Chapter 2: Ashes Beneath the Cloak

  The bodies in the alleyway still steamed where they lay.

  The blood, once hidden and docile, now soaked the broken stones like spilled ink across a shattered canvas.

  Above it all stood Yaragi, breathing slow and steady, the dark wind raking through his cloak.

  The satisfaction of victory meant little; he knew better.

  This was Ugrax.

  One battle meant nothing here.

  One victory only drew a larger sword.

  He turned from the carnage, sliding two fingers across the blood-soaked ground.

  The mana ring on his finger pulsed, and the blood hissed — dissolving into mist, hiding the evidence of his work.

  A practiced motion.

  An old habit.

  He moved quickly through the labyrinthine streets, vanishing into shadow after shadow, the broken temples and collapsed towers of Ugrax rising like grave markers around him.

  The city reeked of old power and rotting faith.

  Even now, at night, he felt the invisible eyes of the Theocracy upon him —

  desperate to catch the Black Reaper before their own corruption was dragged into the light.

  It was when he reached a crooked market square, long abandoned to moss and rats, that he first heard it:

  Heavy boots. Steel clanking. Armor gleaming beneath moonlight.

  They were waiting for him.

  A full squad — different from the usual guards.

  Elite forces, judging by the pattern on their breastplates: a blackened sun wreathed in chains.

  The Hand of the High Priest.

  Not common soldiers.

  Hunters.

  They moved without speaking, their weapons already drawn — long spears tipped with silver, enchanted to pierce magic barriers.

  Yaragi felt it immediately — a suffocating pressure rolling off them, unnatural, wrong.

  Their mana signatures were warped.

  Corrupted.

  Maybe the rumors were true after all —

  that the High Priest had made dark pacts in secret,

  whispering prayers to something older and crueler than the gods of old.

  Yaragi narrowed his crimson eyes behind the mask.

  "Fine," he muttered, sliding the twin daggers free from beneath his cloak.

  Their black edges sang against the air.

  The elites charged as one, perfect military formation — a wall of steel.

  Yaragi didn't hesitate.

  He stabbed the mana ring hidden beneath his glove, drawing blood instantly,

  and spun the liquid into thin, sharpened whips that danced around him.

  The first guard lunged.

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  Too slow.

  Yaragi slid beneath the spear thrust, the whip catching the man's leg and pulling —

  SNAP

  — breaking bone like dry wood.

  He was on the second before the first even hit the ground, dagger flashing in a brutal arc toward the throat—

  Clang!

  Steel met steel as a third soldier intercepted, faster than expected.

  Yaragi's boots skidded across the broken stone, his blood magic snapping back to his body as he recalibrated.

  These weren’t normal men.

  Their movements were sharp, almost mechanical.

  Their wounds closed unnaturally fast.

  Their eyes glowed faintly — sickly gold.

  They were tainted.

  He realized it just as two more soldiers flanked him — perfect synchronization — forcing him onto the defensive.

  And that’s when the mist rolled in.

  Thick, unnatural, curling across the ground like fingers.

  Yaragi immediately stiffened, daggers raised, blood magic humming at his fingertips.

  He recognized the signature of this mist — but after what he had seen tonight, he trusted nothing blindly.

  A figure emerged from the haze — swift, precise — striking down one of the elite guards with a heavy, mist-wreathed blade.

  Yaragi’s crimson eyes narrowed.

  "Identify yourself," he barked coldly, shifting his stance.

  The man turned, lowering his blade slightly — just enough to show he wasn't hostile.

  "Relax. It's me, Yaragi."

  A pause.

  The voice was familiar — rougher than memory, but familiar.

  Shujinzo Aoki.

  Yaragi didn't lower his weapons.

  "You expect me to trust that?" he growled.

  Shujinzo gave a sharp smile, his posture guarded.

  "Fair enough. Wouldn’t trust anyone either, after seeing what Ugrax turned into."

  A moment of tense silence passed before Yaragi, never fully relaxing, spoke again.

  "Why are you here, Shujinzo?"

  Shujinzo shifted slightly, keeping half an eye on the battlefield.

  "Mission from a noble. Recon. Your alias came up."

  "Black Reaper Nozen."

  He gave a short nod.

  "Didn’t know for sure it was you... until I saw the blood move."

  Yaragi clicked his tongue behind the mask.

  Familiar — yes.

  Trusted?

  No.

  Not yet.

  But right now, fighting alone against these warped soldiers was suicide.

  "Fine," he muttered. "Watch my back. Or don't. Just stay out of my way."

  "As you wish, Reaper."

  Shujinzo’s mist thickened around him like a second skin.

  Together, they cut through the elite guards —

  Yaragi’s blood whips slashing through armor joints,

  Shujinzo’s misty blade warping and slipping past defenses like a phantom.

  But even together, it wasn’t easy.

  The corrupted soldiers fought like men possessed, shrugging off wounds that should have crippled them.

  Each clash rang louder than the last.

  Each breath grew heavier.

  It wasn't long before Yaragi felt the pressure building —

  the wrongness of their enemy gnawing at the edges of reality itself.

  "We need to move!" Shujinzo barked, ducking under a spear thrust.

  Yaragi cursed under his breath, slicing open another blood pouch at his hip.

  The blood spiraled outward — not into a weapon, but into a glyph —

  a portal sigil shaped from sacrifice and memory.

  The old tricks Jimbles had taught him.

  The ground beneath their feet rippled, blood weaving itself into a doorway.

  Without hesitation, Yaragi grabbed Shujinzo by the arm and yanked him through.

  Darkness swallowed them.

  For a moment, the world became nothing but crimson mist and aching breath.

  Then they emerged — far from the battleground — inside a rotting warehouse half-swallowed by ivy and dust.

  Safe, for now.

  Yaragi staggered forward, tearing the mask from his face and gasping for clean air.

  The blood whip evaporated from his hands as he forced his heart rate down, glaring at Shujinzo.

  "You didn’t need to intervene," Yaragi said coldly, wiping blood from the edge of his cloak.

  "Maybe not. But the noble wants you alive, and so do I."

  Shujinzo leaned against a broken column, his mist dispersing into nothingness.

  For a moment, they simply stared at each other —

  the tension between old debts and new mistrust thick as smoke.

  Finally, Yaragi sighed.

  "You’re still an idiot."

  "And you're still a stubborn bastard."

  No laughter. No smiles. Just grim acknowledgment.

  Outside, the city of Ugrax groaned in its sleep —

  the darkness moving, whispering, gathering for something far worse than either man yet realized.

  The war had begun.

  And Urgnard would never be the same again.