Chapter 16 - Before the Roar

The Kuzuryū—flying beasts with bony spines and membranous wings—descended over Kinzoku no Hana like a curse. Each flap of their wings stirred up clouds of dust and silence. The central plaza, usually packed with tourists, musicians, and merchants, emptied in seconds.

The first to descend was Yodaku.

No command, no shout. His presence alone was enough.

His stride was steady, unhurried. As if the world itself parted to avoid disturbing him. The general's footsteps echoed louder than wagon wheels or merchant cries. Each one felt like a sentence waiting to be passed.

He stopped in front of a weapon stall. Not just any stall: one clearly designed to catch attention. Ceremonial katanas, rune-etched axes, gilded spears.

Behind the counter stood Naitō, a refined merchant, clad in fine linen robes and a nervous smile.

Naitō gave a polite bow, visibly tense:

"General Yodaku… I wasn't aware your excellency would visit the district today. It's an honor."

Yodaku tilted his head, silently observing each weapon. Not with admiration. But with calculation.

"Your name?" he asked, voice low.

"Naitō, sir… weapons merchant for the last twelve years."

"Twelve years?" Yodaku raised an eyebrow. "Then you must know that selling steel in a city like this is no privilege—it's a responsibility.

Do you have the proper authorizations from the Royal Council?"

"Yes, General. I have copies—signed, sealed, and registered. Every item has been inspected."

"And can you swear..." Yodaku dragged out the word like a tightening rope, "...that not a single one of your weapons has ended up in the hands of enemies of the Kingdom? None sent, say, to the Nibanku border? Or to Gakuin Empire spies?"

Naitō straightened, jaw tight.

"I don't trade with enemies, sir. Nor with unauthorized allies."

"Then you also don't manufacture in secret workshops? No smuggling materials? No disguising arms trafficking as 'diplomatic gifts' or decorative pieces?"

"My workshops are within the city walls. Supervised. I have nothing to hide."

Yodaku stepped closer, now only an arm's length away.

"Interesting... because I have reports"—his voice dropped, almost a whisper threatening to become thunder—"reports stating that some pieces bearing your mark were found… in bloodied hands that once held Hokori steel."

Naitō went pale.

"I respectfully request to see those reports, sir. If someone's forging my signature, I'll fully cooperate."

"'Cooperate'?" Yodaku gave a faint smile. "Pretty word.

Though sometimes... truth doesn't come from words."

He turned slightly. To the side of the stall, a young boy of about eight stood watching him—Naitō's son. In his hands, he held a small wooden katana.

Yodaku lowered his head toward the boy, not bending, merely leaning forward.

"And you? Are you a merchant too? Or do you already know how to use that toy you carry?"

The child stared silently.

"Tell me, child. Does your father teach you to make weapons… or to hide them?"

"My son is not involved in my business!" Naitō snapped, voice suddenly tense.

Yodaku didn't look at him. His tone remained soft, sweet even—so cold it chilled the bones.

"Do you know what a traitor is, little one? It's someone who looks brave on the outside… but inside, only wants to save themselves."

"Please, don't intimidate him," said Naitō, voice low but fists clenched.

"Then tell me the truth, merchant. Here. Before all. Are you clean? Do you swear it on your son's blood?"

The murmuring crowd stirred. The air felt molten, heavy. Yodaku's guards said nothing, but their hands drifted toward their hilts.

Naitō swallowed hard.

"I swear by him, by my bloodline, and by the Kingdom… that I have committed no treason."

Yodaku lifted his gaze to the crowd.

"You heard him? How noble. How poetic."

A beat of silence. Then:

"For your son's sake… I hope your honor isn't made of the same steel as your swords."

And with that, he turned and walked away. Silence held. So did the air.

Because what he left behind wasn't just a threat—it was a warning, sealed in fear.

---

The room was vast and bare. An abandoned ceremonial hall, hidden in the underground levels of Kinzoku no Hana's government building.

Narikami stood alone. Or so he thought.

The floor, polished by centuries, reflected more than oil-lamp light. It reflected something deeper. Something that didn't blink when he did.

His reflection wasn't a mirror image—it was an accusation.

"So… you've become a dog of the Kingdom," said the figure, same voice, but younger. Sharper.

Narikami frowned.

"You're a ghost. A leftover. Don't speak to me as if you're above me."

"Above?" The reflection smirked. "I am you. Before you stopped believing. Before you became this."

The room darkened, as if memory had stolen the light.

"Why are you here?" Narikami asked, already knowing.

"Because I'm still inside you. Because before you burned bridges, you built them.

Because once… you swore never to kneel to anyone.

And now…"

The reflection raised its hand. A uniform. A symbol. The crest of the Hokori Kingdom burned into the skin.

"Now you wear the mark of those you once vowed to destroy."

"Shut up!" Narikami hurled his sword at the floor. But the reflection didn't fade. It stepped out of the mirror. An illusion. Or a memory made flesh.

"You think serving Yodaku makes you strong? He doesn't even see you as human. Just another blade in his arsenal."

"I survived. Unlike you. Unlike the others."

"You didn't survive. You just stopped dying." The reflection stepped closer, eyes burning. "And why? Revenge? Duty? Or were you just afraid… of being forgotten?"

Narikami dropped to his knees—not from weakness, but from the weight of what he couldn't admit.

The reflection knelt before him.

"I didn't come to destroy you. I came to remind you.

That if you're going to kill for this Kingdom… at least remember why you first learned to wield a sword."

And then it vanished. Not into ash. Not into light.

Into silence.

Narikami remained alone. With the echo of a forgotten promise… and the shadow of a self that still lived within.

---

The screams didn't come from one place.

Across the commercial district, Yodaku walked with the arrogance of a lesser god. His cape whipped in the wind, as if the air itself tried to flee him.

Food vendors clutched their baskets with trembling hands. Some greeted him stiffly. Others looked away—an act that only seemed to enrage him.

"And you?" he snapped, stopping at a woman selling sweets. "You know you need royal licenses to import ingredients from the north, right? Or do you acquire them by... other means?"

"They're family recipes… I swear…" she replied.

Yodaku said nothing. He just stared. Long and hard. As if weighing her life's worth with his eyes.

A few steps away, he kicked over a crate of embroidered cloth.

"Imperial smuggling? Or just a cheap attempt to compete with nobles?" he mocked, pointing at a tailor who couldn't even meet his gaze.

The tension was glass—seconds from shattering.

From the second floor of the inn, Chisiki watched in silence, eyes narrowed.

"Ruling through fear... How quaint," she muttered. "Almost admirable, if it weren't so pathetic."

Before she could say more, Bokusatsu had already stepped out.

His steps were slow, steady. His posture straight—calm, not aggressive.

He stopped in front of Yodaku just as the general examined a medicine stand, eyes hunting guilt.

"Finished harassing the innocent?" Bokusatsu asked calmly.

Yodaku raised an eyebrow, barely turning.

"You again? Here to defend market rats?"

"No. I'm here to ask why you insist on breaking people from the inside.

What are you afraid they'll find if they're allowed a shred of pride?"

Silence fell. Soldiers tensed.

"You think having power gives you the right to crush them like trash.

But I've seen people with more dignity than you, who never needed a title or a throne."

Yodaku turned fully. No smile this time.

"You saying I don't deserve my rank?"

"I'm saying many here deserve it more than you."

Yodaku drew his sword. It screamed from its sheath like it hungered.

"You talk too much."

But before he could take a single step—

The pressure changed.

A presence. Not like his. Not arrogant.

Something abyssal. Unbearable.

A man in his thirties emerged from the crowd. No lavish clothing. Nothing about him stood out—except that everyone felt him.

It was like staring into a well so deep you feared falling just by looking.

"That's enough," he said softly.

Yodaku eyed him warily.

"Who dares—"

"Someone who understands consequences. If you destroy this city on a whim, even the King will lose more than you think."

Renzō, Yodaku's escort—known as the Crimson Claw—stepped forward, blade drawn.

"This is an insult to the Royal Guard and His Majesty!"

But before he could move an inch, Yodaku was already ahead—sword raised.

And yet… he didn't strike.

The man had raised a simple wooden stick. Old. Splintered.

And still, with one hand, he blocked Yodaku's blade.

The street fell deathly quiet.

Yodaku didn't move.

Didn't retreat.

But couldn't advance either.

"Who are you?" he asked, jaw clenched.

The man looked at him with sorrow.

"Not someone who wants to fight you.

But someone who won't let you turn authority into an excuse for cruelty."

Bokusatsu glanced his way. So did Chisiki.

No one knew who he was.

But they all knew one thing:

He was not to be provoked.

Yodaku slowly lowered his blade. Not from fear.

From something deeper.

An invisible warning.

---

The echo of the last confrontation still pulsed through the streets when Yodaku looked up at the sky.

The sun was slowly fading behind the rooftops of the city, painting the edges of Kinzoku no Hana in a deep orange.

"Not worth it..." he muttered, his voice more calculating than defeated.

"Are we withdrawing, sir?" asked Renzō, his escort.

"For now. I won't waste energy on trash that hides behind its own fear. We'll find somewhere to rest."

Fate, as if indulging in drama, led them straight to the very inn where Reiji and his team were staying.

A small lantern swung at the entrance. The sign was half-worn, but the place exuded a strange aura—warm, yet profound. Hidden, like something ancient sleeping underground.

Enma welcomed them with her usual calm smile. Her dark hair fell like silk, and her eyes—seemingly innocent—held a weight only the perceptive could sense.

"Welcome. How many rooms will you need?"

Yodaku watched her silently, as if studying a living statue.

"You... have you been here long?" he asked, avoiding a direct answer.

"Long enough to know every soul that stops here, even if just for a breath," Enma replied, composed.

The air paused.

Renzō swallowed hard.

Yodaku narrowed his eyes.

That woman was hiding something. He was sure of it.

But for now, he said nothing more.

"Three rooms. Separate. Far from the noise."

"Of course," Enma said, turning slowly. "Enjoy the calm... while it lasts."

---

Meanwhile, upstairs, Donyoku was finishing buttoning his shirt.

His torso bore a few new scars, but the color had returned to his face.

Aika handed him the last pill Enma had given him earlier.

"You swallowed it like it was bread," she said, arms crossed.

"And did you see how they snapped my ribs like twigs?" Donyoku replied with a half-smile.

From her futon, Chisiki let out a dry laugh.

"If you were a tree, you'd be a badly kept bonsai."

"And you'd be a garden ornament—but one that gives nightmares."

They all laughed, even Aika. It was a brief moment, a bubble of normalcy before the abyss.

"Thanks," Donyoku said, lowering his voice. "Not just for the pills... but for staying."

"Idiot. We're a team," Chisiki said, looking away. "Just don't die today."

---

On the roof, Reiji stared at the orange sky.

He said nothing. But his silence had weight—like his thoughts were already several steps ahead.

A new guest arrived. He knew it by the subtle shift in the air.

The man with the abyssal aura.

He had bluish hair tied back, and wore a simple cloak soaked with humidity that clung to him like invisible mist.

He entered the inn without looking at anyone—yet Enma paused.

For the first time, something in her gaze tightened.

"Welcome... traveler."

"Thank you," the man said. His voice was soft, deep—like it echoed from a sea cave. "The road brought me here. As if someone had designed it."

"Maybe they did," Enma replied. "Or maybe the Leviathan dragged you to your fate."

He didn't answer. But he smiled slightly.

His Shinkon hadn't manifested yet. But everyone in the room felt something.

Something ancient.

Something that had slumbered in the depths of the ocean.

---

Night finally fell.

The sky above Kinzoku no Hana filled with stars, and with them began the third stage of the event.

Rumors spoke of ruleless combat, of secrets revealed, of prizes with no form—only cost.

One by one, those who knew—and those who shouldn't—began to move.

Donyoku, dressed in dark clothing, came down with Chisiki, Aika, and Bokusatsu.

Though he felt better, a warning echoed in his mind:

"If I push too hard... my body might not hold."

But still, he walked.

Because his duty was stronger than his fear.

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Yodaku spoke with an old vendor—one of the few brave enough to answer with wit.

"Are you familiar with... private events?" Yodaku asked in a low voice.

"Around this time, there's always something going on under the table... but I couldn't say more."

Yodaku leaned in.

"I suggest you remember. Because if you waste my time..."

The man gulped.

"They say... there's an arena, underground.

No food is sold there. Only truths. Blood. And silence."

Yodaku smiled.

"Perfect."

---

That night, under a star-covered sky, not only would the doors of the coliseum open...

But so would the doors to truths that should've never seen the light.

Thank you for reading this chapter of Chi no Yakusoku. If you enjoyed it, don't forget to follow for the next step in this dark blood-bound vow.