Molten rivers carved glowing veins through the obsidian rock, casting dancing reflections on the black stone walls of the training coliseum. Heat shimmered across the air, warping the world into something unreal—like a fever dream forged of smoke, ash, and blood.
High above the arena floor, where the rock curved outward into a royal balcony, Lord Zephyros Kurozai watched with burning eyes. His armor gleamed like scorched bronze, the crimson cloak at his back shifting with the updraft from below. Around him, demon nobles murmured behind fans and gold-veined masks, their breath thick with expectation.
Chains groaned from deep within the coliseum walls.
A stone platform rose from the depths—dragged upward by pulleys and enchanted gears—carrying Sakura Kurozai into the light.
She stood still as the platform settled, framed by magma flows and a sky choked with ash. Black-and-red armor clung to her form like fire-forged glass, designed less for protection than for symbolism. Her hair, long and obsidian-silver, was tied back in a single cord. Her eyes—dark, sharp, unwilling—swept over the arena.
She didn’t look up at her father.
She didn’t need to.
She already knew what he wanted.
Across from her, shackled at the wrists, stood a beastman prisoner—horns cracked, fur matted with blood, a defiant snarl etched across his bruised face. A branded traitor from the outer territories, now offered up as her test. Not a warrior’s duel. Not a rite of passage.
A message.
Kill, and prove you are worthy.
Spare him… and show them you are not.
The coliseum drum boomed once.
And the fight began.
The beastman lunged, ripping free of one chain in a burst of fury. Sakura didn’t flinch. Her hand went to the dagger strapped to her thigh—not to throw it, but to draw blood.
A clean slice across her palm.
The moment her blood touched the air, magic pulsed.
Her skin shimmered faintly red. Her pupils sharpened like a predator’s. The wound closed instantly, sealed by the blood-fueled energy now coursing through her.
He was fast.
She was faster.
She sidestepped a claw swipe, pivoted low, and struck his knee with the heel of her boot. Bone cracked. He roared and staggered. She moved behind him in a blink, her training blade slicing upward—not to kill, but to drive him back, to keep him off-balance.
The audience above roared with every clash, every strike.
But Sakura heard none of it.
Her focus was a blade’s edge.
Her movements were flawless. Calculated. Merciful.
She disarmed him in under a minute.
His final strike came wide and desperate. She ducked beneath it and slammed the hilt of her blade into his ribs. He collapsed to one knee, coughing blood.
She stood over him now, blade pressed to the side of his neck. His breath rasped. He looked up, and for the first time, she saw something besides hatred in his eyes.
He expected to die.
But she didn’t strike.
Above, Lord Zephyros rose from his obsidian throne.
“Finish it.”
His voice rolled across the arena like a thunderclap.
Sakura didn’t move.
The crowd stilled.
Whispers broke the silence. Nobles leaned toward one another, exchanging glances.
A single breath passed.
Then another.
“Sakura.” Her father’s voice sharpened. “Do not shame this court.”
Her eyes never left the beastman’s face. His shoulders sagged.
Not in relief.
In disbelief.
“You’ve already lost everything,” she whispered. “Dying won’t teach them anything.”
Zephyros’s expression twisted in fury. His gauntlet slammed against the balcony rail, cracking the stone.
“Weakness is a rot, girl. It spreads. It consumes.”
Sakura stood, calm as still water, and sheathed her blade.
“Then let it spread,” she said softly.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The tension hung like a blade above the arena.
Then came the sound of boots—measured, deliberate.
Ryuji, her royal guardian, stepped into the light.
An Oni warrior of towering build and calm eyes, he bowed before Zephyros but never looked away.
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“My Lord,” he said evenly. “Was it not restraint that you once praised in Lady Akira?”
The silence that followed was immediate and dangerous.
Zephyros’s glare snapped to him, fire flashing behind his eyes.
But he did not speak.
He simply turned, his cloak flaring, and left the balcony in silence.
A command unspoken: this conversation was not over.
Below, the audience began to disperse.
The beastman was dragged away in chains—alive.
Sakura remained alone on the platform as it lowered once more into the shadows beneath the arena. The chains groaned. The magma hissed. She exhaled, finally, and let the blood magic fade.
The burn in her muscles told her she’d pushed too far.
But it was better to feel that pain…
…than the shame of becoming what they expected her to be.
The sound of steel echoed like a heartbeat.
Down in one of the lower training chambers—far from the arenas, far from the nobles—Sakura moved alone. Her wooden blade cut through the heavy air with clean, deliberate strokes. The chamber was old, circular, and lined with scorched obsidian. Cracks ran like veins through the floor, glowing faintly with residual heat from ancient spells.
Strike. Pivot. Step. Breathe.
Her body flowed through the forms, but her mind was elsewhere.
Not on the beastman she’d spared.
Not on her father’s fury.
But on the silence that had followed.
A silence heavier than any scream.
She struck again—harder this time.
“You’re still here,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.
Sakura didn’t pause. “Of course I’m still here.”
Ryuji stepped into the chamber, arms folded, his towering frame outlined by the orange torchlight behind him. He wore no armor tonight, only a simple dark robe and leather bracers. His twin horns were dulled slightly at the tips—a ceremonial gesture of nonviolence in the presence of royalty.
He walked closer and watched her finish the last movement.
“You didn’t use blood magic this time.”
“I didn’t need it.”
“That wasn’t the point,” he said, tone unreadable.
She lowered the blade, breathing steady now.
“They expect a monster,” she muttered. “Someone who can burn a man alive and smile through it.”
Ryuji nodded once. “They do.”
“And what happens when they realize I’m not that?”
“They already have.”
Sakura placed the wooden blade back onto the rack and flexed her fingers. They ached—not from exertion, but from restraint.
“You’ve heard the whispers, then,” she said.
“About weakness? About unfit heirs?” He gave a faint shrug. “Of course. The court feeds on rumors. They’ve always been starving.”
“Who’s feeding them now?”
Ryuji hesitated, then replied evenly, “Veldrath, most likely.”
Of course it was Veldrath. The warlord was everything Zeruthar loved—brutal, loud, and loyal to no one but strength.
“They’ll try to strip my claim,” she said.
“No. They’ll try to make you doubt it,” Ryuji corrected. “That’s more effective.”
A silence stretched between them.
The torches flickered. Somewhere deep in the walls, the mountain exhaled—a slow groan of heat and pressure far below.
Sakura sat on the bench beside the sparring mat, pulled off her gloves, and stared at the fresh bruise blooming along her palm.
“You were close to her,” she said without looking at him.
Ryuji blinked, then stepped closer.
“Yes.”
“Closer than anyone.”
“I served her,” he said. “And I believed her.”
She glanced up. “Even when she was called a traitor?”
Ryuji’s expression didn’t change. “Especially then.”
There was no hesitation in his voice. No fear. Just truth.
“She spared people,” Sakura whispered. “Protected them. Even when the court begged for their blood.”
“She did.”
“And it got her killed.”
“Yes,” he said again, softly this time.
The chamber was still again.
And in that quiet, something sharp twisted in her chest.
“Maybe they’re right,” she said. “Maybe I’m not what Zeruthar needs.”
Ryuji stepped forward. His voice remained calm, but it carried steel beneath it.
“You’re not your father’s daughter,” he said. “And that terrifies them more than if you were.”
Sakura met his gaze.
“What am I, then?”
He tilted his head.
“A blade wrapped in velvet,” he said. “Quiet. Refined. But make no mistake—when the time comes, you’ll cut just as deep.”
For a moment, she didn’t respond.
Then she stood, pulled her gloves back on, and walked past him toward the door.
But she stopped just as she reached it.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” she asked without turning.
Ryuji was silent.
“The mountain feels… different. The heat. The pressure. The way it’s breathing.”
He said nothing for several seconds.
Then, finally: “Some of the older Oni say the stones whisper at night now.”
She turned her head slightly. “And what do they whisper?”
He gave the faintest smile.
“That something is listening.”
Sakura left the chamber in silence.
But as the door closed behind her, a faint flicker of red pulsed in one of the runes on the far wall.
A shimmer.
A breath.
Almost like… a heartbeat.
Night had settled over Zeruthar like a heavy shroud.
The stars were barely visible through the haze—just pinpricks of silver gasping behind volcanic smoke. The palace had gone still, but the mountain had not. It never truly did. Beneath the stone and carved obsidian halls, fire still flowed like blood through a hidden heart.
Sakura stepped onto the overlook balcony, carved into the edge of the highest ridge. No guards patrolled this path. No advisors came this far. It was a place outside the court—just her and the mountain.
Below her, the magma lake glowed in slow, molten swells, each pulse like a breath from something ancient buried beneath the stone.
She stood silently, hands resting on the rail, eyes drawn into the chasm.
Then she felt it.
Not fear. Not memory.
Something older.
Her fingers rose to her armor.
She drew out the necklace again—the mirror shard—its edge glinting faintly in the glow of the lava. It shimmered, not with light, but with attention. Like it could feel something she couldn’t name.
The iron was warmer than before.
She gripped it tighter.
And the memory returned.
She was six.
Too young to understand fear, but old enough to recognize silence.
The night had been like this one—thick with smoke, the wind hot and dry. Her mother had held her hand gently but firmly as they walked the winding cliff trail toward the overlook.
“Where are we going?” Sakura had asked, clutching a ribbon in her other hand.
“To listen,” Akira had said.
“Listen to what?”
“The mountain.”
They reached the overlook. Lady Akira knelt beside her, one arm around Sakura’s shoulder, the other gesturing to the vast pit of fire below.
“Do you hear it?”
Sakura frowned. “It’s just lava.”
Akira smiled. “It’s more than that. The mountain breathes. It remembers.”
“That’s weird.”
“Maybe. But all things that live remember, even if they don’t speak.”
She paused, then pulled a thin shard of silver from her sleeve—a mirror fragment, wrapped in dark iron wire. The same one Sakura held now.
“This was from a gift the gods once gave to mortals. A mirror that could show more than reflection. It could show what we were meant to become.”
“Why do you have it?” Sakura asked.
“I kept a piece when the rest was shattered.” She leaned closer. “You’ll have it one day too.”
“Why?”
“Because this world will lie to you, again and again.” Akira’s voice grew quieter. “But this shard? It doesn’t lie. It only remembers.”
That night, they stayed until Sakura fell asleep in her mother’s lap. She’d dreamed of fire and gods with no faces. And when she woke, Akira was gone—but the mountain still whispered.
Now, standing alone on the overlook, Sakura opened her hand.
The shard pulsed.
The air shifted.
A low hum stirred beneath her feet. The stone vibrated—not with heat, but intention.
And then—she heard it again.
A whisper.
Not from the shard.
From below.
Her name.
Not spoken aloud. Not in her ears.
In her blood.
She gripped the railing, chest rising with a sharp inhale.
The lava churned.
And for a moment—just one—she saw the reflection of a crown sinking into the fire. Its gold blackened. Cracked.
A sword followed.
Straight. Familiar. Fused with light and shadow.
Then both were gone.
Replaced by fire.
And silence.
Sakura backed away slowly.
The mirror shard burned against her skin.
She tucked it back under her armor, heart still racing.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, unsure if she was talking to the gods, the mountain, or herself.
The mountain said nothing.
But something deep within it… listened.
She returned to her chambers without a word.
Didn’t sleep.
Didn’t remove her armor.
She sat by the open window, eyes on the distant peaks, the mirror shard laid beside her on the table like a compass with no direction.
It no longer glowed.
But it still pulsed.
Like a second heartbeat.
One not her own.
And far below, deep in the molten veins of Zeruthar, something ancient stirred.
Not speaking.
Not watching.
Just waiting.
every Saturday.