Vescrutia: Legacy

-[Continued From Here]-

Hitomi’s private jet sliced through the heavens like a blade, its presence silent yet absolute. Within the dimly lit cabin, the air carried the faintest trace of cedar and steeping tea—luxuries imported from the farthest reaches of the Yaarou’s expanding trade empire. The seats were upholstered in deep crimson leather, a quiet testament to the blood that had paved her ascension.

Reclined in her seat, Hitomi rested her elbow against the armrest, crimson eyes half-lidded as she drummed her fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The past four months had been an unending exercise in restraint—a ceaseless parade of forced pleasantries and veiled condescension that frayed her patience at the edges.

Hitomi had toured the world, introducing herself as Xhi’on before allies and adversaries alike, enduring the dull spectacle of diplomacy. She had danced the hollow dance of politics, feigning interest in the alliances her predecessors had fostered, though the reluctance in their bows had not escaped her notice. Deference tempered by doubt. Defiance disguised as fealty.

The Yvessi Summit in Madeira had been a wasted breath—trade barons and ministers scrambling to gauge her temperament, their smiles stretched thin with uncertainty. Their concerns had been predictable—assurances of continued commerce, inquiries about the Gōkùdo’s long-term economic strategy. They spoke in circles, terrified of her unpredictability, desperate to gauge how far her ambitions extended. They had heard tales of her.. volatility, and cloaked their fear in pleasantries.

They sought assurance, but Hitomi had none to give.

Then came the Warlord’s Conclave in Jantza, a gathering of minor military powers whose insignificance was eclipsed only by their pride desperation. They spoke of the Bhalian Empire, of its relentless expansion, offering weapons, mercenaries, whatever scraps of strength they could muster in exchange for her favor.

She had accepted nothing.

The notion that she required assistance was laughable. The Yaarou’s military? She was the military. If war with Bhalia came tomorrow, she would smolder their empire to cinders with her own hands. She did not fear them. She had spent her life mastering destruction, refining herself into something beyond mortal comprehension —she was a breathing avatar of war.

But even she could not be in two places at once.

That was the one imperfection in her power. She could decimate nations, but she could not guard Edo while she was off razing another.

Her fingers stilled along the armrest, curling slightly in quiet frustration. Across from her, Akiko stood poised with a tablet in hand, her expression as unreadable as ever. A woman of precision and efficiency, she was among the few whom Hitomi tolerated for extended periods.

“Lady Xhi’on,” Akiko began, her voice crisp and measured. “We will be arriving in Renshu within three hours. The Southern War Council has assembled in preparation for your arrival. General Takahara has extended formal greetings.”

Hitomi scoffed, her lips curving in something between amusement and disdain. “Tuh‐‐Takahara is a relic of a bygone order. Tell me, Akiko, why should I trust a man who allowed his forces to stagnate while the world evolved around them?”

Akiko did not disagree, nor did she waste time with platitudes. “The council is aware of your… dissatisfaction with the current state of the Yaarou’s military. They understand that they are being scrutinized.”

“As they should be.” Hitomi exhaled sharply, irritation curling in her tone. “The Al-Korei was pathetic. If those four were meant to be my 'elite guard', and Edo's last line of defense, then our homeland secuity has been an illusion and nothing more.”

She turned her gaze toward the window, watching the endless sky stretch beyond the horizon. Her fingers, restless before, now folded into a composed clasp in the center of her lap.

“I have made a decision.” she said, her voice cool and absolute. “I will return to Edo at once, and I will not leave again until I have personally vetted every soldier who claims to fight under our banner."

Akiko made a note of it but did not comment. She understood well that Hitomi’s ruthlessness was not born of cruelty, but from an uncompromising sense of duty.

It was not merely power that she sought.. She sought security.

This was about her father.

Before her reign, before the weight of the Yaarou fell upon her shoulders, Hatōri Yaarou served his country well. Not as Xhi’on, but as warrior. A General. A leader. A man of unwavering strength. Now, he was little more than a sleeping relic, suspended in a medically induced stasis—a victim of an incurable, unnamed affliction. And sadly, his fate had become something of financial burden to tribe; their wealth funneled into research, their efforts spent on securing an answer that did not yet exist.

It was clear how much Hitomi revered and valued her father. And until the Xhi’on was certain that Edo was beyond reproach, she would not—could not—lower her guard.

“In fact,” she continued, crimson eyes gleaming with cold resolve, “I want the commanders of every unit summoned to the Yaarou Compound. Every single one of them—or, if they lack the spine to come themselves, then whoever they deem the strongest in their ranks. I will gauge them personally. If I do not find their representative worthy, they will not return, and that unit will be culled.”

Akiko inclined her head. “Yes, My Xhi’on. I will alert the Western and Southern War Councils.” She hesitated for only a breath before shifting topics. “Regarding our economic expansion—the Sanctiva Complex has entered its final stages. Lord Rii’yuu has overseen operations personally and would like to request an audience.”

Hitomi clicked her tongue in irritation. “Then let him request it properly. I do not answer calls like some merchant peddling wares.”

For the first time, Akiko allowed the faintest glimmer of amusement to surface in her gaze.

“I will inform him accordingly.”

Hitomi exhaled slowly through her nose, tilting her head ever so slightly. “And what of the B’halian front? Have our spies uncovered anything useful?"

Akiko hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but in the careful calculus of delivering unfavorable news. “Erm– espionage remains impossible. Their land does not tolerate the presence of humans.”

Hitomi scoffed. “Of course they don't.”

B’halia was a fortress, an empire in perpetual expansion, yet its homeland remained inviolate—untouched, unassailable. A civilization of fae, elves, and things better left unnamed, bound together in absolute isolation. They had no need for foreign trade, no interest in diplomacy. Their dominion stretched across Vescrutia like an ever-tightening fist, yet their own soil had never known the weight of an invader’s boot.

A perfect empire, in its own eyes.

And that, more than anything, made war with them inevitable.

“Fine.” Hitomi’s voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a decree. “If infiltration is beyond our means, then we prepare for their arrival. Expand our war industries. Push every resource into strengthening our defenses. And tell the clairvoyants to find me something—anything—that might crack their facade.”

Akiko nodded, already making precise notations. “Shall I begin reallocating investments into arms development?”

“Yes.” Hitomi’s gaze was unwavering. “We'll need to develop stronger Hexed Weaponry.. if nothing else, to be sure the Hexless aren't entirely useless.”

Akiko inclined her head. “As you command, my Xhi’on.”

Hitomi turned toward the window, watching the clouds churn endlessly beneath them. Somewhere beyond the horizon, past the edges of every known map, B’halia stood untouched, its skies unchallenged, its borders immutable. No airship, no spy, no foreign hand had ever sullied its sanctity.

But that time was coming to an end.. One Hitomi would see to herself.

---

The descent into Edo was smooth, precise—the kind of landing only Yaarou pilots could execute. As the private jet’s wheels kissed the reinforced tarmac, the compound’s sprawling estate stretched out before them, its towering spires and fortified walls bathed in the muted glow of dusk.

Hitomi barely waited for the aircraft to come to a full stop before rising from her seat, her movements fluid, deliberate. Akiko followed close behind, tablet in hand, already sifting through the next sequence of tasks that required the Xhi’on’s approval.

The aircraft doors hissed open, and the scent of rain-drenched stone greeted them. Edo’s monsoon season was waning, but the air still carried the remnants of a recent downpour, cool and thick with petrichor. Hitomi stepped onto the landing platform, her expression unreadable, her gaze sweeping over the compound with a practiced eye. Nothing was ever out of place here—because she would not allow it. Akiko followed behind, donning an umbrella to shield her Xhi’on from the rain.

At the base of the steps, a figure waited, posture impeccable despite the weight of years upon his shoulders. Elder Jhun, the longest-standing member of the Yaarou Council, offered her a curt bow, his robes pristine, his presence an immovable fixture of tradition and governance.

“My Xhi’on,” he greeted, voice measured but laced with curiosity. “Welcome home.”

Hitomi inclined her head ever so slightly. “Elder Jhun.”

He did not rise from his bow immediately. A gesture of respect, certainly—but also a moment of quiet assessment. When he straightened, his sharp eyes searched hers, ever perceptive. “Your absence has been felt. I trust your journey was... eventful?”

Hitomi exhaled through her nose, a ghost of amusement barely touching her lips. “Tedious.” She stepped past him, the ceremonial weight of her return holding little interest. “Forced smiles. Hollow pleasantries. Ugh.”

Jhun fell into step beside her as she strode toward the main hall. “And yet, you saw it through.”

“Because it was necessary..” she replied, her voice crisp. “The world needed to see me—to acknowledge me. Even if they did so with disbelief or disdain.”

“A necessary evil, then,” Jhun mused.

Hitomi halted just before the entrance to the council chambers and turned to face him directly. “No. A prelude.”

The elder’s brow lifted ever so slightly.

She met his gaze, unwavering. “The B’halian Empire’s expansion will not slow. Isolationism is their strength, but it is also their weakness. They underestimate their enemy. They underestimate me.”

Jhun’s hands folded behind his back. “And what would you have us do?”

Hitomi’s answer was immediate. “We are reinforcing our military. Every soldier, every operative will be vetted. No weak links, no gaps in our foundation. And I will oversee this myself.”

The weight of her words hung between them, unchallenged, undeniable.

Elder Jhun studied her in silence for a moment longer before offering a single, measured nod. “Then Edo will move as you command, Xhi’on.”

-[Two Days Later]-

The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the Yaarou Compound, casting long streaks of gold across the polished wooden floors. A light mist still clung to the trees outside, remnants of the dawn rain that had come and gone in silence. Elder Jhun sat within his chambers, a steaming cup of tea untouched at his side. It was his favorite blend, but his mind was far too clouded with the weight of recent events to enjoy the simple comforts of routine.

The last forty-eight hours had been a battle of words—one he had failed to win.

Hitomi’s decree had sent a ripple through the vast expanse of the Yaarou’s military, a force numbering just over a million soldiers. Less than 40% were born Yaarou, and fewer than 10% of them had been blessed with the gift of Hexcraft. The majority were warriors from across Vescrutia, drawn to the tribe by promises of power, belonging, or purpose. And yet, in a single declaration, their place in the Yaarou's ranks had been called into question.

The Xhi’on had given them forty-eight hours to respond—to prove themselves worthy or risk exile from an army they had pledged their lives to.

It was cruel. It was excessive.

It was unnecessary.

Elder Jhun exhaled through his nose, fingers curling tightly around his sleeve as he read over the final reports. The military’s response had been immediate and absolute. One hundred of their finest had answered the call—commanders, warriors, living weapons of combat. Many of them had already arrived and the rest would be here within the hour, prepared to face whatever trial their Xhi’on had devised for them.

She had refused to disclose the nature of her tests, even to the Council. Another factor that only furthered Jhun's unrest.

He set the report aside, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He was up to his neck in anxiety. There had been a time when he believed Hitomi’s appointment as Xhi’on would bring stability—renewed purpose to a tribe that had long needed guidance.

Now, he feared she would do more harm than good.

Her time outside Muu had made it clear: Hitomi saw no value in the weak. In her mind, strength was the only measure of worth, and those who failed to meet her standard were discarded without hesitation. In a matter of months, she had severed ties with longstanding allies, refusing to entertain diplomacy with those she deemed unfit. The delicate balance the Yaarou had maintained for decades had been upended by her relentless pursuit of absolute power.

And now, she would turn that scrutiny inward—against her own soldiers, her own people.

Jhun sighed, pinching the bridge of hise nose before rising to his feet. If she could not be swayed through reason, then he would try again through patience..

---

The halls leading to the medical wing were silent save for the soft footfalls of Elder Jhun’s sandals against the floor. The air here was heavy, steeped in the quiet reverence that came with proximity to Lord Hatori's presence.

His body—once a force of nature, once the very definition of diligence and strength—now lay dormant, preserved by a ceaseless cycle of medicinal treatments and ancient techniques designed to sustain him in his battle against an incurable affliction.

Like most days, the Xhi’on liked to spend her mornings in the company of her father. Often speaking to him at his bedside, relaying her recent expeditions to the man she honored most.

However, today was a bit different.

As Jhun stepped past the threshold, the scent of ink and antiseptic rushed his senses, followed by the rhythmic beat of machinery.

He pushed the door open to see Hitomi seated with her back exposed and her posture relaxed, though he knew it to be a controlled stillness. There was an artist knelt beside her, carefully applying the final touches of a deep, intricate series of tattoos that spanned from her left shoulder down her spine. The imagery was striking—a coiling scarlet dragon wreathed in black smoke, its claws tearing through clouds of ink, its eyes a stark, piercing gold.

It was a tribute to her father—The Demon of Edo. The only Hexless General to ever command the Yaarou’s armies, a man whose mastery over the Ephemeral Arts had solidified his place as legend.

The tattooist wiped away the excess ink with a practiced hand, then applied a thin layer of ointment to the freshly marked skin. Hitomi remained impassive, as if the pain of the process had been nothing more than a passing irritation.

Only when the artist bowed and gathered his tools did she acknowledge Elder Jhun’s presence.

“Elder,” she greeted, stretching her shoulders slightly, testing the feel of the new weight upon her skin. “You’re early.”

Jhun stepped forward, arms folded behind him as he took in the artistry. It was masterfully done, carrying both reverence and finality—a statement of blood, legacy, and intent.

“So? What do you think?” she asked, watching him from the corner of her eye.

Jhun exhaled slowly. “Of the tattoo? Oh, it– it's, umm.. incredibly well done.”

Her smirk deepened. “..well said.”

But he did not come here to admire artwork.

Jhun straightened, and cleared his throat before shifting the topic. “The military representatives have arrived. One hundred soldiers—commanders, elites. The strongest among their ranks.”

Hitomi rolled her shoulders once more before rising to her feet, retrieving a silk robe that had been draped over a nearby chair. “As expected.”

“They await your judgment.”

“As they should.”

Jhun’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had spent the last two days arguing for restraint, for a reconsideration of her methods. He had tried to appeal to logic, to reason, even to tradition—but nothing had swayed her.

Still, he tried once more.

“Hitomi.”

She paused, tying the robe at her waist.

“This is excessive.” His voice was calm, measured. “You have already sent a message through your dismissal of the King’s Guard. Now, you threaten to fracture the military itself. To sow dissent where there was once unity.”

Her expression did not change.

“Is that all?” she said dismissively

Jhun’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away. “Your father was not Xhi’on.. but led the Yaarou's military without Hexcraft, without cruelty, and yet his strength was never questioned.”

At this, something flickered in her gaze—something brief and cold.

“And where is he now?” she asked softly.

Jhun felt the weight of her words settle deep in his chest.

She turned away from him, tying the last knot of her robe. “I will meet them within the hour.”

And that was the end of it.

“You may leave.”

Jhun stood there for a long moment before offering a slow, respectful nod.

He had tried. And for now, it would have to be enough.

With quiet, measured steps, he turned and left the chamber, leaving Hitomi to her preparations.

The next hour would decide the fate of a million soldiers.

And the Yaarou’s future would be shaped by the outcome.

The Yaarou Fighting Pits pulsed with unspoken violence.

Hundreds of warriors stood at the heart of the coliseum, their forms rigid beneath the towering walls of enchanted stone. The air was thick with expectation, charged by the weight of what was to come. Above them, the stands remained sparsely populated—only a select few elders, high-ranking officers, and trusted dignitaries had been granted the right to witness the spectacle that would unfold.

The pit itself bore the scars of centuries—deep gouges left by the claws of slain beasts, scorch marks where arcane duels had ended in searing death, and darkened patches where blood had dried in layers too deep to ever be scrubbed clean. It was more than a battleground; it was an altar to strength, a proving ground where weakness met oblivion.

At the periphery of this crucible stood Velkyn Val’Ethir.

He was an outsider by blood but not by allegiance. A son of the Irithyll Dominia—an elven stronghold bound to the Yaarou by oaths older than most of the men gathered here. His people had sworn fealty generations ago, gabled blade dancers who forged their place in history through mastery, discipline, and the relentless pursuit of perfection.

Velkyn was a product of that legacy. Centuries of battle had honed him into something lethal—his speed unmatched among his kin, his reflexes sharpened by elven precision and an unyielding thirst for mastery. He was a master of the Aetherblade techniques, a warrior whose name had been whispered on the battlefield alongside legends. He had slain warlords, courted death, and felled beasts that would have shattered lesser men.

His gaze swept across the gathered warriors.

They were not mere soldiers. They were commanders, champions, and killers. Each had been handpicked as the strongest among their units, and their differences were as varied as the lands they had come from. Some stood with the rigid posture of trained tacticians, their armor polished to a mirror sheen. Others carried themselves like beasts—scarred, battle-hardened, draped in remnants of past conquests. Their skin ranged from sun-darkened bronze to ghostly pale, their eyes carrying the weight of distant wars.

Among them stood humans, elves, and stranger beings still—men with curling horns, women whose fingers tapered into obsidian claws, warriors large enough to be considered small giants. And yet, for all their strength, only a handful among them bore the anthem of the Yaarou.

Velkyn found that telling.

Hexcraft was the Yaarou’s great inheritance, the blood-gift that had cemented their dominance. And yet, the very military meant to enforce their will was left wanting. Perhaps, then, the rumors had been true.

Whispers of the Xhi’on’s disdain had spread like wildfire. It was said she had no faith in the armies that had sworn themselves to her. That she considered them unworthy. That they were disposable.

Velkyn had come to prove otherwise. But so had every warrior standing on these sands. And yet, he could not shake the feeling that this gathering was not a simple test.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He could see it in their faces—they had all drawn the same conclusion.

They would not simply be tested. They would be pitted against one another.

And only the strongest would carry the Yaarou banner.

A slow smirk tugged at Velkyn’s lips. He welcomed it.

---

They had been given a single day to prepare.

Some spent it in meditation, kneeling within the temple halls, honing their focus with quiet devotion. Others sharpened their blades in the training yards, testing their techniques, measuring their foes. There were those who feasted, drinking and laughing as if this were another night before war, and those who kept to themselves, watching, waiting, calculating.

Velkyn had remained on the sands from the moment he arrived. He had not come for revelry. He had not come to make allies.

He had come to prove his mettle.

As the sun reached its zenith, a ripple of movement passed through the crowd. The great iron gate at the arena’s far end groaned open, its runes flickering as they unsealed the passage beyond. Warriors straightened, tension coiling through their forms as a presence stirred above them.

A voice rang out, deep and thunderous, carrying the weight of history.

“You stand in the presence of your Xhi’on!”

The arena stilled.

“She who stands at the pinnacle of all creation! The Hand of Order! The Demon of Edo! The Tyrant of the Eastern Shores!”

Velkyn noted the shift in the warriors’ expressions. Some stiffened at the titles, their gazes sharpening. Others clenched their fists, their pride bruised at the reminder of the woman’s reputation.

And then she emerged.

Hitomi Yaarou did not wear armor. She carried no weapon. Instead, she stepped into the light in a simple, loose-fitting robe, the fresh ink of her new tattoo stark against her pale skin—a masterpiece that coiled along her shoulder, a tribute to a man who had been more myth than mortal. Hatori Yaarou, thh only Hexless General the tribe had ever known.

She moved with the confidence of a woman who had nothing to prove—only something to measure.

Behind her walked Elder Jhun, Elder Hayate, Elder Ayune, and two other high-ranking members of the Yaarou council. Their expressions were unreadable, but Velkyn caught the tightness in Elder Jhun’s jaw, the quiet disapproval buried beneath his composed facade.

Hitomi reached the center of the pit. She turned, crimson eyes sweeping over the gathered warriors—evaluating, weighing, discarding.

And then she smiled.

It was slow. Amused. Predatory.

She exhaled, tilting her head slightly.

“Let’s get started. ”

Hitomi let the silence stretch, savoring the weight of it.

Before her stood the apical might of the Yaarou Military—commanders, warlords, veterans, killers. Each of them honed by their own crucible of warfare and hardship. Men and women tempered by battle, their bodies marred by the scars of victories and failures alike. They had been told they were the strongest, that their service to the clan had proven them worthy.

But she would be the one to decide if that was true.

Hitomi took a slow and deliberate breath, her crimson eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

“Warriors.”

Her voice cut through the thick tension, clear, unwavering.

“Thank you all for coming. I trust you’ve been able to enjoy the accommodations we offer within the compound. Although, I suspect you’ve already gathered that’s not why you’re here.”

Murmurs rippled through the assembly, a restless undercurrent of anticipation.

“But for the slower among you, allow me to clarify.” She let her gaze sweep across them, eyes simmering like cold flames. “Each of you has been summoned to participate in a trial of combat, one that will help determine the true strength of our military.”

"So a battle royale, then?" someone muttered.

To which Velkyn scoffed. It was as he suspected—a thinning of the herd. A method he figured to be a bit crass, perhaps, but necessary. A culling of the weak to sharpen the elite. He had braced himself for something as primal as this, and was prepared to engage in any challenge his Xhi’on could conjure. That is, until he heard her speak again.

“No.”

Hitomi responded, as her lips curled into an amused grin.

“You will be fighting me.”

Silence.

Not the stunned, momentary pause of disbelief—but something heavier. A suffocating quiet that pressed against the gathered warriors, thick with unspoken shock.

“Come at me one at a time, or all at once. It makes no difference.”

The teasing edge in her voice was gone, replaced by something cold.

Absolute.

“I will personally determine who among you is worthy to carry my banner.”

Then, with the finality of a death knell:

“And who among you will die in these sands.”

The words hung in the air like the scent of blood before a battle.

Then, like a slow-moving storm, the arena began to stir.

A sharp intake of breath. A muttered curse. A shifting of weight, hands tightening on weapons. Then the scoffs—short, disbelieving bursts of laughter from men who had seen too much war to stomach such arrogance. A few exchanged glances, searching for confirmation that this was a jest.

But Hitomi was not laughing. Her stance was as calm as ever.

She was serious.

The clamoring turned into outright protest.

"Has she lost her mind?" a grizzled warrior muttered, fingers curling around the pommel of his sword.

A younger fighter, arrogant in his youth, crossed his arms. “One girl against a hundred soldiers? Heh, she’s delusional.”

Across the pit, a larger man adorned in scars sneered. “What child's game is this? This is no test of mettle, or strength. This is a farce.. this would be no battle, but a meaningless slaughter.”

But not all of them were so quickly to scoff

Some stood in tense silence, their eyes locked onto Hitomi as if seeing her for the first time. These were the ones who knew better, the ones who had heard stories—whispers of a girl who had been born annoited by the gods of fate. Taken from the womb, brimming with extraordinary power. Power unlike this realm had ever seen. A handful of warriors—those with sharper instincts—felt the hair on their arms rise whenever her gaze hovered past them.

And then there was Velkyn.

He did not scoff. Did not speak. Did not move.

He only watched.

"She’s just a child," he reminded himself. "No amount of legend will change that."

And yet—

Velkyn had spent his life studying warriors. Watching how they moved, how they breathed, how they stood. Strength was not just in the body; it was in the presence. And what he saw in Hitomi was not bravado.

It was certainty.


---

From the bleachers, the elders were far less measured in their reactions.

Elder Hayate erupted from his seat. “Has she lost her mind?”

His sharp gaze cut to Jhun, dark with accusation.

“You knew about this?”

Jhun barely spared him a glance. “She allows us nothing. I am as surprised as you.”

Hayate’s scowl deepened as he retrieved a cigarette from his robes, lighting it with the flick of his fingers. “Then she is more reckless than I feared.. And she's given me plenty to fear already.”

“She is… decisive,” Ayune corrected, arms crossed. There was no concern in her voice—only something faintly amused. “You assume she will fail?”

“I assume nothing.” Hayate exhaled, the smoke curling through the cold air. “But I know this—there are too few left who can wield Hexcraft as it was meant to be wielded. And she would rather see them dead than tempered. She risks dismantling what remains of our people’s strength. And for what? Pride? Arrogance?!”

Hitomi turned her gaze over her shoulder toward the bleachers, a flicker of interest crossing her face as she digested the chorus of doubt. She opened her mouth to respond in jest to the elders..

But then—

“Does she think herself a god?”

The voice came from within the crowd, faceless and distant. But the words slithered through the masses like a ripple of doubt.

She smiled.

And answered.

“I do.”

The warriors inhaled sharply.

“And I am.”

Then—without hesitation, without ceremony, without embellishment—she spoke the words that drove a dagger through the heart of the Yaarou’s gathered warriors.

“I’ve already disposed of the Al-Korei.”

A thunderous silence fell over the arena.

For a breath, for two—nothing. No movement. No sound. As if even the air itself had been choked still by the sheer audacity of her claim.

The Al-Korei. The untouchable. The elite warriors of the Yaarou. The personal guard of the Xhion. Legends wrapped in steel and discipline, spoken of in hushed tones among war camps and battle-hardened veterans.

Gone?

She had disposed of them?

Alone?

Velkyn heard the sharp inhale of the warrior beside him. Another took an unconscious step back. Somewhere, a fist clenched so tightly it trembled. The weight of her words pressed against them all, seeping into their bones like a slow-acting poison.

Hitomi tilted her head, almost thoughtful.

“They were disgraceful.”

A few warriors bristled at the insult, their pride lashing against them like a whip. Others stared at her in open disbelief, their minds struggling to reconcile the enormity of what she had just declared.

She let them simmer. Let them choke on the silence.

Then, when she was certain they were listening, she spoke again.

“I am weeding out the weak.” Her voice was steady, almost conversational, but there was steel beneath it. “Loyalty is not enough for me. If you cannot prove your worth beyond that, then you are not worthy. It is as simple as that. The Yaarou will not tolerate mediocrity.. I will not tolerate it.”

She stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

“So if I must carve away the excess rot myself, then so be it.”

The air in the pit changed. This was no mere display of arrogance.

This was a verdict.

Then, she smiled—

“So tell me,” she asked, voice laced with a malicious amusement.. one that conveyed a deviant hunger for combat.

"Does anyone wanna be first?”

The silence stretched taut, like a bowstring drawn to its limit. Warriors who had once stood unwavering in the face of death now found themselves hesitating, exchanging wary glances, shifting their stances as if some primal instinct urged them to flee. The air, thick with the scent of sweat and sun-baked sand, held its breath.

Then, movement.

A single warrior stepped forward, brushing past Velkyn until he reached the center of the pit.

He was a mountain carved from flesh and combat. A man whose presence alone carried the weight of countless battles. His frame was a fortress of thick, corded muscle, towering over the others with the confidence of someone who had never lost. His skin, tanned and toughened by years beneath an unforgiving sun, bore the scars of a warrior’s life—some healed, some still red with memory. A mane of graying, knotted braids cascaded over his broad shoulders, his face a study in silent, unwavering resolve. His eyes, dark as the storm-churned sea, held no fear.

Luraq of the Iron Dunes. A veteran. A warlord. A relic of an age when men like him were gods upon the battlefield. He had commanded legions across the Yaarou Southern Battlefronts, his fists alone said to shatter stone, his name a whispered omen among those unfortunate enough to meet him on the field.

He met Hitomi’s gaze with the quiet certainty of a man who had long since accepted death—but never at the hands of someone like her.

"And who are you supposed to be?" she asked, her voice laced with the kind of amusement that bordered on boredom.

Luraq did not answer immediately. He exhaled, slow and measured, before rolling his shoulders with a sound like shifting iron plates. His stance deepened, feet pressing into the sand, his fingers curling into fists so dense with power that the very air around them rippled, distorting as if bending beneath his sheer presence.

"I am Luraq,” he said, his voice like grinding stones. “And if these are your wishes, my Xhi’on… then I will not ask for forgiveness.”

The moment the last syllable left his lips, he moved.

A flash of motion. A sudden shift in the air.

For a man his size, Luraq was impossibly fast. His fist tore through the space between them, a cannon shot of pure force aimed straight for Hitomi’s temple. It was not a strike meant to test her, nor to wound—this was a killing blow, precise and final.

But Hitomi did not step away. She did not twist or evade.

Instead, she raised her arm—delicate, slender—as if to meet his war-forged fist with nothing but the smooth curve of her wrist.

The impact rang out like a thunderclap.

The arena trembled, a shockwave rippling through the sand, sending nearby warriors staggering. Dust burst into the air in a golden cloud, obscuring vision for a heartbeat before settling.

Luraq’s breath hitched.

His knuckles ground into the unyielding flesh of her wrist, but she did not buckle. She did not move. The bones in her arm did not break. The fragile wrist he had aimed to shatter remained intact, as if his full strength had been met with something beyond flesh—something inhuman.

Hitomi smiled.

"Is that all?"

Her voice was calm, detached, as if she were remarking on a change in the weather. The eerie stillness of her expression, doll-like and unbothered, made something curdle in Luraq’s stomach. He had expected resistance. He had not expected mockery.

His eyes narrowed, and with a growl, he shifted his stance, preparing to press his attack, to strike again before she could act.

But before he could even tense his muscles—

Her fingers closed around his wrist.

And then she squeezed, and squeezed until a sickening, wet crunch split the air.

Luraq’s eyes went wide. White-hot agony barreled through his arm as his wrist crumpled like dry bark beneath her grip. He staggered, his knees bending, his entire body lurching forward as his balance failed him. A strangled sound left his throat, part growl, part gasp, his body betraying him before his mind could comprehend the pain.

And Hitomi was already moving in for the kill.

She yanked him forward, using his own bulk and weight against him as her free hand shot toward him like a piston, her fingers curled into talons before slammed into his chest. The moment they struck, the world seemed to pause.

Then, the air erupted.

A deafening BOOM split the arena.

Luraq’s ribs folded inward, his entire frame collapsing under the force of her strike as if he had been struck by the wrath of something divine. The ground beneath them cratered, the force of the impact sending sand and shattered stone flying outward.

His body lifted.

Then, he was airborne.

Like a discarded ragdoll, Luraq was flung backward, his massive frame slamming into the stone bleachers with bone-cracking force. The impact sent spiderweb fractures racing through the rock before gravity pulled him down, his body sliding limply to the sand below.

A long, shuddering breath escaped him. His fingers twitched, feebly grasping at nothing. Blood trickled from his mouth. His ribs shattered. His lungs burning. His vision, darkening.

He tried to rise but he couldn’t.

Through the haze of pain, he saw Hitomi approaching, crimson eyes alight with something dark and deviant. Something monstrous, devoid of pity or remorse. She crouched beside him, close enough that he could feel the unnatural stillness of her breath against his skin.

"You were weak," she whispered, her voice silk over steel.

Luraq’s mouth opened, but no words came. Only a shallow, broken gasp.

Then—nothing.

She rose.

The assembled warriors, once brimming with bravado, now stood motionless. The disbelief that had gripped them moments before had curdled into something heavier. Something deeper.

Dread.

Hitomi lifted her hand, still slick with Luraq’s blood. She let it fall, a single drop staining the golden sand beneath her feet.

The silence swallowed it whole.

She turned her gaze back to them, her expression serene, expectant.

"Next."

The gathered warriors stood in rigid silence.

Luraq's body remained motionless in the sand, his once-imposing frame reduced to a broken husk that barely clung to life. Shallow, rattling breaths were the only sign he still lived. And yet, no one dared to move—not to retrieve him, not even to glance in his direction for too long. Their hands clenched around weapons that suddenly felt like ornaments, their grips tight with a mixture of pride and paralyzing terror.

Hitomi stood amidst them, utterly still, unshaken. Her crimson eyes gleamed with an almost playful detachment, as if none of this truly concerned her. Lifting a hand, she flexed her fingers, watching with idle curiosity as Luraq’s blood traced the creases of her palm before slipping from her fingertips, each droplet descending in lazy arcs onto the scorched sand.

"Next.." she repeated, her voice smooth, patient—yet carrying the weight of inevitable violence.

The warriors hesitated. Some swallowed hard, their throats dry. Others exchanged uncertain glances, doubt thick in the air like a noxious fog.

Velkyn watched them with a measured gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. His fingers twitched at his sides—whether in intrigue or irritation, none could say.

Then, another stepped forward.

"Hey! I'll fight you."

The voice was steady, unshaken. Young, but absent the reckless bravado of youth.

The crowd parted, revealing the challenger. Unlike the last, he moved with neither haste nor hesitation. Every step was deliberate, measured—possessing the unshakable certainty of a man who had long since abandoned the need to prove himself.

He was lean, his frame built not for brute strength but for precision. His armor shimmered with veins of golden energy, humming softly with stored Naten. No colossal weapon weighed him down, no towering physique gave him an aura of intimidation. Instead, he carried twin sabers, their curved forms resembling the fangs of a dragon, their polished edges gleaming with latent power.

His name was Thul.

And he did not look upon Hitomi with fear.

His ember-bright eyes met hers, unwavering—not as if staring at a monster, but studying a puzzle. A mystery to be unraveled rather than a beast to be slain.

"You might be strong..." Thul said, his voice calm, assured. "But strength is not the only force in this world."

Hitomi's lips curled, slow and deliberate. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the way his weight subtly shifted between the balls of his feet, the way his muscles coiled without tension—fluid, controlled, efficient.

“…But it is the only one that matters right now.”

Thul didn't reply. He simply adjusted his grip, lifting the tip of his sabers in a stance designed for speed and adaptability—one blade held forward, the other angled low, a seamless blend of offense and defense.

“Yeah? Well, I'll be sure to keep that in mind.”

The temperature in the pit shifted. And then—

He was gone.

Not a word. Not a warning. Just an eruption of motion too fast for the eye to follow.

The sand beneath his feet crystallized into jagged glass, the sheer force of his acceleration warping the terrain. His body became a streak of golden light, a thunderbolt given form. And his blades became streaks of white-hot steel, carving the air in an unrelenting storm. Overhead arcs and horizontal slashes blurred into a seamless barrage of flashing steel, a thousand cuts seeking blood in the span of mere seconds.

Unlike Luraq, Thul was no charging bull. He was a phantom, slipping through reality itself, each strike a calculated stroke in a masterpiece of violence.

Yet Hitomi did not retreat.

She didn’t need to see him. She knew this technique.

Joūto was an arbiter that vastly enhanced the speed of the user, and when coupled with electrical runes, gave the user the guise of invisibility. Most Yaarou shinobi were taught this ability during the adolescent stages of their training, and while Thul exhibited a rare mastery of the technique, it was more or less a well practiced trick to her.

A clever trick.

But a trick nonetheless.

At the instant of contact, Hitomi's arm flicked up—not in panic, not in reflex, but with clinical precision.

A sound like a thunderclap shattered the air as Hitomi’s bare hands intercepted the onslaught. Sparks and plumes of sand exploded in violent cascades, silhouettes flashing in brief, staccato bursts of light.

Their dance raged for twenty seconds—an eternity in the realm of true combat—before Hitomi caught one of his sabers between two fingers, halting its momentum as if it were a child's toy.

Thul’s eyes widened for the briefest moment before he adjusted, his second blade already in motion—a horizontal slash aimed at her ribs.

But Hitomi’s free hand rose with effortless grace, catching the blade in her palm.

For a moment, they stood locked in place.

Hitomi glanced at the sabers in her grasp, her grip light, almost casual. Then she turned her gaze to Thul, studying him as if he were more of a curiosity rather than a threat..

“…Wait a minute.” Her tone turned almost playful. “I thought I recognized you.”

She turned the saber in her grip, her expression sharpening with recognition. “You're the Golden Boy of Zeus, right? And these…” She gestured toward the sabers. “These are the Legendary Aether Blades?”

Thul forced a grin despite his struggle to wrench free. “It’s actually the Golden Bolt, Lady Xhi’on…” He grunted, still trying to pry himself loose. “What gave me away—”

Thul's words were cut short by the frequency of metal bending against Hitomi's supernatural grip as she wrenched Thul's saber from his hands and flung it into the crowd.

A strangled cry followed—some unfortunate soul caught in its path.

“Tuh—What a joke.” She scoffed. But Thul didn't waste a second in hesitation. He adapted.

He surrendered his remaining saber to Hitomi's grasp and dropped his body low, his body blurring as he swept a leg toward the soft tendon behind her knee. His speed and power was enhanced by an electrical wisp of energy that sharpened his leg into a deadly lashing blade

Fast. Precise. Deadly.

But not enough.

Hitomi responded by snapping her leg at Thul's head the second he lowered his position, countering his leg sweep as if she read his mind and saw it coming. Her heel smashed into his nose and launched Thul backward, tumbling, bouncing and twisting along the sand until he righted himself with a flawless ukemi.

And then—he grinned.

Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth, his breaths came in sharp, measured inhales, but still—he grinned.

“Heh… I knew the Xhi’on was strong, but goddamn.” He wiped his mouth with his wrist. “What are you, eighteen? Heh, I never thought I’d meet someone faster than me again.” He admitted, spitting out a glob of blood while snapping his nose back into place with a sickening pop.

Hitomi tilted her head. “Well that’s not saying much, is it?”

With a careless flick of her fingers, she let his remaining saber fall to the sand. “Don’t worry. You can soothe your pride knowing that I’m faster and stronger than anyone you’ve ever known or will know.”

She said, dusting off her arms and legs, watching him now with waning interest. “You are a clever man, but you haven't much else to offer.”

Thul started to laugh, but not before he slapped his hands together..

”We’ll see about that.”

Beneath his feet a golden rune flared to life, humming with an eerie electrical energy. The warriors surrounding this duel instinctively took a step back in apprehension, all but Velkyn who was far too engaged to consider his own safety.

Then, Thul's voice came in a whisper.

“Bind.”

And the moment he spoke, chains of blistering gold energy exploded from his dagger moving so quickly they bent space itself to reach her..

Neck. Wrists. Waist. Legs.

Hitomi felt it immediately—the paralyzing force of the spell pressing into her flesh, coiling around her limbs, locking her body in place beneath an impossible weight. She was still standing, but she couldn’t move.. Not even a little bit.

After watching his technique succeed Thul took a second to exhale, and the crowd of warriors responded to his success with triumphant cheers.

“Yeah, you might be the strongest there is.. but you're still just a kid.” He said, keeping his hands tightly clasped, generating more and more electrical shackles that coiled around Hitomi.

“And you still have a lot to learn when it comes to combat.”

Hitomi took a moment to listen to the outcry, rolling her eyes before her lips parted into a patronizing grin.

“Chains?” She scoffed. “You're funny.”

However, Thul's expression remained concentrated and unbothered.

“Here's a basic lesson for you..” He said, as his body began to thrum like an active generator. “One I learned when I was your age..”

Bolts and sparks of golden energy coiling up and around Thul's body as if he were harboring a cosmic storm. The sand beneath his feet crystallized from a massive rise of heat and pressure, even the sky above seemed to tremble in apprehension of what was to come.

"Never underestimate your opponent!"

He roared, causing a blinding bolt of pure light to erupt from the chains, consuming Hitomi in a storm of fire and electricity. The very air screamed as the blast incinerated sand, stone, and bone alike. No one could see beyond the flash, but every breathing soldier could feel the scathing heat wafting from the center of the arena

And for a moment, all was white.

The three elders sat in the highest rows of the arena, overlooking the battlefield with a detached scrutiny. From this vantage point, they saw everything—from the shifting formations of warriors and the craters carved into the earth, to the scorched sands where energy had raged like an untamed storm.

The echoes of battle still lingered, but the dust had begun to settle.

Elder Hayate rested his chin on his fist, crimson eyes fixed below. His expression was unreadable, but his posture betrayed his thoughts—one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping idly against his knee. He exuded the quiet patience of a man who had already reached his verdict.

“She is a fool.” His voice, though even, carried an edge sharp as the blade hoisted at his hip. “Her Hexcraft is undeniably powerful—perhaps the strongest manifestation we’ve ever seen—but the girl lacks the wisdom of battle. She believes herself untouchable, beyond reproach. But she is far from a warrior.”

Beside him, Elder Jhun remained silent, hands folded in his lap, eyes half-lidded as though in meditation rather than observation.

Elder Ayune, however, turned slightly toward Hayate, a subtle smirk playing at her lips. “And what do you mean by that?”

Hayate exhaled through his nose, barely sparing her a glance. Instead, he gestured toward the battlefield, where shadows stretched long over the ruin of the last exchange.

“She fancies herself a goddess—but gods do not win wars. Warriors do.” He leaned forward, his gaze scanning the warriors surrounding the impact site.

“She has never fought beyond these walls. No experience to draw from. Nothing tangible to justify her arrogance. But these men?” He gestured with his cigarette, trailing embers. “They are not mere foot soldiers. Each of them were handpicked from a pool of millions—chosen for their skill, their discipline, their sheer talent in combat. A hundred warriors, forged in war, tempered in blood.”

He ashed his cigarette before taking another drag. “Our Xhi’on may be powerful, but raw strength alone will not save her.”

Jhun finally spoke, his voice soft but deliberate.

“You sound certain.”

Hayate turned to him, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Aren’t you?” He gestured at the crater below. “She severely underestimated Thul's cunning. I've seen the man carve through a nest of NovaFangs alone, without a wound to show for it. He remains one of our finest, trained in every discipline offered at the clan’s Southern Front.”

Hayate's lips curled into a wry smirk. “It's why I chose him for this gauntlet. She believes these men are her toys, to be discarded as she pleases.” He chuckled lightly, looking at Jhun as if expecting validation. “That arrogance dies today. One way or another, we will humble her. Otherwise, we risk losing her to her own hubris.”

Jhun did not answer immediately. He simply folded his hands, unreadable beneath his robe as he observed the duel in silence.

Beside him, Elder Ayune touched a finger to her chin, the faintest smile curling at the edges of her lips. She found humor in Hayate’s certainty.

“Jhun.” Hayate's voice sharpened. “Say something.”

Jhun did not look up.

“I have nothing to add.”

Hayate's brow furrowed. He turned to Ayune, expecting more.

Ayune finally lifted her gaze from the arena, silver eyes as calm as still water.

“I have learned not to temper my expectations when it comes to her... You would be wise to do the same.”

“Bah.” Hayate scoffed. “I have no patience for your riddles, Ayune.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, before returning her attention to the battlefield.

“Then see for yourself, Elder. Watch.. and learn.”

—-

A hush had fallen over the battlefield.

The air was thick with a pungent scent of sediment, ash and cinders. Warriors stood at the edge of the crater, the ground beneath them blackened to obsidian, the sheer heat of the blast having melted the very sand.

Where once stood Hitomi, there was only devastation.

Thul stood at the crater’s edge, his grip firm on his saber.

His breathing was heavy but controlled. His muscles ached from exertion, his skin still charged with the residual energy of his last attack.

He could still feel the heat of the explosion in his bones. The entire area where Hitomi once stood was reduced to a scorched, glassy crater–the sand utterly obliterated beneath the force of the blast.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Even you couldn't have walked away from that unscathed," he muttered to himself, careful as to not drop his guard. But he found comfort in that single fact.

He wounded her, he felt it in his bones.

Still, he knew her pride wouldn't allow her to end the fight here. So he prepared himself for her imminent approach– one he figured to be fueled by rage and resentment.

Then, a shiver ran down his spine. He sensed it first.. Something daunting. Overwhelming.. Slowly, Thul was drawn to a suffocating presence just over his shoulder. And as the dust curled away, he saw it..

Those glowing, crimson eyes staring back at him through the haze.

The figure stepped forward, dust sliding from her skin like silk, revealing pale, untouched flesh beneath. Hitomi was utterly unscathed—not a single wound marked her body. Not even a scratch. Her upper robe was gone, reduced to cinders, leaving only the tight medical wrappings that bound her torso from her belly to her upper chest. The black fabric of her combat leggings remained, tattered at the edges but otherwise intact.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders, brushing the soot and from arms. Her gaze flicked across the battlefield—not with relief, not with respect, but with boredom.

“Again.. clever, but your novelty has officially run out.”

A ripple of disbelief surged through the gathered warriors. Murmurs. Shocked whispers. Some even took a step back, though they refused to acknowledge why.

Thul was no different. The man, gilded in his golden armor, felt something stir in his gut. Not fear. Not yet. But something close to it.

“How?”

He thought to himself as he narrowed his gaze, his grip tightening around his saber. The electrical snare was designed to paralyze its targets by interfering with their nervous system. There was no way she could have evaded the attack, no matter how fast or strong she claimed to be.

“Hexcraft.. shit” He gritted his teeth, resigning himself to the obvious truth.

Little to nothing was known concerning the Xhi’on's powers and abilities– that information was sacred, preserved through tradition by only a selected few. Thul immediately recognized that the only way for him to survive would be from a more cautious approach. He needed to understand what he was up against before he could counter it.

“Hexcraft already, huh? Didn't think I'd force you into a corner so quickly.” Thul said as he adopted a defensive stance and performed an Ava with his free hand. He was trying to provoke her into an opening, but Hitomi couldn't be bothered to look in his direction anymore.

She turned her attention now to the masses of surrounding warriors, counting them up as if they were pieces on a board.

“Hey!” Her voice rang across the arena. “Change of plans.. I order all of you to attack me at once. This has taken far longer than I wanted, and I fear none of you will be worth the effort in the end.”

Her command echoed loud and clear, but again none of them responded. Either it be confusion or fear at this point was interchangeable. But Thul retorted with venom in his blood. “NO!”

He said, taking a defiant step toward his Xhi’on and staring at her down the length of his saber. “We are not cowards.” He said, sharing a glance with men he'd once fought alongside. “We are not rabid dogs.. We are warriors!” He said, fixing his gaze on Hitomi. “I have not fallen, and you have not bled the breath from my lungs. I'd sooner die than see you forsake my honor.”

His voice rippled through the crowd, igniting something among the soldiers. They felt his fire, his conviction, and it stoked the embers of their resolve. They were warriors, forged in blood and discipline. No matter the fear creeping at the edges of their minds, they would not cower.

Hitomi groaned in response. “Fine.” Her gaze finally flickering back to Thul

“Then die.”

For those watching, the event itself was almost imperceptible. There was no flash of light. No roaring explosion. No arcane sigils.

One moment, Thul was standing tall.

The next—

He was gone.

A sound followed. A terrible, resonant impact—BOOM—as if the heavens themselves had collapsed upon the earth. The ground trembled, splitting beneath the sheer force of what had just occurred.

Where Thul had once stood, there was now only ruin.

A crater, twenty feet deep, carved into the battlefield. It was perfectly shaped—a single open palm.

From the highest rows of the arena, Elder Hayate’s breath hitched as he bore witness to what could only be described as the hand of a god slamming down from the heavens. All in a fraction of a second.

Dust and debris scattered outward, swallowing the world in a cloud of silence. No one spoke. No one moved a muscle

What remained of Thul stewed at the bottom of that crater.

His golden armor had been flattened. No longer a protective shell, but a crumpled relic of what once existed. His body had been reduced to a puddle of meat and shimmering metal.

The silence stretched, strangling the air from the arena.

These warriors had long since cast aside their fears. Hardened by lifetimes of war. Numbed by lows and death.

And yet, as they looked at the woman standing before them—untouched, unimpressed, unshaken—they felt something ancient and primal stir within them.

A reminder..

A truth long since buried in their arrogance. One they'd never forget again..

Hitomi let out a breath, turning back to the crowd.

“Those of you who survive will be given my consideration,” she said, her tone as indifferent as before. “But doing this one at a time is beneath me.”

She said before her eyes shifted into a luminous, crimson glow as she lowered her palm to the sands.

"Now.. how did that incantation go?"

And once she began to chant—

“Ashen Crown. Silent Harvest.”

Reality itself trembled in anticipation.

Elder Jhun’s eyes widened as the first syllables of the chant reached his ears.

It was a dead language—extinct even before the oldest annals of their order had been inked. And yet, the weight of recognition struck his ears like a deathly knell.

He had encountered these words before, or rather, he had read of them, in the forbidden, dusty corners of arcane library —hidden beneath layers of redacted text and sealed scrolls.

And he knew, as did anyone who recognized the language knew, that those invocations, spoken in that tongue.. in that order.. was strictly taboo.

“No… no. Impossible." Jhun could feel his heart thumping through his chest.

“But.. How—where did she—” His thoughts were drowned out by Hitomi’s ethereal voice as it wove through the silence, resonating not just through the arena, but through the through the veins of every living being. Jhun felt his blood chill to ice, but he couldn't just sit there and let this happen.

“Hayate! Ayune!! Stand ready!” Elder Jhun’s voice cut through the growing storm of magic as he sprang from his seat. His urgency was lost on them—Hayate especially—but there was no time to explain.

Jhun's hands blurred through ancient sigils, weaving a barrier around them with desperate precision.

The translucent dome snapped into place, its surface rippling with layers of interwoven runes. It was the strongest defense he could muster on such short notice, yet even as it shimmered around them, Jhun wasn’t sure it would hold.

“Jhun, what is this?” Ayune’s voice wavered with confusion. “This barrier is unnecessary. There are thousands of protective wards woven into the arena. They should—”

“They won’t hold.” His voice was grim. “None of them will.”

His apprehension spread like a sickness. Hayate and Ayune exchanged glances before turning to bombard Jhun with questions—questions he neither heard nor cared to answer. His expression had gone blank, his eyes distant as Hitomi continued the incantation of a forbidden technique– a doomsday spell that hadn't been recited or referenced in generations.

But how? How had Hitomi learned this?

The answer lay buried in the annals of the Xhi’on—the journals of those who had come before her. Buried among the yellowed pages, among the coded incantations and broken symbols, she had unearthed fragments of a terrible art—a spell that should never have been conceived in the first place.

There were plenty of these techniques that the Xhi'on of the past had hidden away for this very reason. Power entombed beneath eons of silence so potent it could threaten reality itself. But Hitomi, in her relentless ambition for power, had found one.

And now, she would wield it as if it were hers by right —without the faintest inkling of what she sought to unleash.

—------

“Veil, Unravel and Collapse.”

Hitomi’s voice soared to a crescendo. And once the last syllable left her lips, a pulse of energy radiated outward from her outstretched hand, etching a sigil into the sands– its edges sharp and ominous.

The universe seemed to halt, as if reality itself drew in a sharp breath before the ground beneath her feet began to tremble. Fissures and synapses split through the sand like the cracks in a broken mirror.

And then suddenly, the reality split apart.

A blinding explosion of red and white light erupted from beneath Hitomi's palm—not fire, as mortals understood it but something more primal. This spell drew from the entropy of collapsing realms beyond this one and focused that combined power upon a single plane. The initial shockwave rippled through the sky with apocalyptic force, but it was the heat– the celestial inferno of crimson and white that decimated the arena.

The enchanted walls of the coliseum groaned and cracked under the cosmic pressure before half of the arena itself simply ceased to be, swallowed whole by this celestial storm.

The warriors caught in the radius of the blast did not die in agony. There was no pain. No blood, no screams, nor a distinctive moment of transition between life and death.

Just death.

One instant they were standing, the next they were simply gone—vaporized in the crimson flash. Not even ash remained to mark their transition.

The battlefield was no longer a battlefield. The once gargantuan coliseum was reduced to a jagged crater– a smoldering wasteland where molten stone bled into the air like a giant open wound.

And at the epicenter, caught within the fringes of her own spell, was Hitomi.

Or at least what was left of her.

She lay prone, sprawled on all fours, trembling, with exertion. Her clothes had been reduced to tattered remnants, barely clinging to her frame. Her face, arms, legs—all of her had been charred raw, deep wounds marring the places where her skin had been peeled away by the force of the spell. Her body was ruined, grotesque in its disfigurement.

For a moment, she wavered—vision swimming, mind teetering on the edge of collapse. She hadn’t expected this.

But she had prepared for the worse.

A slow, shuddering breath. And then—her flesh began to knit itself together.

Muscles reformed, sinew weaving back into place at an unnatural speed. Skin crawled across her arms, her face—smooth, unblemished, whole once more in a matter of seconds. But beneath that restored exterior, the toll was evident.

Her eyes burned with exhaustion.

The cost of all this had been far higher than she anticipated.

—

The elders, stationed at the far edge of the arena, had been spared the worst of it. Elder Jhun was the first to move, breaking into a sprint across the scorched wasteland that had once been a battlefield.

His feet barely touched the ground.

“Hitomi!” His voice rang out over the ruin, laced with a dreadful. His expression, usually an unreadable mask, was torn between disbelief and horror as he knelt beside her. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.”

Her voice was steady. Distant.

Her eyes were not on him. They were scanning the destruction, flicking past him with mechanical precision.

“I mastered Shōkotsu, remember?” she continued, flexing her newly healed fingers. “I can heal myself just fine..”

Jhun’s nostrils flared. “That is no reason to be reckless! No reason to be so impulsive!” His frustration broke through, and then, his inquisition began. “Where did you learn that spell?! When did you learn to speak Moirai? And why–” He stuttered, trying to collect his emotions, but to no avail. “Why would you cast something like this against your own soldiers!?”

Hitomi barely spared him a glance before speaking again.

“How many survived?”

Her tone was devoid of emotion. Cold. Methodical.

Jhun hesitated—long enough for Ayune to step forward, her face pale as she draped a robe over Hitomi’s trembling form. “I sense ten souls still clinging to life.” She said, clearing her throat. “Some of them radiate traces of Hexcraft, as well.”

Hitomi exhaled, slow. Disappointed, “I was expecting more,” she murmured. “But it’s a start.”

“The start?” Elder Hayate stepped forward, his voice tight with disbelief. “The start of what? Forgive me my Xhi’on, but what was the purpose of this… massacre? You've killed— I mean, we lost—so many—”

“They.. were weak.”

The words fell from her lips like a death sentence.

Jhun recoiled slightly, as if struck.

Hitomi pushed herself to her feet, her movements were slow, heavy— but deliberate

“Have the survivors healed and restored,” she ordered. “I will meet with them tomorrow.” Then, swaying slightly, she turned to Jhun, leaning her weight against him without ceremony.

“Take me to my room,” she muttered. “You will have your questions answered in the morning.. I am done for the day.”

Still, she didn’t care for their outrage.

She had tested the spell, and its potential had exceeded her wildest expectations.

She had been right to dig through the old tomes. Right to spend years learning forgotten tongues, paying scholars and smugglers for fragments of lost knowledge.

Now, she had ten warriors strong enough to meet her standards.

She could build on this.. something new, and all her own. This was simply the beginning.