Vescrutia: Legacy

[ Continued From Here. ]

The Yaarou Chamber of Rejuvenation was a palace of quiet luxury– a space crafted not for mere recovery but for ritualized restoration. Steam curled in thin tendrils, carrying the scent of crushed lotus petals and spiced mountain herbs—an aroma both soothing and medicinal. The air was thick with steam, warming the skin upon contact, yet the presence of frosted marble tiles and the glacier-fed pools offset the heat, creating a delicate balance between cold and warmth.

It was a place meant for warriors. A sanctuary where the body could be mended, the mind quieted, and the spirit sharpened for the battles to come.

Hitomi sat in the center of an obsidian ice bath, the water so clear it appeared silver under the glow of enchanted lanterns. The pool was lined with veins of enchanted crystal, pulsing faintly as if responding to her presence. She was submerged to her neck, her white hair fanning out in the water like liquid moonlight while her cheekbones flushed from the biting chill.

Silent attendants moved around her like ghosts, their hands working in practiced efficiency. One traced a soothing salve over a faint bruise along her collarbone; another massaged fragrant oils into her exposed arms, kneading away the stiffness from battle.

She ignored them, reclining with her arms draped over the rim of the bath. Her muscles ached. Her lungs still carried the memory of exertion, but she welcomed it. Pain was a teacher. It meant she was still alive.

Then, the door slid open, cutting through the hazy warmth.

Elder Jhun entered clad in layered robes of deep umber, his silvered hair pulled back in the manner of the elder council. The lines on his face seemed heavier today, his usual composed expression carrying the weight of unvoiced apprehension.

"Good morning, my Paragon."

He said, before he stopped at the threshold.

“I've beeen told you were awake before anyone else,” he remarked, voice even. "Even the servents."

Hitomi did not open her eyes. She tilted her head back, exhaling as a hooded slave poured a fresh cascade of crushed ice into the bath. A sharp crackle filled the air as the shards met the water.

“I was awake before the sun,” she corrected lazily. “Your point?”

Jhun stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the marble.

“You should have rested. Your body was—”

“—my body is my own, and it still obeys me.” She finally opened her eyes, piercing crimson locking onto his gaze. “Would you rather I grow soft?”

Jhun’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I would rather you remember that even the strongest blade must be tempered, lest it become brittle.”

Hitomi smirked, stretching her arms over her head, the motion elegantly languid. “You mistake my discipline for recklessness.”

Jhun exhaled through his nose. “You mistake my concern for weakness.”

She gave a low chuckle, trailing a finger idly through the water. “Well..I guess we all have our flaws, Elder.”

There was a beat of silence before Jhun moved closer. There was no amusement in his gaze.

“There were questions I wished to ask you yesterday.”

Hitomi swirled the water around her, watching the ripples expand outward. “Then ask.”

Jhun did not hesitate. “When–How did you learn to speak Moirai?” He asked with a steadied glance, carefully choosing his words. “To my knowledge, you've never even inquired about its history, let alone a lesson in its.. applications.”

Hitomi’s lips curved into a playful smile.

“I taught myself,” she said, nonchalant.

Jhun’s brow furrowed. “That should not have been possible.”

"Sorede mo, koko ni iru."
-And yet, here we are-

She responded in the aforementioned tongue, smirking at Jhun as he flinched in confusion.

Hitomi then lifted her hand from the bath, studying her own reflection in the rippling surface.

“I did what the Elders feared to do. I sought knowledge outside these walls and bore no expense. I've bribed scholars, hired translators, smuggled fragmented texts. I pieced together what you all tried to erase.” She flexed her fingers, watching the water stream between them. “It was… tedious. But rewarding.”

Jhun’s jaw tightened. “You do not understand what you tamper with.”

“Oh, I do.” Her voice was smooth, almost indulgent. “You, however, are still pretending that ignorance is protection.”

A long silence.

“…That was how you read the Tome of Moirai,” Jhun said, not a question, but a statement of grim realization.

"It is." Hitomi finally looked at him fully. "Would you like to see it?”

The Tome of Morai was no ordinary book.

It was kept deep within the Elder’s Vault, a chamber buried beneath layers of enchanted stone and ancient seals. It did not sit upon a pedestal like some holy relic, nor was it displayed for reverence. It was locked away. Hidden. Feared.

The tome was an entity of its own—a massive, leather-bound codex with an aura of palpable power. Its cover bore a single rune, glowing faintly, shifting like liquid metal. The book did not respond to hands alone.

It required the a very specific key; A drop pf blood from its Xhi’on to open its ledger.

Ane Hitomi had learned that truth long before they had deemed her ‘worthy’ to know it.

–-

Jhun’s silence stretched long enough to feel tangible, thick like the mist curling through the chamber. He did not move, yet his presence shifted—no longer just a wary elder, but a man standing at the precipice of something he dared not confront.

"You have it?"

His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it.

Hitomi tilted her head, watching him with measured amusement. She had expected disbelief, perhaps even anger, but this—this quiet horror—was far more interesting.

"I retrieved it the day I was named Xhi’on," she said, tracing slow patterns in the water. "Surely you didn’t think I’d wait for permission?"

Jhun exhaled sharply, his hand flexing as if resisting the urge to grasp at something. He should have been alerted the second that the text was moved, let alone accessed. But knowing her, he was certain she ordered the bastions guarding it to remain silent.

His eyes narrowed "That book—" He caught himself, shaking his head. "The Tome is not a weapon to be handled so haphazardly. You know this."

She gave a low chuckle, leaning forward slightly and resting her elbows on the edge of the bath. "I strongly disagree."

His expression darkened. "The Tome does not yield to untrained hands—it is volatile. Its magics shift like a living thing, adapting to whoever dares crack its seal. That is why it remains sealed within the Elders' Vault until the Xhi’on is ready. Until we are certain—"

"Certain that I am obedient?" Hitomi interrupted smoothly.

Jhun’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she caught the flicker of something beneath his disciplined exterior. Frustration. fear.

"You are not prepared."

Hitomi arched her brow. "You forget yourself, Jhun."

Her words were firm, final. And Jhun's ensuing silence was evident of that fact.

Hitomi shifted, rising from the bath in one slow, deliberate motion. Cold water cascaded down her skin, steam curling as it met the warmth of the chamber air. The attendants stepped back in silent deference as she reached for a large towel laid out for her, and began to dry herself with unhurried ease.

Jhun remained rigid, but averted his gaze.

"Where is it?"

She took a moment to savor his anxiety before she answered.

"In my room."

Jhun closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and took a moment to compose himself before speaking. When he did, his voice was low, strained.

"Hitomi… that book is not meant to be contained so carelessly."

A smirk curled at the corner of her lips. "Who said I was careless?"

She said, running the towel over her hair and neck before continuing. “I've taken the necessary precautions, you can retire the imminent danger routine”

Jhun's voice hardened. “And you've already used your blood to unseal it.”

“Yes. It was the only way to open it..”

Jhun’s expression darkened. “And that knowledge led you to The Sevenfold Spear.”

The words hung heavy between them. Hitomi moved toward the dressing chamber, a separate alcove filled with fragrant incense and silken drapes. The attendants unfurled her robe—a masterpiece of power and regality.

The fabric was deep black, rich as midnight, embroidered with threads of gold and silver that formed interwoven sigils of her lineage. The sleeves were long and flowing, but fitted at the wrists with thin golden cuffs. The hem bore the symbol of the IV Xhi’on.

Her hair, still damp, was carefully arranged by the attendants. They worked wordlessly, deftly, weaving thin golden chains into the snowy-white strands.

Then came the ceremonial headpiece.

A delicate crown of blackened gold, its form twisting like curved horns, with an inlaid obsidian gemstone resting at its center. It was not heavy—it did not need to be. Its presence alone carried weight.

Hitomi tilted her head toward Jhun as the attendees fastened the buttons along her collar. She nearly forgotten he was there“Elder, if you persist with this lecture you're going to ruin my good mood before my day even begins.”

Jhun’s hands curled into fists. “You are toying with a spell that should never have been conceived!” His voice was sharp now, cutting through the chamber’s quiet. He turned to address her with furrowed brows. “Have you simply decided to simply ignore its history? Why it was sealed away to begin with?”

Hitomi exhaled through his nose, exasperated. “Rii'ku, the Storm Bringer– The 2nd Xhi’on created it during the War of Tribes,” she mused as if she were recollecting the text from. “A spell capable of magnifying its output every time it is cast. It was crafted as a desperate measure– a nuclear option–”

Jhun’s eyes narrowed before he interjected. “And do you know why he only used it twice?”

Hitomi arched her brow with intrigue, “Because he was a coward?”

“Because each time it was cast, the clan suffered.. just as much as the enemy." Jhun’s voice dropped, low and edged with caution. “This spell draws from the entropy of realms beyond our comprehension; The Physical. The Astral. The Unseen. It does not merely destroy—it unravels. Not even the caster is safe.”

Hitomi did not flinch.

Jhun took a step closer. “Hitomi. You do not understand the cost.”

Hitomi exhaled, slow and measured. “I understand just fine.”

Jhun stared at her.

She met his gaze. Unshaken.

“It is you who needs to understand something. The price of power is not something you barter for. You seize the opportunity, and you pay the price.. whatever the cost.”

Elder Jhun was stunned by the callous implications of her words. The finality of it, and the clear disregard for anything that wouldn't adhere to her ambitions.

“I will commit the spell to memory,” she said lightly. “All of it, as well as every forbidden technique hidden in the pages of Moirai..”

Jhun looked away, unable to hold her punitive gaze a second longer as she spoke.

“Let this be the last we speak of this.”

His voice was flat when he finally spoke. “As you wish, my Xhi'on.”

He said with a bow, but only allowed a moment's reprieve to pass between them before he spoke again on another pressing matter.

“Your soldiers, my Paragon. They have been prepared to meet your acquaintance, however, some did not survive.” He paused. “Two of them succumbed to their injuries before they were restored. Only eight of them remain.”

Hitomi gestured for the attendees dressing her to leave her side, allowing her the chance to adjust her outfit to her comfort.

“Take me to them.” She said, adjusting her crown within the reflection of the pools before she started walking toward the door.

Jhun hesitated, but bowed as she stepped past him.

“It's time I've laid eyes on my new champions.”

The doors to the grand hall creaked open with a reverence befitting the moment. Elder Jhun led Hitomi through, his gait measured, deliberate. The scent of saffron and roasted game lingered in the air, interwoven with the subtle smokiness of burning cedar.

The chamber was resplendent—deep red banners draped from vaulted ceilings, embroidered with the sigil of the Yaarou Clan. The long, obsidian dining table gleamed under the amber glow of candlelight, set with polished silver and black porcelain.

Standing in perfect formation, eight warriors awaited her arrival, each a silent specter of discipline. They had been instructed to remain by their seats, hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes forward in deference. The weight of their presence was palpable, their collective aura humming with lethal restraint.

As Hitomi crossed the threshold, Elder Jhun’s voice rang clear, carrying the authority of tradition.

“Presenting the Xh’ion of the Yaarou Clan,” he announced, “She Who Sits at the Pinnacle of All Creation, the Crimson Sun, the Sovereign Hand of Law and Order, The Demon of Edo.”

The warriors did not move, but their gazes flickered toward her—assessing, weighing. Hitomi met their eyes one by one as she strode toward her seat, studying the champions who would serve as the backbone of her rule.

‐‐‐‐‐
‐‐‐‐‐

Closest to her seat stood a man whose face bore the history of war—scarred, weathered, yet composed. He was motionless, but his presence crackled with the quiet intensity of a predator coiled to strike. No blade hung at his hip, no weapon marked his form, yet Hitomi knew instinctively that he had no need for one. His hair was white, his eyes crimson—both genetic markers of a harbinger of Hexcraft.

Beside him, was a younger woman with white hair braided into a single braid down her back. She was slender, with an elegance that belied her lethality. And her posture was still as water. She held a vermillion gaze that was sharp like a surgical tool. She did not blink as Hitomi’s eyes met hers, nor did she shift her weight. Control was this woman's weapon and she wielded it with practiced precision.

Further down, a man leaned against his chair with an air of casual defiance. His long black hair was loosely tied back, framing a face worn with quiet amusement. His fingers drummed against the pommel of his sheathed sword, and offered Hitomi a casual wink as she strode past him. He was tall—perhaps the youngest among them—but carried himself with the confidence of one who knew the measure of his own skill.

At his side, a leaner man stood shirtless, his frame a canvas of scars. His hands were wrapped in prayer-thread, inscribed with writings of old, and from his long, unkempt hair hung two silver bells that chimed softly in the silence. He was a living relic of battle, his body inscribed with the cost of survival

An older man loomed beside him–a giant among men, his form sculpted from a lifetime of war. His left arm, bound in ritual wrappings, flexed unconsciously, as if yearning for violence even in stillness. He was a monolith of quiet menace, a man who had long since stopped counting his victories.

Across the table, a muscular woman stood apart. The hammer resting behind her was larger than she was, radiating heat in barely restrained fury. She was a furnace given form, her presence smoldering with unwavering resolve. When her gaze met Hitomi’s, she nodded—a slow, deliberate acknowledgment. Hitomi nearly returned the gesture.

Then there was an outlier among them. His Elven lineage was evident in the sharpness of his features, in the way he stood with effortless grace. He was not Yaarou by birth, but his blade had spilled enough blood for the clan that none questioned his place among them. His presence was like a shadow barely tethered to this realm, as if he were not wholly bound by the laws of men. He was far too tall for Hitomi to meet his gaze unless she decided to crane her neck– she did not.

Finally, sitting opposite of the long table was a pale skinned Elf. His face was the most impassive of them all, unreadable beneath the faint scars that traced his skin. His spear rested against his back, bound in cloth, its cursed nature contained—for now. His loyalty was unquestionable, yet there was a sorrow in his stance, a weight that none but he seemed affected by.

-----
-----

Hitomi took her place at the head of the table, her expression impassive as her gaze swept over her champions. Each of them were a legend in their own right, warriors forged in the crucible of war and bound by their oaths to the Yaarou cause.

Elder Jhun turned toward her, inclining his head before speaking again. “Allow me to introduce those who will serve as your blade and shield.”

He gestured first to a figure standing closest to her right. "A'kiru Yaarou, the Phantom Gale.” The man stood tall, his frame lean but deceptively strong, clothed in the tunic and loose fitting black pants. “He is perhaps the fastest man alive.” Jhun continued, “His Hexcraft, allows him to siphon momentum and store it, utilizing it in bursts that defy natural law. Three thousand confirmed kills. Ten years of service.”

Next, his hand shifted toward the woman beside A'kiru. "Saya Yaarou, the Silken Marionette.” A thin veil of silver adorned her sharp features, complementing the intricate tattoos that coiled like serpents along her legs. “She possesses Dominion’s Caress, Hexcraft that grants her control over any living thing so long as she maintains contact. Fifteen hundred confirmed kills in nine years of service.”

Jhun’s gaze moved further down. "A'dyr Yaarou, the Whispering Edge–He wields a Hexed Blade that vibrates at a frequency beyond perception, rendering it invisible and capable of severing anything it touches. Two thousand confirmed kills in seven years of service.”

“Tetsuo Yaarou, the Unwavering”, Jhun continued, nodding toward the slender man with a face carved from stone. His presence was a fortress in itself, his stance unshakable, his hands scarred from years of combat. “A master tactician and one of the most formidable warriors of the Yaarou. Eight hundred confirmed kills. Twelve years of service.”

Then came "Ki’er Yaarou, the Titan’s Vow.” His sheer size made him an imposing figure, his muscle-bound frame barely contained by the layers of reinforced armor. “His prosthetic is a hexed tool, capable of absorbing kinetic force and repurposes it, morphing into weapons of his choosing. Twelve Hundred confirmed kills. Nine years of service.”

Jhun turned next to the woman at the far end of the table. “Mitsuko Yaarou, the Dawnforged. She possess a Hexed Tool that makes her impervious to heat and releases shockwaves of solar energy that incinerate all in their path. Thirteen hundred confirmed kills. Eight years of service.”

Now, his focus shifted to the two that bore no Yaarou blood but had earned their place nonetheless. “Velkyn Van’Ethir..” Jhun intoned, his voice holding an edge of respect. “A son of the Irithyll Dominia, bound to the Yaarou by oaths older than any of us. His people are blade dancers of legend, masters of the Aetherblade technique—a martial art that wounds not just flesh, but the very soul. His speed is without equal, his strikes the stuff of myth. Two thousand confirmed kills. Over two centuries of service to his people’s oath.”

And finally, the last warrior. “N’uril Rao, the Forsaken Lancer.” He was an enigma wrapped in steel, his crimson cloak concealing much of his form save for the dark glint of his lance resting at his side. “Once an exile, now a knight of the Yaarou. His spear has felled creatures that would have swallowed lesser men whole. Seventy hundred confirmed kills in fourteen years of service.”

Elder Jhun clasped his hands behind his back. “These are your champions, Xh’ion.”

A brief silence followed, the weight of their titles settling over the chamber. Then, with a measured nod, he spoke again. “You may be seated.”

The warriors obeyed, taking their places around the grand table as servants began to pour wine and set the table with utensils.

During which, Elder Jhun spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, this meal has been prepared for you, in honor of your success in the Xhi’on’s expedition.” he said, his gaze sweeping across the gathered soldiers. “She wishes to use this opportunity to meet you, as you all will be the foundation of the Yaarou’s future. This is your moment to speak—to ask what you will of her.”

A stillness settled over the hall, heavy with unspoken thoughts. The candle flames flickered, shadows shifting across stone.

Hitomi leaned forward slightly, her fingers resting lightly against the polished wood of the table. A slow smile ghosted her lips.

“Well..” she said, her voice carrying across the vast chamber as she picked up her glass. “..let’s not waste time, then.”

The warriors exchanged glances, some measuring, others expectant. The weight of their titles and their oaths hung thick in the air, but now came the moment of true revelation—words would define them as much as their blades.

Seconds later, rows of servants entered the dining hall, moving in swift, practiced motions as they set down plates of expertly cut venison, fragrant bowls of jasmine rice, delicate arrangements of pickled vegetables, and steaming cups of broth. The aroma of charred meat and subtle spices mingled with the smoky scent of burning incense, coiling through the vast chamber like a whispered omen.

When the final dish was placed, A’dyr reached for his goblet, the movement unhurried, deliberate. The firelight caught the edges of his bronze skin, glinting off the silver threading of his robes as he lifted his cup slightly. His baritone cut through the quiet, steady and resolute. “A toast.” His gaze swept the table before settling on Hitomi. “To our Xh’ion, and her ascension—may the heavens bear witness to the path we carve in her name.” His words, though simple, carried weight, each syllable measured. There was no flourish, no excess—only certainty.

The others followed suit, lifting their goblets. A chorus of affirmations rippled through the hall as they drank.

Hitomi allowed the wine to linger on her tongue before lowering her glass. The taste was rich, but she savored something else—the moment. The undercurrent of challenge and allegiance woven into the gathering.

“Well spoken, A’dyr,” she mused, her gaze drifting across the table. “And since this is a night of firsts, let’s not waste it. Speak freely.”

Ki’er let out a low chuckle, setting his goblet down with a solid thud. “Freely? Heh, a dangerous invitation.” His deep voice carried an air of dry humor, but his amber eyes were studying her, measuring. “But if we’re speaking freely, I’d like to know this—what is it you want from us, Xh’ion? Beyond service. What do you expect?”

Hitomi regarded him for a moment, weighing her words. “Loyalty. Competence. Results,” she said, her voice even. “The Yaarou will shape the future of Edo, but only with champions worthy of the name.”

Velkyn, ever the phantom at the far end of the table, let out a low hum. He tilted his glass lazily, his dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable. “Worthy is subjective,” he murmured. “Many of us have served under the Yaarou’s banner longer than you've been alive. Some might argue we’re already legends. What more could we have to prove?”

Mitsuko scoffed, resting her chin on her fist. Her golden eyes gleamed with amusement as she smirked. “A legend that stops moving is just a story someone else gets to finish.” Her gaze flicked toward Hitomi. “And I have no intention of being a story.”

Saya, the Silken Marionette, finally spoke, her voice as precise as the blade she carried. “Legends don’t need to prove themselves,” she said smoothly, “..but they do need purpose. I’d rather know what drives our Xh’ion. What sets her apart from the rulers who came before?”

The table quieted slightly, all eyes returning to Hitomi. Even the torches seemed to burn lower, as if listening.

She leaned forward, the silk of her robes shifting as she did. “Unlike those before me,” she said, “I do not intend to rule from the shadows or let tradition dictate my ambition.” She let the weight of her words settle. “I intend to redefine what it means to be Xh’ion.”

Akiru, silent until now, exhaled through his nose. He swirled his wine absently, his dark brows knitting together in thought. “A bold claim,” he mused. “I hope you’ve prepared to bear the weight of it.”

Hitomi met his gaze. “I was forged for it.”

A silence stretched between them, not of discomfort, but of understanding. It was a silence that preceded war, the kind that lingered on battlefields before the first blade was drawn.

Mitsuko’s laughter shattered the moment, her grin widening as she leaned back. “Hah! I like the Tiny Lord,” she declared, shaking the table slightly as she spoke. Her diamond-encrusted canines flashed in the firelight. “But I already knew I would. We are cut from similar cloth.” Her words carried an almost comical confidence, but the sincerity in them was unmistakable.

Ki’er scoffed, finishing his entire glass of wine in a single gulp. He exhaled, unintentionally slamming his massive fist on the table when he'd finished his drink. “I have more questions,” he admitted. “But… I have never enjoyed cold food.” He reached for his meal, scooping a generous portion into his palm, his appetite unfazed by ceremony.

Hitomi nodded, her lips curling slightly in approval. “Please, eat. All of you, enjoy the meal prepared for you.” She gestured toward the simmering banquet. “We have plenty of time to address all of your concerns.”

The warriors did not need to be told twice. The tension remained, but so did the feast—and if nothing else, warriors understood the value of a full stomach before a battle yet to come.

As the meal progressed, the warm hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cups against plates filled the hall. The warriors had settled into their meals, the earlier tension of unspoken judgments easing into something almost comfortable. Yet, as Hitomi let her gaze sweep across the table, she noted that two among them had yet to speak.

Tetsuo sat toward the edge of the gathering, his fingers idly tracing invisible patterns on the wooden table. His dark eyes, deep and unfocused, flickered as though following something unseen, his mind lost in a realm beyond their own. It was no secret among them—Tetsuo’s connection to the dead often left him wandering between this world and the next. He was here in body, but his spirit drifted elsewhere, tangled in whispers that no living ear could hear.

On the opposite end, N’uril remained a silent specter of observation. The old elf had seen centuries pass, and in all those years, he had never once spoken in the common tongue. His expression was as unreadable as weathered stone, yet his eyes—piercing, ageless—held the weight of unspoken wisdom. He watched, he listened, but his silence was not absence; it was judgment, measured and unwavering.

Before Hitomi could address either of them, A’dyr spoke once more.

"You have told us what you expect from us," he said, setting his cup down with a deliberate hand. His red eyes, sharp and unwavering, met hers across the table. "But what of you, Xh’ion? Outside of power, what is it that you truly desire?"

A silence stretched over the gathering, heavier than before. This was no simple question—it was a probe into the very marrow of her ambition.

Hitomi leaned back into her seat, fingers tapping idly against the armrest of her chair. She considered his words carefully. The way he framed it, power was not the end, but a means to something greater. She let the moment settle before speaking, her voice as composed as ever.

“Are any of you familiar with the B’halian Empire?”

The shift in the atmosphere was immediate. The very name carried weight, a shadow that stretched across oceans and continents. Every warrior at this table had heard of them. Some of their faces darkened; others remained still, though the air grew noticeably heavier.

Mitsuko however scoffed, arms crossing over her chest. “Super Powered Elven Nation; Currently on a campaign for world domination and human euthanization,” she said, picking at her teeth with a nail. “This is known.”

Hitomi nodded.“They are perhaps the most powerful military force this world has ever seen,” Hitomi continued, her voice measured but firm.

“Their reach extends further than any map can chart. And wherever they go, they do not merely conquer—they purge. To them, our kind, our ways, are imperfections that must be erased. And their forces have been reported traveling west. I have no doubt their gaze will fall upon Edo before long.”

For a moment, the table was silent, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Even with all my power,” Hitomi continued, “I cannot be everywhere at once. If we are to survive—if we are to endure—we must amass strength of our own. The Yaarou must not merely be a name. We must become something greater.”

A’dyr studied her for a long moment before nodding slightly. “Power, then, is not merely your ambition,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “It is your answer to fear. You seek it not for vanity, but for security.”

Hitomi’s gaze flickered slightly at his choice of words. Fear. It was not a word she would ever use for herself. But was he wrong? She had invited them to speak freely, but now she found herself resisting the weight of his insight.

“I seek power because it is the only language the world understands,” she countered, her tone unyielding. “It is the only true currency. And never use that word in reference to me again.”

Akiru exhaled slowly, swirling the wine in his cup. “And the Empire?” he mused. “If what you say is true, they will not come merely as conquerors. They will come as exterminators.”

“They will,” Hitomi confirmed.

Saya’s fingers drummed lightly against the table, her expression unreadable. “Then the question is not whether we fight,” she said. “The question is whether we are ready.”

Ki’er let out a mighty belch, the kind that rattled the very plates upon the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking, his voice carrying an unmistakable edge of impatience. “And whether our legends will be written by us, or whether they’ll be twisted into slander by bigoted, monkey elves.” His grin was sharp, his amber eyes gleaming with anticipation. “I know the answer to that. My only remaining question is—when do we start plotting our counterattack?”

Ki’er’s voice carried, whether he intended it to or not. But so did his bravado, and that much, he was entirely aware of.

“I have a question.”

Akiru, who had remained quiet for much of the discussion, finally leaned forward, his dark eyes calm but piercing. He had listened, analyzed, and now, with the weight of reality pressing against them, he asked the one question that truly mattered.

“What is our first step?” His voice cut through the murmurs and heavy silences alike. “You massacred nearly a hundred of the Yaarou's greatest warriors. And yet, we are to challenge and defeat the world's strongest single nation.” He closed his eyes and folded his arms, allowing the obvious thoughts to fill the room. “We are outmanned and outgunned. It’s an impossible war.”

The table stilled. Even Ki’er, who was always quick to speak, said nothing. They all knew the truth of Akiru’s words. The Empire’s numbers stretched across continents, and despite their individual prowess, they were but a handful against an ocean of steel.

Hitomi finished her glass and exhaled sharply through her nose.

“They were weak.”

A few warriors exchanged glances. Some looked convinced, others wary, but none spoke.

“My military does not need those who cannot meet my standards,” she continued. “If they cannot stand beside me, they do not deserve to fight under my banner. You—” her gaze swept across the table, lingering for just a moment on each warrior, “—do not need to concern yourselves with gathering soldiers. That is my burden. Your task is simpler: get stronger. Train. Prepare.”

She leaned forward slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “The B’halian military is nothing to me. I alone am enough to wipe them from existence.”

The claim sent ripples through the gathering. Some sat back, thoughtful. Others tensed. Ki’er’s lips parted as if to challenge her, but he hesitated, his bravado dulled by the memory of what she had already done.

Arrogance. That was how some of them saw it. But none could deny the truth woven within it. She had proven her strength before their very eyes. To question her was to question the very ground they stood on.

Before any could speak, the heavy doors to the hall swung open. Elder Jhun entered, his aged form wrapped in flowing robes, his presence cutting through the air like a blade. In his hands were several sealed messages.

Hitomi barely spared him a glance. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“With all due respect, Xh’ion,” Jhun said, his voice firm despite his bowed posture, “..this would be the second time you have rescheduled your meeting.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, but after a pause, she clicked her tongue and rose to her feet. “Fine.”

She turned back to her warriors. “You may enjoy the food. Ask for more if you’d like. Your chambers have been prepared—each of you has a place within the compound.” Her gaze darkened slightly. “But make no mistake. Your comfort will be short-lived. Training begins next week.”

There was a beat of silence before Ki'er scoffed, leaning back. “Training?”

Others shifted. Some frowned. Saya arched a brow.
“I don’t recall needing a teacher,” She said, wiping her mouth with a nearby napkin.

“I’ve commanded thousands, ten of thousands..” Velkyn added. “I mean no disrespect, but I don't believe any of us will benefit from a training session.”

Hitomi regarded them with an expression bordering on boredom. “Until one of you—Hell, or all of you—can defeat me in combat, you will train until the day I die.”

No further protests came.

Mitsuko simply started to chuckle in response.

With that, she turned on her heel and strode from the room, Elder Jhun following close behind. The warriors, left in her wake, exchanged glances—some contemplative, others simmering with unspoken challenge.

For the first time in their lives, many of them realized: they were no longer the strongest ones in the room.

The air in the halls of the Yaarou Compound was cool and still, as if the very walls held their breath in anticipation. A hush of expectation clung to the corridors, broken only by the soft whisper of robes brushing against the polished stone floor. Elder Jhun moved with silent precision, his long, flowing garments trailing like shadows behind him, a picture of quiet urgency.

Behind him, Hitomi strode at a measured pace, her fingers lazily thumbing through a stack of flashcards he had pressed into her hands only moments before. The cards were filled with meticulous notes—details about Hyperia, its history, its leader, its ambitions. Information she should have absorbed days ago. But her mind had been elsewhere, occupied with more pressing matters: training her warriors, preparing battle strategies, solidifying alliances.

This meeting had crept up on her, a necessary formality she had little patience for. She had sat through countless such meetings before, shook hands with desperate envoys, listened to rehearsed pleas for protection, and nodded along as lesser nations begged for her strength in exchange for trivial offerings. She had grown numb to the pomp and the posturing.

But Hyperia was different.

They stood at the pinnacle of technological advancement, its civilization a floating marvel hidden in the skies, a nation of architects, engineers, and visionaries who had long preferred to watch the world from afar. Their leader, Monarch Di’yami Vale, was a man of legend—a prodigy, a strategist, a ruler whose mind worked in ways few could comprehend. Unlike others who had sought her out, Hyperia had something truly valuable to offer: weapons, technology, and, most crucially, knowledge of Bhalian physiology. The thought of it made her pulse quicken.

“Hyperia..” she murmured aloud, flipping through the annotated cards. The summary was dense—scientific advancements, military structure, political leanings—all laid out in neat, crisp ink. She frowned and let out a small huff.

“Try to focus,” Jhun’s voice came low but firm. He slowed his steps so they walked in stride, his weathered gaze sliding to hers. “This will be no ordinary meeting, my Paragon.”

Hitomi barely spared him a glance. “They came to me, didn’t they?” she said, tossing the cards back into his hands. “I am the prize here. I’ll be fine.”

Jhun let out a slow sigh, thumbing through the discarded flashcards as he spoke. “For most, your strength alone would be enough. But these people are not like the others you’ve dealt with.” His voice carried the weight of warning. “You are a warrior. Di’yami Vale is something else entirely. He is a tactician, a solver of puzzles. And in his mind, you are one of them. Do not assume power alone will convince him.”

Hitomi met his gaze then, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. She considered his words but said nothing.

They reached the council chamber doors—tall, ornately carved masterpieces that bore the history of her clan in gold-etched relief. With a silent push, Jhun ushered her inside.

The moment she stepped through, the air shifted.

The room was vast, its high ceiling adorned with intricate hanging lanterns casting a soft, golden glow over the polished war table at its center. The men within were waiting—waiting for her. All conversation ceased as her presence commanded their attention.

At the head of the table sat the Monarch of Hyperia.

Di’yami Vale was younger than most rulers she had met, but there was nothing boyish about him. He exuded the kind of quiet confidence that did not need to be announced, a presence that filled the space effortlessly. His auburn gaze was sharp, intelligent, assessing.

He was striking—his skin a rich, warm brown that gleamed under the candlelight, his features chiseled yet composed, his short hair trimmed neatly beneath an ornate headpiece that signified his rule. Broad-shouldered and powerful in build, he carried himself with the ease of a man who had never once doubted his place in the world.

Hitomi’s heart gave the briefest of skips. But she mastered it quickly, straightening her posture as she advanced with slow, purposeful steps.

Elder Jhun stepped forward, his voice ringing clear through the chamber.

“Introducing Hitomi Yaarou, Xhi’on of the Yaarou Clan, She Who Sits at the Pinnacle of All Creation, the Crimson Sun, the Demon of Edo and its Sovereign Hand of Law and Order.”

Each title hung in the air, an echo of her legend, a weight she bore with unwavering composure. Hitomi continued her approach, her steps unhurried, her presence undeniable. The men flanking Di’yami—his military strategist, his political advisors, his security detail—watched her with careful, unreadable expressions.

When she reached the table, Di’yami adjusted his glasses and rose to his feet, his movements fluid, deliberate. His gaze did not waver from hers. And then, in a moment that caught her off guard, he smiled. A small, knowing thing, as though he had already measured and weighed her before she had even spoken.

“..You have a really long name..” he mused, his deep voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with the austere expressions of those beside him. He extended a hand toward her. “But it fits, I've heard alot about you. And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Yaarou.”

Hitomi took his hand firmly, her grip unwavering as she met his gaze with the same quiet intensity.

“..Hitomi is fine,” she said smoothly, “And allow me to be first to tell you that all the legends are true. But I hope that doesn't frighten you.”

“Oh quite the contrary.” He corrected, before gently taking her hand to his lips. A formal sign of respect when in the presence of both beauty and royalty. “I don't think I've been more excited to step out of my lab.”

"Forgive me.." Di’yami said, releasing Hitomi’s hand with a measured grace. "I tend to get a bit enthusiastic about meeting remarkable individuals."

Hitomi straightened, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. There was an ease to his confidence, a quiet authority that did not need to be spoken aloud. He was a man who wielded power like a second skin, and it draped over him now, effortless and unshaken.

"I’ve heard you’re more than just a ruler, Di’yami Vale.." she replied, her voice steady as ever. "You are a master of... many things, it seems. Genetics, thermodynamics, quantum physics, robotics, biochemistry, engineering... I never knew there were so many different ways to say you like to read.”

A grin stretched across Di’yami’s face—not smug, but knowing. "Trust me, there are a few more," he said, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. "It seems you’ve done your homework. And while I am many things, what matters here is what I can offer you, Hitomi. And what we can offer each other."

Hitomi remained silent, watching him closely. She noted the precision in his words, how his eyes never wavered from hers. He was powerful—yes. But more than that, he was calculated. Every move he made was deliberate, every word a thread in a larger design.

They took their seats, the tension between them humming like a taut wire. Attending servants filed through the open doors of the council chamber, bearing goblets and crystal carafes filled with fine wine. The scent of rich spices and aged oak mingled in the air.

Di’yami took his glass first, swirling the dark liquid before speaking. "I must admit, I had my doubts. The Hyperian Council, my advisors, the men standing behind me—hell, even Ceros advised against this meeting."

Hitomi raised an eyebrow, her composure unshaken. "Ceros?"

Di’yami took a measured sip before answering. “Right, again my bad—Ceros is an artificial intelligence capable of processing information in picoseconds. It considers you one of the most powerful living human beings in the world. However, it also verifies that you are incredibly dangerous and unpredictable.”

Hitomi snickered, resting her chin on her fist. "Why am I not surprised?" she said, her words laced with the kind of self-assuredness only someone well-acquainted with such labels could possess. "And what do you think?"

Di’yami did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied her, his gaze cutting past the surface, searching. His lips curved into a small, almost playful grin. "It’s not every day one meets a woman who can bring entire armies to their knees with little more than her presence."

Her smile widened, but it was measured—cautious. “Yes, well.. I assume there’s more to this meeting than your attempts to flatter me?”

Di’yami straightened, his tone shifting. "Indeed. he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “The truth is, I believe you’re more than just The Demon of Edo.” He leaned forward, his gaze intense and unwavering. “You are a leader. And I believe you’re the key to a future far beyond what either of us could imagine.”

He tapped a button along his wristwatch, and a small spherical drone emerged from the device, hovering silently to the center of the table. Its sleek obsidian surface pulsed with a faint blue glow before projecting a series of holographic constructs.

“But you are right. I won't pretend that I'm here to just stroke your ego, or anything so altruistic—I am here to propose an alliance among our countries, in direct response to the B'halian Empire's aggressive expansion.”

The first image flickered to life—an enormous figure, hunched and covered in thick, jet-black fur. It loomed over a battlefield strewn with wreckage, a war axe clutched in one clawed hand. The creature’s build was monstrous, but its posture eerily human. Glowing, ember-red eyes pierced through the projection with a predator’s gaze.

“This,” Di’yami said, gesturing to the image, “is a standard Mazoku male. Ape-like in appearance, but far from primitive.”

The projection shifted—anatomical breakdowns, X-rays, and medical scans replaced the battlefield scene. A rotating skeletal model emerged, revealing bones interwoven with fibrous, tendon-like structures that glowed faintly with latent energy. Next, the muscular system was displayed—cords of dense, sinewy flesh layered with an almost unnatural efficiency.

"As you can see," Di’yami continued, "Mazoku possess overwhelming physical strength. On average, their height ranges from seven to ten feet, and their hides—though appearing soft—possess piezoelectric qualities that grow tougher in response to mechanical pressure and heat. The harder you hit them, the stronger they become."

The holograms shifted, detailing a model of a Mazoku warrior ripping through an infantry of a thousand infantry units single handedly. “Taijutsu aside, their primary method of combat revolves around a unique method of utilizing energy known as Shinjutsu. This enables them to perform extraordinary feats of physical and metaphysical prowess– from healing wounds and enhancing physical strength to bending the elements to their will.”

Another shift. Thermal scans revealed concentrated energy clusters along their throat, chest, and skull. The pulsing patterns suggested a biological mechanism, something organic yet terrifyingly volatile.

“But their greatest weapon," Di’yami said, leaning forward, "is not their strength, nor their resilience. It is their voice."

The hologram changed again. A series of battle recordings played in rapid succession—grainy, high-speed footage capturing Mazoku warriors in action.

In the first clip, a single Mazoku stood in the heart of a battlefield, its head tilting back. Then, it opened its mouth—

A blast of raw devastation. The ground ruptured, buildings collapsed into dust, and armored soldiers were flung like atomized. When the dust settled, what had once been a warzone was now a cratered wasteland.

In the next clip, a single Mazoku uttered a word—just one—and an entire mountain range in the distance fractured, avalanches cascading down its slopes like the wrath of a god.

The final image appeared—a panoramic view of what had once been a city. Now, it was nothing but scorched earth, the land itself carved away. Hitomi notably shifted in her seat at the sight of it.

“No conventional barrier can withstand it,” Di’yami added, watching her reaction. “Their vocal cords are structured in such a way that they do not merely produce sound. Their resonance generates harmonic frequencies that rupture molecular bonds. That is why, no matter how powerful an army, no matter how fortified a city, if just one Mazoku reaches its walls and screams... the battle is already lost.”

The projection lingered on the devastation, the silence in the room growing heavier by the second.

"This.." Di’yami said, finally turning back to Hitomi, "is our enemy. And this is why we cannot afford to face them divided."

Hitomi did not respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on the images, taking in the sheer scale of destruction. She had heard rumors, of course. Whispers of the Mazoku’s power. But seeing it—seeing the truth laid bare—was another matter entirely.

Slowly, she leaned back, exhaling a quiet breath.

“Well..” she said, her voice cool and deliberate. "It's safe to say you have my attention."

A slow smile spread across Di’yami’s face. “Good," he murmured. "Because this is only the first page.”

Hitomi’s gaze lingered on the destruction displayed in the holograms. She had seen war, had stood among battlefields drenched in blood and flame, but this... this was almost alien in scale.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, folding her arms. "How exactly does Hyperia plan to stand against something like this?" Her voice carried an edge, skepticism laced beneath the inquiry. "If I understand correctly, your civilization consists of humans with no aptitude for magic or combat. You don't even possess Anthems for that matter. " Her gaze flickered toward Elder Jhun, lips curling in the barest hint of a smirk. "I mean no offense but, your people are not exactly warriors.”

Di’yami did not hesitate. Another tap on his wristwatch and the projections changed once more. The scenes of carnage melted away, replaced by intricate blueprints of weapons, armor, and technological constructs, each detail rendered with meticulous precision.

"With these– weapons designed specifically to counteract Mazoku physiology," he stated. His voice was calm, measured, but there was something in his eyes—a glint of certainty, of unshakable confidence. "Every nation that has fought the B’halian Empire has failed because they made one fatal error. They tried to fight the Mazoku like any other enemy. That was their first mistake.”

The first projection expanded—a rifle, sleek and foreign in design, its core pulsating with an eerie luminescence. "Standard munitions are worthless against them," Di’yami continued. "Their hides are composed of adaptive muscle fibers, reacting dynamically to force, rendering them impervious to conventional ballistics." The chamber of the rifle rotated, revealing a core that thrummed like a living thing. "These rounds, however, are infused with hyper-condensed Necromatter. They do not rely on kinetic force but instead rupture the organic bonds of whatever they impact. From there, an evolved sepsis sets in and metastasizes from the impact site at an accelerated rate, stunting their regenerative capabilities.”

Hitomi’s eyes flickered with interest, but she said nothing, allowing him to continue. Necromatter was a term she'd only ever seen upon one of Jhun's flashcards. They too were an invention of Di’yami– a recent innovation that would give even an amateur squadron of soldiers a fighting chance against this race of immortals.

The hologram shifted once more, displaying a weapon unlike the last—a blade, obsidian-black, its surface laced with veins of flickering blue energy. Hitomi arched her brow.

"Swords? Against them?" There was a note of amusement in her voice.

Di’yami smiled slightly. “Not quite.” He enlarged the projection, highlighting the weapon’s structure. “These are vibrational plasma sabers infused with gravimetric distortions. The blade itself doesn’t merely cut—it destabilizes the matter it comes into contact with.”

Another flick of his wrist, and the image changed again. This time, it was not a weapon, but a structure—massive shield generators, their exteriors humming with a field of undulating energy. Di’yami’s voice dropped slightly, carrying an edge of confidence that he couldn't hide.

"I'm rather proud of this one," he said. "The Mazoku’s greatest weapon is not their strength, nor their regeneration. It is their voices. A single word from them can shatter steel, rupture organs, reduce entire cities to dust." He met Hitomi’s gaze. "But sound, no matter how devastating, is still bound by physics.”

Hitomi leaned in, intrigued.

“These barriers,” Di’yami continued, “are designed with harmonically adaptive resonance fields. Rather than resisting the sound waves, they absorb and counteract them by oscillating at inverse frequencies– preventing their voices from triggering cataclysmic electron variances.”

Images of these barriers aptly defending against a model of a Mazoku's soldiers roar.

“The more powerful their screams, the stronger these shields become.” He watched as the information settled in her mind. “In short, the very thing that makes them unstoppable is the thing that makes them vulnerable—to us, that is.”

Silence settled in the chamber as Hitomi processed the enormity of what she had just learned. Hyperia had done more than simply prepare for war. They had studied the Mazoku as one might study a natural disaster—a force that could not be reasoned with, only countered with precision and foresight. It was beyond impressive. It was brilliant.. And yet, something did not sit right with her.

“How..” she finally asked, “do you know all of this?” Her sharp gaze met his. “This is information even the greatest warlords would kill to obtain. Espionage against the B’halian Empire is impossible. They are more paranoid than even the most well-fortified states. But yet you all seem to have lectures taught on the subject.” She said, leaning her chin on her fist. “How does Hyperia know their greatest secrets?”

The question hung between them, heavy with implication.

Di’yami exhaled, slow and measured, before offering her a knowing look. He tapped a final command into his wrist device, and the projections vanished, leaving only the quiet hum of the chamber’s ambient lighting.

“Because,” he said, “we were there.”

Hitomi’s expression did not waver, but the subtle narrowing of her eyes betrayed her intrigue.

“My ancestors,” Di’yami continued, “were not born on Aeon. They were from B’halia”

For the first time since the meeting had begun, Hitomi’s expression shifted into something resembling genuine surprise.

Di’yami nodded slightly, anticipating her skepticism. “Millions of years ago, before humans were exiled, before they were slaughtered en masse... there was a caste among them. A rare mutation, an anomaly that set them apart.” He tapped his temple. “An evolved species of human, possessing a unique brain chemistry unlike any other. Their intelligence was unparalleled. Not psychic, not magical—simply superior. They quite literally saw the world in different colors– thought in dimensions most could not comprehend.”

He smirked, fastening his wrist cuff and disarming the lights emitting from the drone. “And those were my ancestors.”

Hitomi studied him carefully. “You’re saying Hyperia was founded by exiled B’halians?”

“No,” he corrected. “By the only humans smart enough to escape before exile became extinction.”

Silence stretched between them.

“For generations, my forefathers studied the Mazoku, documented their strengths, their weaknesses. This knowledge has been refined, expanded and passed down through Ceros. It is why we know what we know– Why we are prepared when no one else is.”

He let the words settle before adding, “And why the B’halian Empire fears us, even now.”

Hitomi inhaled slowly, considering everything she had just learned. There was weight to his words, a gravity that extended far beyond their current meeting. This was not just about strategy or technology. Hell, this wasnt even about survival of the human race.

This was personal. This was a story of vengeance written into the very fabric of Hyperia itself, and it seemed the people of Hyperia had found their perfect weapon to enact their revenge. Her.

Finally, she smirked. “Well,” she said, tilting her head. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

Di’yami smiled, though his eyes remained sharp. “Only the ones that matter.”

Hitomi listened carefully as Di’yami laid out Hyperia’s technological advances. The scope of their knowledge was staggering, their resources unparalleled. But her mind did not linger on the promise of war. She was already beyond it, her thoughts leaping forward to the inevitable aftermath—the moment where the battlefield lay silent and the banners of the fallen no longer flew.

Leaning back, she tapped her fingers against the armrest of her chair, studying him with sharp, calculating eyes. “Say we do win,” she said finally. “Say the Yaarou crush the Mazoku with your weapons. What happens then? How do you suppose we annex the spoils of war?” She said, arching a brow. “Surely, you don’t expect the Yaarou to simply hand over B’halian land to you.”

Di’yami’s expression remained composed, his gaze steady. “Hyperia has no interest in conquest,” he answered smoothly. “We want only what was stolen from us. The land we once called home.” His tone was firm but not demanding. “The rest? If the Yaarou can claim it, it is yours.”

Hitomi studied him, searching for cracks in his conviction, for any trace of the greed that lurked in the hearts of warlords and kings. But Di’yami’s certainty was unshaken, his resolve a fortress she could not breach.

She nodded slowly, a flicker of something akin to admiration passing through her. “Then we might just have an agreement.”

But Di’yami raised a hand in protest. “Not yet.” His voice was calm, but there was a weight behind it, a gravity that turned the air heavy. “There is… one matter Ceros refuses to negotiate on.”

Hitomi’s satisfaction evaporated. Of course, there was a catch. “Go on.”

Di’yami adjusted the wrist device at his arm, and a projection materialized between them. Not a weapon. Not a fortress. A map—split into two halves.

“There is an artifact the B’halian Empire seeks,” he began, his voice measured. “If they obtain it, we will not win this war.” His fingers tapped a command, and the image shifted, revealing an ancient, gnarled landscape. “Only two maps exist detailing its location. The Empire possesses one.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to continue. “The Owaki Clan has the other.”

Hitomi’s blood stills. The Owaki. The name alone ignited a quiet fury within her.

Blood roared in her ears, her pulse slow but forceful, like the steady drumming of war. Her grip curled into a fist, and though her expression remained a careful mask, the tension in her body was unmistakable.

“No.” The word was a blade, sharpened and final. “I would sooner burn down an Owaki orphanage than barter with those duplicitous rats.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Di’yami’s face at her words, but he did not interrupt. He did not need to. It was known—the enmity between the Yaarou and Owaki was not a mere feud. It was a wound that had festered across generations, a hate woven so deeply into their blood that to entertain the idea of an alliance was akin to spitting on the graves of every Yaarou who had fallen to their treachery.

Her jaw clenched, her voice steady but laced with restrained fury. “Ask for anything else.”

Di’yami exhaled through his nose, neither impatient nor dismissive. Instead, he studied her carefully, as though weighing her soul in the balance. “And if I told you this was the only way?”

Her glare sharpened, but he did not waver.

“The Owaki are alive for a reason, Hitomi,” he continued, his voice even, almost thoughtful. “They are duplicitous, yes. Filth, perhaps. But they have survived wars that should have destroyed them. They have outlasted clans stronger than them.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “And if you are as powerful as they say, then why fear them?”

Her teeth pressed together. “I don’t.”

“Then prove it.” His words were deliberate, each syllable weighted with purpose. “You are more than the warrior your enemies fear. More than a destroyer. The Yaarou will win this war not just with brute strength, but with foresight. Strategy. Strength of mind.” He paused, and though his expression remained firm, there was something else—something almost… understanding. “I won’t pretend this is an easy request. But this is the difference between a warrior and a ruler.”

Hitomi said nothing. Her fingers twitched at her side, her breath steady but heated. She despised the Owaki. Despised them with the depth of every Yaarou before her. But there was truth in Di’yami’s words—one that gnawed at the edge of her pride.

This wasn’t about them.

This was about the war.

About the future of the Yaarou.

Slowly, the tension in her shoulders uncoiled. A breath slipped past her lips, measured and quiet, before she pushed herself to her feet. Her decision was made.

“Fine.” Her voice was like tempered steel. “I will get the map and retrieve the artifact before the B’halians do.”

She extended her hand, a warrior’s contract sealed not in ink, but in the unyielding grip of those who had no room for failure. “And when I do, Hyperia will fund and arm the Yaarou military. No more terms and conditions.”

Di’yami rose as well. There was no triumph in his expression, no condescension—only the solemnity of a man who understood the weight of what had been agreed upon. He clasped her hand firmly.

“Upon retrieval of the artifact,” he vowed, “you will be given enough weapons for ten armies.”

Hitomi and Elder Jhun descended the winding staircase beneath the Yaarou Compound, their steps echoing through the cold, dimly lit corridor. The air thickened with each level they passed, carrying the scent of old parchment, burnt incense, and something more acrid—power restrained, but never truly dormant. Elder Jhun’s voice remained steady, but the edge of unease was unmistakable as he continued the conversation from their meeting with Di’yami Vale.

“The Owaki will not make this easy,” he stated, clasping his hands behind his back. “Even if you could secure a meeting, what exactly do you have to offer them?”

Hitomi’s expression remained unreadable. “Something they cannot refuse.”

Jhun inhaled sharply. “And you won’t tell me what that is.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Hitomi’s lips, but she offered no reply. Her silence carried more weight than words ever could. The Owaki held one of the only two maps leading to the artifact, and the Yaarou’s bitter enmity with them was known throughout Edo. But Hitomi had already decided. She would not be swayed.

Jhun sighed, shaking his head. “Then let’s speak of the Mazoku. The reports are dire. Their foot soldiers alone possess enough strength to rival our elites. The Yaarou cannot afford to be reckless.”

“I am aware,” Hitomi replied coolly. “That is why I am considering forging a Hexed Tool of my own.”

Jhun’s gaze sharpened. “So that is why we are going to the Dungeon?”

“No.” Hitomi’s stride did not falter. “I have no interest in forging weapons from prisoners.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase, where a massive iron door loomed before them, covered in talismans and seals etched in blood and silver. The door pulsed faintly, as though aware of their presence. Jhun hesitated. Hitomi did not. She pressed her palm against the ancient wood, and the seals unraveled like whispering serpents. The door groaned open, exhaling a cold breath from the darkness beyond.

Elder Jhun’s discomfort was palpable as they stepped inside. The Yaarou Dungeon was unlike any prison—there were no mere cells, no barred enclosures. This place was a tomb of the undying. Those sealed within were too powerful to be slain, their bodies bound, their movements constricted by layers of hexcraft so intricate that even breathing was a calculated mercy.
Jhun exhaled through his nose, fighting back the chill that crawled up his robe. “Who are you looking for, My Paragon?”

She did not answer immediately, leading him through the dim corridors, past figures frozen in agony, past entities that should have long since faded from history. Jhun's gaze lingered on a cell with a man whose limbs had been twisted into unnatural shapes, his mouth sewn shut by golden threads of divine scripture. Further down, he witnessed a woman who sat cross-legged in a meditative silence, her body coiled in chains that burned with an eternal blue flame. She seemed unharmed and tranquil amdist the humming inferno.. but Jhun knew that wasn't the case.

Finally, they approached a reinforced cell, one adorned with more talismans than any other. And inside there was a man– or at least the visage of one. He was old– centuries old, ravaged by epochs of solitude. Withered. Frail. And yet, the very air trembled with the weight of power restrained within him.

Elder Jhun's face paled. He stopped on a dime, and he wouldn't take another step. “No.”

Hitomi met his gaze, unwavering. “Yes.”

Behind the layers of enchantments and iron, bound in shackles infused with the blood of a hundred sorcerers, was Hiroshi Yaarou—the greatest traitor their clan had ever known. He was the father of her father; a man born without Hexcraft but whose skill surpassed even the most gifted through sheer, ruthless ingenuity. He was a terrorist. A butcher. An anarchist who had murdered thousands of their clansmen.

He designed a unique technique, one that allowed him to amass his strength by stealing the Hexcraft of a dozen Yaarou Elders, wielding their power in his mad pursuit to claim the seat of Xhi’on.

And yet, even sealed, even bound in layers of arcane suppression, the mere presence of Hiroshi Yaarou still bled throughout the dungeon like a smoldering ember refusing to die.

Jhun clenched his fists. “This is madness.”

“No, this is necessary,” Hitomi corrected.

“Hirōshi is the only living member of our clan, other than myself, who understands the price of power. I intend to use him to train our new military.”

Jhun turned on her, fury laced in his voice. “He murdered thousands! He nearly tore our clan apart! Rii’ku the Storm Bringer sacrificed his life to end his reign!”

“And yet, here he remains,” Hitomi replied, stepping closer to the bars, her voice unwavering. “Bound. Silenced. Watching as the world passes him by. But even you must admit, Elder Jhun—there may be no greater mind in Hexcraft than his.”

Jhun’s breath was heavy, his shoulders tense. “You cannot trust him.”

“I do not intend to,” Hitomi admitted. “I intend to use him.”

With a wave of her hand, the bars to Hirōshi's dissolved into dust at her feet, along with the myriad of chains and shackles coiled up to his neck. He fell to ground abruptly, unconscious and still. Hitomi glanced over her shoulder.

“Pick him up.” She said before turning around, as to exit the dungeon soon after.

“Have him fed, sedated, and confined within the east wing of the Compound. I'd like to be the one to wake him.”

She said, leaving Elder Jhun trembling with indecision. He looked at the decrepit old sorcerer before glaring back to Hitomi as she walked away. He wasn't sure who he was more afraid to defy. But in the end, he knelt over Hiroshi, sedating him with a sleep hex before picking him up and following Hitomi out of the dungeon.


((Continued Here))