Soon, the Primordial Anomaly entered a chamber where only the silhouette of a dark, hooded figure waited.

  As the anomaly prepared to speak of his son’s tragic end, the silhouette interrupted calmly.

  “I am sorry for your loss. I know what happened. I am already preparing the emerald blades and poison arrows for the war.”

  The Primordial Anomaly froze.

  “H–how do you know about my son’s death?” he asked.

  The silhouette replied without emotion,

  “I have eyes everywhere. I watch every step… every breath.”

  The anomaly spoke slowly, deliberately.

  “If you destroy them, I will grant you a fragment of a dimension—and the gem you desire so desperately.”

  The silhouette bowed slightly.

  “The task will be completed.”

  The scene shifted.

  After praying before the great dome for twenty days without rest, the father entered a dim chamber. Hayato stood inside.

  Without warning, the father seized a metal rod from the fireplace, glowing red with heat, and struck Hayato’s arm.

  Hayato screamed in agony.

  “I know you summoned the demons,” the father said coldly.

  “Michio was forced to fight. He burned part of his earned life force because of you.”

  Hayato tried to speak—tried to defend himself—but more blows fell. He collapsed to the ground.

  Suddenly, Michio appeared, stepping between them.

  “I have told you many times,” Michio said firmly, “do not blame my brother.”

  A blue forcefield expanded around him—but it faltered.

  Behind Michio, the Dragon’s silhouette emerged.

  “Restraint,” the voice said. “Restraint is the answer.”

  Michio’s power drained instantly, like water vanishing from an oasis.

  Silence followed—until it shattered.

  A messenger burst in, announcing a potential attack.

  The father rushed outside. Moments later, he called for Michio to follow.

  Before leaving, Michio wrapped Hayato in a blanket and healed his wounds with water.

  “Wait here,” he said quietly.

  At the edge of the small island stood a massive wall—a border lined with cavalry soldiers.

  One caught Michio’s attention.

  The boy looked no older than ten.

  “What’s your name?” Michio asked.

  “I’m ten,” the boy replied softly. “The empire forced me to defend our homeland.”

  Guilt struck Michio deeply.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Soon, Takahiro and Shinji arrived at the wall—nervous, powerful, ready.

  Before questions could be asked, a ship emerged from the mist.

  Slow. Silent. Inevitable.

  The father ordered the soldiers to prepare their muskets.

  The ship crashed into the shore, releasing a shockwave that forced the soldiers to duck behind the wall.

  The door creaked open.

  A shadowed figure stepped out—careful to avoid the sunlight, moving only where shadows existed.

  “I represent the ninjas,” the figure said.

  “I am here to negotiate an end to the war.”

  The father turned.

  “MICHIO,” he commanded. “You will negotiate.”

  The massive doors were carved with the symbols of all three elemental beasts. As they slowly opened, dust surged into the air, blurring everything beyond. Through the haze, a single dark dot emerged—growing rapidly.

  Swish.

  Something tore through the air, passing barely an inch from Michio’s ear.

  In that instant, he understood.

  They weren’t here for the land.

  They were here for him.

  Another arrow followed—its blackened arrowhead gleaming, eagle feathers whistling sharply as it flew straight toward his chest.

  Michio reacted without thinking.

  He caught it.

  Barehanded.

  The impact jolted through his arm, but the arrow stopped—held tightly in his grip.

  Silence fell.

  Everyone witnessed the brutal assassination attempt.

  The father’s voice thundered across the battlefield.

  “FIRE THE CANNONS.”

  Cannon fire erupted in unison. Iron spheres tore through the air, slamming into the ship. Wood splintered. Flames spread instantly across the deck.

  The shaded figures leapt from the vessel moments before it exploded.

  The blast sent a massive wave crashing toward the shore.

  It slammed into the empire’s walls, the force rattling armor and shaking the soldiers to their bones.

  Silence followed—heavy, trembling.

  Suddenly a dark cloud covered the sun and everything became dark and ominous.

  The dark figures moved slowly towards Michio.

  The scene cut to the father.

  “EVERY SOLDIER—MOVE!” he commanded. “PROTECT MICHIO!”

  Steel clashed as soldiers surged forward.

  The boy followed.

  The youngest among them—no armor fit properly, hands shaking around his weapon—was ordered onto the battlefield to face assassins far beyond his strength.

  He obeyed anyway.

  ?

  Kunai knives whistled through the air, slicing past Michio’s face by inches. He tried to raise a water field—

  Nothing.

  He tried to call the Dragon—

  Silence.

  No element answered him.

  Then the ground darkened.

  A massive shadow rose behind him, towering and wrong. Before Michio could turn, it seized him and hurled him into the earth. Stone cracked on impact. Pain exploded through his body.

  The shadow struck him again.

  And again.

  Each blow drove the breath from his lungs. Blood spilled across the fractured ground as Michio lay half-conscious, broken beneath its weight.

  The shadow leaned close, its voice a cold whisper against his ear.

  “No god is coming to save you.”

  All the assassins gathered around him.

  They did not speak.

  They did not rush.

  They simply watched—silent witnesses waiting for the end.

  Waiting for the end of Michio.

  ?

  The scene cut away.

  Steel clashed against steel as soldiers collided with assassins across the battlefield. One soldier lunged forward and drove his sword into an assassin’s side, forcing a gasp from beneath the mask. But before he could pull the blade free, three soldiers fell behind him—cut down by a single figure moving like a shadow given form.

  Arrows flew.

  The assassin twisted aside effortlessly, every shaft slicing past empty air. In a single motion, he hurled a kunai.

  It pierced straight through a soldier’s skull.

  The body collapsed before the sound of impact had time to echo.

  The battlefield wasn’t chaos.

  It was an execution.

  Amidst the chaos of war, a messenger rushed to the father, his breath uneven.

  “Sir,” he said urgently, “we’re losing men—too many, too fast.”

  The father’s expression darkened.

  “So,” he replied calmly, “they’ve decided to cross the line.”

  He turned away, removing his outer coat and handing it to the messenger.

  “Hold this,” he said coldly.

  “I’ll return for it.”

  The scene cut to Hayato.

  He sat alone, back against cold stone, eyes shut tight as if sleep could erase the noise of the world. His body trembled uncontrollably.

  Around his neck, Michio’s chain pulsed once.

  Then dimmed.

  Hayato’s breath caught.

  Back on the battlefield—

  A blade descended toward Michio’s throat.

  Just before it could strike, a shadow stepped into the clearing.

  It was small. Too small to matter.

  For a heartbeat, no one reacted.

  Then—

  Swish.