The Legacy of Kageyama

Hot. So hot.

The heat was relentless, an unforgiving force pressing down on Kenjiro like a weight. Sweat dripped from his brow, tracing lines down his face before soaking into the collar of his shirt. He swiped a hand across his forehead and collapsed onto the dirt road, hoping the ground would offer some cool relief.

It didn't. Instead, it radiated heat back at him, intensifying the suffocating air.

As he lifted his head slightly, his blurred vision caught sight of a large sign ahead with bold letters that read: Kageyama Village.

Below it, an intricate emblem stood proudly—a circular design featuring a towering mountain at its center, its dark slopes framed by swirling waves and drifting clouds.

The background was divided into striking sections of green, red, purple, black, blue, and mustard yellow, blending harmoniously like the elements of nature. The emblem's bold strokes and balanced symmetry exuded an aura of tradition and strength, a symbol of the village's enduring legacy.

"This... this is hell," he muttered, unscrewing the lid of his water bottle.

The warm liquid inside offered no solace, burning his parched throat like molten lava. He grimaced, tossing the empty bottle aside before trudging forward, each step heavier than the last.

Kenjiro squinted against the blinding sun, its searing yellow-red glare bearing down on him like a cruel joke. The land before him stretched out in endless shades of gray and ash-a stark contrast to the vibrant paradise Fujimoto had once shown him in the pages of the book.

"This can't be real," he muttered, yanking off his sweat-drenched jacket.

Shoving it into his bag, his gaze dropped to his gloved hand.

Sakamoto's warning echoed in his mind: "Never let anyone see it."

The sun bore down like a hammer, and after what felt like hours of walking, Kenjiro's legs gave out beneath him. He crumpled to the ground, vision swimming.

A shadow fell over him, and through his hazy sight, he saw a man dressed in black, his outfit both ornate and functional-something out of a bygone era.

"What are you doing here, boy?" the man asked, his voice steady and commanding.

Kenjiro croaked out, "Thirsty... just thirsty..."

Without a word, the man handed him a black jar, its surface smooth and ancient.

Kenjiro hesitated, then took a cautious sip. The water inside was ice-cold, a miracle that soothed his burning throat and brought life back to his limbs.

He handed the jar back, muttering a hoarse, "Thank you, sir," but froze when he finally met the man's gaze.

His hair... it was identical to Kenjiro's-same shade, same texture, same wild strands.

"What the..." Kenjiro whispered, his voice cracking.

"What did you say?" The man's brows furrowed.

"Uh, I mean... thank you!" Kenjiro quickly bowed, masking his shock.

The man tilted his head, then gestured toward a path leading to a distant clan settlement. Above the path, there was a large sign with the words "Izanawa Clan" written on it.

The clan's emblem was an infinity symbol, drawn in black on a white background, surrounded by a circular design with opposing lines.

Symmetrical spirals encircled it, adding a sense of movement and continuous flow, embodying its eternal nature.

"Come. This area is empty. You'll find what you need there," the man said.

Kenjiro read the sign and, with a raised brow, muttered, "Izanawa Clan, this is interesting."

Kenjiro followed, his mind racing. When they reached the village, he stopped in his tracks, his jaw dropping.

Everywhere Kenjiro looked, people moved with an elegance that mirrored the harmony of their surroundings, all sharing his distinct hair color.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. Was this what it felt like to truly belong?

Men, women, and children carried an air of familiarity, their faces echoing features that felt both strange and eerily like his own.

They wore flowing garments of lightweight silk in soft, natural hues-predominantly white-decorated with intricate patterns of circles and interwoven lines, symbols that whispered of unity and balance.

Women wove fragrant blossoms into their hair, while men bore bamboo bracelets or braided cords on their wrists, subtle tokens of tradition.

The entire village existed in a striking interplay of black and white, as if color had been deliberately stripped away.

Homes and buildings gleamed in pristine white, their polished black rooftops shimmering under the sun. Even the markets adhered to this duality: black wooden tables stood beneath snow-white canopies, while carts, meticulously painted, bore the same contrast.

Utensils and tools, from knives to spoons, followed this strict palette, embodying an austere yet captivating beauty.

Kenjiro approached a woman at a food stall. Her long black hair shimmered under the sun, and her face was radiant with a serene smile. She handed him a skewer of glistening grilled fish, delicately seasoned with fresh herbs.

Kenjiro reached into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled yen. The woman's brow furrowed as she examined the unfamiliar currency. She reached into her own pocket, pulling out a gold coin, its surface etched with intricate patterns, and said, "Gold."

Kenjiro stared at it in disbelief.

"Gold? What is this, the twelfth century?"

"I don't have gold," he admitted awkwardly. Her smile faded, and she took the skewer back with a small nod.

Frustrated and still hungry, Kenjiro wandered through the village.

He approached a food vendor who silently handed him a small bundle wrapped in cloth. It contained a steamed rice cake, fragrant and warm.

Kenjiro hesitated, holding out his yen again, but the vendor waved it off, gesturing kindly. Kenjiro thanked him, but before he could eat, his hand moved on its own, knocking the food to the ground.

He froze, frustration bubbling in his chest, while the vendor stared at him, confused by the strange behavior.

Without a word, Kenjiro turned and walked away, gripping his rebellious hand tightly.

"Stop it," he muttered through clenched teeth. "What the hell do you want from me?"

Kenjiro's anger was apparent, and a few bystanders began to glance at him, their curiosity piqued. Suddenly, his hand lashed out, delivering a light slap to his own face.

Kenjiro stopped, glaring at his hand in disbelief, as onlookers whispered among themselves. What kind of person hits themselves?

Before he could process the bizarre situation, Kenjiro heard a commanding voice cut through the noise.

"We're leaving. Is there anyone else who wants to come?"

Leaving? Kenjiro's curiosity grew as he spotted an old-fashioned truck pulled into the square, its exterior battered but sturdy.

A tall man stepped out. His short, jet-black hair was disheveled, and his piercing dark eyes scanned the crowd. A faint scar ran down his sharp jawline. Dressed in black pants, a black shirt, and heavy boots, he stood out among the villagers, exuding an air of authority. Around his neck hung a necklace identical to Kenjiro's.

At that moment, Kenjiro felt something strange. His senses seemed to sharpen suddenly, and his vision became unusually clear.

He focused on the pendant hanging around the man's neck, and with intense concentration, he managed to read the name engraved on it: Hiroto.

As Kenjiro walked, a voice called out to him.

"Kenjiro."

He stopped abruptly, his body tensing. Slowly, he turned, scanning the dim surroundings. His eyes locked onto a figure clad in a black kimono. The man's face bore several scratches, and a faint beard shadowed his jaw. His presence was imposing, yet strangely familiar.

Kenjiro swallowed hard, his mind racing to place the man who somehow knew his name. The stranger took a step closer, his gaze unwavering.

"Kenjiro, I am Izanashi Hikaru—the one Kian told you about."

Kenjiro's breath hitched. Kian... He meant Sakamoto-senpai.

His chest tightened as realization dawned upon him. So, this is him... finally.

A relieved smile crossed Kenjiro's lips. Hikaru merely glanced at him and said, "Come with me."

Kenjiro followed without hesitation, a flicker of hope lighting his heart.

They arrived at a small, secluded hut on the outskirts of the village. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of aged wood and something faintly metallic. Kenjiro sat at a low wooden table, his eyes curiously wandering across the dimly lit room.

Hikaru moved with quiet precision, reaching for a cup and pouring water into it. He dipped his finger into the liquid, stirring it briefly before setting the cup down before Kenjiro.

"Drink. You must be thirsty."

Kenjiro blinked, a flicker of unease creeping over him. He reached for the cup, but the moment his fingers wrapped around it, before he could stop himself, his grip tightened and the cup went flying, shattering into shards as it hit the floor.

A smirk curled at the edge of Hikaru's lips. He murmured, "Just as I expected."

Kenjiro stiffened, his pulse quickening.

"Show me your hand," Hikaru commanded.

Kenjiro hesitated for a moment before pulling off the glove covering his hand. As the fabric fell away, Hikaru's gaze darkened. His expression shifted from intrigue to something more calculating, his lips parting as he exhaled slowly.

"So it's true..."

Lifting a hand to his face, he dragged it down in exasperation before muttering, "That bastard Kian..."

Kenjiro frowned.

Hikaru's voice hardened. "Listen, boy. Kian sent me here to kill you."

The words hung in the air like a blade over Kenjiro's head. But instead of fear, something else flickered in his eyes—understanding. A smirk ghosted across his lips.

"Sakamoto-senpai..."

Hikaru let out a sharp laugh, cutting him off. "That trickster fooled you. You've been deceived, Kenjiro. His real name is Kian Izanashi, and he's not who you think he is. He fabricated his identity, altered his appearance, and even Haruko—his supposed 'wife'—was part of the deception."

Kenjiro's smirk faded, his mind struggling to piece together the truth from the lies.

"Everything they told you was a fabrication," Hikaru continued. "But I will tell you everything—the truth this time. First, you must promise me something."

Hikaru leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Kenjiro's with unwavering intensity.

"With the power you possess, you must protect our village."

Kenjiro's fingers curled into fists at his sides.

"Our village?"

There was no hesitation in Hikaru's tone.

"Yes. You may not remember, but this is where you belong. Tell me, Kenjiro—have you never questioned your origins?"

Kenjiro hesitated. My hair...

As if reading his thoughts, Hikaru nodded.

"That hair of yours—it's the symbol of our bloodline. I don't know how you ended up in that world, but your true parents… they are here, in this land."

Kenjiro swallowed hard, his chest tightening.

Hikaru leaned back, his voice taking on a more solemn tone.

"This village is called Kagayama. Five great clans reside here: the Izanawa, Akanishi, Shiromaki, Hinamori, and the Takeshima . Each one holds a distinct power, a legacy forged through centuries of struggle and survival. But long ago, a devastating war shattered the harmony between them, plunging the village into chaos."

Kenjiro's breathing grew shallow.

"When the war finally ended, nothing remained as it once was—not even our own clan, Izanawa . It fractured into two separate bloodlines: the Izanashi and the Nagara. Each now rules over its own territory, making our clan the only one divided. Despite this split, the bond between the two bloodlines remained intact. However, each follows its own leader."

Hikaru watched Kenjiro carefully.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Kenjiro's throat felt dry, but he nodded.

"Good," Hikaru said. "Let's continue. We are the Izanashi. You can recognize the Nagara by the infinity mark tattooed beneath their eyes."

Kenjiro fixed his gaze on him, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to make sense of the shocking revelation.

"The power you possess is not unique. There are other colors: red, Mustard yellow, black, purple, and blue. Each color was once tied to a specific village, and each clan had its own designated power."

He traced small circles on the table with his finger as he explained:

"Black belonged to our clan, Izanawa. Red was the color of the Akanishi clan, mustard yellow belonged to the Hinamori clan, blue to the Shiromaki clan, and green to the Takeshima clan."

He paused for a moment before continuing, his tone growing more serious.

"But during the war, everything changed. Clans stole each other's powers, and over time, abilities became mixed. Now, every clan possesses powers they were never meant to have.

However, only the Hinamori clan managed to retain their KOGAN."

"Kenjiro… those abilities are known as KOGAN."

"KOGAN is divided into two classifications: Shingan and Saigan," he continued.

"Shingan encompasses the red and mustard yellow powers—symbols of aggression, destruction, and dominance. Saigan, on the other hand, embodies the green, blue, purple, and black powers—deeply connected to wisdom, nature, and the unseen forces that shape our world."

Kenjiro raised an eyebrow. "Purple?" he echoed, the color unfamiliar to him. Yet, he recalled seeing it on Kageyama's clan emblem.

Hikaru chuckled. "Good, you're paying close attention."

"The purple power belonged to the Asakura clan," he continued, his tone shifting. "But that clan no longer exists. They were wiped out in a war many years ago… only their power remains."

Kenjiro swallowed hard, a chill creeping down his spine.

a fear on Hikaru face as he talks "You must learn to control your power , Kenjiro. This power cannot remain dormant. You are the only one who can wield it, the only one who can protect our village."

Kenjiro clenched his fists. Doubt battled responsibility in his chest, but Hikaru's words held a weight that could not be ignored.

Then, after a moment of silence, Hikaru's voice shifted—cautious yet unwavering.

"A grand battle is coming, Kenjiro. A test of strength that will decide the fate of the clans and prevent another war."

Kenjiro frowned. "A battle?"

Hikaru's gaze turned cold.

"The five clans will fight for control over this land."

He exhaled slowly, and his next words struck Kenjiro to the core.

"If the Hinamori clan wins… it will be a disaster. They have been our enemies for centuries. If they take control, they will wipe us out. Every last one of us."

Kenjiro swallowed hard. The weight of those words settled like iron in his chest.

"That's why you must be prepared, Kenjiro. You have to fight. You have to protect our village. This is your duty—you are Izanashi, one of us."

The air between them thickened, charged with an unspoken understanding. Hikaru's words weren't just a warning; they were an oath—a burden now resting on Kenjiro's shoulders.

Then, just as the tension reached its peak, Hikaru suddenly smirked.

"Do you know why they hate us?"

Kenjiro blinked in surprise. "Why?"

Hikaru tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening.

"Because we are immortal. We do not age."

Kenjiro's breath hitched. "We… don't age?"

Hikaru nodded, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes.

"Tell me, how old do you think I am?"

Kenjiro hesitated, then guessed, "Maybe 30?"

A chuckle rumbled from Hikaru's chest before he shook his head.

"I am a hundred years old."

Kenjiro stared at him, his mind struggling to process the shocking revelation.

"A hundred…?"

"Yes, Kenjiro."

Kenjiro's breath caught in his throat. I don't age…?

"Hiroto, the man who guides those who wish to participate, is waiting outside. I asked him to wait. I won't force you to go, Kenjiro, but this is your chance—to discover who you really are, to help your village."

A weight settled on Kenjiro's shoulders. He was right.

What else can I do?

Where would I even go?

I have no family... no place to belong.

It seemed he had no other choice.

Kenjiro rose from the table, his eyes gleaming with determination. "I'll participate."

Hikaru gave him a slight smile. "Go, and forge your own destiny."

Kenjiro rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. He was about to leave when—

"Kenjiro."

He stopped.

"Your power is still in its early stages and can be stolen. Don't reveal it to anyone, and don't trust anyone there. Only show the Kogan to our clan leader, Izanashi Takashi."

Hikaru's voice was firm, carrying a warning that left no room for doubt.

Kenjiro didn't turn around. He simply listened, his posture stiff, his mind absorbing every word.

"Thank you, Hikaru," he finally said.

Then, without another word, he stepped outside, pulling on his gloves and adjusting his hat over his head.

Hiroto was waiting. His gaze was sharp and unreadable. There was no greeting—only action. Without warning, Hiroto shoved Kenjiro toward the truck.

Kenjiro stumbled but quickly caught himself, thrown off by the sudden motion.

Inside the truck, several young men sat in silence, the wind rustling their clothes. They showed no reaction to his arrival, their faces blank, unreadable. Kenjiro hesitated for a moment before taking a seat, choosing to observe rather than speak. He felt a twinge of unease but forced himself to keep his composure.

The truck roared to life, kicking up dust as it rumbled forward. As the journey stretched on, the men began talking, their voices rising above the engine's growl. Kenjiro remained quiet, ears tuned in, absorbing every word.

One of the boys caught sight of his necklace, but his gaze quickly shifted—settling on a small black infinity tattoo inked near his collarbone.

A Nagara.

Hikaru's words echoed in Kenjiro's mind.

"I traveled all the way from Mount Miraji," one of the boys said, his voice brimming with pride. "I couldn't just sit back while my village needed protection."

Kenjiro kept listening.

"Protection?" Another boy scoffed, shaking his head. "You'll need more than words for that."

He raised his hand, and Kenjiro's eyes widened. A crackling spark of white energy burst from his palm.

The others gasped in admiration.

"My father taught me this," the boy said, flexing his fingers as the energy danced over his skin. "One day, I'll use it to protect my village."

Kenjiro stared at the glowing hand, his thoughts spinning. This was no longer just strange—it was unbelievable.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he glanced at his own hand.

Can I do that too? he wondered.

The journey continued, the truck rattling over rough terrain. An hour passed before the vehicle screeched to a halt.

Kenjiro stepped out, and his breath caught in his throat.

What stood before him was no ordinary place.

A towering fortress.

Its massive white gate gleamed under the sun, unnaturally bright, as if warning him—turn back now.

Hiroto knocked, and the gate groaned open, the sound deep and hollow, like an ancient beast waking from slumber.

Kenjiro froze at the threshold.

The air was suffocating. Something unseen yet heavy pressed against his chest.

He hesitated, his mind spiraling.

Should I go in? Should I turn back? Can I do this? Can I protect my village?

After a long moment, he forced himself forward, his steps slow, reluctant.

A deep breath.

H crossed the threshold.

"Throne Clash Arena."

The name echoed in his mind as he took in the vast space before him.

Above, a balcony stretched across the fortress walls, lined with shadowed figures. Their eyes bore down on him, cold and calculating, making his skin crawl.

The crowd below was a sea of colors—red and white, vivid and unnatural, almost otherworldly. His gaze flickered through the faces. Some had hair like his own, but they hadn't been in the truck.

A sense of foreboding wrapped around him, tight and unshakable.

Then, he saw it.

Mustard-yellow hair.

The same shade as the woman in his dreams.

His stomach twisted.

He froze in place, his hand trembling as it slowly lifted to his hat.

A whisper escaped his lips.

"Emiko."

He stood there, body shaking, and in his mind, only one truth remained—

"Emiko is real."