The night air was colder than usual.
Izumi walked the narrow path to the border of Yamato Village, his breathing forming misty clouds in the moonlight. The earth crackled under his boots as he pushed aside the high grass, black coat streaming behind him like a shadow that had learned to walk.
He was going to search for Hiro.
But first, the night shifted.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Shuffling steps—quiet, but purposeful. Izumi paused. His eyes tightened a notch.
He wheeled around. Nothing.
Stillness.
And then—
Swish—!
An arrow zipped past his cheek, missing him by inches. It struck the tree behind him with a heavy thud.
He didn't flinch.
Slowly, he turned his head back to the front, his gaze sweeping the treetops. That's when he saw him—part hidden in the bushes, black and purple robes, masked face, curved knife at his waist.
A person from the Cult of Omnir.
Not one of the 7 Monarchs Of Sin. Izumi could sense as much from the sound of his soul conduit singing. Weak. Not even a notch worth measuring.
The cultist cocked his head to the side, voice warped from behind the mask.
"Oh, isn't that nice. The final Sloth from all four kingdoms."
Izumi spoke flat, unperturbed by the tension building in the room.
"Aren't people supposed to inherit Sloth if someone dies?"
The cultist guffawed low.
"Typically, yes. But in the last four decades, not a single Sloth-born among the other three kingdoms. Just you."
He advanced a step, hand on his sword.
"You being here breaks the pattern. And Omnir does not like loose ends."
Izumi said nothing.
He moved.
With speed faster than wind. With speed faster than thought.
The cultist tried to say something—but Izumi was already there.
He used the same wooden sword he trained Miharu with—splintered, old, but balanced in his hand like it was forged for war. The strike came down across the cultist's neck—hard.
A sickening crack.
The cultist collapsed, eyes blank before his body even hit the ground.
Before the dust could settle, Izumi's conduit flared.
Something else was coming.
He turned his head.
Then he saw them.
Five hooded individuals stepping into the clearing, their arrival igniting in the atmosphere. All of them carrying the snake-and-flame sigil of Omnir. Not any with the heavy burden of a Monarch, but each one radiating enough danger to make a regular soul flee.
And then—
Coming from the other side of the village, Miharu leaped up from where she stood beside the fire.
She had been sitting beside her mother, sipping hot tea. But in an instant, her blood ran cold. Something twisted in the pit of her stomach.
She stood.
"I'll be back," she muttered.
"What's wrong?" her mother asked gently.
Miharu didn't answer.
She was already running, barefoot across dirt and dew, sword in hand.
The night was no longer quiet.
And Izumi alone, surrounded by foes, gripping in his hand the shattered wood sword—his face unchanging, his posture unshaken.