The sky over Kyoto bled smoke and memory. Where once the temple stood, a scorched skeleton remained, still hissing embers into the dusk. The scent of sacred wood and burnt prayer scrolls lingered in the wind as Ishikawa limped down the hillside, bloodied and half-conscious. His coat was torn, Kurasa shattered and slung across his back like a broken promise.
Asaki and Sayaka supported him between them, every step a grunt of agony.
Yumi walked ahead in silence. Her bare feet left seared patches in the grass. Even the wind avoided her. Around her, the air shimmered as if fire whispered beneath her skin.
No one dared speak to her—not since she screamed in a voice not her own. Not since flames crowned her hair and the ruined temple wept fire.
They traveled until stars emerged, distant and unfeeling. The road curved around a low valley, where the soft light of a village flickered below. Smoke rose there too.
"Another fire?" Asaki asked, wiping sweat from her brow.
Sayaka squinted. "Too still. Not a fire. A memory."
They descended in silence. When they reached the village, it was already a grave.
Homes stood hollowed, the doors blasted open. Ash clung to every surface. The silence was not peaceful—it was a silence thick with absence.
Black flower petals drifted on the wind.
Ishikawa staggered forward. He knelt before a burned shrine and picked up a single petal.
"Kurohana," he muttered. "The Black Flower Rebellion."
Asaki frowned. "I thought they were a myth."
Sayaka shook her head. "No. They were real. An offshoot of phoenix sects, twisted by hatred. They believe divine bloodlines are a curse. That the gods must be buried, not worshiped."
Yumi walked into the center of the village. She stopped in front of a collapsed home. There, pinned to a charred post, was a strip of parchment. She did not speak. She didn't need to.
Asaki took it and read aloud.
> We will free the land from gods and ghosts.
Her grip tightened. "This... this is about Yumi, isn't it?"
Sayaka said nothing.
Behind them, Ishikawa coughed blood into his hand. His fingers trembled.
> The gods never die. Only their vessels change.
Shun's words echoed through his skull, dragging shadows behind every thought.
He looked at Yumi—standing perfectly still, eyes half-closed. Her arms hung limp, but her shadow danced like flame in the moonlight.
He remembered Tomoie. Her voice, sharp and fierce. Her blade. Her warmth.
And then her scream. Her final scream.
He remembered the fire that took her.
And now, this girl—this quiet child of embers—stood where Tomoie once stood. But not as her daughter.
As something else. Something older.
Sayaka approached Yumi slowly. "You should rest. You haven't eaten."
Yumi turned her head. For a second, Sayaka saw golden eyes—not warm, not human. Then they dimmed, and Yumi nodded.
That night, they made camp at the village's edge. No one dared enter the homes. The dead were gone, but the quiet clung to the walls like soot.
Yumi slept beside the ashes of a tree. Asaki kept watch.
Flames stirred in the child's breath. The ground beneath her blackened. In her sleep, she whispered words in an ancient tongue. The wind curled around her, tasting ash and memory.
Asaki looked to Ishikawa. He sat alone by the broken shrine, holding Kurasa's hilt.
"Is she going to burn us too?" Asaki asked.
Ishikawa didn't answer. Not for a long time.
Then: "Only if we let her burn alone."
---
At dawn, a crow perched atop the shrine. It dropped another black petal and flew away.
Sayaka followed the crow's path with her gaze. "We need to move. The Kurohana won't stop. Not now."
Ishikawa stood with effort. He sheathed the shattered sword. "Then we go east. Toward the monastery at Hino. There's someone there who might know what Yumi is becoming."
Yumi stirred behind them. She opened her eyes.
The earth smoldered where she had slept.
No one spoke of the heat.
But all of them felt it—rising.
Inside her.
Around them.
And in the path ahead, where gods and ghosts would not go quietly.
To be continued