Blood on the Lips of the Firefly

"The firefly's glow is a lie—a flicker that hides the abyss beneath."

— Letter from Hotaru no Yakusha

---

Shindō's breath came shallow as he stared at the bloodied firefly jar in his hands.

The faint blue light pulsed like a dying heartbeat, fragile and desperate.

Outside, the night pressed in—cold, silent, watching.

Yuuki's voice cut through the dark, steady and certain.

"Every light casts a shadow, Shindō. Remember that."

He wanted to ask what kind of shadow they were dealing with.

But the answer was already bleeding through the cracks of his soul.

---

Footsteps approached.

Not hurried. Not panicked.

Purposeful.

From the darkness emerged a figure cloaked in midnight, face obscured beneath a deep hood.

The air shifted—tense, electric.

"You carry Hotaru's token," the stranger said, voice like smoke and steel.

"And you think you can defy the inevitable."

Shindō's grip tightened on his nodachi.

"I don't defy. I survive."

The stranger smiled—a thin slash of darkness.

"And survival requires sacrifice."

---

The moment shattered into chaos—steel clashing, shadows swirling.

Shindō moved like a tempest, each strike a symphony of violence.

But this was no ordinary fight.

The stranger's blade whispered secrets—darkness made flesh.

Yuuki's chant rose above the clash, a fragile shield against the encroaching void.

---

When silence fell, the stranger was gone, leaving behind only a single black feather.

Shindō's eyes burned with cold fire.

This was war.

And it had just begun.