On the other side of the world, shrouded in black mists, stood Kugutsu Island. In its cavernous halls, an urgent meeting of the Great Leaders was convened. Before the King’s dark throne were arrayed the chiefs of the three ancestral clans—Salt, Lead, and Alcali—though in the dim light it was impossible to distinguish them clearly. On the iron oval table, embossed in relief, gleamed the emblems that defined their power: the waning moon of Clan Salt, the stacked hourglasses of the Lead, and the enigmatic “smiling four” of the Alcali.

  Silence was shattered by a harsh, accusing voice. Someone pointed at Shion, commander-in-chief of the Slayers:

  “‘Alkaraz and Yuri were killed by Yuzuki!’”

  Shion thrust his chin forward in the gloom, hands planted firmly on the table. Gaz, leader of the Salt, remained impassive; his ruby eyes with feline pupils glowed like shark blades. Not a muscle in his face moved.

  Across the table, Soap, the surly chief of the Lead, chewed a piece of meat while cleaning his teeth with a small knife:

  “‘Useless,’ he snarled, flinging the words like darts. ‘You let him escape, Shion. A Kanji from a lesser clan tears apart our best warriors? Ridiculous.’”

  In the back of the hall, Shinxal scratched his nose, laughing in a strangely high-pitched tone:

  “‘Yeah, yeah… ZAHAHAAHHA! Damn, Ygon, where did he get so much power? They said he was just a Kanji—one of those useless pigs. Now two of Alcali’s greatest lie dead!’”

  Shinxal was just over twenty, bald, with piercings in his nose and ears. His skinny body bore vivid tattoos: wolves, tigers, dragons, coiling serpents, and a shadow giant with ruby eyes wielding a staff capable of destroying cities. With every laugh, his face contorted in nervous ticks, giving him a uniquely disturbing presence.

  A premonition hung in the air: this meeting was not merely a gathering of leaders but the prelude to a merciless hunt. On Kugutsu Island, ancestral fury boiled—and Yuzuki, marked by blood and war, had become the target that would unite all clans in a bloody new destiny.

  Ygon, Shinxal’s right-hand man, burst from the darkness like an immense sentinel. His footsteps thundered on the cold stone floor as he approached Shion, and the interplay of light and shadow revealed his colossal form: three meters tall, muscles carved like living rock, black skin gleaming in the half-light, and honey-colored eyes burning with a subtle, almost playful threat. He wore only a black fighter’s cloak; he carried no blades or hammers—his fist alone was large enough to crush a man with a single squeeze.

  Shion, hooded, head bowed, remained motionless. The white mask on his face contrasted with his gray hood and tunic, trembling with the deep fear his body betrayed. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath at the sudden silence, thick with tension.

  Then Ygon’s voice rolled like a boulder down a mountain:

  “‘Remove the mask.’”

  It was a brutal command, resonating with the force of an ogre. That single tone was enough to make one’s spine shudder.

  Shion raised his hand, fingers trembling like dry twigs in a winter wind. Slowly, he slid his palm across the mask’s cold surface and removed it from his face, revealing scars as fine as spider webs and eyes filled with anguish. Each second felt like a hammer driven into Shion’s soul.

  Gaz, Shinxal, and Soap leaned forward, twisted smiles forming on their lips. Shion’s humiliation was their entertainment. Their cruel gazes reflected the pure exultation of those who delight in a rival’s fall—treating him like an insect underfoot.

  Silence reclaimed the hall, heavy as a storm cloud about to burst. Ygon lifted his head and stared at Shion’s exposed face, measuring him with his blazing gaze. The mask lay at Shion’s feet, a shattered symbol of pride and secrecy.

  Effortlessly, Ygon lifted Shion like a rag doll. The commander remained still, eyes vacant as he stared at the stone ceiling. Ygon then placed him in the center of the oval table, atop the symbols of the three great clans, now silent witnesses to the impending barbarity.

  Soap stepped forward, short blade in hand, his smile voracious:

  “‘Someone must pay.’”

  With a single, dry stroke, the knife plunged into Shion’s chest. The sound of blade ripping flesh echoed like thunder in a dark chamber. Soap let out a booming laugh; the other leaders, gathered in the shadows, joined him in a chorus of sadistic grins.

  Gaz leaned in, fury contorting his face, and drove his nails into Shion’s cheek, tearing away a chunk of living flesh. Only then did the intense red of Gaz’s hair become evident—a reflection of blood and rage.

  Shion gasped, voice trembling:

  “‘My God…’”

  Shinxal raised his fist, laughing in delirium:

  “‘There is no God here—you are our toy. If the King wants to fuck us, then we’ll fuck you for your own stupidity!’”

  The hall filled with screams of torture, laughter of pleasure, and moans of agony. Shion’s humiliation became a macabre spectacle, as the traitors’ blades and nails sealed his fate with exquisite cruelty.

  The dawn was born under gentle rain and shafts of sunlight, like nature itself sighing through the gray veil of dawn. Slowly, Kugutsu Island stirred into unexpected splendor: forest and city melded, ancient roots entwining with wooden roofs and towers. Nature, technology, and culture fused into a single, throbbing organism.

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  Mother Nature exhaled her first awakened breath—the spring had burst forth in fervor. Migratory flocks carved arcs across the slate sky; swallows alighted on vibrant branches as blossoms erupted, staining the gloom with vivid hues. Citrine leaves danced beneath dew, and millennia-old roots twisted stronger than ever, ensuring life’s unbroken cycle. Rivers converged into powerful currents, reflecting liquid light beneath the canopy. Rabbits bounded among ancient trunks, coyotes howled in the distance, deer slipped by in silence, and bears dominated sun-drenched clearings—rival predators signaling the hunt’s commencement and the flourishing of life.

  Rising then was the great wall of Cross City: twenty-five meters of stone and iron, a human bastion standing against the wild. The king’s slaves labored ceaselessly, forging defenses while hidden forest villages supplied tireless hands. Two-story houses in classic Japanese style lent the city austere beauty, yet its muddy streets—reddened with blood and earth—traced the stark contrast between opulence and ruin.

  Each clan claimed its district, each district its army, and each army its leader. Far-flung hamlets served as extensions of royal power, weaving loyalties and schemes in a living tapestry.

  The so-called “Pig Clan”—once numerous—had been wiped out; only Yuzuki remained, a solitary shadow of that bygone lineage. Yet now, who would raise the torch of vengeance?

  In the heavy silence, a bear stirred among tall grasses, ready to prey on a startled coyote that sprinted off for cover. Migratory swallows fled the air in alarm, instincts roused by impending danger. For the alarm had sounded: Kugutsu Island’s silence was shattered.

  The gathered populace knew change was imminent. A summit was called to chart the island’s fate.

  At the head of the corridors stood Apacur—the King’s right hand. His white hair flowed past his waist, contrasting with green eyes that inspired dread. Clad in leather and iron armor, plates fitted over every vital joint, he bore the bear emblem forged in black steel upon his chest. He was the executioner all feared.

  In Cross City’s heart loomed the Black Tower like a spear-point thrust at the sky. Its shadow stretched across the land, a Gothic silhouette of stone and glass. In its high windows, stained glass depicted faithful supplicants praying to the king—bent heads, raised hands, pleas for forgiveness, mercy, and love. Below, Tear Plaza swarmed with kneeling souls, offering prayers of hope and prosperity to the Great Leaders and the King.

  Within the Black Tower, a vast torchlit chamber revealed a long red table. Richly adorned chairs awaited the clan chiefs. At the head seat, Apacur sat in imposing silence, his presence declaring that he would preside over the meeting destined to define Kugutsu Island’s bloody future.