The heavy wooden doors of The Danyo swung inward before Jao could even raise his hand to knock. Baron, a man built like a fortress, stood in the doorway, his usual gruff expression sternly staring at the man next to him, Sozen the son of Owaki, but softened slightly as he recognized Jao.
"Jao-san,"
Baron rumbled his voice a deep tremor that vibrated in the small space.
"Rhea-sama has been expecting you."
He inclined his head, a subtle gesture of respect that didn't quite reach his stern gaze. Baron had always been protective of Rhea, but today, there was an added layer, a silent acknowledgment of the burden Jao now carried. Jao nodded curtly, stepping past Baron and into the familiar warmth of the inn's common room. They followed Baron down a short hallway to a private chamber. As Baron opened the door, Jao saw Lady Rhea seated by a low table, meticulously arranging what looked to be dried herbs. Her silver hair was neatly coiled, and her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, immediately fixed on him.
“Ah, Shadowfang, you’ve returned.”
Rhea’s voice was calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil Jao felt churning within him.
“Welcome back, child. And you’ve brought…company.”
Her gaze flickered to Sozen, a silent question hanging in the air.
Jao stepped fully into the room, his eyes meeting Rhea’s.
“Lady Rhea,” he began, his voice tight with the weight of what he’d learned. He then turned to Baron, a silent dismissal, and the bodyguard nodded and closed the door, leaving them in privacy. Jao turned back to Rhea.
“I’ve spoken with the one who posed as the Shi. He… he’s revealed much. Turns out, it the SHi present were sunless... led by an Owaki. The very one responsible for assisting the Descendants in the destruction of the farm in Whisperwood.”
He recounted everything Sozen had told him about the Owaki farms, the horrific purpose they served, the slave trade of his Denkoushi kin, and the monstrous experiments conducted there. He described the Owaki’s desperate ambition to weaponize Subjugation, and their grotesque research on his mother’s remains. As he spoke, Rhea’s expression remained impassive, yet Jao could see a deepening gravity in her eyes. Sozen remained silent, his gaze fixed on the woven tatami mats. When Jao finished, the room fell silent, heavy with the implications of his words. Finally, Rhea spoke, her voice low and measured.
“And you deemed it necessary to bring this… Owaki… into my inn?”
Her tone was not accusatory but laced with a clear demand for explanation. Jao met her gaze steadily.
“He’s our ticket, Lady Rhea. To the ring.”
He gestured towards Sozen.
“He says the Ring of Subjugation is being kept at Taka no Kami.”
Rhea tilted her head slightly.
“Taka no Kami… The Hawk’s Nest. The farm perched amongst the clouds.”
She considered this for a moment.
“Indeed, a formidable fortress. Sozen, was it? Elaborate.”
Sozen finally spoke, his voice low and surprisingly steady.
“Taka no Kami is indeed designated as a base for agricultural studies to improve the quality of crops in Edo, in official records. Labeled as a marvel of horticultural invocation, though this is only what the Owaki tell the public. Its true purpose has always been far more than that. It is our most secure research/military facility, and now, as Jao has stated, the vault for the… artifact.”
“And it is only accessible by air,” Rhea stated, her gaze returning to Jao. “An airship is required to reach it.”
Sozen nodded. “Correct. Security is… stringent. Land access is impossible. But…” He paused, glancing around the room as if ensuring they were alone. “There is a way. Hidden, not far from here, is a concealed hangar. A relic from a bygone era, when air travel was… less regulated. It houses a functional airship, maintained in secret, for… contingency purposes.”
Jao’s brow furrowed.
“A hidden hangar? An airship?”
Hope sparked within him, fragile yet real. But then doubt quickly followed.
“Even with an airship… how do we infiltrate Taka no Kami? Security will be impenetrable.”
Rhea leaned forward, her gaze sharp and intense, locking onto Jao.
“Infiltrate? Child, we will not infiltrate. We will offer them exactly what they desire.”
Jao stared at her, confusion clouding his features. “What… Lady Rhea, I don’t understand.”
Rhea’s lips curved into a thin, almost predatory smile. “We will give them the serpent heir. We will deliver you, Jao, to their doorstep.”
Sozen’s head snapped up, a flicker of something–surprise, perhaps even excitement?–in his eyes.
“That… that could work.”
He considered for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin.
“My…previous credentials, attempting to gain access, would be flagged instantly by now. But… presenting myself, bringing you, Jao, as… an offering… a demonstration of fealty… a return of their prodigal son… yes.”
He nodded slowly, conviction growing in his voice.
“That would bypass all suspicion. They would crave an audience. Especially my brother, Lord Iwa.”
Jao’s breath hitched in his chest. Present himself? As a captive? As a gift? To the very people who had tormented his family, who had desecrated his mother? He looked at Sozen, the man who had been complicit, perhaps even instrumental, in that horror. To place his life, his freedom, completely in this man’s hands… the thought was sickening.
“Lady Rhea…” Jao began, his voice strained. “To trust him… after everything…”
Rhea placed a hand, surprisingly strong for her age, on Jao’s arm. “You threw your agency in the matter out the window the moment you left him alive, child. Don't be so naive. Did you think you could face the eldest name in Edo without risking yourself? Besides, it is not a matter of trust."
Her words stung but rang true. It was far too late to begin second-guessing things now. He had deemed him necessary and important enough to leave alive, knowing full well he was aware of the truth of his origins. What's more, having brought him here to Rhea's domain. He had taken too many risks, what's one more?
"But strategy… strategy is essential. Consider this: sneaking in through shadows, we are playing on their terms, in their territory. But presenting yourself openly, brazenly, on our terms… that throws them off balance. It plays on their arrogance, their lust for power, their very nature.”
Jao looked at Rhea, then at Sozen, then back at Rhea. He saw the steel in her eyes, the cold, calculated logic in her plan. He felt the burning rage within him, the desperate need for justice, for retribution. He knew the risks were immense, terrifying. But he also knew, deep down, that Rhea was right. This was not about trust. This was about strategy. This was about getting close enough to strike. He closed his eyes, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear, rage, grief, and a desperate, burning desire for justice warred within him. He thought of his mother, her strength, her sacrifice. He thought of his enslaved kin, suffering in the Owaki farms below. He thought of the Ring, the source of their power, and the illness that drove their desperation.
He swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat. “Yes,” he said, the word barely a whisper. “Yes, Lady Rhea. I agree. We do it your way.”
He looked at Sozen, his eyes narrowed, burning with a mixture of hatred and grim determination. His voice was hoarse, yet resolute. Sozen met his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, Jao saw something flicker in the Owaki’s eyes – regret? Shame? He couldn’t be sure.
"My… past actions… I cannot undo them, Jao-san. But I swear," Sozen said, his voice low and earnest, a surprising tremor in its smoothness, "I will not betray you now. This is the only way. The only way to reach Taka no Kami. The only way to retrieve the Ring, and more importantly… to dismantle their operation from within.I don't have long to live, let me use what little wretched life I have left to at least try to fix this."
"If you betray me, Sozen… if this is a trick…"
Sozen shook his head, his eyes unwavering. "My life is forfeit if I do, Jao-san. I understand the stakes."
Jao took another deep breath, the cold dread still clinging to him, but a sliver of grim resolve hardened his resolve. He had come too far, learned too much, to turn back now. "Then," he said, the word heavy with the weight of his decision, "we walk through the front gate."
Step 3: Preparing for War[END]
Step 3: Preparing for War[END]
Last edited by Jao Shi on Thu Mar 27, 2025 8:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Step 3: Preparing for War
---The Following day------
The lanterns of Edo cast a deceptive glow across the Owaki estate. From the outside, it was a picture of serene power. Pagodas with sweeping roofs pierced the night sky, gardens whispered with meticulously manicured tranquility, and the soft murmur of polite conversation drifted from open verandas. This was the public face of the Owaki, the eldest Shinobi family, pillars of Edo society, and tireless advocates for peace. A lie as meticulously crafted as their gardens.
Behind the silken screens and polite smiles, the Owaki estate pulsed with a different kind of life – a clandestine, feverish energy driven by desperation and greed. Lord Zeroken Owaki, the current patriarch, surveyed his opulent study, the scent of rare inks and aged paper heavy in the air. He was a man of refinement, his silk kimono impeccable, his movements measured and graceful. But beneath the veneer of composure, a cold calculation burned in his eyes, a reflection of the insidious disease gnawing at his blood.
He coughed, a dry, hacking sound that echoed in the vast room, a stark reminder of the Owaki curse – the genetic cancer that stole their lives before they could even truly taste their power. He had staved off the ravenous curses with a myriad of achleimal poultices and rituals to prolong his life far longer than any other head before him. But his body had finally reached its limit. Five years. Five years was the grim expiration date stamped on every Owaki born. Unless…
Unless they could crack the secrets hidden within the cursed blood of the Shi.
Zeroken ran a hand over the lacquered box on his desk, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of a coiled serpent. Inside laid the Ring Of Destruction, Ruin. It whispered promises of power, but also taunted the Owaki with its nigh unattainability. Their naten pools, stunted by their genetic affliction, could barely flicker with the rings' might.
“Progress report,” Zeroken commanded, his voice smooth as polished jade, yet sharp enough to cut.
A figure emerged from the shadows, bowing low. Kenji, his most trusted scientist, a man whose intellect was only surpassed by his utter lack of conscience. “Lord Zeroken, the Oni breeding program remains on schedule. Yields are high. The Farms are… productive.”
“And the Shi subjects?” Zeroken's eyes narrowed, the polite mask momentarily slipping to reveal the predatory gleam of his ancestors.
Kenji hesitated, adjusting his spectacles. “The Ketsugō chi trials are… volatile, my Lord. The Shi subjects are… resisting the integration. Many expire prematurely.”
Zeroken's jaw tightened. “Prematurely? We are wasting resources. We are running out of time. Increase the alchemical tinctures. Push them harder. We need results. I want a Shi specimen capable of wielding the ring. Is the cloning progressing?”
“Slowly, Lord Zeroken. The Shi DNA is… complex. We’ve achieved cellular replication, but…” Kenji trailed off, his usual confidence faltering under Zeroken's piercing gaze.
Zeroken rose, pacing the room like a caged tiger. “But? But what, Kenji? Speak plainly. My patience wann-”
The Edo lor hacked up a spittal of blood. Kenji took a handkerchief from his pocket handing it to Zeroken.
“The Oni… they are physically viable, but their naten capacity… it is… diminished. Even lower than a standard Shi.”
Despair, cold and sharp, pricked at Zeroken carefully constructed façade. Their grand plan, the culmination of generations of research, bloodshed, and exploitation, was faltering. Creating a Shi clone, harvesting its DNA, and melding it with their own to expand their naten capacity – it was their only hope. Their only chance to wield the Rings, to break free from the suffocating grasp of their genetic death sentence.
“Diminished?” Zeroken repeated, his voice dangerously low. “Then we must enhance it. Combine the cloning process with Ketsugō chi. Inject the clones with the enhanced tinctures from birth. Flood them with naten. Break them if necessary, but make them stronger.”
Kenji bowed again, a flicker of unease in his eyes. Even he, hardened by years of morally bankrupt experiments, seemed to recognize the escalating madness in Zeroken's tone. Yet, knew it be born from the risk they all were under, even he himself soon to be subjected to this illness one day. “As you command, Lord Zeroken.”
The “Farms” were not fields of crops, but sprawling, uniquely located complexes hidden beneath the guise of Owaki holdings across Edo. They were dungeons of steel and stone, reeking of disinfectant and despair. There, the Denkoushi, given the new title of Oni, were bred and trained like livestock, their lives measured in usefulness and expandability. And here, too, the Shi were held, not as slaves, but as research subjects, their bodies and blood the raw material for the Owaki’s desperate alchemy.
Deep within Farm Seven, in a sterile, harshly lit laboratory, a young Shi woman named Hana lay strapped to a cold metal table. Her dark eyes, wide with terror, tracked the movements of the Owaki scientists as they prepared for the Ketsugō chi ritual. Around her, other Shi subjects, hollow-eyed and broken, lay in various states of mutation – limbs twisted into unnatural angles, skin marbled with pulsating veins, eyes glowing with an unsettling, unnatural light. Failed experiments, discarded prototypes in the Owaki’s relentless pursuit of power.
Kenji oversaw the procedure, his face impassive as he directed his assistants. A complex array of alchemical devices hummed and whirred, channeling raw naten and potent tinctures into Hana’s veins. The air crackled with arcane energy, the stench of ozone and blood mingling in a nauseating miasma. One that he found nearly intoxicating.
Hana screamed as the process began, her body convulsing, her skin flushing crimson. The Shi blood, cursed and potent, fought against the Owaki genetic structure, a violent, agonizing war raging within her cells. The scientists monitored the readings, their faces grim. This time, they were using a new tincture, derived from a rare deep-sea creature known for its regenerative properties, hoping to push the integration further, to unlock a more potent mutation.
Hours bled into an eternity of pain for Hana. Her screams subsided into ragged gasps, her body trembling uncontrollably. Finally, the readings stabilized. Kenji leaned closer, his eyes scrutinizing the monitors.
“Parameters… elevated,” he murmured, a hint of grim satisfaction in his voice. “Naten conductivity… increased. Subject is demonstrating enhanced strength and… resilience.”
He gestured to a junior scientist. “Unleash the Denkoushi.”
From a nearby holding cell, a Sunless, clad in dull grey armor, was brought forth. These were the Owaki’s primary commodity, sold across Edo and beyond as elite soldiers, but to the Owaki, they were just another resource, another tool in their grand scheme.
The Sunless, his face blank and emotionless behind his mask, was instructed to attack Hana. He moved with programmed efficiency, a blur of motion and steel. But Hana, fueled by the volatile cocktail of Shi blood and alchemical tinctures, reacted with surprising speed and ferocity.
She ripped free from the straps, her eyes blazing with an unnatural light. Her muscles bulged, her movements fluid and predatory. She met the Denkoushi’s attack head-on, her bare hands deflecting his blade, her body absorbing the impact with unnatural resilience.
The scientists watched in stunned silence as Hana transformed, her form becoming a belligerent amalgam of the mutagen used to enhance her. She lunged toward her prey with sight-defying speed and overpowered the Denkoushi, tearing through his armor with her bare hands, her movements mirroring the brutal grace of the legendary Ain, the original wielder of Dankestu Mugen, the Endless Art. Yet she did not carry the Dojustu itself.
Kenji’s eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to awe in his normally cold gaze. “Incredible… the Ketsugō chi… it’s working. More potent than we anticipated. The Endless art should awaken soon.”
But Zeroken, observing from a monitor in his study, felt a cold dread creep into his heart despite the apparent success. Hana, mutated and powerful, was also… unstable. The raw power surging through her was uncontrolled, untamed. She was not a tool to be wielded, but a volatile force unleashed. What's more, Zeroken knew that the Mugen was not something one simply awakened, according to the reports he received 18 years ago, it was something one was born with. Still, the overwhelming cursed Chi she was emitting was more than sufficient. A glimmer, a volatile glimmer of hope.
The Owaki were not recreating Ain. They were playing with fire, delving into forbidden arts, driven by their fear of death and their insatiable hunger for power. They sought to cheat fate, to transcend their genetic limitations, but in their desperation, were they unleashing something far more dangerous than they could comprehend?
As Hana, in her mutated fury, attempted to tear through the Farm’s security seeking escape, Zeroken knew that the Owaki’s carefully constructed façade of peace was about to shatter. Their secrets, their crimes, and their monstrous ambitions threatened to be exposed. But before their fear could even be realized the Oni stopped as if frozen in time before she regurgitated a black bile and her chest exploded. Ultimately, the experiment was a failure.
"The...subject is dead sir."
Kenji whispered in a defeated tone barely escaping death at the hand of the subject. Zeroken's nostrils flared.
"Clean up that mess and figure out what went wrong...."
He angrily slammed a button that cut communication. As he leaned back In his chair, his mind raced trying to break this code. He rose from his seat and went to the window. Observing the vast expanse of his compound he saw a lone serpent, black in nature slithering through the field. Then, at that very moment, it hit him. Like an obvious brick thrown in his face.
"The snake clan....yes.... of course..."
He returned to his seat where his mind began churning in earnest. Demonically inspired as if he had dissolved the secret to impartiality itself.
"Perhaps it is time to contact the Yaarou..."
The lanterns of Edo cast a deceptive glow across the Owaki estate. From the outside, it was a picture of serene power. Pagodas with sweeping roofs pierced the night sky, gardens whispered with meticulously manicured tranquility, and the soft murmur of polite conversation drifted from open verandas. This was the public face of the Owaki, the eldest Shinobi family, pillars of Edo society, and tireless advocates for peace. A lie as meticulously crafted as their gardens.
Behind the silken screens and polite smiles, the Owaki estate pulsed with a different kind of life – a clandestine, feverish energy driven by desperation and greed. Lord Zeroken Owaki, the current patriarch, surveyed his opulent study, the scent of rare inks and aged paper heavy in the air. He was a man of refinement, his silk kimono impeccable, his movements measured and graceful. But beneath the veneer of composure, a cold calculation burned in his eyes, a reflection of the insidious disease gnawing at his blood.
He coughed, a dry, hacking sound that echoed in the vast room, a stark reminder of the Owaki curse – the genetic cancer that stole their lives before they could even truly taste their power. He had staved off the ravenous curses with a myriad of achleimal poultices and rituals to prolong his life far longer than any other head before him. But his body had finally reached its limit. Five years. Five years was the grim expiration date stamped on every Owaki born. Unless…
Unless they could crack the secrets hidden within the cursed blood of the Shi.
Zeroken ran a hand over the lacquered box on his desk, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of a coiled serpent. Inside laid the Ring Of Destruction, Ruin. It whispered promises of power, but also taunted the Owaki with its nigh unattainability. Their naten pools, stunted by their genetic affliction, could barely flicker with the rings' might.
“Progress report,” Zeroken commanded, his voice smooth as polished jade, yet sharp enough to cut.
A figure emerged from the shadows, bowing low. Kenji, his most trusted scientist, a man whose intellect was only surpassed by his utter lack of conscience. “Lord Zeroken, the Oni breeding program remains on schedule. Yields are high. The Farms are… productive.”
“And the Shi subjects?” Zeroken's eyes narrowed, the polite mask momentarily slipping to reveal the predatory gleam of his ancestors.
Kenji hesitated, adjusting his spectacles. “The Ketsugō chi trials are… volatile, my Lord. The Shi subjects are… resisting the integration. Many expire prematurely.”
Zeroken's jaw tightened. “Prematurely? We are wasting resources. We are running out of time. Increase the alchemical tinctures. Push them harder. We need results. I want a Shi specimen capable of wielding the ring. Is the cloning progressing?”
“Slowly, Lord Zeroken. The Shi DNA is… complex. We’ve achieved cellular replication, but…” Kenji trailed off, his usual confidence faltering under Zeroken's piercing gaze.
Zeroken rose, pacing the room like a caged tiger. “But? But what, Kenji? Speak plainly. My patience wann-”
The Edo lor hacked up a spittal of blood. Kenji took a handkerchief from his pocket handing it to Zeroken.
“The Oni… they are physically viable, but their naten capacity… it is… diminished. Even lower than a standard Shi.”
Despair, cold and sharp, pricked at Zeroken carefully constructed façade. Their grand plan, the culmination of generations of research, bloodshed, and exploitation, was faltering. Creating a Shi clone, harvesting its DNA, and melding it with their own to expand their naten capacity – it was their only hope. Their only chance to wield the Rings, to break free from the suffocating grasp of their genetic death sentence.
“Diminished?” Zeroken repeated, his voice dangerously low. “Then we must enhance it. Combine the cloning process with Ketsugō chi. Inject the clones with the enhanced tinctures from birth. Flood them with naten. Break them if necessary, but make them stronger.”
Kenji bowed again, a flicker of unease in his eyes. Even he, hardened by years of morally bankrupt experiments, seemed to recognize the escalating madness in Zeroken's tone. Yet, knew it be born from the risk they all were under, even he himself soon to be subjected to this illness one day. “As you command, Lord Zeroken.”
The “Farms” were not fields of crops, but sprawling, uniquely located complexes hidden beneath the guise of Owaki holdings across Edo. They were dungeons of steel and stone, reeking of disinfectant and despair. There, the Denkoushi, given the new title of Oni, were bred and trained like livestock, their lives measured in usefulness and expandability. And here, too, the Shi were held, not as slaves, but as research subjects, their bodies and blood the raw material for the Owaki’s desperate alchemy.
Deep within Farm Seven, in a sterile, harshly lit laboratory, a young Shi woman named Hana lay strapped to a cold metal table. Her dark eyes, wide with terror, tracked the movements of the Owaki scientists as they prepared for the Ketsugō chi ritual. Around her, other Shi subjects, hollow-eyed and broken, lay in various states of mutation – limbs twisted into unnatural angles, skin marbled with pulsating veins, eyes glowing with an unsettling, unnatural light. Failed experiments, discarded prototypes in the Owaki’s relentless pursuit of power.
Kenji oversaw the procedure, his face impassive as he directed his assistants. A complex array of alchemical devices hummed and whirred, channeling raw naten and potent tinctures into Hana’s veins. The air crackled with arcane energy, the stench of ozone and blood mingling in a nauseating miasma. One that he found nearly intoxicating.
Hana screamed as the process began, her body convulsing, her skin flushing crimson. The Shi blood, cursed and potent, fought against the Owaki genetic structure, a violent, agonizing war raging within her cells. The scientists monitored the readings, their faces grim. This time, they were using a new tincture, derived from a rare deep-sea creature known for its regenerative properties, hoping to push the integration further, to unlock a more potent mutation.
Hours bled into an eternity of pain for Hana. Her screams subsided into ragged gasps, her body trembling uncontrollably. Finally, the readings stabilized. Kenji leaned closer, his eyes scrutinizing the monitors.
“Parameters… elevated,” he murmured, a hint of grim satisfaction in his voice. “Naten conductivity… increased. Subject is demonstrating enhanced strength and… resilience.”
He gestured to a junior scientist. “Unleash the Denkoushi.”
From a nearby holding cell, a Sunless, clad in dull grey armor, was brought forth. These were the Owaki’s primary commodity, sold across Edo and beyond as elite soldiers, but to the Owaki, they were just another resource, another tool in their grand scheme.
The Sunless, his face blank and emotionless behind his mask, was instructed to attack Hana. He moved with programmed efficiency, a blur of motion and steel. But Hana, fueled by the volatile cocktail of Shi blood and alchemical tinctures, reacted with surprising speed and ferocity.
She ripped free from the straps, her eyes blazing with an unnatural light. Her muscles bulged, her movements fluid and predatory. She met the Denkoushi’s attack head-on, her bare hands deflecting his blade, her body absorbing the impact with unnatural resilience.
The scientists watched in stunned silence as Hana transformed, her form becoming a belligerent amalgam of the mutagen used to enhance her. She lunged toward her prey with sight-defying speed and overpowered the Denkoushi, tearing through his armor with her bare hands, her movements mirroring the brutal grace of the legendary Ain, the original wielder of Dankestu Mugen, the Endless Art. Yet she did not carry the Dojustu itself.
Kenji’s eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to awe in his normally cold gaze. “Incredible… the Ketsugō chi… it’s working. More potent than we anticipated. The Endless art should awaken soon.”
But Zeroken, observing from a monitor in his study, felt a cold dread creep into his heart despite the apparent success. Hana, mutated and powerful, was also… unstable. The raw power surging through her was uncontrolled, untamed. She was not a tool to be wielded, but a volatile force unleashed. What's more, Zeroken knew that the Mugen was not something one simply awakened, according to the reports he received 18 years ago, it was something one was born with. Still, the overwhelming cursed Chi she was emitting was more than sufficient. A glimmer, a volatile glimmer of hope.
The Owaki were not recreating Ain. They were playing with fire, delving into forbidden arts, driven by their fear of death and their insatiable hunger for power. They sought to cheat fate, to transcend their genetic limitations, but in their desperation, were they unleashing something far more dangerous than they could comprehend?
As Hana, in her mutated fury, attempted to tear through the Farm’s security seeking escape, Zeroken knew that the Owaki’s carefully constructed façade of peace was about to shatter. Their secrets, their crimes, and their monstrous ambitions threatened to be exposed. But before their fear could even be realized the Oni stopped as if frozen in time before she regurgitated a black bile and her chest exploded. Ultimately, the experiment was a failure.
"The...subject is dead sir."
Kenji whispered in a defeated tone barely escaping death at the hand of the subject. Zeroken's nostrils flared.
"Clean up that mess and figure out what went wrong...."
He angrily slammed a button that cut communication. As he leaned back In his chair, his mind raced trying to break this code. He rose from his seat and went to the window. Observing the vast expanse of his compound he saw a lone serpent, black in nature slithering through the field. Then, at that very moment, it hit him. Like an obvious brick thrown in his face.
"The snake clan....yes.... of course..."
He returned to his seat where his mind began churning in earnest. Demonically inspired as if he had dissolved the secret to impartiality itself.
"Perhaps it is time to contact the Yaarou..."
Last edited by Jao Shi on Wed Apr 02, 2025 10:35 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Re: Step 3: Preparing for War
The sake was lukewarm, barely cutting through the chill that had settled in Jao’s bones, a chill deeper than the autumn air swirling outside the paper windows of the Danyo Inn. He sat cross-legged on the worn tatami mat of his room, the low table before him cluttered with maps of the Owaki territory, charcoal sketches of the Taka no Kami facility, and a scattering of dried rations. But his gaze, and indeed his entire being, was fixated on the object before him, resting across his lap. Kuroi Ryu. It seemed to drink in the meager starlight filtering through the room's cracked windows. The hilt was wrapped in dark dragon-scale leather, cool and almost alive to the touch.
The katana was magnificent, even in repose. Cool, almost unnervingly so, it hummed with a silent power that vibrated against his skin. The Black Dragon Blade, wielded by Ains, the traitor, the ancestor who had brought ruin upon their name. Jao had taken the last few days to compile deeper research into the weapon itself. He had the shroud scour their networks for any information about the blade. Most of them were lost scant pieces of old legends. Many tomes containing any knowledge of the Denkoushi, particularly of Ains were destroyed. Yet, there was one one scroll, one that stuck out to him. The parchment was thick, almost leathery, covered in elegant, fading kanji that spoke of a time long past. Not prose, he realized, but verse. Lengthy verse, running down the scroll in uneven lines. It was a poem, and as Jao’s eyes traced the characters, his breath hitched.
The first few lines were simple, and pastoral, describing the serene beauty of Edo-era lands. Then, the tone shifted. A shadow fell upon the verse, black ink mirroring the encroaching darkness described within.
“From mountain’s heart, a shadow crept, With scales of night, and eyes that wept, Molten gold in hateful stare, The Kuroi Ryu, despair to share.”
Kuroi Ryu – Black Dragon. Jao’s heart pounded a little faster. Dragons were legends, myths whispered in hushed tones. Yet, here, in ancient script, was detail… vivid, terrifying detail.
The poem went on, stanza after stanza, weaving a tale of fear and destruction. Kuroi Ryu wasn't a majestic, benevolent dragon of myth. It was a creature of pure malice, a living storm of obsidian scales and razor claws. And its breath… its breath was called the Void Pyre.
“From gullet deep, a darkness poured, No crimson flame, by forge adored, But void of light, a chilling black, Where life’s bright spark would turn and crack.”
The poem describes the Void Pyre in chilling detail. It wasn't just fire. It was an absence, a devouring bleakness that consumed not just flesh, but the very spirit itself. Those touched by the black flame didn't simply burn; they turned to lifeless, grey stone, their souls extinguished, leaving behind husks devoid of essence. Houses became petrified monuments, fields turned to ashen wastes, all under the dragon’s reign of terror.
Jao shivered despite himself. He could almost feel the chilling emptiness emanating from the words. He imagined the terror of the people of Edo, facing a creature that could steal not just life, but existence itself. But the poem wasn't just a lament. It spoke of hope, of a single beacon in the encroaching darkness.
“Then rose a hero, eyes ablaze, Like dragon’s own in fiery haze, Not fear he felt, but burning might, To banish dark and bring the light.”
This hero, unnamed in the poem, was described with an almost unsettling intensity. His eyes burned “like a dragon’s own.” This wasn't mere courage; it was something deeper, something primal, a fire mirroring the very creature he opposed. Jao didn't need to think hard about it, the indication was clear.
"The Dankestu Mugen..."
The verses painted a brutal, desperate battle. The hero didn’t wield ornate weapons, no shimmering swords of legend. His weapon seemed to be his sheer will, his unwavering spirit reflected in those dragon-like eyes. He faced the Void Pyre, the poem hinted, not with defenses, but with a counter-force, a searing inner flame that resonated with the dragon's own power. No doubt Aphosis's influence.
“He fought the beast, with heart aflame, And through the void, his purpose came, To seize the soul, the dragon’s core, And end the reign, forevermore.”
The climax of the poem was visceral, almost violently poetic. The desperation of this heat, no doubt spoke of Nestu, the shi's cornerstone Ephemeral art. It described the hero, in a moment of desperate bravery, seizing hold of the Kuroi Ryu, wrestling with the monstrous creature, and then, impossibly, ripping the dragon’s soul from its body.
“From clawéd throat, the soul was torn, A wisp of smoke, forever sworn, To silent void, it disappeared, And dragon’s form, forever seared.”
With the soul gone, the dragon, bereft of its essence, became just a physical shell. But the hero wasn’t finished. In a final, audacious act, he took the dragon’s most potent weapon – its fang, a shard of obsidian darkness, and turned it against itself.
“From fang of beast, a blade he wrought, No Void Pyre now, but purpose sought, To cut the dark, where shadows hide, And peace return, with flowing tide.”
The verses came to an end leaving Jao flushed with more than just idle curiosity. This weapon, found in the heart of his homeland possessed a strength that dwarfed his earlier expectations. The power to turn flesh to stone, to sear the soul from its husk. He couldn't phantom at first why a being who passed eyes that could remove souls would need a weapon that could burn the metaphysical. It was then he thought about his grandfather, Yin, and from then, what he revealed about the Dankestu. That it uses fear to rouse the soul, to uproot it. Should one face a foe who truly holds no fear no mention in their hearts, the delirum might not be enough to force the soul out. This blade though, would make such a thing meaningless. A powerful discovery but not the most rattling for him.
For this to depict Ains as some sort of...hero. Went against everything he was told about him. A power-crazed sycophant? Or a heroic dragonslayer?
"Ains...who were you? Truly?"
To the Shi, he was a traitor, to the whole of Edo terror personified. But, to Jao, the one who now had both his eyes and blade, did not have such a black-and-white idea anymore.
The katana was magnificent, even in repose. Cool, almost unnervingly so, it hummed with a silent power that vibrated against his skin. The Black Dragon Blade, wielded by Ains, the traitor, the ancestor who had brought ruin upon their name. Jao had taken the last few days to compile deeper research into the weapon itself. He had the shroud scour their networks for any information about the blade. Most of them were lost scant pieces of old legends. Many tomes containing any knowledge of the Denkoushi, particularly of Ains were destroyed. Yet, there was one one scroll, one that stuck out to him. The parchment was thick, almost leathery, covered in elegant, fading kanji that spoke of a time long past. Not prose, he realized, but verse. Lengthy verse, running down the scroll in uneven lines. It was a poem, and as Jao’s eyes traced the characters, his breath hitched.
The first few lines were simple, and pastoral, describing the serene beauty of Edo-era lands. Then, the tone shifted. A shadow fell upon the verse, black ink mirroring the encroaching darkness described within.
“From mountain’s heart, a shadow crept, With scales of night, and eyes that wept, Molten gold in hateful stare, The Kuroi Ryu, despair to share.”
Kuroi Ryu – Black Dragon. Jao’s heart pounded a little faster. Dragons were legends, myths whispered in hushed tones. Yet, here, in ancient script, was detail… vivid, terrifying detail.
The poem went on, stanza after stanza, weaving a tale of fear and destruction. Kuroi Ryu wasn't a majestic, benevolent dragon of myth. It was a creature of pure malice, a living storm of obsidian scales and razor claws. And its breath… its breath was called the Void Pyre.
“From gullet deep, a darkness poured, No crimson flame, by forge adored, But void of light, a chilling black, Where life’s bright spark would turn and crack.”
The poem describes the Void Pyre in chilling detail. It wasn't just fire. It was an absence, a devouring bleakness that consumed not just flesh, but the very spirit itself. Those touched by the black flame didn't simply burn; they turned to lifeless, grey stone, their souls extinguished, leaving behind husks devoid of essence. Houses became petrified monuments, fields turned to ashen wastes, all under the dragon’s reign of terror.
Jao shivered despite himself. He could almost feel the chilling emptiness emanating from the words. He imagined the terror of the people of Edo, facing a creature that could steal not just life, but existence itself. But the poem wasn't just a lament. It spoke of hope, of a single beacon in the encroaching darkness.
“Then rose a hero, eyes ablaze, Like dragon’s own in fiery haze, Not fear he felt, but burning might, To banish dark and bring the light.”
This hero, unnamed in the poem, was described with an almost unsettling intensity. His eyes burned “like a dragon’s own.” This wasn't mere courage; it was something deeper, something primal, a fire mirroring the very creature he opposed. Jao didn't need to think hard about it, the indication was clear.
"The Dankestu Mugen..."
The verses painted a brutal, desperate battle. The hero didn’t wield ornate weapons, no shimmering swords of legend. His weapon seemed to be his sheer will, his unwavering spirit reflected in those dragon-like eyes. He faced the Void Pyre, the poem hinted, not with defenses, but with a counter-force, a searing inner flame that resonated with the dragon's own power. No doubt Aphosis's influence.
“He fought the beast, with heart aflame, And through the void, his purpose came, To seize the soul, the dragon’s core, And end the reign, forevermore.”
The climax of the poem was visceral, almost violently poetic. The desperation of this heat, no doubt spoke of Nestu, the shi's cornerstone Ephemeral art. It described the hero, in a moment of desperate bravery, seizing hold of the Kuroi Ryu, wrestling with the monstrous creature, and then, impossibly, ripping the dragon’s soul from its body.
“From clawéd throat, the soul was torn, A wisp of smoke, forever sworn, To silent void, it disappeared, And dragon’s form, forever seared.”
With the soul gone, the dragon, bereft of its essence, became just a physical shell. But the hero wasn’t finished. In a final, audacious act, he took the dragon’s most potent weapon – its fang, a shard of obsidian darkness, and turned it against itself.
“From fang of beast, a blade he wrought, No Void Pyre now, but purpose sought, To cut the dark, where shadows hide, And peace return, with flowing tide.”
The verses came to an end leaving Jao flushed with more than just idle curiosity. This weapon, found in the heart of his homeland possessed a strength that dwarfed his earlier expectations. The power to turn flesh to stone, to sear the soul from its husk. He couldn't phantom at first why a being who passed eyes that could remove souls would need a weapon that could burn the metaphysical. It was then he thought about his grandfather, Yin, and from then, what he revealed about the Dankestu. That it uses fear to rouse the soul, to uproot it. Should one face a foe who truly holds no fear no mention in their hearts, the delirum might not be enough to force the soul out. This blade though, would make such a thing meaningless. A powerful discovery but not the most rattling for him.
For this to depict Ains as some sort of...hero. Went against everything he was told about him. A power-crazed sycophant? Or a heroic dragonslayer?
"Ains...who were you? Truly?"
To the Shi, he was a traitor, to the whole of Edo terror personified. But, to Jao, the one who now had both his eyes and blade, did not have such a black-and-white idea anymore.
Re: Step 3: Preparing for War
Now armed with a semblance of knowledge of the being he carried beside him Jao felt as prepared as he could be in this moment. It was time to draw the blade and call upon its power, this time with intention. He made his way to the quaint training area just outside his room. He requested such accommodations so that he could train, preparing himself for the mission that was to commence in only just three days. The breezes were gentle, carrying the light scent of lilac upon them. His breath was a bit anxious at first. The feeling he received when he first touched the blade was exhilarating but something told him that what he felt was a mere inkling of the well he needed to draw from.
He needed to know for himself, how deep that well ran.
He slowly, reverently, drew the blade. The steel was the same impenetrable black as the scabbard, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected not light, but the shadows within the room, the shadows within Jao himself. Gripping the hilt tightly, fitting his hand perfectly, as if molded for him generations ago. He could feel a thrumming beneath his fingertips, a vibration that resonated deep within his marrow.
This was it. The legacy. The weapon of Ains, the Herald of the Black Sun, the ancestor whispered of in hushed tones around Denkou Shi clan fires. Ains, who had turned the tide of battles with flames that consumed not just flesh, but spirit. Ains, whose name was a legend, whose blade was a myth.
Now it was his. As to what his own legend would be he could not say. This was not about prestige or clout for him. This was a blood debt, and he fully intended to collect it in full.
Jao closed his eyes, focusing inwards. He reached out with his mind, not to the metal itself, but to the presence within. He knew, instinctively, that Kuroi Ryu was not merely steel and dragon fang. It was a vessel, a prison, a living entity.
“Kuroi Ryu,” he projected his thoughts, his voice echoing only in the silent chamber of his mind. “I am Jao-Den Denkou Shi, descendant of Ains. I call upon your power.”
Silence. Then, a voice, cold and sharp as shattered glass, resonated within his skull, so loud it made him flinch.
“Ains. It has been…an age.” The voice dripped with ancient weariness, laced with contempt. “No…you are not him.”
Jao straightened, his grip tightening on the hilt. “As I stated I carry his blood. I wield your form. I need your power to force my enemies to kneel, and grovel.”
A dry, rasping laugh echoed in his mind. “Blood means little. The form is meaningless. Power…power is earned. And you, whelp… you are weak.”
Anger flared in Jao’s chest. Weak? He was a Denkou Shi shinobi, trained from birth in the arts of stealth, assassination, and the subtle manipulation of shadow. Mastering ephemeral arts before he reached adulthood. He was far from weak. Yet, a sliver of doubt wormed its way into his defiance. He knew, deep down, that compared to legends like Ains, he was but a fledgling.
"You would do well not to underestimate me." Jao retorted, trying to inject steel into his mental voice. “Unleash the Void Pyre. I will command it.”
“Command?” The dragon’s voice surged, a tide of scorn. “You dare speak of commands to Kuroi Ryu? I have bowed to one, and one only. And you… you are a pale echo of him. You possess barely a tenth of Ains’ strength, a flicker of his spirit. Why should I, a being forged in the heart of a star, Blight Of The Void Pyre, bend to the whimpering pleas of a mayfly?”
The insult stung, but Jao forced it down. He had no time for pride now. He needed those flames. His people were suffering.
He rose to his feet, Kuroi Ryu held before him. He channeled his naten, focusing on the familiar pathways, the intricate dance of energy within his body. He started with the basics, each movement precise, deliberate. He poured his focus into the blade, trying to coax, to persuade, to entice the dragon within.
But Kuroi Ryu remained cold, unresponsive. The obsidian surface remained unchanged, reflecting only his frustrated face. The dragon within remained aloof, a slumbering god refusing to be roused by a mortal’s insignificant prayer. Frustration boiled over into defiance. Jao was a Denkou Shi. They were not known for their patience but for their tenacity, and their cunning. He would not beg. He would take.
He shifted his stance, not of a sword style but to promptly remove his shades. As they lifted his eyes burned with a decadent gleam of his Endless Art. It was an awesome inspiring flood of power, the cursed blood ran rampant in his veins as it became filled with Cursed Chi. It granted immense, albeit fleeting, power, but at a terrible cost.
"Dankestu Mugen..."
He focused his Cursed Chi, the raw, untamed energy that simmered beneath the surface of his disciplined shinobi training. It was a dark, consuming power, a legacy of ancient pacts and shadowed rites. He pushed it towards Kuroi Ryu, not gently, not pleadingly, but forcefully, like a river overflowing its banks.
At the same time, he activated his Endless Art. His eyes, usually a deep, fathomless black, flickered, then erupted in a terrifying amethyst. The veins around his eyes pulsed, throbbing with the unnatural energy coursing through him. His vision sharpened, the world around him taking on an unnatural clarity, every detail etched in stark relief.
The Cursed Chi slammed into Kuroi Ryu like a physical blow. The obsidian blade pulsed, reacting to the invasive force. For a moment, the dragon within roared, an internal tempest that shook Jao to his core. He staggered, his breath catching in his throat, the sheer power of the dragon threatening to overwhelm him. But he held on. He was channeling the Curse Chi through his Endless Art, using the enhanced focus and raw power granted by his cursed eyes to force his will upon the blade. It was like trying to rein in a raging storm with thread, but the thread, at this moment, was laced with poison, with the dark, potent energy of his anthem.
Slowly, agonizingly, something shifted. The obsidian surface of Kuroi Ryu rippled, then fractured. Not physically, but visually. Cracks of purple energy spiderwebbed across the dark steel, like veins of fire pulsing beneath the skin of night. And from these cracks, tendrils of black smoke began to curl, thick, oily, and suffocating.
Then, with a rush of force that made the air shimmer, the smoke coalesced into flames. Black flames, unlike anything Jao had ever seen. They were not flames of light and warmth, but flames of darkness and cold. They flickered and danced, not upwards like normal fire, but inwards, towards a consuming void at their core.
The training area's temperature plummeted. The tatami mat beneath the blade began to darken, to petrify, turning into brittle, black stone wherever the black flames touched it. The scent of ozone and burning earth filled the air, sharp and acrid. Jao gritted his teeth, his body trembling. The black flames were terrifying, beautiful, and incredibly, impossibly hungry. They yearned to consume, to devour. And they were draining him. He could feel his naten, his life force, being sucked away at an alarming rate, fueling the unnatural fires that were now licking at the air around Kuroi Ryu.
He tried to direct them, to shape them, to will them into a controlled form. But the flames were wild, untamed, barely responsive to his faltering commands. They writhed and pulsed, obeying only the most basic direction, a crude, brutal extension of his will.
The dragon’s voice, weaker now, laced with grudging respect, echoed within his mind. “Cursed…Chi… Endless Art… a desperate, crude imitation…of power… but effective… in its way. You are indeed the spawn of the butcher.”
Jao ignored the dragon, his focus solely on the flames. He channeled more Cursed Chi, pushing himself harder, desperate to gain even a semblance of control. The amethyst veins in his eyes pulsed violently, his vision blurring at the edges. He could feel his body screaming in protest, his muscles locking, his breath ragged.
He managed to force a tendril of black flame to lash out, aimed at a straw training dummy he had placed in the corner of the expanse. The flame struck the dummy, and in an instant, the straw and bamboo frame were consumed. Not by fire, but by something far more insidious. Where the flame touched, the straw blackened, shriveled, and turned to brittle ash that crumbled at the slightest touch. It wasn’t burned; it was… petrified. The Void Pyre had struck.
And then, just as suddenly as they had erupted, the Void Pyre began to recede. The purple cracks on Kuroi Ryu faded, the obsidian surface returning to its undisturbed darkness. The unnatural cold dissipated, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and the charred, petrified remains of the training dummy.
Jao gasped, his knees buckling. He leaned heavily on Kuroi Ryu, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. The Endless Art retreated as he narrowly managed to place his shades on again, forcing it to yield once more before it consumed him even before the flames might, his crimson eyes fading back to their usual black, leaving behind a throbbing ache behind his temples and a profound exhaustion that went bone deep.
He had done it. He had drawn the flames. He had, for a fleeting moment, forced Kuroi Ryu to obey. But the cost… the drain… it was immense. He could feel the emptiness within him, the gaping maw where his naten had been devoured. Using the Void Pyre like this was not wielding power; it was bleeding dry.
He looked at Kuroi Ryu, the blade now silent, quiescent. He knew the dragon was still there, watching, judging.
“You have… touched the surface, a fleeting… moment. You… you have tasted a sliver of my power. But it comes at a price. A price you will not be able to pay for long.” the dragon’s voice whispered, fainter now, almost… intrigued. “You are playing with fire… literally. This path will consume you, little mayfly. Just as it did you predecessor. Unless… you learn to truly control it. And I assure you, I will not make it easy...”
Jao straightened, his body still trembling, but a flicker of resolve hardening in his eyes. He sheathed Kuroi Ryu, the obsidian blade sliding back into its lacquered sheath with a soft, ominous hiss.
He knew the dragon was right. He couldn’t afford to use the black flames in this crude, uncontrolled manner. He would burn himself out before he even reached Taka no Kami.
But he had seen the power. He had felt it. He had tasted the merest fraction of what Kuroi Ryu, and by extension, Ains, could command. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was the only way to save his people. He needed to learn to control the flames. He had to find a way to attune himself to Kuroi Ryu, to earn the dragon’s grudging respect, if not its full obedience. He had days before he launched his assault on Taka no Kami in his heart he knew that even then would not prove enough time. But should he succeed, should he reclaim Singjudation, then perhaps, time would prove irrelevant. The creature was susceptible to his Dankestu, with the ring, it could very well be made completely subservient to him.
"Then...everything truly hinges on this mission"
Jao would only have this one chance, this one moment as if designed by fate itself to strike with such an advantage. He would be sure, to not squander even an ounce of it. He looked at the petrified ashes of the training dummy, a chilling reminder of the blade’s destructive potential. He would train. He would push himself to the very brink, even if it meant walking the razor's edge of his own destruction. He had to. For his clan, for his enslaved people, and for the terrifying, magnificent power that now resided within his grasp. The Black Dragon Blade, and its hungry flames, were his only hope. And his greatest peril. He just had to learn to ride the dragon, before it consumed him whole.
He needed to know for himself, how deep that well ran.
He slowly, reverently, drew the blade. The steel was the same impenetrable black as the scabbard, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected not light, but the shadows within the room, the shadows within Jao himself. Gripping the hilt tightly, fitting his hand perfectly, as if molded for him generations ago. He could feel a thrumming beneath his fingertips, a vibration that resonated deep within his marrow.
This was it. The legacy. The weapon of Ains, the Herald of the Black Sun, the ancestor whispered of in hushed tones around Denkou Shi clan fires. Ains, who had turned the tide of battles with flames that consumed not just flesh, but spirit. Ains, whose name was a legend, whose blade was a myth.
Now it was his. As to what his own legend would be he could not say. This was not about prestige or clout for him. This was a blood debt, and he fully intended to collect it in full.
Jao closed his eyes, focusing inwards. He reached out with his mind, not to the metal itself, but to the presence within. He knew, instinctively, that Kuroi Ryu was not merely steel and dragon fang. It was a vessel, a prison, a living entity.
“Kuroi Ryu,” he projected his thoughts, his voice echoing only in the silent chamber of his mind. “I am Jao-Den Denkou Shi, descendant of Ains. I call upon your power.”
Silence. Then, a voice, cold and sharp as shattered glass, resonated within his skull, so loud it made him flinch.
“Ains. It has been…an age.” The voice dripped with ancient weariness, laced with contempt. “No…you are not him.”
Jao straightened, his grip tightening on the hilt. “As I stated I carry his blood. I wield your form. I need your power to force my enemies to kneel, and grovel.”
A dry, rasping laugh echoed in his mind. “Blood means little. The form is meaningless. Power…power is earned. And you, whelp… you are weak.”
Anger flared in Jao’s chest. Weak? He was a Denkou Shi shinobi, trained from birth in the arts of stealth, assassination, and the subtle manipulation of shadow. Mastering ephemeral arts before he reached adulthood. He was far from weak. Yet, a sliver of doubt wormed its way into his defiance. He knew, deep down, that compared to legends like Ains, he was but a fledgling.
"You would do well not to underestimate me." Jao retorted, trying to inject steel into his mental voice. “Unleash the Void Pyre. I will command it.”
“Command?” The dragon’s voice surged, a tide of scorn. “You dare speak of commands to Kuroi Ryu? I have bowed to one, and one only. And you… you are a pale echo of him. You possess barely a tenth of Ains’ strength, a flicker of his spirit. Why should I, a being forged in the heart of a star, Blight Of The Void Pyre, bend to the whimpering pleas of a mayfly?”
The insult stung, but Jao forced it down. He had no time for pride now. He needed those flames. His people were suffering.
He rose to his feet, Kuroi Ryu held before him. He channeled his naten, focusing on the familiar pathways, the intricate dance of energy within his body. He started with the basics, each movement precise, deliberate. He poured his focus into the blade, trying to coax, to persuade, to entice the dragon within.
But Kuroi Ryu remained cold, unresponsive. The obsidian surface remained unchanged, reflecting only his frustrated face. The dragon within remained aloof, a slumbering god refusing to be roused by a mortal’s insignificant prayer. Frustration boiled over into defiance. Jao was a Denkou Shi. They were not known for their patience but for their tenacity, and their cunning. He would not beg. He would take.
He shifted his stance, not of a sword style but to promptly remove his shades. As they lifted his eyes burned with a decadent gleam of his Endless Art. It was an awesome inspiring flood of power, the cursed blood ran rampant in his veins as it became filled with Cursed Chi. It granted immense, albeit fleeting, power, but at a terrible cost.
"Dankestu Mugen..."
He focused his Cursed Chi, the raw, untamed energy that simmered beneath the surface of his disciplined shinobi training. It was a dark, consuming power, a legacy of ancient pacts and shadowed rites. He pushed it towards Kuroi Ryu, not gently, not pleadingly, but forcefully, like a river overflowing its banks.
At the same time, he activated his Endless Art. His eyes, usually a deep, fathomless black, flickered, then erupted in a terrifying amethyst. The veins around his eyes pulsed, throbbing with the unnatural energy coursing through him. His vision sharpened, the world around him taking on an unnatural clarity, every detail etched in stark relief.
The Cursed Chi slammed into Kuroi Ryu like a physical blow. The obsidian blade pulsed, reacting to the invasive force. For a moment, the dragon within roared, an internal tempest that shook Jao to his core. He staggered, his breath catching in his throat, the sheer power of the dragon threatening to overwhelm him. But he held on. He was channeling the Curse Chi through his Endless Art, using the enhanced focus and raw power granted by his cursed eyes to force his will upon the blade. It was like trying to rein in a raging storm with thread, but the thread, at this moment, was laced with poison, with the dark, potent energy of his anthem.
Slowly, agonizingly, something shifted. The obsidian surface of Kuroi Ryu rippled, then fractured. Not physically, but visually. Cracks of purple energy spiderwebbed across the dark steel, like veins of fire pulsing beneath the skin of night. And from these cracks, tendrils of black smoke began to curl, thick, oily, and suffocating.
Then, with a rush of force that made the air shimmer, the smoke coalesced into flames. Black flames, unlike anything Jao had ever seen. They were not flames of light and warmth, but flames of darkness and cold. They flickered and danced, not upwards like normal fire, but inwards, towards a consuming void at their core.
The training area's temperature plummeted. The tatami mat beneath the blade began to darken, to petrify, turning into brittle, black stone wherever the black flames touched it. The scent of ozone and burning earth filled the air, sharp and acrid. Jao gritted his teeth, his body trembling. The black flames were terrifying, beautiful, and incredibly, impossibly hungry. They yearned to consume, to devour. And they were draining him. He could feel his naten, his life force, being sucked away at an alarming rate, fueling the unnatural fires that were now licking at the air around Kuroi Ryu.
He tried to direct them, to shape them, to will them into a controlled form. But the flames were wild, untamed, barely responsive to his faltering commands. They writhed and pulsed, obeying only the most basic direction, a crude, brutal extension of his will.
The dragon’s voice, weaker now, laced with grudging respect, echoed within his mind. “Cursed…Chi… Endless Art… a desperate, crude imitation…of power… but effective… in its way. You are indeed the spawn of the butcher.”
Jao ignored the dragon, his focus solely on the flames. He channeled more Cursed Chi, pushing himself harder, desperate to gain even a semblance of control. The amethyst veins in his eyes pulsed violently, his vision blurring at the edges. He could feel his body screaming in protest, his muscles locking, his breath ragged.
He managed to force a tendril of black flame to lash out, aimed at a straw training dummy he had placed in the corner of the expanse. The flame struck the dummy, and in an instant, the straw and bamboo frame were consumed. Not by fire, but by something far more insidious. Where the flame touched, the straw blackened, shriveled, and turned to brittle ash that crumbled at the slightest touch. It wasn’t burned; it was… petrified. The Void Pyre had struck.
And then, just as suddenly as they had erupted, the Void Pyre began to recede. The purple cracks on Kuroi Ryu faded, the obsidian surface returning to its undisturbed darkness. The unnatural cold dissipated, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and the charred, petrified remains of the training dummy.
Jao gasped, his knees buckling. He leaned heavily on Kuroi Ryu, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. The Endless Art retreated as he narrowly managed to place his shades on again, forcing it to yield once more before it consumed him even before the flames might, his crimson eyes fading back to their usual black, leaving behind a throbbing ache behind his temples and a profound exhaustion that went bone deep.
He had done it. He had drawn the flames. He had, for a fleeting moment, forced Kuroi Ryu to obey. But the cost… the drain… it was immense. He could feel the emptiness within him, the gaping maw where his naten had been devoured. Using the Void Pyre like this was not wielding power; it was bleeding dry.
He looked at Kuroi Ryu, the blade now silent, quiescent. He knew the dragon was still there, watching, judging.
“You have… touched the surface, a fleeting… moment. You… you have tasted a sliver of my power. But it comes at a price. A price you will not be able to pay for long.” the dragon’s voice whispered, fainter now, almost… intrigued. “You are playing with fire… literally. This path will consume you, little mayfly. Just as it did you predecessor. Unless… you learn to truly control it. And I assure you, I will not make it easy...”
Jao straightened, his body still trembling, but a flicker of resolve hardening in his eyes. He sheathed Kuroi Ryu, the obsidian blade sliding back into its lacquered sheath with a soft, ominous hiss.
He knew the dragon was right. He couldn’t afford to use the black flames in this crude, uncontrolled manner. He would burn himself out before he even reached Taka no Kami.
But he had seen the power. He had felt it. He had tasted the merest fraction of what Kuroi Ryu, and by extension, Ains, could command. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was the only way to save his people. He needed to learn to control the flames. He had to find a way to attune himself to Kuroi Ryu, to earn the dragon’s grudging respect, if not its full obedience. He had days before he launched his assault on Taka no Kami in his heart he knew that even then would not prove enough time. But should he succeed, should he reclaim Singjudation, then perhaps, time would prove irrelevant. The creature was susceptible to his Dankestu, with the ring, it could very well be made completely subservient to him.
"Then...everything truly hinges on this mission"
Jao would only have this one chance, this one moment as if designed by fate itself to strike with such an advantage. He would be sure, to not squander even an ounce of it. He looked at the petrified ashes of the training dummy, a chilling reminder of the blade’s destructive potential. He would train. He would push himself to the very brink, even if it meant walking the razor's edge of his own destruction. He had to. For his clan, for his enslaved people, and for the terrifying, magnificent power that now resided within his grasp. The Black Dragon Blade, and its hungry flames, were his only hope. And his greatest peril. He just had to learn to ride the dragon, before it consumed him whole.
The team