"The scouts we sent to check on the demon army... they still haven’t returned," a soldier reported, his voice tense.

  Prince August leaned forward over the strategy table, frowning. "That’s strange. Something must have gone wrong." His eyes turned to Yuki, who sat across from him in silence. "We’ll send another unit. I’ll lead them myself—with Sir Yuki at my side."

  Yuki nodded quietly. “We leave tomorrow at sundown. Prepare the troops.”

  The generals seated around the table exchanged glances, then gave firm nods. “Understood.”

  As the meeting in Mayor Genzō’s office adjourned, Yuki stepped out into the village square, the afternoon sun casting long shadows behind him. The faint hum of life around him felt distant, like a lull before a coming storm. The weight of what was to come pressed on his shoulders.

  It had been four days since the Royal Vanguard’s arrival. Four days of preparation. Four days closer to the deadline the cloaked figure had set—the day Yuki was to surrender or doom the village.

  Earlier that morning, before the war council gathered, Yuki had spoken privately with Prince August.

  “If things don’t go well on the battlefield,” Yuki said quietly, his voice steady despite the weight behind it, “I’ll surrender.”

  Prince August’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What? Yuki—”

  “You’ll need to protect the village, no matter what.”

  Yuki’s words were firm. But what followed was softer… more personal.

  “Promise me that.”

  Then, without hesitation, Yuki lowered his head. His white hair fell over his eyes as he bowed deeply—not out of formality, but from resolve.

  “I’m asking you not as a warrior… but as someone who cares about this place.”

  Prince August stood frozen for a moment, caught off guard by the gesture. Slowly, he exhaled and nodded.

  “…Very well. If that’s what you wish, Sir Yuki.”

  He bowed in return, a quiet respect forming between them—one born not of titles, but of trust.

  Now, as the sky deepened into warm hues of orange and crimson, Yuki’s footsteps slowed. He followed a familiar path, one that led him toward the grassy field just beyond the village trail.

  Laughter echoed through the air.

  Yoru was there, her long black hair swaying in the wind, caught in the golden light of sunset. She twirled and spun with the village children, holding their small hands as they danced in wide circles, giggling and falling over in the grass.

  Yuki leaned against a tree, arms folded, watching quietly.

  He didn’t realize it at first—but he was smiling.

  It had been so long since he had seen her like this. Free. Laughing. Alive.

  For a brief moment, the weight in his chest lightened.

  Yoru spun one last time, hair fanning out like a shadowed halo, and caught sight of him beneath the tree.

  She smiled brightly and waved. “Yuki!”

  Yuki pushed off from the trunk, walking over as the breeze brushed past him.

  The children noticed him and ran up excitedly. “Yuki! Yuki! Give us piggyback rides!”

  He blinked, surprised—but let out a small chuckle. “Alright, one at a time.”

  As he knelt down, one of the smaller girls climbed onto his back, giggling. Yoru watched with soft eyes, brushing hair behind her ear.

  For a moment, there was no looming war, no cursed crest, no demons at their doorstep.

  Just laughter.

  Just life.

  Just Yuki—quietly carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but still strong enough to lift a child into the air and make her laugh.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon and the laughter of children faded into the wind, Yuki helped one last child down from his shoulders.

  “You’re strong, Mister Yuki!” one of the girls beamed.

  He smiled, gently patting her head. “Only because I have good cheerleaders.”

  Yoru stood nearby, still catching her breath, cheeks flushed from dancing. Their eyes met—briefly—but something in Yuki’s smile wasn’t just joy. It was longing. A quiet farewell he couldn’t say aloud.

  Just then—

  A distant howl broke the moment.

  The villagers paused. Even the children turned toward the sound.

  Yuki’s eyes narrowed. “That came from the eastern forest…”

  Yoru stepped beside him, her smile fading. “The direction the scouts went.”

  Within minutes, a rider galloped up the path—one of the scouts who’d been presumed missing. His armor was battered, face pale with terror, and he nearly fell from the saddle.

  “Monsters…” he gasped. “They’re… they’re not like before. They’re hunting. And something else is leading them.”

  Yuki stepped forward. “What do you mean?”

  But the scout collapsed unconscious before he could answer.

  Yoru looked to Yuki, worry overtaking her face. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  Yuki’s grip on Shinkurō tightened. “It’s starting.”

  After playing with the children, Yuki gently guided them back to their homes. He knelt down beside each of them, ruffling their hair or offering a reassuring smile.

  "You’ll be safe. I promise," he said quietly, one hand resting gently on a boy’s shoulder.

  Once the last child was safely home, Yuki made his way back to the doctor’s office. Inside, wounded soldiers rested, bandaged and quiet. Prince August stood with Yoru beside him, listening intently as a senior officer gave a report.

  When the report ended, August turned to one of the generals. “Prepare the troops. We move out immediately.” Then he looked to Yuki and Yoru. “Get ready. We ride soon.”

  Yuki gave a silent nod and turned to leave, Yoru following just behind.

  Outside, Yoru prepared her arrows, checking each one with focused precision. Nearby, Yuki sat under a tree, quietly wrapping a thicker glove over his right hand. As he slid it on, hiding the deep, torn skin underneath, he heard footsteps.

  “Sir Yuki,” a voice called.

  Startled, Yuki quickly adjusted the glove and turned. “Y-Yes?”

  A young soldier stood there, saluting. “Your horse is ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  Yuki approached the steed, a brown stallion suited for field travel. Since he didn’t have his own mount, Yoru would ride with him. He climbed into the saddle first, then turned and extended a hand.

  “Here,” he said.

  Yoru took his hand and pulled herself up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist for balance.

  “Don’t fall,” he said, only half joking.

  “Don’t ride like a maniac,” she replied with a small smile.

  The two joined the rest of the troops. Prince August, already on horseback at the front of the column, looked back at them.

  “Let’s go!” he commanded, and the royal vanguard surged forward.

  Their horses galloped across the open road, but as they neared the forest, the pace slowed. Trees surrounded them, the path narrowing. Leaves rustled overhead, and the scent of moss and damp earth filled the air.

  Yuki remained silent as he rode. His hands trembled slightly on the reins, pain pulsing beneath the glove. Behind him, Yoru noticed.

  “Yuki… are you alright?”

  He didn’t turn his head. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  But she didn’t believe him. Something was wrong—she could feel it.

  Without saying anything, Yoru leaned forward and gently wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek lightly against his back. Just for a moment.

  Yuki tensed.

  Then relaxed.

  Her warmth steadied him, even if only briefly. After a few seconds, she shifted back to her seat, but not before noticing the faint blush creeping down his ears.

  She smiled silently to herself.

  As the sun dipped behind the trees, the forest bathed in an ominous amber glow. The sounds of galloping hooves echoed through the woods as Yuki rode near the front of the formation, Yoru seated behind him on the same horse, her arms gently wrapped around his waist.

  The royal vanguard moved cautiously under the dense canopy, flanked by the tall silhouettes of ancient trees. Prince August rode at the head, his cape fluttering softly, scanning the surroundings with a battle-worn gaze.

  Suddenly—Crack.

  A sharp sound cut through the air. Too deliberate to be wind. Too heavy to be a falling branch.

  Prince August raised his hand. “Hold.”

  A soldier dismounted, stepping toward a gnarled tree near the ridge. “I’ll check it out.”

  He stepped carefully, circling the trunk.

  “Nothing he—AHHH!”

  A demon lunged from behind the tree with a shriek, claws flashing. The soldier barely managed to raise his sword.

  “LOOK OUT!” Yuki shouted.

  He launched from his saddle in a blur, sword already drawn. Shinkurō blazed red as it sliced clean through the demon’s neck. The creature disintegrated into ash.

  Yuki knelt beside the soldier. “You’re safe,” he muttered, then turned to the tree—his eyes widening.

  Etched into the earth behind the tree, glowing faintly, was a summoning crest.

  The same symbol that burned on his back.

  “…They were waiting for us.”

  His breath caught.

  “It’s a trap!!”

  “Draw weapons!” August’s voice rang out like thunder.

  Chaos exploded. Demons poured from the trees, snarling and shrieking. The forest came alive with the clash of steel and the hiss of magic.

  The royal vanguard, though trained, struggled to maintain formation. Arrows whistled from behind—Yoru’s bow, Midoriya, singing with deadly rhythm as she picked off demons with terrifying precision.

  “Don’t scatter!” August shouted, slicing through a charging beast.

  Then a soldier screamed, pointing to the ridge above them.

  “There—on the ridge!”

  A black-cloaked figure stood there, calm and menacing. The shadows around him writhed like living smoke.

  Yuki’s heart pounded. “It’s him…”

  The cloaked man raised his hand.

  “To think you’d take the bait, Sir Yuki. You make this easier than I thought.”

  His voice was cold. Calm. Terrifying.

  August galloped up beside Yuki. “We’re outnumbered. Retreat—now!”

  The vanguard turned, forcing their way through the thinning woods. But the demons followed—clawing, biting, shrieking.

  Yuki stayed at the rear, cutting down pursuers, while Yoru held tight behind him. They galloped fast, hearts racing. But just as the trees began to thin—

  BOOM.

  A swirl of black mist erupted before them. The horse reared, screaming. Yoru nearly slipped, but Yuki caught her.

  A figure stood in their path, the hood falling back.

  Tall. Horned. Skin a dark, unnatural violet. Eyes glowing gold with hatred.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneered.

  Yuki dismounted, sword drawn.

  “Get ready, Yoru.”

  She leapt down and drew an arrow, moving behind him.

  “I am Shento,” the demon said, “chosen servant of the Demon King.”

  Yuki didn’t flinch. “Then you’ve already lost.”

  The two clashed.

  Blades and claws. Fire and steel. They moved like blurs—each strike shaking the forest floor. Sparks flew. Trees split. Magic cracked the air.

  “You can’t protect them all,” Shento growled. “Refuse to surrender—and I’ll burn everything you love.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He raised his hand toward Yoru, energy swirling.

  “Flare Burst!”

  “YORU!!”

  Yuki leapt in front of the blast.

  The flames struck Shinkurō—its crimson glow blazing like never before. Yuki’s arms blistered, skin burning.

  Still… he held.

  He pushed forward.

  Through fire.

  His eyes turned blood-red.

  The Crimson Flame had awoken.

  Shento’s smirk faltered.

  “You shouldn’t… be able to—”

  “I told you,” Yuki growled. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

  With a roar, he dashed through the flames, sword screaming as it cleaved downward.

  SLASH!

  Shento’s arm flew, severed at the elbow.

  “Aghhh!”

  “I underestimated you…” he hissed.

  He raised his hand, shadows swirling.

  “But this isn’t over.”

  And just like that—he vanished in a cloud of smoke.

  The other demons evaporated with him, leaving silence behind.

  Yuki collapsed to one knee. Shinkurō fell from his grasp.

  “Yuki!” Yoru rushed to him.

  He quickly grabbed a spare pair of gloves, hiding his ruined hands.

  “I’m fine,” he lied. “Let’s check on the others.”

  She looked at him, unconvinced—but nodded.

  Together, they mounted their horse once more, galloping toward the prince and the remaining soldiers.

  From a distant ridge, Shento watched through narrowed eyes, his stump now covered in black, writhing smoke.

  And in his other hand—

  A scroll bearing the Crimson Flame Crest.

  His voice was a low whisper, carried on the wind.

  “Soon, Crimson Flame… you’ll burn everything you love.”

  The village gates creaked open just as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting a warm orange haze over the dirt path. Hooves thundered softly as the battered vanguard returned, flanked by wounded soldiers, ash-stained armor, and weary eyes. Yuki rode near the rear, Yoru holding his waist as the wind tugged at her cloak. Silence followed them like a shadow.

  Villagers rushed to meet them. Gasps echoed. Children hid behind their mothers. But slowly, a few stepped forward. The baker who once muttered about Yuki’s pale hair bowed his head in silence. The old blacksmith set down his hammer and watched with folded arms.

  They weren’t cheering—just watching. But it was enough.

  “Welcome back,” Mayor Genzō said solemnly, his eyes flicking from Yuki’s tired face to the faint red burns peeking from under his glove. “You brought them home again.”

  Yuki nodded once. “Barely.”

  Inside the mayor’s house, Prince August laid out a rough map over the long table, dirt and blood staining the edges. Yuki stood beside him, arms crossed.

  “Shento,” August said grimly. “A name we won’t forget. His power was... different. Smarter. Tactical.”

  Mayor Genzō frowned. “And the crest?”

  Yuki’s eyes darkened. “It was the same. The one that appeared on my back.”

  The room fell quiet.

  Later that night, the pain in his arms returned with biting intensity. In the doctor’s home, Yuki sat quietly by the fire, peeling off his ruined gloves. The skin underneath was cracked, swollen, blistered. Even ointment couldn’t dull the throb now. But what bothered him more—

  —was the voice.

  It started low. Like a whisper buried beneath his thoughts.

  “…Weak…”

  He flinched.

  He glanced at the sword resting nearby, its black-red blade reflecting the firelight like a pulsing vein. It hadn’t glowed since the battle. But somehow… he knew. It was awake.

  He curled his fingers into fists.

  That night, sleep did not come easily. When it did, it brought no peace.

  Flames.

  Smoke.

  Screams.

  He stood in the center of it all, Shinkurō clutched tightly in his hands. The sword burned red-hot, whispering directly into his skull.

  “You need me.”

  “They’ll betray you.”

  “Protect them.”

  “Burn them all.”

  Yuki jolted awake, gasping.

  Moonlight filtered through the wooden shutters of the room, casting pale beams across his sweat-drenched face. His chest rose and fell, his breath ragged.

  He looked down at his trembling hands.

  “Not again…” he whispered.

  But he could still hear it.

  A soft, near-silent breath beside his ear.

  “Feed me…”

  Yuki clenched his teeth and stood, walking slowly toward the sword leaning against the wall. The moment his hand touched the hilt—

  A pulse.

  Soft. Hungry.

  He let go.

  Outside, the village was quiet, resting under the stars.

  But inside Yuki’s heart, something darker had begun to stir.

  The next morning broke softly over Takamori Village. Pale sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting a golden sheen across the rooftops. Birds chirped in the distance. The village, unaware of the voice that haunted Yuki’s sleep, greeted the day with simple peace.

  Yuki walked through the streets with his usual quiet presence. The bandages on his hands were clean now, hidden under dark gloves that reached up to his wrists. His white hair caught the light, fluttering gently in the breeze.

  Villagers waved.

  “Good morning, Sir Yuki!”

  “Thank you again for what you’ve done!”

  He gave a small smile and nodded, his green eyes distant. He tried to act normal. Like nothing had changed.

  A group of children ran up to him, faces bright with energy.

  “Yuki! Yuki! Come play tag with us!”

  “We made a game where you have to fight off monsters with sticks!”

  Yuki hesitated for a moment—just a moment—and then smiled faintly.

  “Alright,” he said. “But I’m not very fast, so don’t laugh if I lose.”

  The kids cheered, scattering to form a circle around him. One small boy, no older than five, reached out and grabbed his hand.

  That was when it happened.

  Touch.

  A shiver.

  A voice.

  “They’re weak. You can’t protect them. You know what you must do. Burn them. Kill them. Feed me.”

  Yuki’s breath caught.

  The world slowed.

  His vision dimmed around the edges. The boy’s voice faded into static. All he could hear was the sword—no longer just whispering, but speaking with hungry clarity.

  “You are a weapon. This peace is a lie.”

  His hand began to tremble.

  His face—usually calm—twitched, and for a single heartbeat, his expression changed.

  Dark.

  Vacant.

  Eyes sharp as razors.

  One of the older kids noticed. “Yuki…?”

  The child’s voice snapped him back.

  Yuki pulled his hand away gently. Too gently.

  “I-I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I just remembered… I promised to help the mayor this morning.”

  He gave a soft wave and turned, walking away.

  The kids stared after him, confused.

  He didn’t look back.

  As he walked down the path behind the training hall, his hand clenched against his chest.

  He could still hear the voice.

  Faint.

  Relentless.

  “Sooner or later… you’ll give in.”

  As soon as Yuki turned the corner behind the training hall, his calm fa?ade shattered.

  His back pressed hard against the wall.

  His breathing—ragged.

  Shallow.

  Desperate.

  His hand clutched his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if trying to hold something in… or keep something out.

  “Kill. Burn. Feed. Feed. Feed.”

  The voice echoed louder now, not like a whisper, but a claw dragging across the inside of his skull. Over and over.

  “Stop… please stop,” he muttered under his breath, trembling.

  The world spun.

  He shut his eyes tight—but that only made the voice clearer.

  The children’s laughter still rang faintly in the distance, but it felt far away. Like a memory. A dream. Something out of reach.

  Then—

  “Yuki?”

  A voice. Familiar. Gentle.

  Real.

  “Yuki?”

  It was Yoru.

  She was calling for him.

  Her footsteps were getting closer. The sound of her voice, light and unsure, reached through the storm in his head.

  “Yuki… are you around here?”

  And just like that—snap.

  The voice stopped.

  Or rather, sank. Like it had retreated, still waiting in the shadows.

  Yuki gasped and leaned forward, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  He couldn’t let her see him like this.

  He straightened his posture, forced a steady breath, and stepped out from behind the wall just as Yoru rounded the corner.

  “There you are,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I’ve been looking for you. The meeting’s starting soon.”

  “Sorry,” Yuki said quickly. “I was… training.”

  A lie. But his voice was smooth.

  “Oh. Alright,” she replied, giving a soft smile. “Should we head over?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, walking beside her. “Let’s go.”

  But as they walked side by side, her eyes glanced sideways—just for a moment. She saw the way his fingers flexed beneath his gloves, how his jaw tightened despite the calm smile.

  And she felt it.

  Something was wrong.

  The village’s war room buzzed with urgency.

  Maps were unfurled. Troop movements sketched. Schedules updated.

  Prince August stood at the head of the table, voice steady. “We can’t afford another ambush like in the forest. We’ll divide the knights into two squads. One will reinforce the perimeter. The other—combat drills. Intensive ones.”

  Mayor Genzō nodded. “The villagers will help however they can. Morale’s high, but fear still lingers.”

  Yuki stood quietly, arms folded, eyes slightly distant.

  He had been listening—but also not.

  He could still feel the pulse of Shinkurō at his side.

  Thrum.

  Thrum.

  Thrum.

  Its weight had grown heavier since the battle with Shento. As if the blade itself remembered the blood it drank—and hungered for more.

  “Sir Yuki,” August’s voice cut in, snapping him back. “Will you oversee the sparring rounds? They respond well to you.”

  “…Of course,” Yuki replied with a nod.

  By midday, the training field rang with the clash of steel.

  Sweat. Dust. Yells. Stumbling feet.

  Yuki moved from pair to pair, correcting stances, offering advice. But when asked to demonstrate…

  Shinkurō hummed.

  When he swung, sparks flew.

  Too fast.

  Too sharp.

  “Again,” he said to a knight who staggered back.

  Another clash. Then another.

  Soon, Yuki wasn’t just showing them how to fight.

  He was fighting.

  Hard.

  Too hard.

  The knights began to hesitate—some stepping back after each round, eyes wide.

  “Sir Yuki—your blade…” one muttered.

  And then—mid-swing—his eyes flashed crimson.

  Only for a breath.

  But Yoru saw it.

  Watching from the shade of a nearby tree, her hand tightened around Midoriya’s grip.

  Later that evening, as the sun began to fall, Yuki sat alone near the riverbank, sleeves rolled up, his gloves beside him.

  The burns still hadn’t fully healed.

  Shinkurō lay across his lap, its edge glinting red under the twilight sky.

  He didn’t notice her approach until she sat beside him.

  “Training’s done for today,” Yoru said gently. “You pushed them hard.”

  “They need it,” Yuki replied. “We all do.”

  She was silent for a moment, then asked, “Are you alright?”

  He didn’t answer at first.

  Then—softly:

  “It feels like… something inside me wants to fight. Not just to protect—but to destroy. Every time I swing this sword… it wants more.”

  His grip tightened.

  “I’m scared I won’t be able to stop.”

  Yoru turned to him, her voice quiet but firm.

  “Then I’ll be the one to pull you back.”

  He looked at her—really looked—and saw no fear. Just unwavering resolve.

  “…Thank you.”

  She smiled, brushing her bangs aside. “You gave me hope once. I won’t let you lose yours.

  Just as the quiet between them settled into something gentle—almost peaceful—footsteps approached from the training path. A soldier, breathless and urgent, bowed quickly before Prince August, who had just arrived nearby.

  “Your Highness,” the soldier said, voice tight, “a messenger just arrived. The scout party sent to the eastern ridge hasn’t returned. It’s been over a day.”

  Prince August’s expression darkened. “Not again…”

  Yuki and Yoru exchanged a glance—both already rising to their feet.

  “Gather a small unit,” August ordered. “Sir Yuki, Lady Yoru—you’ll lead them.”

  Without hesitation, Yuki nodded. “Understood.”