The Betrayal of Yukihiro Arata

Ash stood in the heart of the dojo, the soft hum of holographic screens filling the silence like a whisper of ghosts. Their cold blue glow flickered against the lacquered wood, casting jagged, shifting shadows that moved like restless spirits across the polished floor. The faint scent of incense still lingered in the air, a fragile remnant of meditation now lost to revelation.

His hands clenched into fists, the tension crackling through his muscles as the decrypted files scrolled endlessly before him. Each line of data burned into his mind like a brand, every word an iron weight pressing deeper into his chest. He read them again, hoping—futilely—that the truth would shift, that the story would change. But the truth was a dagger, and it had already been driven deep into his flesh.

Yukihiro Arata had betrayed them.

Not just Ash. Not just the clan. Arata had betrayed everything—the unspoken code that bound them, the honor that had sustained them for generations, the blood ties that should have been sacred. He had not been forced, not manipulated. He had chosen this path, strayed from their way not out of necessity, but ambition.

While Ash's father had fought to preserve the old ways, to keep their traditions alive amidst the encroaching grasp of the Keiretsu, Arata had been selling them piece by piece. A merchant of deception, trading faith for influence, loyalty for power. And in doing so, he had doomed them all.

Ash inhaled slowly, steadying himself against the surge of rage coiling in his gut. He scrolled further, fingers hovering over the interface as he searched for clarity, for some fragment of logic that could make sense of this. But what he found was worse than silence.

Redacted. Scrubbed. Vanished.

Entire mission logs, erased as if they had never existed. No reports. No debriefings. No survivor testimonies. Just a void where the truth had once been—except for one name.

Raijū.

The word pulsed on the screen like an open wound.

A world of ceaseless storms, where the sky never rested and the winds carved mountains as easily as swords carved flesh. The Keiretsu had long struggled to tame its volatile surface, to break the will of the storm-wielding Kenshi who ruled it in defiance. It was a land that devoured the unworthy, swallowing them whole within its endless tempests.

Mission Objective: [Data Corrupt]

Status: Classified – Eyes Only

Raijū. A place where the Keiretsu's dominion had faltered, where their reach had failed. And yet, Arata had returned. Alone.

Ash's fingers tightened around the edge of the terminal, his breath slow and measured but his mind ablaze. Whatever had happened on Raijū, whatever truth lay buried beneath the storm, Arata had made certain no one else would ever uncover it. He had walked away from that mission alone, and in doing so, had erased not just the past, but the voices of the dead.

A bitter taste filled Ash's mouth. The weight of revelation pressed down on his shoulders like a blade. This was no longer just about betrayal. It was about truth—truth that had been stolen, buried beneath layers of deception and silence. And he would not allow it to remain hidden any longer.

The dojo around him remained still, unchanged, but something within him had shifted irrevocably.

The time for questions was over.

The time for confrontation had come.