Ashes of the Bloodline

Ashes of the Bloodline

The neon glow of Asakusa shimmered against the storm-drenched streets, casting restless ripples across the puddles that lined the ancient stone roads. In the distance, beyond the towering pagodas and the red lanterns swaying in the wind, the city pulsed with life—hawkers shouting their final sales, drunkards stumbling between alleyways and the ever-watchful eyes of unseen figures lingering in the shadows.

Yet amidst the chaos, there was order.

The Asakusa Group, the most powerful syndicate of its time, dictated the unspoken laws of the district. No crime was committed without their approval, no merchant operated without their protection, and no soul dared to challenge their rule. At the heart of this empire sat Kamishirou Genichirou, a name both revered and feared in equal measure.

To the outside world, he was nothing more than a spectre—a whisper of destruction, a shadow cloaked in fire. To those within the syndicate, he was a god of war, an immovable pillar upon which the empire had been built. Stories of his wrath were spoken in hushed voices, tales of enemies reduced to nothingness in eerie, blue flames, of traitors who vanished without a trace, their names lost to the winds of time.

But for all the terror he inspired, Genichirou was more than a tyrant. He was the shield of Asakusa. Under his reign, no foreign gangs dared encroach upon their lands. No outside forces tainted their city. As long as the Kamishiro name stood, Asakusa belonged to them.

But power was never eternal.

And tonight, within the silent halls of the Kamishiro estate, the future of the syndicate hung in the balance.

The grand hall stretched vast and unbroken, its high wooden beams polished with the weight of history. Carvings of ancient battles adorned the lacquered panels, each depicting warriors locked in combat, swords flashing beneath painted skies of ink and gold. The flickering light of the hanging lanterns made the figures seem to move—shadows stretching long and restless across the floor.

The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood incense, curling lazily toward the vaulted ceiling. Beyond the walls, the steady drumming of rain filled the silence, a rhythm that did nothing to ease the tension strangling the room.

At the center of it all, perched upon a raised wooden platform, sat Kamishirou Genichirou.

The head of the Asakusa Group. The architect of its reign.

He was a man carved from steel and discipline, his presence overwhelming without so much as a spoken word. His hair, streaked with silver, was tied back in a warrior's knot, his face a mask of calm indifference. The embroidered cranes on his black kimono shimmered with every slight movement, as if poised to take flight.

Before him, kneeling on the cool tatami floor, was Kamishiro Daiki.

The heir.

His only son.

A successor by blood. A failure by choice.

The men of the syndicate lined the edges of the room, their expressions unreadable, their eyes locked onto the scene unfolding before them. Each had fought and bled for the Kamishirou name. Each had sworn their loyalty, their lives. And now, they bore witness to the moment that would decide the fate of their empire.

Genichirou's voice broke the silence, deep and measured.

"Reiterate your decision."

Though spoken softly, the words carried a weight that settled heavily upon Daiki's shoulders. There was no anger, no impatience—only expectation.

"The golden hour is upon us." His father's tone remained even, as if reciting an undeniable truth. "It is time for you to take the mantle of the Asakusa Group."

A statement. Not a question.

A command.

Daiki's hands pressed firmly against his thighs, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his hakama. He could feel their gazes—watching, waiting, judging.

He had always known this day would come.

Ever since childhood, the path had been carved before him, every step leading to this moment. His life had been a carefully constructed blueprint—one designed by his father, enforced by his mentors, and shaped by violence.

He still remembered the presence of Tsubasa, his father's most trusted enforcer. The man who had not just protected him but trained him. The one who had taught him the art of war before he could even grasp the meaning of peace.

From the moment he learnt to walk, he learnt to fight.

From the moment he could speak, he had been taught to command.

For years, he had memorised the unspoken laws of their world. Obedience. Honour. Absolute loyalty.

And yet, in between those years, he had also learned something else—

He did not want this life.

His heart thundered against his ribs.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised his head.

Dark strands of hair fell over his eyes, but the determination burning within them remained unwavering. His gaze met his father's.

And then he spoke.

"I will not take the mantle."

The room froze.

The weight of a dozen gazes pressed down on him, the silence stretching unbearably thick. Even the sound of the rain seemed to hesitate, as if the storm itself held its breath.

His father did not move.

"You will not?"

The words were quiet, but the force behind them sent a chill down Daiki's spine.

"I cannot be what you want me to be," Daiki continued, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. "I—"

The air shifted.

A sudden weight. A pressure so intense it sank into his lungs.

Then came the heat.

Slow at first, creeping like an ember buried beneath dry kindling. Then—

Blue flames erupted.

The flickering glow illuminated Genichirou's form, the fire curling around him like living serpents. It did not burn the wooden floor beneath him, nor did it spread beyond his control. It simply existed, restrained yet brimming with terrifying power.

The Kamishirou Flames.

Daiki had only witnessed them once before.

He had been five years old. A traitor had been brought before his father, pleading for mercy. Genichirou had given none. The flames had consumed the man without so much as a scream.

When it was over, there had been nothing left.

Now, those same flames coiled around his father once more.

"You were born into this," Genichirou murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "This is not a path you can refuse."

Daiki's hands trembled—not with fear, but with defiance.

He clenched his fists.

"I was born into it, yes." His voice did not waver. "But I can refuse."

The flames flared—brighter, hotter, their glow casting jagged shadows across the walls.

For a moment, Daiki thought his father would strike him down where he kneeled.

But then—Genichirou smiled.

"Very well."

The flames vanished.

Genichirou stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Daiki.

"If you wish to abandon the Kamishirou name, then prove it."

Daiki's breath caught.

"Leave this estate. Leave Asakusa. Survive on your own." His father's voice was devoid of emotion. "And if, in ten years, you still stand by your decision—I will acknowledge it."

A test.

A sentence.

But Daiki did not hesitate.

He had expected anger, resistance—maybe even violence. But his father simply let him walk away. Lowering his forehead to the floor, he gave his final bow.

By sunrise, Kamishirou Daiki would be gone.

It wasn't until years later that Daiki would realise—his father had known the truth all along.

You can't run from your blood.