Chapter 8: Before the fall of peace

The room was vast—spacious yet enclosed by a heavy stillness that wrapped around every breath. Shadows clung to the wooden beams overhead as if trying to retreat from the weight in the air. The tatami floor, smooth and flawless, reflected the golden hue of the hanging lanterns. At the far end of the chamber, scrolls bearing ancestral calligraphy and the proud insignia of the Hanzo clan decorated the walls—testaments of legacy and iron rule.

At the center of the low meeting table sat Lord Hanzo, Ryouma's father.

His back was straight, unmoving. One hand rested over the other calmly, but even that stillness carried an overwhelming presence. His gaze was cast downward, but no one dared mistake it for softness. No—his silence roared louder than any reprimand, and his posture held a weight that made even the air feel thick.

A storm beneath calm waters.

Around him, seated in a respectful semi-circle, were the clan's elders, high-ranking military generals, and two political advisers. Of the two Royal Commanders, only one was present—Commander Raiko was still away, deep in kuroi tani jungle, leading the expedition mission. The absent chair beside the present commander felt colder because of it. Everyone else either stood silently behind their seats or bowed slightly—caught between discipline and fear.

No one spoke.

No one dared to.

The deep silence in the room wasn't mere etiquette. It was fear. Respect. The kind of pressure that could only come from a man who had stood on battlefields drenched in blood, who had seen betrayal dressed in a smile, and who now sat quietly, fighting the storm inside his chest.

Elder's monologue (inner voice):

"His presence alone could crush a weaker man…"

It wasn't exaggeration. They all felt it.

Lord Hanzo's eyes slowly lifted—and the entire room seemed to brace itself. Still, he did not speak. Not yet.

It was as though the entire chamber was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to speak.

The atmosphere inside the Tenshogai High Council Hall felt more like a suffocating abyss than a chamber of strategy. The low flickering light from the incense lamps did little to soften the weight pressing down on everyone's shoulders. The wide, open room, lined with polished wood and adorned in traditional Japanese architecture, was normally a place of sacred judgment—but today, it felt like a shrine of reckoning.

Before Lord Hanzou sat a line of individuals, none of whom were ordinary by any means. And yet, each one stood with their heads slightly bowed, their backs stiff, their breathing measured.

Not from respect alone—

But from fear.

None dared to meet Hanzou's gaze directly. Not when his presence radiated such immense dominance. His shadow-like aura crept along the floor like liquid ink, distorting the edges of the room. His eyes—pure black and quietly glowing—pierced deeper than words could reach. The very air around him trembled with restrained pressure.

Elder's silent thought:

"If strength had a voice… it would be silence. Just like this."

At the front of the line stood the First Elder, Tsukihara Genmei — known throughout the land as Seigetsu no Kenja — The Silent Moon Sage. Cloaked in layered robes that whispered like falling leaves, he exuded ancient wisdom and silent observation.

Beside him, the Second Elder, Inogami Seiko, held her staff tightly. Shinga no Miko — The Hallowed Fang — she was once the feared huntress of the northern wilds. Her aura, though suppressed, pulsed with the instinct of a seasoned warrior priestess.

Fushimi Rengyo, the Third Elder, wore the calm demeanor of a strategist. Renchi no Okina — The Lotus Strategist. His folded arms and calculating gaze remained fixed on the scrolls near the table's edge, yet he never ignored a single twitch from Hanzou's fingers.

The last among the four, Elder Okane Rinko, stood quietly in flowing robes. She was Kazewatari no Miko — The Wind-Wandering Priestess, a traveler of realms and messenger between tribes. But even the wind seemed still in her presence now.

Behind them stood Second Royal Commander Sawatari Kenshin, Ryūrei no Ken — The Flowing Sword. His long hair tied neatly, posture upright, but tension flickered in his knuckles. He was one of the few who had faced Hanzou in training—and survived without shame. But even he was silent today.

Then came the four Generals of Tenshogai's Four Branches—

Each a giant in their own right:

Hoshigaki Goro, The Iron Wall Bear, arms crossed and breathing slow, like a mountain barely containing an earthquake.

Minamoto Riku, Storm Eagle, eyes narrowed like a hawk mid-dive, sharp and swift.

Tachibana Shun, Shadow Cutter, his presence barely perceptible, like a ghost trained to kill without sound.

Kagami Ren, Fang of Flame, whose cloak faintly shimmered, as if embers still clung to its edge from his last battle.

Even the two political advisers, known for their silver tongues and sharp minds, remained stone-faced:

Mikodo Tetsuya, The Thousand-Eyes Wisdom, his fan half-raised, as if shielding his thoughts from Hanzou's gaze.

Kurusu Ayame, The Ice Fox, expression unreadable, yet her hands trembled slightly behind her sleeves.

They all stood united, yet silently shaken.

For in that moment, with the shadow-colored aura pooling like a storm and Lord Hanzou's calm gaze locking forward, a single thought echoed in their minds:

"If this man had desired to rule the entire continent...

none of us would have survived to ask why."

Lord Hanzou remained seated at the head of the chamber, his shadowed aura flickering faintly like embers of restrained wrath. The silence in the room was suffocating—no one dared to meet his eyes for long.

From his seat to the right, the First Elder, Tsukihara Genmei, also known as Seigetsu no Kenja—The Silent Moon Sage—offered a slight bow, the corners of his lips lifting into a controlled, diplomatic smile. His voice, though calm, carried the careful weight of one threading between reverence and danger.

"Your Highness, congratulations on the birth of your child," he said with practiced courtesy.

Lord Hanzou's gaze remained forward, his voice low and measured.

"It's fine."

The silence deepened—heavier now, pressing against the walls like the calm before a storm. The flickering aura around him dimmed, yet the unease it exuded only grew stronger.

Genmei paused. Even with all his years of wisdom, he hesitated before continuing—each word selected with precision, yet layered with doubt.

"But… with all due respect, Your Highness," he said slowly, "the child is of illegitimate blood. Surely… you don't intend to consider him among the heirs?"

The words fell into the chamber like a blade dropped onto glass.

A close-up of Lord Hanzou's eyes—those cold, abyssal orbs—now shimmered faintly, not with anger... but something far more dangerous. A quiet, growing pressure filled the air, as if the room itself had begun to bend beneath the weight of his will.

Around the table, the elders exchanged wary glances. Even the hardened generals stirred uneasily. None dared to speak—not yet.

Every soul in the room understood: they had just stepped on sacred ground.

The word "child" lingered in the air, colder than steel. It wasn't just a choice of language—it was a declaration.

Lord Hanzou understood it immediately.

They refused to call him "Young Master."

They had no intention of accepting Ryouma as one of their own.

Though no muscle moved on his face, though no flicker of his power lashed out, a sharp pulse of heat surged quietly beneath his skin.

So, they've drawn the line.

His fingers, resting against the carved lion armrest of the throne-like chair, tightened ever so slightly—just enough for a faint crack to splinter through the polished wood.

Inside, he could feel it—the slow burn of wrath rising. Not the loud, explosive kind, but the silent kind—the kind that waited.

How dare they question me here—now—within these walls?

He had come not to argue, but to declare. And yet, these men… they sought to test his will?

But no.

Not yet.

This chamber was not the battlefield. It was a theatre of masks.

So Lord Hanzou swallowed the rising fire, burying it beneath layers of composure like an emperor sheathing his sword in court. His face remained cold, unreadable—a still sea with a storm brewing deep beneath.

He offered no reply.

The silence that followed said more than any outburst could.

The elders remained still, but some of them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Even without a word, they could feel it: Lord Hanzou had not dismissed the comment… he had memorized it.

And debts like that…

Were always repaid.