It was a question.
Alarich (murmuring):
“Why me?”
No answer came.
Only the silence of old stars shifting in a fog older than gods.
Alarich awoke slowly, the weight of strange dreams still fogging his thoughts.
His hands gripped the arms of his chair—he didn’t remember falling asleep there, but he was upright, his coat still draped over his shoulders, and the book lay shut on the table nearby, quiet as if nothing had ever happened.
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and turned toward the window.
The sunlight of morning had risen—but it was muted, hazed behind black smoke curling into the sky from somewhere deeper in the city.
Not the usual chimney smoke.
Thicker.
Darker.
Wrong.
A strange silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking of the old brass clock in the hallway.
Alarich stood, stepping closer to the window.
He narrowed his eyes.
The smoke was coming from the east quarter—near the old clocktower and the archive plaza.
The very district where Shirogane often lectured.
Where books from the Akuma Age were preserved.
He grabbed his coat, the Mandala tattoo on his arm tingling faintly beneath the fabric.
Alarich (quietly):
“This wasn’t in the dream… was it?” Find the original chapter at g.com.
The fog inside his memory didn’t answer.
But something else did.
A low horn in the distance—long, slow, and ancient.
Not from this city.
Not from any steam whistle.
It was the kind of sound that came before history changed.
And then, beneath the sound…
Screams.
Alarich grabbed the book from the table and whispered to himself:
“Whatever this is… it’s starting.”
And without hesitation, he ran.
Alarich ran, boots thudding against the cobblestone as the smoke thickened in the air.
As he turned a corner near the steam bridge, his breath caught—
—a Yokai, massive and shifting, loomed over the district.
Its body was a patchwork of nightmares: foxlike features fused with serpentine coils, dozens of golden eyes blinking along its sides, and long smoke tendrils swirling from its back like banners of malice.
Its teeth were far too human.
And standing before it—
Shirogane.
Cloak torn, eyes blazing violet, he raised his flameforged blade—a sword born of his bloodline’s elemental technique, the Scarlet Arc.
Shirogane (firmly):
“I don’t care if you’re from the Between Worlds. You’re not taking this city.”
He slashed forward, sending a ribbon of fire toward the Yokai—but the creature absorbed it, steam rising where flames touched its skin.
Shirogane (to himself):
“Damn. There’s a limit to this technique. Elemental fatigue…”
And in that pause—the Yokai lunged.
Alarich froze, torn between fear and awe.
But just then, a voice behind him broke the spell.
Hilda (shouting, tearyeyed):
“Alarich!! Please be safe!!”
She stood behind a wroughtiron fence, her hand gripping it tightly, face pale but eyes locked on him with fire.
Alarich turned to her briefly, gave a quick nod, then back to the chaos.
Alarich (softly):
“I’ll come back. I promise.”
He clenched the book, the strange symbols on its cover faintly glowing under his arm.
His tattoo burned, the Mandala mark pulsing like a heartbeat.
Alarich (to himself):
“I don’t know why this is happening. But if it started with Aethernos… …then maybe it ends with me.”
And with that, he stepped into the flame and shadow.
Shirogane lowered his blazing blade and pointed a steady finger toward Alarich, his violet eyes serious but calm.
“Alarich,” he said firmly, “don’t destroy anything. We don’t need another mess like last time. Your father went a little loose with his power—wrecked half the district.”