The roar that erupted after the jade phalanx crumbled echoed not as a battle cry, but like the resolute conclusion of a long-forgotten trial. Onyx dust lingered in the air, shimmering with the remnants of shattered seals and bygone edicts. A fresh light pierced the chaos—an illumination infused with the scents of lustrous coins and resounding bells, reminiscent of bustling market squares at daybreak and the sharp clang of armories in the midday sun.

  From this light emerged a figure of impressive stature, his laughter resonating like both a blessing and a portent of doom. He bore no banner; instead, he wielded a hammer that seemed to absorb sunlight, transforming it into something denser, more compelling. At his side, a warrior advanced, clad in armor that resembled a finely crafted pagoda, radiating splendor. His presence reshaped the atmosphere, infusing it with a sense of solemn promises. The earth beneath them seemed to respond, as if recalling ancient obligations.

  “Behold,” announced Daikokuten, his voice like the harmonious chime of coins, each note resonating with the weight of fortune. “I have come to settle the scales of existence.”

  With him, an aura of carefully calculated power enveloped the air. Beside him, Bishamonten stood resolute, his eyes sharp and piercing, honed like the blade of a just law. “Ready yourself,” his presence seemed to say, as his footfalls prepared the heavens for combat, each step stitching a fabric of spear-like intensity into the sky.

  Their arrival was a proclamation, a seismic shift rather than a simple descent. The atmosphere crackled with an almost palpable tension, transforming into invisible ledgers: each footfall an entry, each breath a meticulous audit of destiny. Where Daikokuten's shadow drifted, there was a whisper of small treasures—coins softly chiming and the gentle rise and fall of a merchant's scales—echoing with a haunting depth. Where Bishamonten advanced, the horizon twisted, unfurling like a solemn banner, drawn tight and unyielding.

  Jade banners fluttered like trapped birds. The surviving commanders, those who hadn’t yet been crushed under the weight of Yamato’s dominion, struggled to regain their composure. The air around them thrummed with tension; they could feel the weight of their failures hanging in the atmosphere. This was not simply a battle for land—it was a reckoning, a ledger of debts calling to be settled.

  Across the expanse, General Jia-wu stared grimly, his focus sharpened like the blades at his side. “Summon the shadow legions!” he urged, his voice a low hiss that reverberated with urgency. “Bind the gods to our ancient pacts. Weave our agreements into the very fabric of this battlefield—now!”

  The sky responded with a shroud of twilight—a horde of shadow-cloaked warriors emerged, their armor etched with binding glyphs and seals, luminous with the scent of bureaucracy and a simmering resentment. They moved with the precision of a deadly assembly, closing the gap between mortal uncertainties and divine decrees, each step charged with purpose and fury.

  Daikokuten stood resolute, his back to the onlookers, as he lifted his hammer, testing its heft with an almost languid grace, reminiscent of a judge signaling the end of deliberation. A smirk graced his lips as he addressed the generals gathered around him and the field itself, his voice resonating like thunder in a quiet storm.

  “You place too much faith in your documents,” he declared, his tone both mocking and insightful. “Allow me to present a more straightforward strategy.”

  With that, he hoisted the hammer high above his head.

  Suddenly, the very earth quaked—not merely in sound, but as if it were alive, protesting the weight thrust upon it. Gravity shifted, yielding to the hammer as though it recognized a master—a flock responding to the call of their shepherd. Around Daikokuten, the world morphed into an anvil; the weight of existence intensified, each breath now a labored gasp, the bodily forms of soldiers and steeds recalibrated against an unyielding force. The spell unfurled its identity, announcing itself with a name and a staggering magnitude—an earthly accounting elevated to divine declaration.

  “Wealth’s Gravity: Thousand Koku Crush.”

  It was a title rich with implications, and the magic responded in kind. Here, the term “koku” became a primal truth, a tangible unit of sustenance turned into a catalyst for unfathomable weight. Thousandfold, then multiplied again—the battlefield transfigured into a scale, each glittering jade cuirass serving as a fulcrum of a debt that suddenly demanded attention.

  Daikokuten was far from finished.

  Thin, golden fissures didn’t crawl across the dirt, but through the very air itself. His hammer vibrated with a low, rhythmic pulse, as if tuning into a frequency far deeper than the cacophony of war. It was listening to the secrets buried beneath layers of onyx—the echoes of every coin ever dropped and every oath ever sealed in blood.

  He raised the mallet once more, his expression unreadable.

  "If you wish to speak of value," he said, his voice deceptively light, "then let us audit everything."

  The air above the battlefield began to pucker and fold, looking like fine silk pulled too tight by invisible hands. A halo of dense, molten light took shape, possessing the terrifying solidity of a celestial vault.

  "Golden Treasury Collapse: Ten-Thousand Ryo Requiem."

  The sky shattered, yet it did so in absolute silence.

  There was no sudden explosion, only a crushing vertical pressure that descended with agonizing slowness. It felt like an invisible golden dome was settling over the world, squeezing the atmosphere thin. Those caught within its shadow felt a sensation far more gut-wrenching than mere physical weight.

  Their very worth was being confiscated.

  Daikokuten tilted his head, the bells on his hammer chiming with a dissonant, hungry rhythm. "You spent your immortal lives building a fortress of jade and ego," he remarked, his voice echoing like a judge reading a final sentence.

  "But you neglected the interest rate on borrowed time. This is not a battle of strength; it is a seizure of assets. The universe no longer recognizes your right to exist at this price."

  The attacks they unleashed turned hollow, stripped of their power and intent. Their footsteps no longer found purchase, as if the earth itself refused to recognize their right to stand. Even their screams were rendered meaningless, sounding like the sterile chime of a failed transaction.

  The dome did not seek to pulverize; it sought to freeze the very essence of meaning. Beneath that oppressive glow, the battlefield ceased to be a place of conflict and transformed into a silent, shimmering vault.

  For the Celestial Generals, the world constricted. Men who once strode with the confidence that wind and jade would buoy them infinitely now felt their bones press inward, as if coins were crammed into an overstuffed purse. Horses let out anguished cries, their screams piercing through the tension, while the once-aloft banners sagged as if their fabric had transformed into heavy lead. Soldiers, standing firm in their ranks, were mercilessly pinned to the ground by the sheer weight of their own comrades. A dozen men merged into a single seal of iron; entire shields buckled inward, resembling the aftermath of a market vault crashing down upon them.

  The Jade formation moved with a lethal, mechanical precision.

  In a synchronized blur of motion, they locked into a perfect hexagon, their jade-plated armor clashing and sliding together until no gaps remained. It was no longer a group of men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but a singular, rigid entity.

  “Imperial Lattice Formation: Emerald Treasury Bastion!”

  Their individual spiritual resonances began to bleed into one another, weaving into a unified web. The crushing gravitational pressure that had been isolating and pinning them down was suddenly redirected, flowing through the entire network like water through a pipe.

  They had ceased to be separate warriors.

  Instead, they had become a living vault—a collective fortress designed to withstand the weight of a god's audit.

  Yet, like any complex machine, the strength of the lattice was also its greatest vulnerability. If even a single node were to buckle under the strain, the entire structure would begin to fracture from the inside out.

  General Jia-chen staggered, his layered defenses of sealing charms and jade plates protesting under relentless pressure. The spells that usually buoyed him—siphons that converted heat into movement, seals that turned radiant light into protective armor—began to flicker and fail as the domain brutalized their calibrations. Desperately, he attempted to cast, fingers twisting and voice shaping intentions. Yet, even the hallowed syllables escaped him scrambled and distorted, like the jagged edge of a broken coin.

  Above the tumult, Bishamonten lifted his hands high, the air around him crackling with sacred intent. His prayer transformed into a vivid tapestry of geometry; each intention bent the vast sky into intricate crystalline designs. Dozens—no, hundreds—of luminous spears sprung to life, suspended between the firmament and the earth, each one a fragile pagoda radiating fervor and resolve. Their descent was not chaotic; they bore the precision of a calculating judge armed for justice.

  “Pagoda’s Judgment: Heaven-Piercing Vajra,” he announced, his voice resonating with unyielding strength.

  But the spears were not the only judgment he brought to bear.

  Bishamonten rotated his wrist with a slow, deliberate grace, and in response, four massive symbols of light erupted across the horizon. The North ignited in a deep, bruising blue. The South flared a violent crimson. To the East, a brilliant golden-white seared the clouds, while the West shimmered with a polished, obsidian black.

  The sky itself shifted, rearranging its clouds and stars into the architectural blueprint of a titanic pagoda.

  "Mandala of the Four Heavenly Oaths."

  The air didn't just chill—it hardened, gaining a crystalline density that made every movement feel significant. In an instant, the battlefield ceased to be a theater of chaos; it was restructured into a sacred, moral space.

  A Jade soldier, lurking in the periphery and attempting to strike from the safety of the shadows, was suddenly impaled by a lance of light that fell unerringly from the East. Elsewhere, a commander who had abandoned his post and betrayed his formation’s oath felt an invisible, freezing puncture wound bloom in his chest from the North.

  The Mandala did not bother to weigh the complexities of intent or the nuances of the heart.

  It judged only consistency.

  "The heavens do not weigh the complexities of your hearts, nor do they care for your excuses," Bishamonten’s voice vibrated through the crystalline air, sharp as a mountain peak.

  "The Mandala sees only the line you walk. If your soul bends, the spear will find the curve. If your oath fractures, the sky itself will pour through the gap. In this space, there is only the Law, and the silence that follows those who break it."

  Every broken promise, every faltering step, and every violation of the sacred order triggered a sharp, lethal answer from the heavens above.

  Each spear resembled a fragment of a forgotten temple, their black-lacquered shafts glowing at the tips with an almost palpable fire of righteousness. As they struck, they didn’t just pierce armor; they sought answers. They posed a thousand inquiries, each impact igniting conversations within the layers of protection, which responded with reluctant creaks, ominous cracks, and the slow yielding of lacquer and bindings.

  Where a spear pierced the fragile seam between plates, the armor fractured as if an ancient urn had been shattered. Where jade charms had once been sewn into the fabric like promises made with care, those delicate stitches unraveled, releasing shimmering threads of light. The spears, with uncanny precision, sought out the vulnerable angles in the layered defenses; their intent was not mere destruction for spectacle, but rather to unveil truths hidden beneath. Under Bishamonten’s watchful judgment, the deceptions of invulnerability fell away: what had been a general’s ornate cuirass transformed into a lattice, allowing beams of light to pass through.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Jade warriors, once brimming with confidence in their unyielding seals and the sanctity of their formations, felt the disorienting rush of wind slicing through the heart of their defenses. One by one, the commanders, whose voices had once commanded the battlefield, felt the weight of silence descend upon them. Their throats, bound to the earth by sheer gravity, couldn’t form the delicate sounds of their lost commands.

  Perched high from the pillar commanding Yamato’s realm, Emperor Jimmu observed with the quiet resolve of a ledger keeper, a man tasked with cataloging lives and sacred vows. The light of his crown resonated with a rhythmic tolling, responding to the relentless beat of Daikokuten’s hammer. Beside him, Prince Yamato Takeru gripped his blade, the weapon vibrating with the remnants of a thunderstorm passed. They were not mere onlookers; rather, they embodied the bedrock of the realm, safeguarding the essence of sacrifice.

  “Secure the goddess,” Jimmu commanded softly, his voice steady yet filled with urgency. “We shall not allow anyone to plunder our roots.”

  Amaterasu, positioned closer to the front than her exalted title might suggest, spoke with a controlled intensity that radiated warmth yet restrained fury. The effort of containing the Black Sun was a heavy burden on her spirit; she could feel the absence of Susanoo as a poignant ache, like a string plucked clean from a beloved instrument. Her light shimmered with purpose—each ray a calculated promise of retribution, an assurance that balance would eventually be restored. Inari, standing at the heart of the sacred ring, wrapped herself in Amaterasu's protective glow. For the first time since the menacing threat of the Jade spear, she allowed herself to exhale, her body relaxing in the presence of safety.

  The invaders, once so sure of their imminent victory, found themselves spiraling into chaos. Panic rippled through the shadow legions, whose training had conditioned them to act upon commands and seals, now rendered meaningless as their formations buckled under an oppressive weight. They struggled to bear their own existence; sigils, once crafted to tether their ranks, transformed into chains that dragged them down into despair. The concept of command, the very belief that their decrees could surpass the will of divine beings, began to resemble a loan made without a lender—a fragile hope quickly dissolving into the ether.

  Yet the Jade Empire was not overwhelmed by mere display. The battlefield, ever a crucible of strategy, buzzed with the energy of its generals, each quick to respond. Jia-wu, his visage etched with the lines of countless tactics, reached into his sleeve. But instead of summoning another soldier, he produced something far more intriguing: a compact of shadow runes, meticulously folded into a ribbon of deep black lacquer. With a flick of his wrist, he unfurled it, each movement as deliberate as a surgeon’s incision.

  “Null-weave,” he declared, the word reverberating with authority. The ribbon seemed to hum as a veil fell over the air, silencing it. Spells that depended on harmonious vibrations found their melodies abruptly severed. Daikokuten’s hammer, mighty as it was, struggled against the unseen force; Bishamonten’s pagoda spears faltered and would sporadically stumble when they pierced the ribbon's domain.

  For a fleeting moment, reality stuttered; a small patch of earth felt lighter. A sliver of escape emerged, revealing an opening through which the jade commanders could scurry, like mice discovering a hidden gap in a tightly woven basket.

  This escape was not the product of physical speed, but of a systemic collapse in divine perception. Jia-wu’s Null-weave functioned as a circuit breaker, severing every vibrational link between the Jade Generals and the governing laws of Takamagahara.

  To Daikokuten, who locks onto targets by the gravity of their fate, the enemy suddenly felt as weightless as dust without mass.

  To Jimmu, who charts adversaries within the domain of his sovereignty, the Jade Generals vanished from the ledger of existence itself.

  Within that silence of zero frequency, the enemy became metaphysically invisible, a blind zone carved into reality.

  Through it, they slipped beyond the Yamato web of authority before resonance could be restored.

  They filled that gap with their determination, pushing and clawing their way forward. The generals, however, did not retreat. Instead, they found the strength to breathe anew, and they seized it with fervor.

  But such tactics came at a price. Jia-wu’s ploy was no enchantment; it was a toll demanding payment. Magic is a currency, and where the ribbon severed resonance, it drained its wielder. The General’s shoulders sagged, his vitality waning as he infused part of himself into the null-weave. He bartered his essence for a fleeting chance, spending his life-force with each calculated moment.

  Kintaro and Raikō surged forward, their movements synchronized as if they had just received an urgent call to action. Kintaro dug his boots into the ground, transforming into a sturdy fulcrum against the overwhelming force battering them. He enveloped an entire squadron, channeling the raw might and focus of a man bracing against a collapsing edifice. As gravity threatened to reduce his comrades to mere artifacts, Kintaro contorted himself to form a protective trough beneath the weight, dispersing the crushing pressure with the strength of his bones and the resolve of his vows.

  Raikō, the blade whose song had echoed a counterpoint just moments before, found its mark at the seam of the black ribbon. Raikō sliced through the null-weave with a precision honed by fierce storms. This strike was no ordinary cut; it left a resonating fracture in its wake that made the ribbon tremble—just enough for Bishamonten’s spears to locate their path and reclaim their purpose. One by one, the stalled spears regained their ferocity, plunging savagely into the jade ranks, driven by an unyielding thirst for victory.

  The battlefield unfolded like a chaotic ledger of triumphs and setbacks. Each advantage seized by Daikokuten’s gravity came with a toll paid in pain, courtesy of Jia-wu’s ribbon and the generals’ cunning tactics. For every spear unleashed by Bishamonten, Raikō’s blade and Yamato’s Kusanagi sought fractures to seal, fighting for balance in the swirling chaos. Combat transformed into an intricate accounting: blood served as currency, breath represented interest, and sacrifice stood as the only true measure of worth.

  Then, as if the very air weighed heavy with fate, something small yet ominous stirred beneath the surface. The onyx dust that adorned the periphery—those black-veined floors, remade by Yamato’s radiance—siphoned up the neutralized remnants that the field had exhaled. Energy, once gleaned from jade treasures and transformed into a soft, diffused glow, was now being reshaped by the land into something deeper: it transcended mere power for Jimmu; it became a currency of memory. The earth, cradling the echoes of those whose blood had sanctified it, started to respond with an overwhelming force.

  This response first manifested as a quaking pulse under the feet of those who stood loyally for Inari. “What is this tremor?” one of them murmured, eyes wide as Yamato Takeru’s Kusanagi throbbed in resonance. The blade’s storm-imbued wisdom sang back, settling an ancient debt owed, a conversation written centuries ago. He surged forward like a spear of gossamer, the blade carving a passage for the weary, lifting them who had been weighed down by despair.

  Yamato Takeru did not immediately swing his blade. He only drew it a fraction of an inch from its sheath. That was enough.

  A thin, razor-sharp line of blue etched itself across the horizon, looking like a stitch of light holding two fractured worlds together.

  “Stormline Severance: Kusanagi Horizon Cut.”

  He took a single step forward, and the world split cleanly along his path. The crushing gravitational pressure within the corridor bifurcated, peeling away like the sea parting for a lonely pilgrim.

  Soldiers who had been gasping under the weight felt the sudden, sweet rush of air return to their lungs. Warhorses that had been buckling to their knees found their strength and stood tall once more.

  Kusanagi did not seek to sever flesh or bone.

  It cut through the very concept of a burden.

  Takeru’s grip on the hilt tightened, his knuckles white against the dark wrappings. He could feel the 'Storm Logic' within the blade still screaming—a phantom resonance of the brother who fell in the silence of the sun-slayer. "This blade no longer remembers how to show mercy," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the horizon where Susanoo’s golden dust had once drifted.

  "It has learned the language of the Event Horizon. It does not just cut your armor; it cuts the very air you breathe, for you are the clouds that tried to hide our sun."

  Across the way, Jia-wu’s null-weave snapped as though it had been stretched to its limit, the ribbon collapsing into a lifeless coil. Where it met the ground, the shadow-soldiers faltered, their forms ebbing like traders caught in a web of deceit.

  Jia-wu dropped to one knee. Even as his strength faltered, his hands refused to surrender.

  He pulled a different scroll from his robes—one of deep, seamless obsidian—and unrolled it. The parchment was entirely blank. Using the dark blood pooling at the corner of his mouth, he began to scrawl a single name, one that had never been etched into any celestial ledger or recorded by the gods of the vault.

  “Black Ledger Reversal: Debt of the Unrecorded.”

  The name flared with a sickly, dying light before vanishing into the grain of the paper.

  Suddenly, the target of his script became… unauthorized. Attacks directed toward them didn't just miss; they simply failed to register, as if the world no longer recognized the interaction as a valid event. They had become a glitch, a hollow gap in the very fabric of the system.

  Yet, there was a price for such an erasure. Every stroke of the brush Jia-wu completed tore a fragment of his life away. A single streak of his hair turned a brittle, ghostly white.

  His remaining breath shortened by a precious second.

  The universe, cold and transactional, accepted the trade.

  "Go!" Jia-wu’s voice was a rattling wheeze, a sound of dry parchment tearing. He didn't look back at the commanders scurrying through the gap.

  "I have balanced the books with the years I had left. I have bartered my future to buy you a single minute. Do not let the price I paid be a bad investment—run, and tell the Emperor that Takamagahara has stopped playing by the old rules."

  They were not dead—not yet—yet the scales of fate had unmistakably tipped.

  Daikokuten lowered his hammer, the motion signaling an end, like a curtain drawn to reveal a somber stage. The men around him gasped, their bodies instinctively pulling away from the earth as if escaping its weight. Bishamonten, resolute and solemn, retracted his spears slowly into the grip of his palms, each movement echoing a reluctant sigh, a judgment finalized after a heavy deliberation.

  “They are indeed cunning,” Bishamonten remarked, his voice ringing with the reverent sound of armor being placed upon a wooden rack, the clang resonating with a weight of authority. “But be wary—cleverness does not equate to justice.”

  Daikokuten let out a low chuckle, spreading his hands wide as though unveiling scrolls filled with undisclosed secrets. “And remember, fortune has a way of demanding its due.”

  General Jia-wu’s gaze swept the battlefield, landing on Jimmu and the Prince, his expression a portrait of desperation that starkly resembled the final entry before the collapse of a great empire. He had maneuvered within the territory, unearthing truths; he had gambled everything, only to find that coins could not always purchase the future he envisioned. Gathering the shreds of his resolve, he retreated with the resolute discipline of one who clings to the remnants of hope, determined to fight another day.

  As the Jade ranks withdrew, the gods refrained from pressing further into the fray. They were neither conquerors nor oppressors; their roles were bound to executioners and accountants. They had arrived to restore balance, to settle an overdue invoice that had echoed for far too long. The initial strokes of retribution had been written, but the chapters of fate were far from complete.

  On the hallowed ground where mud intertwined with gleaming gold, the weary fighters stood, gasping for breath. Amaterasu’s containment still billowed smoke, reminiscent of a blacksmith’s forge. Inari's hands quivered, yet she clung to the radiant light she had summoned.

  Inari’s hands stopped trembling. She drew a deep breath, feeling the resonance of Kusanagi nearby, a bitter reminder that Susanoo was gone. She lifted her gaze to the proud backs of Emperor Jimmu and Prince Yamato.

  “Emperor Jimmu,” Inari’s voice rang low but clear, cutting through the silence that followed the clash. “I understand now. The title of ‘Root’ is not merely a burden to be protected, but a foundation that must support. I will no longer be the reason you are wounded. If Yamato’s sovereignty requires an anchor, then let my soul be the ground upon which you stand.”

  Emperor Jimmu turned slightly, his wise expression softening as he watched Inari’s golden light condense and merge with the sanctified onyx floor.

  “You have surpassed your fear, Goddess of Fertility,” Jimmu replied with calm authority. “A strong root does not merely draw water; it grips the earth so the tree does not fall when storms arrive. Today, you are no longer a refugee beneath our protection. You are the heart of this sovereignty.”

  Inari looked at her hands, which were now glowing with a deep, earthy vermilion. "I used to think the 'Root' was something that stayed hidden to stay safe," she said, her voice finally steadying into a calm, regal tone.

  "But a root’s true purpose is to hold the weight of the world when the wind tries to tear it down. If I must be the ground, then I will be a ground that never breaks. My fear was the only debt I had left, and today, I have paid it in full."

  Inari nodded firmly. Her aura no longer flared in wild unrest, but settled into a steady, tranquil radiance, lending renewed strength to the heroes standing around her.

  As the light of Inari seeped into the sacred floor, vermilion cracks began to spiderweb across the stone like the roots of a titanic, ancient tree.

  The ground itself let out a soft, rhythmic throb.

  “Root Sovereignty: Vermilion Harvest Domain.”

  Every Yamato warrior standing atop those glowing fissures felt something primal and unshakable—the earth was finally accepting them. Their ragged breathing steadied into a collective hum, and the frantic resonance of their spirits ceased to waver. Even the crushing gravity of Daikokuten’s vault no longer felt like a sentence of death; instead, it became a supportive framework, a structure they could lean against.

  But for the Jade forces who dared to tread without permission, the transformation was far less kind.

  To them, the soil turned brittle and foreign, actively rejecting the soles of their boots. The battlefield had ceased to be a neutral theater of war; it had become a living, breathing grove.

  And Inari was the root that held it all together.

  Yamato Takeru, with meticulous care, sheathed Kusanagi, as if returning a treasured heirloom, while Emperor Jimmu’s eyes tracked the retreating Jade banners, a heavy weight settling on his heart.

  “Let your masters know where you stand,” Daikokuten’s laughter echoed off the stones, ringing like a familiar market bell. He raised his hammer in a playful salute. “Tell them their debts await.”

  Bishamonten, holding his spears that morphed seamlessly into the shape of his palm, spoke with a voice heavy with authority. “And remind them,” he added, his tone resolute, “that the time for righteousness has come, and it seeks its rightful claim.”

  The battlefield sighed, a collective exhalation of the exhausted. Men exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting the clarity of those who had faced uncertainty only to discover their worth. The gods had revealed their power; the mortals had unveiled their resolve. The ledger of this day now bore a striking new entry: the undeniable presence of Yamato sovereignty upheld by fate and justice.

  Yet, in the distance, beyond the last fading banners, a single, small disturbance quivered like a loose coin—an unsettling portent that debts, once invoked, do not vanish; they merely shift. Somewhere, something was diligently noting the unfolding events.

  A soft, metallic tinkle echoed from the onyx shadows—the sound of a single, cold coin hitting the floor.

  "The audit is never truly over," a voice whispered from the edge of the void, sounding like the rustle of a thousand closing ledgers. "A debt may shift, and a name may be erased, but interest always accrues. And eventually... the collector comes for everyone."

  Tree of Scar begun grow.