Hell rose upon Cinder like an insidious tide, its flames creeped and clawed, latching onto anything in their path. The Inferno spread across the landscape, licking up the crumbling remnants of the world, consuming stone, wood, and flesh alike.
The ground itself seemed to writhe in agony, the searing heat warping Cinder until it cracked open with a violent shudder, fissures spreading like dark, gaping wounds. From these chasms, molten lava erupted in fiery geysers, spewing forth steaming jets of liquid fire that carved jagged rivers through the scarred land.
The very air shimmered with unbearable heat, every breath struggled against the suffocating waves of blistering steam. Trails of bubbling lava snaked across the ground, pooling into glowing lakes of molten rock that hissed and spat.
Encircled within the hellish cauldron stood a swarm of Gluttony Devils—their forms were bloated and deformed, some with multiple heads, others sprouting extra limbs like trees of sinew and bone. Their skin ranged from a sallow gray to a blood-slick red.
In a single, fluid motion, a hand swept forward, the devil barely had time to register the movement before the arm was severed, the appendage dropping to the ground with a wet thud. It groaned, but it was silenced almost instantly as its head was cleaved clean from its shoulders.
One by one, the Gluttony Devils fell. Heads and limbs were severed with precision, each stroke of the blade meting out death. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh, the devils' lifeblood sizzling as it hit the molten ground, sending up plumes of acrid smoke that coiled and twisted in the oppressive heat.
Within mere moments, the horde was reduced to a slaughterhouse of dismembered bodies.
As the last of the flames ebbed and the lava began to cool, standing amidst the charred corpses and the still-glowing rivers of molten rock, one man stood at the end of the rampage.
Maliki Shikamura.
.
.
.
The flaming gates groaned as they parted, splitting with a hiss of searing metal that sent waves of heat crashing outward. A gust of air followed in their wake, rushing through the space like a wild wind, snuffing out the dancing tongues of fire.
The flames flickered weakly before vanishing into the ether, leaving only the faint scent of charred embers behind. Maliki stood in the silence that followed. His twin axes were slung across his broad back, the leather straps creaking as they settled into place.
His sharp red eyes glanced upward to the sentinels atop the tower. They acknowledged their king with a solemn wave, stepping back with reverence as they made way for him to enter.
He moved forward with purpose, the weight of his presence alone enough to part the crowd that surged toward him. The people of the town—those he had saved, those he had fought for—rushed to greet him, their faces alight with a mixture of joy and awe.
The town itself stretched out before him, a bustling expanse of life and industry, with buildings rising from the planet like the skeletal remains of ancient beasts.
Markets thrummed with activity, their stalls overflowing with goods and wares; homes, sturdy and warm, lined the streets, their windows glowing with the soft light of evening hearths; two-story structures cast long shadows over the cobbled streets, where workers toiled, traders bargained, and merchants wove through the throngs like spiders spinning their webs.
As he walked, the people called out to him, their voices rising like a chorus of praise. "Maliki!" one shouted, his voice ringing clear above the din. "Hello, Mr. Shikamura!" another greeted. "My lord!" yet another voice called. The crowd parted before him like a sea, creating a clear path for their king to make his way toward his home.
Maliki's gaze drifted to the left, where a man stood on the outskirts of the crowd, his face lit with gratitude. "Thank you, Maliki!" the man called, though he had no personal reason to offer thanks. It was simply the way of things.
As he continued on, more voices joined the chorus, each one bringing news of the day's events, the victories and joys that had spread through the town like wildfire. "A successful hunt on Raiman's part!" someone shouted. "A newly wedded couple!" another voice chimed in, "And did you hear? They found a thirty-three-head-tall Limbo Devil's corpse, completely harvested!" The news swirled around him, voices upon voices circling around..
"Maliki, we appreciate you!" a woman cried.
"We love you, Maliki!" another declared.
"I'm so grateful—you saved us!" a man near the front shouted.
Their gratitude was palpable, the people showered him with gifts—tokens of their appreciation, offerings of all shapes and sizes. By the time he reached the end of the crowd, his arms were overflowing with their generosity, the weight of their kindness pressing against him.
Though he knew he would soon pass these gifts along to those who needed them more, he could not help but feel a deep swell of gratitude in return. These were his people, and their trust was the most precious thing of all.
"Yes, yes," Maliki murmured, his voice low and resonant as he addressed the crowd. "I am indebted to you all." His words were sincere, his gaze sweeping over the faces that looked up to him with such hope and reverence.
His eyes, however, soon wandered past the crowd, drawn to a simple, unassuming structure in the distance—a brick house, single-story, modest in every way. It stood quietly amidst the other buildings, its plain facade blending seamlessly into the background. But to Maliki, it was more than just a house. It was the heart of his world, the center of everything he had fought to protect.
The Shikamura Residence.
With a sly, practiced wave to the lingering crowd, Maliki turned and strode towards his home. His steps were a rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound in the fading twilight.
The air was still thick with the remnants of the day's heat, and the sky hung overhead like a canvas painted in deep purples and reds, the sun a distant ember sinking into the horizon. Maliki's eyes followed the familiar path, trailing upward to the humble peak of his home.
There, affixed above the door, was a simple nameplate bearing the name "Shikamura." He had taken his wife's last name, a badge of belonging that had eluded him in his early life, before he knew what it meant to have a name that connected him to something real.
He paused at the door, his knuckles rapping softly against the weathered wood. Maliki stepped back slightly, his posture instinctively formal, as if entering his own home required a certain decorum. A moment passed, then another, before the door creaked open, the soft groan of old hinges announcing his arrival.
Maliki's hand wrapped around the handle, and he eased the door fully open, stepping inside. The comforting aroma of pottage greeted him immediately, rich and savory, wafting from the hearth.
He glanced around, taking in the familiar layout of the room, every corner steeped in the quiet dignity of simplicity. The stone walls, the roughly-hewn wooden beams, worn but sturdy.
Beside him, his wife Yomi stood, her long, jet-black hair was tied back into a neat ponytail, accentuating the delicate lines of her face. She moved with the grace of someone who knew exactly where she belonged, without a word, she slipped her slender arms around Maliki's broad shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace. "Hello, darling," she murmured, her voice soft and soothing, like a lullaby whispered in the dark.
"Greetings, Yomi," Maliki responded, his voice low and measured, as his muscular arms enveloped her smaller frame. He bent slightly, resting his forehead against hers, his hands splayed gently at her waist. For a brief moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only slightly, as he allowed himself the comfort of her touch.
"How was the solo hunt?" Yomi whispered into his ear, her breath warm against his skin.
"It was nothing of importance," Maliki replied, firm and dismissive, as he reluctantly pulled away from her embrace. He straightened, towering over her. Yomi barely reached his shoulder, yet there was an undeniable strength in her presence. She turned toward the kitchen, and Maliki followed.
"Are you hungry?" Yomi asked, she reached into the flames, her hands were deft and unafraid, and pulled the pot away with a flick of her wrist, the steam rising in gentle curls as she carried it to the table.
"When it comes to your meals, yes," Maliki admitted, settling into a wooden chair that creaked slightly under his weight. He rested his hands on the table. His eyes followed Yomi as she approached, a steaming bowl of pottage in hand, the scent rich.
She set the dish before him with a small, satisfied smile, and Maliki picked up his spoon, dipping it into the thick, hearty stew.
He lifted the spoon to his lips, for a moment, he allowed himself to be lost in the simple pleasure of the meal, the comfort of home.
His eyes closed.
Something burned within his blacked out vision, was it fire?
When his eyes snapped open, the vision was gone, leaving only the quiet hum of the hearth and the flicker of candlelight on the walls.
When?
WHEN?
Die, just die!
When will you—
Everything was back.
Maliki's breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, his grip faltered. The spoon hovered in midair, trembling ever so slightly, and Yomi's gaze caught the shift instantly. "Maliki?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern, a small crease forming between her brows.
Maliki didn't say a word, he just stared at the pottage that filled his spoon. More. Of course. Maliki cursed at himself, "It's nothing." he said firmly, though the words felt hollow. The moment passed, and he continued to eat, the warmth of the pottage did little to chase away the shadows that lingered at the edges of his vision.
He tried to focus on the taste, the way Yomi's careful seasoning brought each ingredient to life. "It tastes a bit better than before," he said, his voice steady and complimentary.
"Are you saying the last wasn't appeitizable?" Yomi poked at him.
"No… Of course not," Maliki murmured, his tone quieter, almost sheepish.
He knew Yomi was only teasing, ribbing a subtle way of drawing him out, of grounding him in the here and now. It was a kindness he cherished, the way she always seemed to know when he needed to be pulled back from the brink of his own thoughts, despite not know what was wrong with him.
What… was wrong with Maliki?