Chapter 3: First Fire
The horns started before the sun had fully cleared the ridge.
Three sharp blasts from the southern wall. One drawn-out call from the east, then silence.
Kazuki was already moving.
He didn't wait for someone to tell him what it meant. He didn't need to. The air had shifted—subtly, violently. Like the mountain itself was bracing.
He passed squads suiting up in the inner yard, buckling leather and plate, faces still half-asleep. No shouting. No panic. Just a quiet rush. Everyone here knew the difference between noise and danger.
Tadakatsu found him halfway down the barracks stairs.
"Southern breach," he said without slowing. "Scout line's down. Confirmed steel on the wall."
"Rebels?"
"Vanguard. Light armor. Measured formation. Testing response time—or baiting us into thinning the east."
Kazuki's feet kept moving. "Where's Mayu?"
"Southwest gate. She's moving wounded to the inner yard. Rikuya took the forward spear line. It's already ugly."
They reached the western overlook. Smoke was rising in lazy spirals, just above the tree line. Campfires, at first glance. But then Kazuki saw the flicker. Controlled, pulsing. Green fire. Wrong fire.
"What is that?"
Tadakatsu didn't look. "Alchemic primer. Mages with the front units. We have about two minutes before they push again."
The outer yard was already chaos.
Barricades burned in places, the fires climbing low and mean across beams soaked in pitch. A cluster of soldiers dragged a supply cart backward, trying to wedge it against a broken gate hinge. Another group hauled corpses—some in armor, some in robes.
And all around, the air buzzed. Not with flies. With energy. Like the charge before a storm, humming just behind Kazuki's teeth.
He followed Tadakatsu through a side breach in the courtyard. They hugged the shadow of the wall, avoiding open ground. Kazuki ducked instinctively as a shrieking arrow zipped overhead, embedding itself in the wooden beam above.
It didn't burn. Just sizzled. Left a line of smoke.
"That normal?" he asked, breath catching.
"No," Tadakatsu said. "They're trying new tricks."
They cleared the courtyard just in time to see a blast of heat ripple from the far palisade. It wasn't fire—not exactly. More like a bubble of distortion. When it hit the wall, the wood blackened instantly. A nearby soldier screamed, clutching his face, smoke trailing from his helmet.
Kazuki crouched beside a fallen standard. The insignia on it—Hideyoshi's crest, he realized—was already half-burned.
This wasn't battle. This was chaos.
He tried to lock in. Find a focal point. Count the enemy formations. Calculate timing. But it was like trying to find rhythm in an avalanche.
Soldiers moved around him like water breaking over rocks.
He wasn't a commander here.
He was debris.
Then he saw her.
Mayu.
She was dragging a wounded scout toward the interior gate. Her hair was loose, sweat-slicked against her temple. One sleeve was burned away entirely, revealing bandages hastily tied under her shoulder guard. She wasn't moving like a warrior. She was moving like a triage medic. Every step looked heavy.
Kazuki pushed off the wall. Started toward her.
And then—
The air changed.
Again.
Deeper this time.
Not hotter. Not colder. Just… still.
All motion seemed to slow—not freeze, but stagger, like time forgot how to tick.
Kazuki stopped walking.
He didn't know why.
Didn't hear anything.
Didn't feel pain.
But every nerve told him one thing:
You're being watched.
The smoke near the southern breach peeled aside—not blown, not disturbed. Just… parted.
And through it stepped a figure.
Tall. Wrapped in loose fabric that didn't match any army here. A mask over the face—smooth, featureless, bone-white. No markings. No emotion.
The warlock.
Kazuki's breath caught. His legs refused to move.
The figure didn't look human. Not just in build—but in presence. The way it moved—gliding, quiet, precise. Not part of the battle. Above it. Like everything else here was dust.
No one else seemed to see him.
Or they did—and chose to run.
Kazuki stood there.
Frozen.
The warlock turned toward Mayu.
Not fast. Not slow.
Like time bent around the decision.
She didn't see it coming.
She was near the gate now, one arm wrapped under the shoulders of a wounded scout, dragging him backwards with effort more stubborn than strong. Her left pauldron was gone. Smoke clung to her skin. Her mouth was moving—commands or curses, Kazuki couldn't tell.
He stepped forward.
Only one.
The warlock raised a hand.
There was no incantation. No runes. No burst of light.
Just motion.
Like turning a page.
The air behind Mayu folded inward. Heat warped the space around her, rippling the wooden wall beside her like glass underwater. A line of flame arced forward—silent, thin, like a painter's stroke done in hellfire.
Kazuki moved to shout. A warning. Her name.
Nothing left his throat.
The fire didn't hit her all at once. It brushed her back first—her armor lit orange for half a second. Then the scream came.
Short.
Cut off.
Her body arched, twisted. The scout fell from her arms as she stumbled forward, momentum failing. For a moment, she looked like she might stay standing.
Then the second wave of heat came—thicker, heavier, darker. The air crashed with a low thrum, and Mayu's figure was lost in the bloom.
No cinematic blaze. No gore.
Just an outline swallowed by fire.
Kazuki's legs buckled.
He landed hard on one knee, hand clutching the ground like it might anchor him. The breath left his lungs and didn't return. Not grief. Not panic.
It was like the rules of the world had rewritten themselves in front of him.
She was there.
Then she wasn't.
And all he had done was watch.
The warlock stepped through the smoke.
That mask—blank, bone-white, smooth as polished shell—reflected none of the flames. The robes it wore moved slowly, like they were underwater. No insignia. No clan mark. No color.
It stopped a few paces away.
Not running.
Not chasing.
Just watching.
Kazuki stared back. Every fiber of his body screamed to move, to fight, to run—but none of it translated into action.
Because something in that stare told him:
You've done this before.
And you'll do it again.
The warlock lifted its hand once more. Palm open.
Not aggressive. Not angry. Just methodical.
The spell came fast.
It hit like falling through his own bones.
No flash. No heat. Just absence.
Like something in him was scooped out.
Kazuki dropped to both knees. His vision fractured. Breath didn't come back. His ribs cracked—not all at once, but piece by piece, like old wood splitting in a fire.
His fingers dug into the dirt. He felt nothing.
A shape flickered across his memory—Haruto. The gym lights. Sweat on canvas.
Gone.
Tadakatsu's voice, shouting something.
Gone.
Mayu's face.
Gone.
Only the candle remained.
That sound.
That drip.
It came again, distant, steady.
Kazuki fell forward onto the ground. His jaw hit stone. His eyes were open, but they didn't see.
One last thought, blurred and stupid.
Then black.
Drip.
Wax on wood.
Cold air against skin.
Tatami.
Again.