The night after the battle was silent. The air, once thick with the stench of blood and smoke, had settled into an eerie stillness. Inside the Aozora stronghold, Kuroki sat in his chamber, staring at the faint glow of a lantern. His sword rested beside him, its edge still stained from the night before.
His first battle had come and gone. The blood had dried on his skin. Yet his mind remained trapped in that moment—the whispers, the shadows, the voices that called his name.
"You are not the first."
He exhaled, slow and controlled. He should have been exhausted. He should have felt something. But the emptiness inside him was growing, stretching like a void he could not fill.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Kuroki?"
The familiar voice of Jiro Makoto—his closest friend, his only friend.
"Come in," Kuroki said.
Jiro stepped inside, his face shadowed in the dim light. His dark hair was tied back, and his armor was gone, replaced by a simple yukata. He hesitated before speaking.
"You didn't come to the feast," Jiro said, sitting across from Kuroki. "Your father noticed. Raizo made a joke about it, but…" He trailed off.
Kuroki met his gaze. "But?"
Jiro shifted uncomfortably. "They're talking, Kuroki. The warriors. The servants. Even the elders."
Kuroki remained silent, waiting.
"They're saying you're… different." Jiro's voice lowered. "That you didn't hesitate. That you fought like someone who had seen war before."
Kuroki clenched his jaw. He had expected whispers, but he did not care for them. What unsettled him was that they might be right.
Jiro studied him, his brows furrowed. "You've never seemed afraid of anything. But today, on the battlefield… there was a moment. You looked—"
"Lost," Kuroki finished for him.
Jiro nodded.
Kuroki exhaled through his nose. "I saw something," he admitted. "Something… I cannot explain."
Jiro didn't laugh. He didn't call him foolish. Instead, he leaned forward, his expression serious. "Tell me."
Kuroki hesitated, then spoke. He told Jiro about the shadows, the whispers, the vision of himself standing on a mountain of corpses. He spoke of the throne of bones and the feeling of recognition, as if he had been there before.
When he finished, Jiro remained silent for a long time.
Then he spoke.
"My grandmother used to tell me stories," Jiro said. "About warriors who carried the souls of the past within them. Some called them reincarnations of fallen kings. Others called them cursed."
"Which do you believe?" Kuroki asked.
Jiro looked him in the eye. "I believe you're still my friend."
The answer was simple, but it was enough.
For now.
---
The Father's Decision
Takato Aozora stood alone in his chambers, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. The night was deep, but sleep would not come.
Daigo Kanzaki had left hours ago, but his words still rang in Takato's mind.
"You've raised a monster, Takato."
Takato closed his eyes. He had fought many battles, conquered many lands, crushed many enemies. But the war within his own house—this was new.
Kuroki was no ordinary child.
He had always been quiet, always observant. But last night… last night was different. He had walked through the battlefield without fear, without hesitation, without mercy.
It should have pleased him. A warlord needed strong sons.
But Takato was not just a warlord. He was a father.
And fathers knew when something was wrong.
A faint rustle at the door made him turn. His wife, Shizune Aozora, stepped inside.
She was still beautiful, even after years of war and hardship. But tonight, her face was troubled.
"You're thinking about him," she said softly.
Takato sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I see no point in denying it."
Shizune stepped forward. "The whispers have reached me as well. They say our son fights like a demon."
Takato glanced at her. "Do you believe them?"
Shizune was silent for a moment. Then she spoke, her voice firm.
"I believe in the prophecy."
Takato stiffened.
She walked past him, to the small wooden chest in the corner of the room. Kneeling, she opened it and pulled out a faded piece of parchment. The prophecy of the second son.
The second son will surpass the first.
The storm will come, and the world will break.
Shizune looked up at him. "I told you the night he was born. He is meant for something greater. Something beyond us."
Takato's fingers curled into a fist. "Or something that will destroy us."
She stood, stepping closer. "Would you rather he be weak?"
Takato exhaled. "I would rather he be normal."
Shizune's eyes softened. "That is a wish the heavens will not grant you."
Takato knew she was right.
His son was not normal.
And the world would soon come to know it.
---
The Dream of the Warrior King
Kuroki slept.
But his dreams did not belong to him.
The darkness swallowed him whole, and when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.
A battlefield stretched before him. Thousands of warriors stood at his command, their armor blackened, their weapons drenched in blood.
He was not a boy.
He was a man, a king, a god of war.
He stood atop a vast empire, watching as the world burned beneath him. His enemies fell before him like leaves in the wind. He raised his sword, and the sky cracked with lightning.
They chanted his name.
Kuroki.
Kuroki.
Kuroki.
His heart pounded. He knew this place. He had been here before.
A voice whispered behind him.
"You cannot escape fate."
He turned—but there was no one there.
Only shadows.
Shadows that watched.
Kuroki's eyes snapped open.
He was back in his chamber, the faint light of dawn peeking through the paper walls. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart racing.
For the first time in his life, he felt fear.
Not of war. Not of death.
But of who he was becoming.
---
End of Chapter 2