The wind screamed around the edge of the village, trees clawing the air like wrinkled bones. Snow fell in small flakes, catching the gray light like feathers of ash.
Izumi alone in the vacant field. Cold. Still. Waiting.
Miharu ran from the path through the village, wide eyes as she watched the band of figures creeping up on him. Her fingers closed harder about her sword.
She ran forward—
But before she'd even exhaled his name, there was an arm that stretched out in front of her.
"Don't," Izumi said flatly. "You're too weak. You'd be dead before even throwing a punch."
The words hurt. Miharu stood stock still, shoulders tensing. She wanted to scream—but couldn't. Because he was right.
She grit her teeth.
"Tch… Do your thing."
She stepped back.
Izumi's eyes scanned the six enemies before him. All draped in the sigils of the Cult of Omnir. Red ink smeared across black robes. Eyes glowing with a sick, fanatical light.
The hum of their soul conduits buzzed around him. He focused.
There. The weakest.
THUD
One move. One strike.
The man's neck snapped sideways, and he crumpled without a sound.
The others barely blinked before Izumi moved again—
Two lunged from the back, swords raised.
"Yinfall."
Darkness filled the clearing.
A weighty crush. A blackness so heavy it swallowed breath. Sight. Sound.
In the empty space—
CRACK
CRACK
CRACK
When the veil was rent, three other corpses jerked on the ground, blood trickling from ears and mouths. Their conduits stuttered… then went quiet.
And only one remained.
This one was different.
He did not tremble. He did not blink.
Izumi felt it.
His soul conduit hummed like thunder. Heavy. Calculated. Lethal.
The man raised both hands, whispering something in a language not of this world. The ground beneath Izumi trembled.
"Let's bury the last Sloth where he stands."
Jagged spikes of earth erupted from below, aimed to pierce through his legs.
Izumi leapt—graceful, effortless.
Midair, the cultist smirked.
"Got you."
BOOM
The ground exploded upward. A solid column of stone slammed into Izumi's chest like a cannon.
He flew backward—
His wooden sword shattered—
He crashed through a tree with a disgusting crack and hit the snow hard.
THUD
Miharu's scream tore through the clearing.
"IZUMI!"
She flung herself to him, sprawling on the snow beside him, fingers smoothing his blood-streaked face.
"Say something, dammit!"
Izumi grunted. Sat up. His eyes met hers—keen. Intense. Like nothing had happened to him.
He wiped the blood from his nose and pushed to his feet.
"Could've blocked with the edge rather than the flat," he muttered. "Rookie error."
Miharu blinked.
"Are you really analysing your stance right now?!"
She plunged her sword into his chest.
"Here. Don't screw it up this time."
Izumi nodded and grasped the blade. It was still warm from her hand.
The final cultist charged, his blade burning with hot red fury. As soon as Izumi deflected, the cultist spun and hacked at Izumi's left hand—the one wrapped around the sword.
Izumi dropped the blade.
The cultist grinned—until Izumi stepped in, hand reaching out like a ghost.
"Already knew you'd go for the arm."
He grabbed the cultist's skull.
"Hell's Cloak."
Black Yin flared across Izumi's body, crawling down his arm and onto the enemy's head like living shadows.
SSSSSS
The cultist's scream was raw, agonized—his flesh burning, soul writhing as the cursed Yin magic ate through him. His eyes melted first. Then silence.
He dropped.
Dead.
Miharu was in shock. The silence was stifling. Her face twisted from amazement to fury within seconds.
She rushed over, grabbed the broken wooden sword from earlier—
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
"YOU COULD'VE DONE THAT FROM THE VERY START?! YOU DUMBASS!!"
Izumi raised an arm, not to shield—just to knock it away enough to talk.
"You requested training, didn't you?"
WHACK
"Not like this, idiot!!"
But before she could hit him again—
A slow, measured clap emerged from the darkness.
They were frozen.
A voice. Cold. Drawn out.
"Oh… how nice. Brought down all of them, I see."
Izumi's eyes preceded.
The humming of the soul conduit in the blackness. was louder than the six that had come before.
Strong. Cruel.
His hand tightly clutching the sword Miharu had given him.
This one. was no grunt.