experience weakness in her stride for some weeks, but rest assured she will make a full recovery."

The council turned as one, their gazes heavy upon the descending ramp. And from the ship's shadowed maw, she appeared.

Hitomi descended the ramp with deliberate care. And her appearance drew immediate, startled silence.

Her hair, once long and flowing, was now cut shorter—braided over one shoulder, where ivory strands gleamed beneath the sunlight. She looked older, as though a year's worth of battles had etched themselves into her within mere months.

Her posture was just a hair taller, her frame tempered by survival. Faint scars, thin as razors, traced her once-pristine features. One ran along her right cheekbone. Another finer scar stretched from the corner of her lips toward her ear, a testament to the strength of her foe. Leaving her with wounds that no healer’s art could fully erase.

And perhaps most polarizing of all, was the monstrous pelt draped across her shoulders—The flayed hide of Kuran the Merciless.

It was ivory white and brutally magnificent— the snarling visage of the Mazoku Executioner had been wrought into a macabre ornament upon her shoulder, crowning her form like the crest of a conquering god.

Each step she took set the heavy braids and armaments along her cape clinking softly, as if the beast itself sang tribute to its slayer.

Hitomi did not slow.
She did not bow.
There was no humility in her gaze—only a sovereign, piercing stare.

At the foot of the ramp, the Elders knelt—
Even Hayate, though his every movement seemed carved from stone, stiff and resentful, bowed before the living blade of their people.

Hitomi simply stood before them, aloof and unbending—basking in what remained of their skepticism.

There was no smile.
No gesture of acknowledgment.
Only a cold, merciless appraisal, weighing the worth of those who dared still call themselves her council.

"Rise." she said at last, her voice low, steel brushed with winter’s breath. "..I have no patience for ceremony."

The Elders rose slowly, exchanging wary glances beneath their hoods.

Elder Jhun stepped forward first, bowing deeply without daring to lift his eyes. "Lady Xhi’on... we are honored to witness your return. Hyperia’s reports have reached us. Your victories are... beyond what we dared hope."

Hitomi’s face remained unreadable—save for the faintest arch of one brow, touched by cold amusement.

"Hmph," she exhaled. "..Why am I not surprised?"

A silence thick as stone settled over the courtyard, but Dr. Cyvell seized the moment with a politician’s practiced grace.

"The Xhi’on has forged a lasting alliance with Hyperia," he said. "The strength of our Monarch now marches in tandem with the Yaarou. With the Velkyr secured—and the death of a Mazoku Executioner—the path to victory against B'halia has opened."

The Elders murmured among themselves like restless spirits.

Elder Ayune’ dared to ask. "And your injuries, Xhi’on?"

Hitomi tilted her head ever so slightly, as if the question was a passing irritation.

"Mending," she answered coolly.

Her crimson eyes swept across them once more—measuring, judging—leaving no doubt in the hearts of all who watched.

Their Xhi’on had returned.
But something within her had been reforged—
And she would not suffer weakness among those she called her own.

"Come, there are some matters I'd like to discuss.. and more that I'll need to be caught up on."

The council obeyed without protest.

They followed their Xhi’on through the inner halls of the Yaarou Compound, their footsteps muffled by silken runners and the mist that still clung to the polished stone like a shroud. Torchlight danced along the lacquered walls, illuminating centuries of ancestral carvings—silent witnesses to the uneasy reunion unfolding in their presence.

Hitomi said nothing as she led them. Her gait was slow but resolute, betraying both her healing wounds and her unwillingness to appear weak. Each step seemed to weigh more than the last, the clinking from the bangled braids woven through her pelt echoed down the corridor like the tolling of distant bells.

—

They descended through the stillness of the Medical Wing, down winding corridors lined with ancient runes and stone older than most empires. The air grew colder with each step, the kind of cold that didn’t stem from a lack of heat, but something far more spiritual.

None of them spoke. None of them inquired as to what she had planned.

Their silence was not out of reverence—but fear. They knew where Hitomi was leading them—what sealed horror stirred beneath her feet. And though they were masters of the sacred arts, keepers of the Yaarou's sacred legacy, they flinched at the thought of who lay ahead.

They knew where Hitomi was leading them, what lay buried beneath the earth of this forsaken wing. And though they were masters of the sacred arts, keepers of the Yaarou’s storied legacy, none of them could suppress the cold knot that twisted in their stomachs as they drew closer to what awaited them.

Elder Jhun had warned them of her plans and intentions. How their Xhion had unearthed perhaps the most disgusting secret buried beneath the Yaarou Dungeon, and sought to weaponize it for herself.

Her ambitio and hubris truly knew no bounds. A generational curse she had no intentions of breaking.

—Their steps faltered as they arrived at an obsidian and ivory threshold. A door unmarked, save for a sigil that writhed when stared at too long.

Hitomi raised her hand. The door hissed open on command.

A chamber revealed itself—dim, quiet, breathing with arcane pressure. A single blue lantern cast its ghostly light over a figure slumped in the heart of the room.

This was her grandfather, Hiroshi Yaarou.

Or at least what remained of him.

He sat bound upon a throne of dull stone, surrounded by a sprawl of life-support tubing woven from crystal filaments. His body was withered almost beyond recognition—a sunken frame wrapped in ashen skin, knotted with old scars and a myriad of ritual brands that covered every inch of exposed skin.

The flickering light revealed his hands—long, skeletal things with talon-like nails, blackened not from growth but from a slow, insidious decay. His eyes, cloudy and pale, fluttered beneath lids so thin they barely concealed the hollow orbs within. The irregular pulse of life-support tubing, woven from crystal filaments, hummed softly—barely enough to keep the ruin of Hiroshi’s body functioning, but it was enough. For now

Ayune’s breath caught at the sight of him. “This… this is blasphemous.”

Hayate's voice was tight. “You desecrate The Stormbringer's sacrifice. The Scourge was meant to rot in chains.”

Hitomi didn’t answer. Not at first. She stepped forward. Her voice was steel wrapped in honey.

“We don’t have the luxury to care about purity, Elder.”

She turned to face them fully.

“The B’halian Empire grows stronger each season. They have armies that move through shadow, weapons that bend reason. They are not bound by the strings of honor or tradition. We cannot afford to fight them with one hand behind our backs..”

“Then you’d fight them with monsters?” Hayate asked. His voice was low, dangerous. “You'd stand beside him? Make his the face of your armies?”

“No,” Hitomi said. “I am the face. I am the army. He will stand behind me, like the rest of you. And he will do as he's told.”

“..you would name a butcher your general? One who murdered his kin, bled our children dry—” Elder Jhun stepped forward, his hand shaking. He was the first to learn of Hitomi's inconceivable decision, and even then it shocked him. Petrified him. He'd been struggling to find the words—something to convey to Hitomi the folly of trusting this man.

But she was beyond reproach. And the Crimson slits staring back at him, reminded him of this truth.

“..do you know why he did those things?” She interrupted softly. “Because he could. Because he knew what power meant, and he was willing to pay what it cost. As am I.”

She reached out and placed her hand against the central seal. Her naten surged—a deep, resonant hum that filled the room. The suppression glyphs retracted slowly.

The pulse of Hiroshi’s life-support deepened. The faint lights feeding into his veins began to shimmer. A soft vibration passed through the chamber.

“He is not a tool..” Hayate retorted, contending his last efforts. “He is a traitor. A terrorist.”

But Hitomi gave him nothing. Not even a cutting glance.

She was busy waitind and watching for the Defiler to finally open his eyes.

At first, they struggled against time—milky and unfocused, lost in decades of sleep. But they found clarity faster than expected. There was a long moment of nothing—just silence, breathing, the faint creak of bones rediscovering purpose.

Then, his breath rattled to life.

“…ah…”

The voice was broken, paper-thin—gasping between every breath with a throat full of holes. “Is that.. scents of cinnamon.. white roses?” He whispered, pointing out the floral aromas stemming from Hitomi's hair. Sweet and reverent—a far cry from the musk of necrotic flesh he'd grown accustomed to within the Yaarou Dungeon.

“This is… not.. a cell.” His head struggled to move along his shoulders, like a statue of marble suddenly given life. “What is.. this place?”

Hitomi stepped forward, her nose tilted up at the man who’d been known as the Scourge of her clan. This.. decrepit creature. His presence alone held the Elders at the threshold of the chamber. They would not step a foot closer.

Cowards.

“You have not left Qiyoto. You are still within Edo, but you have been asleep for over 400 years.” Hitomi responded, her gaze soft but sharp, like a blade tracing the neck.

His head tilted slowly, like a corpse remembering it had a neck.

Then, a wet, disgusting laugh.

“I see. Rii’ku..failed after all.” He said between sharp gasps for air, almost as if relenting the fact that he hadnt been slain. “A disappointment.”

He glanced up, a smile forming along his crusted lips.

“And what.. of the Xhi’on? The.. Storm..Bringer?”

“Rii’ku Yaarou, The Stormbringer is dead.” Hitomi said, firm. “But the Yaarou still stand, despite your maddened efforts to cripple us with your hubris.”

Hiroshi’s gaze drifted slowly to the elders behind her, his smile curling with dark amusement. “Yes… I remember. The two of you were such.. small things then.” His voice was like dust, rasping across ancient memories, and his eyes settled briefly on Ayune and Jhun. “You’ve grown.. so brittle.”

He then gazed back at Hitomi's upturned face. “And.. who.. are you.. child?”

Ayune’s face hardened. “Mind your tongue, Kinslayer—”

Hitomi held up her hand.

“…do you know who I am?” , she asked.

Hiroshi blinked, slowly. His silence his answer.

“I am Hitomi Yaarou. Daughter of Hatōri and Hanami Yaarou. I am the Fourth serving Xhi'on of our clan.”

He paused.

The silence grew thick.

His voice dropped, almost reverent.

“…Hatōri had a child?” He studied her features. Her white hair. Crimson cauldrons for eyes. Markers of someone capable of Hexcraft.

A trait neither Hiroshi or his son was born with.

“No, but you... No. Impossible.. The boy.. was too weak to bear such power.”

Hitomi said nothing in response. Hiroshi's gaze narrowed. "You.. are lying,” He murmured, more certain of her deceit than anything.

But Hitomi did not flinch. “I am not.”

“…why am I here?” His voice sharpened, rasping but deadly. “Why.. have you.. awakened me?”

Hitomi stepped closer. “Because your Xhi’on has found use of you.”

He heard it the second time. That word—Xhi’on—hung in the air like a hangman's noose.

The silence that followed was electric.

Then Hiroshi laughed.

It was not hearty—it was wet and thin, a sound whistling through a collapsing throat. “…The Stormbringer.. thrashes.. in his grave,” he whispered, the words bitter and mocking.

“Let him..” Hitomi's voice was cutting and cold. “He gave his life to bind you, because he was too weak to control you. You will find that I am not.”

Hiroshi’s face darkened. Slowly, power bled from the air. Enough to make Ayune stagger backwards, clutching her chest.

“Careful, girl,” Hiroshi rasped.. “I have slain more of our blood than you’ve spoken to.. Drunken from the hearts of Yaarou greater than you have ever known. I… have harvested… their strength.. made them.. my own.” He said, hacking and coughing within his web of shackles and IVs.

But then he smiled, mocking and ugly.

“Claim.. what you will. These eyes.. do not see a Xhi’on..”

Hitomi met his empty gaze.

“Do not worry. I will show them..” She said playfully moving the gray strands of hair from his face. “In two days time, you should be restored enough to lift a sword. Enough to escape these bounds and chains.. and assert yourself as the rightful heir once and for all.”

Hitomi's smile wept with conceit. She tapped him lightly on the cheek. “I offer you a chance. Fight me for your future. But be warned, when you fail, you will not be allowed to walk again until you beg your Xhi’on for her forgiveness.”

Hiroshi's milky glare glimmering at this challenge—simmering with an excitement not even he could hide. Her confidence was staggering, but he would expect nothing more from a child born into power. One apparently born of his loins. Her arrogance would be his salvation.

"Petulent.. child." He coughed and wheeled. "You.. will not survive me.."

“You can save what's left of your breath until then.” She said before she made her way passed her elders and toward the exit of the chamber. Her council quickly followed close behind, allowing the ivory doors to his chamber to slam shut once again.

[Two days had passed.]

Deep within the Ivory Citadel—perched atop tiered obsidian steps and veined gold marble—stood the Throne of Xhion. The chamber that housed it was vast, cathedral like in scale, its gilded columns soaring into shadowed heights. Banners of ancient wars draped the pillars like faded memories, while mosaics of past Xhions shimmered from the walls, their glass eyes gleaming like watchful spirits.
At the center, seated upon a throne of silver and bone, was Hitomi.

Gone were the ceremonial silks and flowing robes. War had called, and she had answered. Her new garb spoke of readiness: loose-fitting indigo trousers tucked into worn leather boots, a sleeveless tunic drawn tight at the waist by a corded black sash. Her hair was intricately braided, crowned by the headpiece of the Xhi’on.

And draped over her shoulders hung the pale, skinned hide of a Mazoku Executioner—a trophy of an indomitable beast slain with her own hands.

At her right stood Elder Jhun, his sharp features pinched in restrained disapproval. Beside him, Elder Ayune maintained a more serene expression, though unease flickered in the corners of her eyes. The silver bangles on her wrists chimed softly with each subtle shift of her stance.

“Your champions draw near, my Xhion,” Ayune said, breaking the silence with measured calm. “May I ask what it is you intend to do with them?”

“They will be training for the coming war,” Hitomi replied, her tone devoid of flourish. “As will I.”

“Train?” Ayune repeated, blinking. “But you’ve only just returned—”

“It’s been two days, Elder.” Hitomi rested her chin on a closed fist. “I doubt my enemies are lounging about, licking their wounds. So why should I?”

“You still refuse to yield,” Jhun muttered, watching her carefully. “The medics insist on rest. Even with your mastery of the Restorative Arts, your wounds—”

“—are not your concern,” Hitomi cut in, apathetic. Her eyes remained fixed on the throne room doors, as though expecting them to move.

Ayune sighed. “We’ve seen you in the courtyards, my Paragon. You've missed no morning sessions since your return. You don’t need to prove yourself to us. You must preserve your strength.”

“Oh give it a rest,” Hitomi replied flatly. “I have no intention of allowing my body to wither. It will mend as it mends.”

Before another word could be spoken, a side door creaked open, spilling a gust of cold air into the chamber.

Through it stepped a broad-shouldered man, his skin blackened with soot, the hems of his robes singed and still smoking faintly. He bowed low. The glowing bands etched along his arms pulsed with dull golden light—the runes of a Forgemaster, alive with heat and purpose.

“My Paragon,” he rumbled, voice like crushed stone. “Your weapon nears completion. It cools now in the Forge’s basin. It awaits only your final enchantments.”

Jhun’s brows lifted, his lips twitching with rare satisfaction. “So… you have taken my advice.” His smile was brief as candlelight.

“I have,” Hitomi said unceremoniously. “You were right.”

“This is glorious news,” Jhun mused, stepping forward. “At last—a weapon of your own, worthy of a Xhion. And what materials did you choose?” He asked, stepping closer with scholarly curiosity. “Tradition calls for the soul of a powerful foe or beast to be bound to the blade. There are thousands of immortals in the Dungeons, of course, but I had thought perhaps—”

She raised a hand, silencing him—not harshly, but with finality. “You will see. I'd rather not spoil the surprise.”

A taut silence followed, broken only by the distant thrum of war drums echoing up from the barracks.
Then, with a groan of iron hinges, the grand doors of the throne room began to open.

A servant entered, cloaked in the ash-and-crimson colors of the clan. He bowed low.

“Your champions, Xhion. They have arrived.”
Jhun and Ayune sharpened their posture. Hitomi barely moved a muscle as they entered in formation, a procession of living myths stepping into the throne room like specters of war.

A’kiru Yaarou walked ahead of the foreboding eight shadows, clad in a dark tunic and flowing trousers. His hair was bound back, two locs coiling like bangs at his temples.

Saya Yaarou followed close behind, tattoos spiraling down her arms and legs like whispered commands. braced in a thick coat and her armory of weapons sheathed at her back and side. She walked with an unnatural grace, as if skating on glass, each step silent and calculated.

Then came A’dyr Yaarou, a hand resting upon a weapon unseen. His expression was calm, even kind—yet it veiled a brutality honed through blood. His crimson robes pooled along the floor in a fashion that was more graceful than tactical.

Behind him moved Ki’er Yaarou, the largest of them all. The armor covering his legs groaned beneath his bulk, each step a weighted declaration. His massive prosthetic arm had been sealed and wrapped, but it pulsed faintly with Hexcraft used to forge it.

Tetsuo Yaarou followed—slender and chiseled like a statute dragged from old ruins. He walked gingerly, his hands clinging to the walls of the chamber. His demeanor was nervous, as if he were afraid of something no one else could see. He wore no shirt. No armor. And he bore no weapons.. He hardly looked like a warrior at all.

Trailing behind, the flame of the group— Mitsuko Yaarou, the Dawnforged. Radiant. Smirking. Her presence radiated a slight smoulder and the swagger of someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was.

Then, the foreign allies of the clan—

Velkyn Van’Ethir, moving like a blade in the wind. Every motion poetry. Every breath a whisper of ancient vows. His gaze drifted—as if half-rooted in another realm.

And finally, N’uril Rao. Cloaked in crimson, his lance hung silent at his side, humming faintly with latent wrath. He neither bowed nor spoke. He simply stood—still as stone, sharp as memory. A weapon planted in the world and left to wait.

Together, they formed a semicircle before their Xhion, the weight of their legacies bearing down on the room like a pressure front before a storm.

Neither Elders Jhun or Ayune had been able to properly meet any the men and women that stood before them. They were each given their own room within the massive compound, and though the presence within Qiyoto was novel, most of them kept to themselves.

Training. Patrolling.Sleeping. The did little else.

Jhun stepped forward, clearing his throat before he addressed the Xhi’on’s appointed soldiers. “You are in the presence of the Fourth Xhi’on of the Yaarou Clan. She Who Stands—”

Hitomi lifted her hand, urging Elder Jhun to silence. “They know who I am." She said with a casual smile curling her lips as she adjusted her position.

Hitomi leaned slightly to one side, elbow resting on the sculpted armrest of her throne, chin nestled against her knuckles.

“Well?” Her voice was quiet, but it traveled through the chamber like steel drawn in silence. “You’ve had time to rest since your arrival. Have you grown familiar with the Compound, Or has boredom driven you to madness in the short time I've been away?”

Silence. Thick and heavy.

None of the eight warriors spoke. They only stared.

Not at her eyes. Not at her expression. But at the pelt.

Snow-pale fur clung to her like a ghost’s embrace, pristine and otherworldly. The mounted maw of the slain beast crowned her shoulder—jaws still parted in an eternal snarl, its glassy eyes glinting beneath the torchlight with lifelike menace.

“Gods...” Velkyn was the first to break, his voice almost reverent, breath catching in his throat. “Is that..?"

His words trailed off, undone by awe. His eyes had gone wide—too wide for a man who’d survived three campaigns across the burning reaches of Edo.

Mitsuko let out a long, low whistle. Her arms crossed loosely as she leaned her weight against a marble pedestal, eyes narrowed with admiration more than disbelief.

“You really don’t do things halfway, do you?” she murmured, a wry curve tugging at her lips.

Hitomi didn’t answer. But she didn’t need to.

Mitsuko stepped forward, her gaze sharpening with each step as she studied the mantle draped across Hitomi’s shoulders. Her voice dipped into something more measured now—less jest, more gravity.

“That’s Mazoku hide, isn’t it?” she asked, half under her breath as she finished the drumstick, talking with her mouth full. “Never seen one with me own eyes...”

Hitomi’s eyes shifted, just slightly—acknowledging her, but offering nothing more.

Mitsuko wiped her mouth as she took in the scope of it. The beast’s claws, his menacing frozen face, the thickness of the fur, the way the hide refused to sag under its own impossible weight. It was tailored to perfection.

“..The acclaimed race of immortals..” Mitsuko continued. “Bred for war. Engineered for destruction. And now worn like a ceremonial shawl.. A fitting trophy for our Xhi’on.” Her voice was sharper now, edged with both wonder and pride. “It seems the Tiny Lord has been busy living up to her legend.”

A tremor of stillness passed through the room like a ripple on still water. The others—Tetsuo, A’dyr, Kier—remained silent, but their eyes said what their mouths could not.

Kier spoke next, his voice like distant thunder. “Those things... they’re capable of splitting continents in two,” he said, almost in disbelief. “Entire legions have vanished beneath a single one’s wrath. You managed this alone?”

Hitomi’s silence was the only answer they received.

Saya stepped forward next, her voice smooth, tone calculated but edged with concern.

“The Empire will respond,” she warned. Her stance was calm, disciplined—hands clasped behind her back, eyes narrowed beneath her
bangs. “You’ve made a declaration they cannot ignore.”

“That’s the point,” Hitomi replied at last, her tone flat, unyielding. “Let them see. It will be a lesson learned; The human race has no intention of bending the knee to genocide.”

A moment passed—long and heavy before Saya responded. “Then.. you mean to wear this as a message to be heard?” She said calmly. “Or a trophy to be admired?”

Hitomi’s lips curled into a sly smile—half threat, half jest. “Two things can be true.” She adjusted her position, one leg elegantly crossing over the other. “I daresay it fits better than my crown.”

A’kiru, silent until now, took a single measured step forward. The light from the braziers glinted off the curved blades strapped across his back.

“My Xhi'on..” he began, slowly, his voice reverent, “..what you’ve done is— unprecedented. The Mazoku are not beasts. They are calamities. Forces of nature forged into flesh. Many truly believe them to be Vescrutia's favored race.” He said, his hand tightening around his sheathed weapon. “I have seen the potential of their might—seen the bodies of truly terrifying warriors, torn apart like parchment—and yet here you sit, draped in glory."

He dropped to one knee without hesitation, his fists planted against the marble floor. “Whatever comes next,” he said solemnly, “..whatever storm you call... my blade follows. Without question.”

“I would hope so,” Hitomi said coolly as her gaze cut across all eight of them like the final stroke of a guillotine..

“You've all been chosen for your mettle, but the strength of our foes exceeds anything you've ever faced before. But do not be confused.. I sit here today to bring weight to my words.”

She continued, her crimson glare blistering beneath the torchlight. “They will bend the knee to your Xhi’on, as all living things were intended.”

Her words elicited chills from these seasoned warriors. Mitsuko in particular looked especially excited. Nuril however, looked more cautious than anything else.

“You’ve left little room for doubt,” he said at last, stepping forward, cloaked in robes of bronze and crimson. “But I assume we were not gathered merely to hear you boast.”

He gave a shallow bow. “I am ready. If we are to stand with you, we must be honed to match you.”

Then came Tetsuo—his bare feet padded softly as he emerged from behind Kier’s towering frame, trembling despite the heat that kissed the stone chamber. His hands wrung at the hem of his sleeves. His eyes—crimson and clouded with second sight—quivered as if they beheld something no one else could see.

“I-I dreamt of you..” He said quietly, his voice hardly strong enough to be a whisper. “You are.. unbelievable.”

“Yes.” Hitomi said gently as her eyes trailed to the doors of the chamber. She could hear the clanking of chains and the march steeled boots approaching from beyond, and her smile calmed into a fine line.

“But I cannot defeat them alone.”

The doors opened and Several shinobi stepped into the firelight—cloaked in black, faces masked, movements silent. They dragged a chained figure between them, an old man draped in a tattered cloak that dragged behind him like a funeral shroud. His body was frail, bones visible beneath bruised skin. He looked like a scarecrow long forgotten in the rain.

“As I said before, each and everyone of you will need to grow stronger if I expect to win this war. And the creature before you is going to be the key to that ambition.” Hitomi continued as her throng of soldiers tossed the old prisoner at the feet of Hitomi's eight champions.

His appearance drew cross glances. He barely looked alive. More like a corpse somehow wheezing for air.

Mitsuko scoffed. “This is joke, right?”

Tetsuo however, scurried away and behind Kier once more. His crimson eyes flushed with fear.

Unlike his peers, Tetsuo was clairvoyant; his dreams were blessed with visions that he could scry and decipher. He could see the future in his sleep, recall eons into the past at a whim, and he could hear the dead.

Tetsuo knew the man curled on the ground. He'd seen him before in horrific nightmares. “The Scourge..” He murmured. Fear rasping his voice. He could see the death surrounding him, coiling around his frail body like a sickly veil of black. The Sobriquet elicited shock in all who heard it—all but Hitomi who looked mildly amused.

“This is Hirōshi Yaarou.” She said as both Elders Jhun and Ayune began to slowly take a few steps backward, as though cowering behind their Xhion. “And your training will begin when one of you kills this man.”

For a moment, the chamber stood still.

No sound, no breath—only the faint clatter of rusted chains as they slithered against the polished obsidian floor like dying serpents. The eight warriors stood transfixed before the ancient man hunched at their feet.

“A lie,” Kier snarled, shattering the silence. “Hiroshi Yaarou was executed. I remember the stories. I studied the records—the Defiler no longer walks this plane.”

“You remember wrong,” Velkyn interrupted, his voice low, pointed with fury. “Hiroshi’s mastery of the Ephemeral Arts granted him immortality via devourism. He fed on our kin—our clansmen—siphoning their Hexcraft to escape mortality. Stormbringer didn’t kill him. He sealed him, at the cost of his life.”

Saya’s eyes were cold slits. “And now… he is dragged out like a pet? Why? What possible reason could justify this?”

Tetsuo trembled, lost to memories he never wished to recall—visions of entire villages consumed in spiraling sigils, bodies unraveling into dust, their screams twisted into eerie silence. His voice cracked. “He didn’t just kill them. He ATE them. Our brothers.. sisters, all screaming, all hurting.” He whimpered, curling his teary eyes into palms. It was as if he could vicariously feel all of the pain Hiroshi had wrought in the past. And it was unbearable.

“He murdered Rii’ku,” A’dyr muttered. His breath came hot and quick through flared nostrils. “The Stormbringer.. He was among the strongest of us.. Now? Gone. Snuffed out like a torch by his avarice.”

Mitsuko didn’t speak immediately. Her eyes narrowed, reading the room, reading Hitomi before they dropped down to the withered thing now rising like a carcass roused by thunder. Her voice, when it came, was flat. “I lost kin to this one..” she said flatly. “Three cousins. Some uncles. Countless Elders..”

Kier spat at the ground. “This is not a man. He is a blight—sin and treason wrapped in flesh.”

Yet Hiroshi only coughed.

It started low and wet, something phlegmy rattling in the old cathedral of his lungs. But then it shifted—rolled into something darker. Laughter. Splintered, brittle laughter that echoed off the chamber’s stone, like broken wind chimes in a graveyard.

He rose—slowly, yet fluidly, with a grace that didn’t belong to flesh so wasted. Bones groaned. Joints cracked. The brittle sound of age peeled from his limbs as he unfurled like a centipede waking from its burrow.

His skin was a lattice of scars and unreadable sigil, his frame skeletal beneath his tattered robes.

“A dramatic lot,” he rasped, voice like dust over glass. “So reverent. So wounded. You speak of honor, legacy, loss… as if I stole it from you. As if you understand what any of it means. You speak to me—children, still suckling your ancestors’ grief—like you have the right to judge.”

Then the world changed.

The air recoiled from him.

A pulse throbbed outward, an invisible wave thick as oil, rolling over their skin like something alive and wrong. The scent of copper and rot filled the air—decay and ozone, death freshly torn from bone.

Hiroshi inhaled—and his presence shifted.

His eyes snapped open.

Once milk-white, dull and blind—now crimson. Blood-bright and furious. Burning with the stolen legacy of the Clan’s most sacred and forbidden power: Hexcraft.

“Ahhh,” he breathed, tilting his head until his neck cracked with sick satisfaction. “I nearly forgot… the rush of power.” The chains that still clung to his frame groaned—and then disintegrated, dissolving to ash with a hiss like boiling blood. Hiroshi exhaled, rotating his shoulders in small circles.

A’dyr stepped forward, his hand sliding over the hilt of his curved blade with reverent calm. “My Xhi’on,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Hiroshi like a hunter to prey, “grant me this honor. Let me carve justice into his bones.”

“No,” Kier snapped, stepping beside him. “He dies by my hand. For the Stormbringer. For every mother and child slaughtered at his hand..”

A hush. Then a thrum of magic.

Mitsuko gave a soft whistle as her arm twitched—and a massive seven-foot axe shimmered into being beside her. She caught it effortlessly and let it fall across her shoulders with a casual shrug. “..so much talking,” she said with an eerie calm settling behind her eyes. “I tire of talking. If the Defiler lives.. I say we correct this.”

Hitomi exhaled a slow breath and settled deeper into her throne, a wicked curve teasing the edge of her lips. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned into her palm, amused, bemused.

“..Mitsuko has a point,” she purred, almost lazily. “He’s standing right there.. Waiting.”

The warriors quieted.

All eyes turned to Hiroshi, whose crimson gaze flicked from face to face, reading every crack in their armor, every fracture in their resolve. His skeletal grin widened.

Hitomi's voice softened, velvet over daggers.

“..who among you thinks they should lead, hmm?”

A pause.

“Which of you believes they’re worthy to command the rest?”

She gestured, almost bored, to the grinning dark sorcerer conjuring a single Ava, causing the air to quake with a foul energy.

“This is your chance to prove it.”

A low chuckle crawled from Hiroshi’s throat—dry and threadbare, like rusted steel dragged across old stone.

“..heh, yees,” he rasped, eyes burning with centuries of stolen hate. “Who among you would be so bold... as to court certain doom?”

The chuckle decayed into a wet, ragged cough. Blood trickled from the corners of his cracked lips, yet his hands never faltered—still locked in the silent Ava that thrummed with gathering power. His gaze drifted across the circle of champions, each poised to strike, yet paralyzed by the weight of his legend.

They had all heard the tales. Some had witnessed the atrocities firsthand. But instinct, wiser than fury, stayed their hands.

Until Velkyn stepped forward.

His robes whispered as he moved. Though his ashen grey flesh was weathered by time, there was no weakness in his stride—only the lethal calm of one who had survived every era meant to kill him.

“I am Velkyn, Son of the Irithyll Domina,” he said, voice cold as marble. “And I buried kin because of you, Defiler.”

“Domina?” Hiroshi’s grin widened, yellowed teeth gleaming beneath the crystal chandelier above. “Mmm... I don’t remember them. Or any of you, for that matter. Names begin to blur after the first hundred souls."

Velkyn answered by raising his hand.

His hand clasped together— summoning a horde of molten daggers that lit the throne room in brilliant light.

“Then I will remind you of our pain.”

They were innumerable. Hundreds of thousands of millions of molten daggers assaulted Hiroshi at the speed of light, peppering him in a glitter of color and heat and light that consumed the chamber.

Even the others retreated, shielding their eyes as the onslaught roared toward Hiroshi in a prism of color and heat. The Irithylll Domina Elvs were known mostly for the Aetherblade technique, but were equally renowned for their proficiency in light based spells. This "Nova Storm" Arbiter had been passed down to only the most proficient in their ranks, and had been utilized only in times of dire need.

But it was already too late.

Hiroshi was already prepared, and managed to build up enough energy with his mudra long before Vekyn's triggered his assault. As if he'd seen this coming..

He smiled as the blistering daggers of light passed through his body as if he were nothing but air. A laughing projection. A Cheshire vestige.

A smiling ghost.

Velkyn's eyes went wide in confusion, before a duplicate of Hiroshi unfolded behind him, as if melding from shadow. And used its hand to pierce clean through Velkyn’s spine and chest in one silent thrust.

Velkyn gasped. Blood frothed from his lips as he stared down at the withered limb skewering him.

Then, with a sick twist and swipe, Hiroshi's arm split him in half, dropping Velkyn’s upper body to the floor with a wet thud. His legs followed a moment later, twitching with fading life.

“...How short sighted,” he muttered, flicking droplets from his bloodied fingers. “A full frontal assault lacks vision. All his rage and fury meant naught when met with tact and preparation." His voice was almost contemplative, as though he were reflecting on different scenarios. "A meaningless casualty, but a perhaps.. a valuable first lesson? Yes.. let his death emphasize the importance of discipline.”

Silence choked the chamber.
Velkyn—the eldest among them—was undone in an instant.

The whisper of shifting postures skittered throughout the chamber.. Dread hung like a fog, but in its wake came movement.

Null responded.

He launched himself forward—his massive lance aimed straight for Hiroshi’s skull. No words, no preamble. Just a single arc of killing intent. The Crimson Lancer lived up to his name—pure precision, pure acceleration, combat experience given form.

But Hiroshi didn’t move.

He merely turned his head—just enough to glimpse his adversary. And suddenly, Null was frozen in mid-air and Mid-swing. Locked in a position like a figurine.

His eyes bulged. Muscles convulsed. The color drained from his skin as it calcified—black stone creeping across his limbs like rot.

His throat closed before he could verbalize his suffering, and then his petrified body hit the ground with a crystalline crack—and shattered.

Pebbles scattered across the obsidian floor and his lance clanged beside them, useless.

“Is this your Al’Korei?” Hiroshi cackled as he looked over at Hitomi– whose apathetic gaze barely budged at the sight of Velkyn and Null's death. “The finest warriors the Yaarou has left to offer, are little more than Hexless scum?" he spat. “..lamentable.”

He said, casually stepping over the remains of Null and Velkyn. The others stood frozen in audience of Hiroshi's power— awash in a cocktail of terror and disbelief.

Hiroshi turned again and his eyes, once dull and milky, were smoldering like crimson suns.

“I was under the impression you all knew my legend?” he said, his smirk inverting into a vile grimace beneath his silver beard. “Your Xhi'on order you to kill me. I may be old.. but I will not be mocked with cannon fodder, hm?”

He raised his hand, still dripping wet with viscera, and formed another mudra– one that caused the blood pooling at his feet to synchronize along the ground into occult, geometric symbols.

The air groaned as Hiroshi scoured the survivors. “Send me a wielder of Hexcraft.. or I will pile your corpses at my feet.. And I will find them myself."

The air reeked of blood and silence.

Above the carnage, two figures stood still around their Xhi'on's throne. Elder Jhun and Elder Ayune, both wreathed in robes adorned with sigils of runes. Yet no arcane thread or ceremonial garb could conceal the tremor riding beneath their composed exteriors. Their eyes, ancient and weathered from centuries of watching prophecies unfold, flickered with something far more primal now:

Dread.

“..so It’s true,” Elder Jhun murmured, his voice barely audible above the ringing stillness. “..stolen rites... techniques that should have died with their bearers.”

Ayune's hands clenched the edge of her staff. “Perversions,” she breathed, “Hexcraft.. ripped from his own kin. I recognized the Ava he used to defend himself once belonged to Elder Rae. And the petrification—that was once Miiryl Yaarou's Supreme Art. I was there when it was last cast, and I would know those techniques anywhere.”

Their gazes dropped to the floor below, where blood pooled like ink across black glass. And amid the fractured corpses of Velkyn and Null stood the thing they once called a peer.

A legend stained in atrocities.

“He was born Hexless,” Jhun whispered. “A promising scholar of the Ephemeral Arts. No gift, no spark.. Just intellect and diligence.. masking a deep envy for what he lacked."

“Avarice,” Ayune said bitterly, “..enough to swallow an entire generation.”

Hiroshi—once Elder Hiroshi—had not merely turned away from tradition; he became the first to blaspheme the sanctity of Hexcraft through the ritual of devourism. He became a parasite who gleaned immortality from cannibalizing his own—coveting something that was meant to be sacred, rare. He had consumed the souls of hundreds, perhaps more—until the Stormbringer intervened.

And even then, the cost had been too high.

Ayune trembled in her shoes. “..We should never have allowed this resurrection. Not for any reason. Not for any end.”

Yet the third observer—Hitomi—was entirely unmoved.

She remained reclined on her throne, one leg folded over the other, her fingers curled beneath her chin in a gesture that was half-boredom, half curiosity. She watched Hiroshi as though she were watching a rare predator behind glass. Not with fear. But fascination.

“You didn’t allow anything,” she said pointedly. “The decision was made by your Xhi’on. And you are allowed to be afraid… in silence.”

Her tone cut like a surgeon’s scalpel—precise, clinical, and disinterested in protest. Her attention never drifted from her Uncle. She planned to study his every move, every spell and every technique until she could commit them to memory.

He was dangerous. Yes.
But oh so illuminating.

Hitomi sighed, almost wistfully. “But if you're going to watch, at least try to enjoy the show.”

—

From below, the remaining six warriors stood grim and quiet, their eyes locked on the crimson-eyed monster that now demanded tribute in blood.

And A’kiru stepped forward.

Where others trembled, he moved like a whisper given shape—shoulders square, his posture firm. His jet-dark armor shimmered with plates lined with pale blue sigils that pulsed with stored kinetic energy. Slung along his waist was a curved katana sheathed in a scabbard of polished metal.

“Enough,” he said, his voice a perfect blend of poise and command. “I will slay you, demon.”

He drew his blade in a single breathless motion and the air twisted violently around him like a drawn storm. The others shifted slightly, though not in protest, but in deference. Akiru's name was widely recognized among fhe clan—in fact, none more so than he had been equated to prodigal greatness. In his short life, Akiru's deeds and prowess on the battlefield had been hailed as unparalleled. And consecrated a reputation centered around the unprecedented power of his Hexcraft; The ability to steal and store momentum.

“And I will rest your head at my Xhi’on's feet..”

A stillness followed A’kiru’s words—different from the dreadful quiet that preceded them. But one brought on by a collective holding their breath in anticipation of what had yet to come.

This was reverence.

The Phantom Gale was in motion before the sound of his voice had fully faded, leaving a blur where his body had stood. To the untrained eye, Akiru's had simply vanished.

But as wind shrieked through the chamber, lashing against stone pillars with concussive force, it was clear that nothing could have been further from the truth.

Only Hiroshi’s head turned in an attempt to trace his foe, but the act felt sluggish. Strenuous. He'd almost been too slow to see it.

A metallic gleam shrieked toward him—A’kiru, reappearing at his flank mid-air, blade already descending. Hiroshi, despite his apparent future sight, was far too slow to adjust in time. Akiru's Hexcraft enabled him to travel faster than even Velkyn's daggers of light, by siphoning the momentum from everything within the room. And his reach was unprejudiced and unprecedented.

Akiru pulled the momentum from Elders Ayune trembling fingers, from the throbbing hearts of his allies, even the shiver of air displaced by his opponents’ breath became a weapon for him to wield.

But despite the sudden encumbering pressure, Hiroshi wore his arrogance like an impenetrable mask. Even as the katana screamed downward, ripping through space thunder, Hiroshi brandished a dull yellow smile— wet with contempt and perverse excitement. But this was not madness.. it was preparation.

Precognition—gleaned from one of his fallen clansmen.

CLANG.

Akiru's blade had landed, but struck neither flesh nor bone.

A dome of translucent Naten emerged from the glyphs of blood circulating around the Defiler, strong enough to deflect Akiru's blade inches from the Hiroshi's throat in a shower of sparks that lit the room like a forge.

But A’kiru didn’t relent.

He twisted through the air and vanished again—only to reappear above, then behind, then beside, each time striking with impossible velocity. He blurred, multiplied, fractured into dozens of flickering afterimages—each one a surgical ghost fueled by stolen thunder.

The barrier cracked with every strike until, at last, it shattered with a sharp, ringing blast.

Hiroshi was flung backward, heels gouging twin scars into the stone floor. He caught himself on a mangled arm—bone jutted beneath shredded skin—but even as blood streamed down his wrist, the grin didn’t fade.

“Such vigor,” he croaked, half-chuckling through the pain. “Such potential...”

His voice trembled not with strain, but delight. “Mmm... a worthy specimen. But still—not enough to challenge one destined to be your Xhi’on.”

A’kiru landed in silence, his blade sighing into its scabbard like a storm held at bay. His gaze burned.

“You?” The word hit like a lash. “You are no Xhi’on.. You are a thief. A traitor. A ghost—and barely that. I’ve read the annals. I know the tale of the gluttonous pig who devoured his own kin to covet their divinity.”

He continued, his words adrip with contempt. “You're just a walking mausoleum of stolen glory.. An undying homunculus of human sin.”

Hiroshi laughed—a guttural, phlegm-coated sound that echoed like a curse.

“Ahh... the annals.” He flexed his ruined hand, and with a sickening snap, it realigned, muscles mending with unnatural ease from his mastery of Shōkotsu. “The title of Xhi’on belongs to the strongest among the Yaarou. —He whose Hexcraft knows no peer or equal.” Hiroshi continued, as if reciting the words from memory. “And I”—he extended his hand—“have embodied this notion. In mind, in body, in a multitude of spirit... and I have done so for centuries.”

With an almost theatrical flourish, the crimson lance that once belonged to Null rose from the ground and drifted to Hiroshi’s palm—as though it had never belonged to anyone else.

“Your annals were written by frightened men.. by dead men. And their fear has bled through that parchment and has poisoned your generation. But worry not, for I have returned..”

The sigils of blood along the chamber floor began to stream toward Hiroshi's feet and slither up the shaft of the lance. Akiru's eyes sharpened in recognition. He had drawn blood, but he wouldn't allow himself to be so easily countered. Hiroshi took note of his caution and performed an Ava.

“And I carry with me the remedy to that rot.. to that fear rooted so deeply within you. Within all of you..” He said as his crimson gaze ominously broke its focus on Akiru to scour the room, as though were addressing everyone within reach of his voice. And then, he smiled his ugly yellow smile. Vile and ruined.

“A culling of the weak.” He rasped, before suddenly a duplicate of Hiroshi emerged from the Kier's shadow—the largest of the remaining warriors, who had been noticeably engrossed in the battle occurring before him.

He didn't notice until it was too late that he was under attack, but he would never forget the pain. Upon touching his back, Hiroshi's duplicate set the seven foot warrior ablaze in a pillar of onyx colored flames that sundered no one but him. No one else could see it or feel its heat, but Kier roared from the mind numbing agony.

This was the Siren's Inferno—Ayune gasped aloud, recognizing the stolen Hexcraft. She recalled in despar the face of Its original wielder, and how they looked when they were slaughtered at Hiroshi’s hand.

Kier reflexively swung backward at his assailant, only for the duplicate to fade into mist. And by then it was too late. His flesh began to melt—globs of him sloughed from bone. First his face, then his chest, then his arms. Each scream shorter than the last—until silence claimed him in a wet, collapsing thud.

One more giant, felled like a dog.

The chamber had grown quiet again—but no longer in reverence.

Dread had returned tenfold.

And into that silence came Hiroshi’s voice, raspy and mocking:

“Yess..” He hissed. “A culling of the weak, will fatten the strong.”

Kier’s body stewed in a steaming heap of melted viscera, his once-imposing frame now a warped ruin pooling into the obsidian floor.

What remained of him hissed and twitched before he went completely still. And the chamber recoiled in response.

Even the Elders flinched. Ayune muttered a prayer beneath her breath and hid from the sight beneath her hood. Jhun simply stared, lips parted, the color drained from his face.

But A’kiru—he didn’t move.

Not at first.

He stood frozen—eyes locked on the grotesque remnants of his comrade. Not just a warrior. Not just a champion. Kier had been a brother in arms, and Akiru took his death as a personal failure.

That man had stood beside him on a dozen battlefields, and had been doing so long before Akiru came of age to fight. Kier had carried men from the rubble as the heat of war clawed at them both. Fought battles that lasted days on end in servitude of the Yaarou, and was never held back by his lack of Hexcraft. He was a warrior, a general..

And now he was gone. Just like that. Gone.

“You..” A’kiru slurred. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak through the knot in his throat. But through his frothing rage, he soon found the strength. “You diseased, cowardly..”

Then came the tremble in his shoulders—rage drowning grief, despair hardening into fury. A’kiru drew his blade with a snarl, lashing the chamber with violent gales that seemed to respond to the weight of the Phantom's pain.

But Hiroshi stood unbothered—even as the winds knicked dribbles of red from his cheeks. His sunken, crimson eyes looked upon Akiru's grief and saw nothing but shame.

“Come child," Hiroshi said, his voice almost gentle. Almost amused. "We mustn't weep over cattle.” He turned just enough for his crimson eyes to catch the light.

“This is the cost of weakness. You are shinobi, yes? You cannot court death and weep when she calls.”

Then, with deliberate calm, Hiroshi performed an Ava and drove Null’s crimson lance into the floor. It struck with a resonant clang, and sigils scorched unto the chamber floor began to glow—a dull, malignant red.

Akiru's knuckles turned white around the hilt of his sword. His eyes screamed for murder.. His jaw was clenched so tight it creaked. Fury had warped his breath and scattered his discipline—he'd forgotten his training and his tact. All that remained of Akiru was little less than vindictive rage. And it swam through the air like static. His next attack would be lethal, and Hiroshi knew it.

Or rather, he'd seen it.

Even the Defiler's eyes were trophies of past conquests—embedded with Hexcraft that allowed him to veer into the future, and witness hundreds of possibilities. He'd seen himself fall at Akiru's blade; beheaded on a pike before his granddaughter's feet. But in those glimpses, he had studied Akiru’s timing, his technique. His flaws.

Hiroshi would never match the Phantom in a contest of speed, but he held no intention to. He simply needed to distract him long enough to set his stage.

But Akiru refused to be stalled or hesitate a second longer.

“No more from you.” He hissed, shifting his stance and prepared to bisect his foe in a surreal flash of steel and speed.. But then, there was pressure. Sudden. Violent. Indescribable pressure. Akiru staggered midstep before he was dragged knees.

It was as if the heavens themselves had collapsed onto his shoulders. His spine bent. His sword slipped from his fingers with a hollow clatter. Blood vessels burst across his skin like red flowers blooming beneath glass.

The other champions stumbled backward, shielding their faces from the vortex of shifting pressure.

But Hiroshi moved unhindered.

He glided through the distortion like smoke in still air—untouched, unburdened. His smile returned, yellow and leering, and with it came a string of saliva that slid down his chin.

“YOU WERE MAGNIFICENT!" he crooned, his voice rich with crazed excitement and a voracious hunger.

And with his withered hand, Hiroshi pressed his palm to the Phantom’s forehead and spoke in a foreign tongue—one that only Hitomi seemed to recognize.

“Řĕĺiniqùish.”

Then A’kiru’s eyes went wide—mouth frozen mid-breath—as the light inside him was pulled from his throat. His soul unraveled in threads of crimson and silver, and funneled into Hiroshi’s mouth like smoke into a siphon. Akiru’s body began to shrink and shrivel until nothing but hallowed husk of the man remained.

When he was done, Hiroshi allowed the carcass to slump unto the ground

Weightless.
Lifeless.

The Phantom Gale was no more. But The Defiler rose from his ashes.

Hiroshi straightened behind a subtle groan. And where once an old man had stood, now rose a figure taller. Straighter. His skin younger. His muscles filled with vitality that hadn’t been his in centuries. Power licked off him like steam. He clenched his fist, and the room recoiled in response.

Akiru’s Hexcraft now belonged to him.
And with it—momentum incarnate.

“Yes.. truly exquisite.” Hiroshi mused, licking his lips as if still savoring the flavor of his foe.

And then In a blink, Hiroshi vanished into a blur of power and speed that swept through the chamber like a sonic fracture. And without warning, the remaining champions were struck—crippled before their eyes could register movement, or their bodies could recognize pain. Their bones were cracked. Blades shattered. Bodies impaled, slaughtered and folded to the floor with strangled gasps.

Using his new found power, Hiroshi was traveling so quickly that no one could perceive his movements. So fast, it was as if the passage of time had stopped entirely around him. And it left his eyes wide with ecstasy.

In the next moment, Hiroshi stood at the foot of the throne.
Before the petrified faces of Elder's Jhun and Ayune..
And before his granddaughter..

Hitomi.

She had not risen. Had not blinked. Had not shifted a single inch. One leg was still crossed over the other, her chin resting lightly on the back of her hand, gaze half-lidded—watching him not with surprise, but boredom. The calm at the center of an impossible storm.

Hiroshi trembled. His hand—slick with momentum and blood—hovered just inches from her throat.

The throne was there. Power. Legacy. Everything he had ever coveted. It was his.

“At last,” he whispered, voice trembling with reverence “..what was owed.. to me—”

Not even the Stormbringer could stop him now.

But then.. something halted him. Hiroshi brow arched in confusion looking at his outstretched hand, frozen mid-reach as if he'd been ensnared in an invisible web he couldn't see or feel until he'd wandered to close.

And once he did, he could feel them everywhere.

They coiled through the stillness like tendrils—translucent serpents desperate for their prey. One braced his wrist, another twisted around his ribs, and yet another coiled gently along his legs. And while Hiroshi couldn't physically see them, the texture.. the feel of them was unmistakable. Like fingers wrapped in molten glass—thin, spectral, and far too numerous to count, swarming him by the thousands.

This was the power of Hitomi's Hexcraft, Her Endless Art Senesciecia; And the Serpent's binding Hiroshi were called her Wrayths.

Hiroshi tried to shift, to teleport, or leap free from their clutches, but the signal never reached his muscles. His legs wouldn’t move. His lungs no longer answered. Even the flow of Naten through his system began to collapse like a choked artery. His body was failing. His thoughts slowed. His consciousness fuzzed at the edges..

He could feel himself aging—rotting.

His youth, freshly stolen—was being unraveled fiber by fiber. Flesh began to sag, skin turned pale and cracked. Bones trembled with the memory of mortality. He had consumed generations. He had stolen gods. But the W’rayths treated him like spoiled meat. And they would not let him die peacefully.

He opened his mouth—summoning the syllables of a forbidden spell, a last-ditch effort carved from the old world.

But another W'rayth covered his mouth with a touch so delicate it made the gesture feel intimate. Possessive. His teeth cracked into powder beneath it, and soured his tongue with ash.

And still, Hitomi didn’t move.
She hadn’t so much as blinked.

She remained reclined on the throne of the Yaarou, one leg still crossed, her fingers still curled beneath her chin. She looked down at Hiroshi like a queen might regard a dog tracking mud into her garden.

It was worse than disinterest, or apathy. She was disappointed.

“Pathetic.” Her voice was calm—casual, almost—to the point of contempt. Despite the seven foot tall warlock frothing blood from his gums, reaching for her throat. She simply sucked her teeth in disapproval

“I thought you’d wait longer…” she mused, tone silk-smooth. “At least until your wounds healed. Or until I turned my back. But no. You couldn’t help yourself.”

The Elders flinched behind her. Ayune’s hands flickered with a reflexive Ava, Jhun’s knuckles bone-white on his staff. They hadn’t even seen Hiroshi move before the W’rayths snared him. Now sweat drenched their backs like rain.

Only Hitomi had remained poised.

She’d been watching. Not just Hiroshi’s ambition—but his technique. Every Ava, every stolen spell. The way he fused ancient Ephemeral Arts with sacrilege to siphon Hexcraft.

She had been studying him—dissecting his every decision.

The old monster thought himself a predator.
But he’d been prey from the start.

“..you really are just a greedy little pig.”

And then the W’rayths tightened.

Hiroshi’s body jerked, his spine twisting in unnatural ways. His limbs bowed in the wrong directions. He no longer stood, but hovered, suspended in midair like a macabre trophy of hubris.

“Don’t you remember what I told you?” Hitomi asked, exhaling softly. Her breath barely disturbed the air.

“I promised you the chance to fight for the throne. To prove you were worthy of the title of Xhi’on.”

She uncrossed her legs, rising—slowly, gracefully—as if ascending from judgment itself.

“And I also promised… that should you fail…” Her eyes sharpened into scarlet razors. “I would bind your soul in servitude—forever tethered to my shadow, as payment for every sacred life you stole.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper—one that sent a frigid chill through his old bones.

“Well, here we are, Hiroshi.. And you have failed.”
The words cracked like a gavel through the chamber. Final. Inevitable.

And then something in Hiroshi snapped.

His eyes blazed open with crimson fury, and dozens of sigils etched across his body lit up with violent radiance. The chamber floor fractured beneath his heels. Air vibrated. Static howled.

These glyphs stored power from centuries forgotten, Hexcraft that not even he could recall their origin, but documented them as caustic and volatile.

The W’rayths faltered—not from fear—but in answer to Hitomi’s own flicker of tension.

He was trying to explode.
To detonate his own, along with all the stolen souls sealed within him in a final, suicidal protest.

Hiroshi began to tear himself free, stripping meat from bone, rending his own arms apart in desperation. He was smiling. Howling. Happy to die here and now, so long as he could bring another Xhi'on with him to the grave. It was no different than before—if he could not attain the throne, then he would slay whoever dared deter his destiny.