Yuki's scream echoed through the silence of the room—but when his eyes opened, he was alone.

  The mirrors were gone. The visions... gone.

  Yet their weight clung to him like chains.

  Sweat dripped from his brow. His breathing was ragged.

  The pain in his chest throbbed beneath the crest.

  His eyes fell to Shinkurō, resting silently in the corner of the room, its surface dark… until he reached for it.

  The moment his fingers touched the hilt—

  A pulse.

  A dim, red glow, barely visible in the moonlight, flickered like a heartbeat.

  Without a word, Yuki stood.

  Still dressed in the thin clothes he’d been recovering in, he walked barefoot across the wooden floor and slid the door open.

  The village was quiet—bathed in silver moonlight and the gentle hush of sleeping homes.

  But in the distance, just above the tops of the trees that marked the edge of the forest…

  He saw it.

  A faint line of black smoke rising—too dark, too thick to be a campfire.

  It spiraled upward like a warning.

  Yuki narrowed his eyes. His fingers clenched around the sword’s grip.

  Something wasn’t right.

  His body still ached. The wound in his side hadn’t fully closed.

  But instinct screamed at him.

  "Something's coming..."

  The forest had been peaceful since the Behemoth's defeat.

  But this... this was different.

  It wasn’t just smoke.

  It was the scent of death.

  The sight burned into Yuki’s memory—the cloaked figure kneeling, tracing the outline of the same red crest etched on his back. The earth beneath it cracked, pulsing with dark energy. Demons crawled from it like insects from a hive, clawing their way into this world.

  Yuki didn’t wait to see more.

  He turned, heart hammering, and ran.

  The forest blurred past him. His wounds throbbed with every motion, and blood trickled anew from reopened cuts, but he didn’t stop.

  By the time the first rays of dawn touched the treetops, he was staggering through the village gates, chest heaving, sweat mixing with blood on his brow.

  He didn’t even pause to rest—he headed straight for the mayor’s house.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  The door creaked open, revealing Mayor Genzō in a simple robe, blinking in surprise.

  “Sir Yuki? What’s wrong?”

  Yuki’s voice came ragged and urgent.

  “There’s a summoning crest in the valley—monsters, dozens of them, more than we’ve ever seen. Someone… someone’s calling them. I saw him—cloaked, drawing the symbol. That same mark—on my back.”

  The mayor’s eyes widened. For a moment, silence reigned.

  Then—

  “You’re sure?”

  Yuki nodded, eyes haunted. “I saw it with my own eyes. They’re preparing for something bigger… a war.”

  The mayor turned and walked to his desk, every movement suddenly faster and heavier.

  “Then we can no longer keep this within our walls. We must warn the capital.”

  Genzō rang a small bell. Guards arrived within minutes, their expressions tense.

  “Ready the riders,” the mayor ordered. “Send word to the King immediately. Tell him what Sir Yuki saw—tell him the Crest of Crimson Flame has appeared.”

  One of the guards paled. “That’s only a myth—”

  “It’s real now,” Yuki interrupted. “And it’s moving.”

  Within the hour, five of the village’s fastest riders were armed and sent galloping down the eastern road, scrolls sealed with the village’s mark in hand.

  The mayor gathered the rest of the village defenders, explaining everything Yuki had told him. Tension rippled across their faces as whispers spread.

  Yuki stood before them, still bandaged, exhausted—but unwavering.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “They’re not just attacking randomly anymore,” he said. “They’re gathering. Planning. We have to prepare for this village… and ourselves.”

  The soldiers listened—not just because of his words, but because of the pain behind his eyes. The fear he hid. And the weight he carried.

  And as the sun climbed higher, casting warm light over the blood-stained earth of the village’s edge, a storm darker than any cloud was beginning to form on the horizon.

  The village air was thick with unease as Yuki stood before the gathered soldiers. His bandaged hand clenched the hilt of Shinkurō, his voice steady but heavy with warning.

  “They’re not just attacking randomly anymore,” he said, eyes burning with resolve. “They’re gathering. Planning. We have to prepare this village… and ourselves.”

  The soldiers exchanged anxious glances, the weight of the moment sinking in.

  Suddenly—a sharp crack echoed through the air.

  A plume of dust and dirt exploded near the edge of the crowd as a cloaked figure burst forth from the shadows, landing with a heavy thud.

  Heads whipped around, villagers stepping back in alarm.

  The figure slowly rose, face hidden beneath a deep hood. His voice cut through the stunned silence, cold and commanding.

  “Yuki,” he announced with unmistakable authority, “Surrender yourself and the sword. You do not understand the power you wield.”

  The crowd froze, tension snapping like a drawn bowstring.

  From a nearby doorway, the creak of hinges announced Yoru’s arrival. She stepped out, midnight-black hair catching the dim light, eyes wide with concern.

  Though worried about Yuki’s injuries, she knew him too well. He would never let others fight his battle.

  Silent but steadfast, she moved closer, her gaze locked on Yuki — a quiet reminder that he wouldn’t stand alone.

  Yuki narrowed his eyes, gripping the hilt of Shinkurō tighter despite the pain in his hand. His voice was steady but edged with defiance.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The cloaked figure stepped forward, his voice low and menacing, carrying the weight of a threat.

  “If you do not surrender yourself and the sword by the end of this week,” he declared, “I will burn this village to ashes and destroy everything it holds dear.”

  A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Villagers clutched one another, eyes wide with fear.

  Just then, far beyond the village borders, the pounding of hooves grew louder. The soldiers sent to the capital raced with desperate urgency, their horses propelled by swift, crackling magic.

  At the great gates of the capital, guards hastily opened the massive doors.

  “We’re here on behalf of Mayor Genzo,” one soldier gasped, breathless. “An emergency for His Highness!”

  Without pause, they galloped through the sprawling city, weaving past stunned citizens, their message urgent and clear.

  Inside the grand marble throne room, the king sat upon his majestic seat—eyes sharp but lined with the weight of years. Arrayed on both sides were the high nobles of the realm, clad in silks and gold, lounging in opulent ease.

  The soldiers burst in, armor dusty and cloaks torn by wind. They dropped to one knee.

  “Your Majesty,” the lead soldier said urgently, “an emergency: demons are gathering, preparing for war. Takamori Village is under imminent threat.”

  A ripple of discomfort ran through the court, but it wasn’t fear for the people—it was for their own convenience.

  “Takamori?” scoffed one noble, fanning himself lazily. “Some backwater farming village. Surely this is a minor matter.”

  “Why risk our elite forces for a peasant town?” sneered another, adjusting his jeweled rings. “We cannot just leap at every rural panic.”

  “The budget for another deployment is already stretched,” muttered a third. “We must think of the capital’s needs first.”

  But the king did not flinch. His gaze scanned the room, quieting them with a single raised hand.

  “Enough,” he said, voice low but laced with steel.

  He stood slowly, his royal cloak flowing like storm clouds behind him.

  “If what these men say is true, then this is no minor skirmish. Demons do not gather by accident. And if this village falls, so too might the next, and the next.”

  He turned to his steward. “Summon the Royal Vanguard. I want the First and Second Battalions deployed to the western valley by sundown. Equip them fully. Spare nothing.”

  Gasps echoed through the chamber. One noble tried to rise in protest.

  “Sire—surely you're not mobilizing full forces for mere farmers?”

  “I am mobilizing forces,” the king interrupted, voice like a mountain’s shadow, “for my people.”

  The throne room fell silent.

  Then, his gaze shifted to a tall figure standing silently near the edge of the chamber—his eldest son.

  “August.”

  The young man stepped forward, his armor polished but not ornamental, a silver sword at his side. His eyes were calm, but a fire stirred beneath.

  “You will lead them. Go to the village. Assess the threat yourself. Protect those people. If war is coming, then we face it with our banners high.”

  “Yes, Father,” Crown Prince August van Crad replied with a deep bow, his voice steady as stone.

  Outside the palace, the capital stirred. Horns blared. Boots struck stone in rhythmic precision. Mages drew glowing sigils in the air, summoning shields and wards. Blacksmiths hammered final edges into steel.

  The nobles remained in their towers, fretting over gold and titles.

  But the king’s army moved—not for glory, but for duty.

  War was no longer a whisper.

  It was rising like a storm.

  And the king had chosen to stand in its path.

  She clenched her hands at her side, unsure of what he would decide… and terrified of what it would cost him.

  The wind picked up, tugging gently at her cloak—like the world itself holding its breath.

  She looked at his back, at the way his fingers curled around the sword hilt despite the pain.

  Shinkurō pulsed faintly, red and alive.

  Yoru’s throat tightened. She knew that look. The quiet, heavy resolve.

  He would fight.

  And this time…

  She feared the sword would take more than just blood.