The moon hung low over the Aozora stronghold, casting long shadows across the training grounds. The scent of wet earth and steel lingered in the air, remnants of the afternoon's sparring matches.
Inside the great hall, Takato Aozora, leader of the most feared clan in the region, stood before his two sons—Raizo and Kuroki. Warriors from allied clans filled the space, their eyes watching with expectation.
Tonight was different. Tonight, the Aozora clan would strike again.
At twelve years old, Kuroki knelt beside his older brother. He did not tremble, nor did his pulse quicken. He felt nothing.
"Tonight," Takato's deep voice echoed through the chamber, "my sons take their first step into war."
A murmur rippled through the room. Young heirs often trained for years before their first battle, but the Aozora clan was different. They thrived on conquest.
Raizo, already a seasoned warrior at sixteen, smirked, eager for bloodshed. Kuroki, however, remained silent, his midnight-blue eyes fixed on his father.
War had come for them. And Kuroki Aozora would not run from it.
---
The Night of Fire
The village burned.
Screams tore through the night, the crackling of flames drowning out the last cries of the dying. The Aozora warriors moved like ghosts in the darkness, cutting down anyone who resisted.
Kuroki stood in the center of the battlefield, his hands slick with blood. His sword, once pristine, was now stained deep red.
A man lay before him, his body broken, his breaths shallow. His lips moved, forming silent words, pleading. Kuroki raised his sword, driving it through the man's chest with a single, clean thrust.
He exhaled, slow and steady. His heart did not race. His hands did not tremble.
He had expected more.
Raizo, a few meters away, cut through his enemies with wild, unrestrained fury, laughing as he fought. "Kuroki!" he called out, his voice filled with excitement. "Is this not glorious?"
Kuroki did not answer.
Stepping over another corpse, he turned his gaze toward the battlefield, his expression unreadable. The fires roared. The bodies piled up.
Then, the world shifted.
---
The Awakening
Kuroki's vision blurred. The battlefield around him twisted—colors bleeding together, sounds warping into a distant hum.
The ground beneath him turned to shadow, pulsing like a living thing. The corpses at his feet moved, their mouths opening in silent screams. And then, from the darkness, they appeared—cloaked figures, their forms shifting like smoke, surrounding him.
A voice, deep and ancient, echoed in his mind.
"You are not the first."
Kuroki's heart slammed against his chest.
The shadows twisted, forming images. He saw himself, but not as a boy. A warlord. A ruler. A tyrant.
Standing atop a mountain of corpses, he gazed down at warriors kneeling before him, their bodies trembling in fear. Behind him, a throne of bone and steel loomed, wreathed in black flames.
Another whisper.
"You have walked this path before."
Kuroki's grip on his sword tightened. A sharp pain shot through his skull, his body burning as though something inside him was clawing to break free.
Then—a hand on his shoulder.
"Kuroki?"
The battlefield snapped back into focus. The sky was blue again. The screams, the fire, the scent of blood—all normal.
Jiro Makoto, his closest friend, stood beside him, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's wrong? You just… stopped moving."
Kuroki forced a breath. His hands felt heavy. His vision still swam with the shadows of something ancient, something forgotten.
"It's nothing," he muttered.
But deep inside, he knew it was not nothing.
Something had awakened within him.
And it terrified him.
---
The Father's Fear
By dawn, the fires had burned out. The village lay in ruin, its warriors slaughtered, its survivors taken as prisoners. The Aozora had won again.
Inside the clan's great hall, Takato Aozora watched his youngest son.
Kuroki knelt before him, his sword resting before him, his expression calm. The boy had killed without hesitation, fought without fear.
And yet… Takato could see it.
Something was wrong.
Kuroki's eyes, dark like the night sky, held something unnatural. A flicker of something old, something dangerous.
"You have done well," Takato said, his tone measured. "Tell me, how did you feel?"
Kuroki hesitated. "Nothing."
Takato's gaze sharpened. "Nothing?"
The boy met his father's eyes. "It was… easy."
Silence fell over the room. Warriors who had fought countless battles shifted uncomfortably. Even Raizo, who had bathed in the blood of his enemies, looked at his younger brother with unease.
Takato clenched his jaw.
"You've raised a monster, Takato."
The voice belonged to Daigo Kanzaki, an old friend and trusted general. The older man sipped from his sake cup, his scarred fingers wrapped tightly around it.
Takato exhaled. "He is a warrior. A prodigy."
Daigo scoffed. "A prodigy? No. That was not skill alone." He leaned in. "That boy fought like he had already seen his own fate."
Takato said nothing.
Because he had seen it too.
He remembered the night Kuroki was born—the moonless sky, the winds that whispered through the mountains. The way Shizune, his wife, had clutched their son and whispered of a prophecy.
The second son will surpass the first.
The storm will come, and the world will break.
Takato had dismissed it as the delusions of a mother in childbirth.
But now… he wasn't so sure.
A warlord could not afford to fear his own blood.
But a father could.
And for the first time in years, Takato Aozora felt fear.
---
End of Chapter 2