Xzavier stood in a field of golden clouds, barefoot, his clothes fluttering in a wind that carried no sound.
Before him stood Jiyū—not the wolf pup that curled at his side in training, but a colossal beast of divine presence. Golden fur shimmered like a thousand suns, eyes glowing with Sacred energy, and from its back stretched two radiant wings that pulsed with ethereal life.
"Where are we?" Xzavier asked, looking around.
"Not where," the wolf's voice echoed, deep and ancient. "When. This is the before. This is the after. This is the truth buried in your soul."
Xzavier furrowed his brow. "Truth?"
Jiyū stepped closer. "You carry more than me, Xzavier. The Golden Sacred Eyes are not your only gift. Deep within you sleeps something even older… the blade born from the Primordial Light."
Xzavier shook his head. "Blade? What are you talking about?"
Jiyū's voice grew solemn. "You'll understand soon… but be warned: they all want it. Even your enemies. Especially… Gimori."
Before Xzavier could respond, the dream collapsed in a flash of white light.
---
He woke with a sharp breath. The storm outside had passed, but tension still clung to the air.
Standing at his door was Sensei Gara, cloaked and stern as ever, holding a sealed letter.
"This came for you," Gara said. "No name… no sender. But something about it feels… off."
Xzavier took the letter. His eyes scanned the elegant script:
> Xzavier Shishiroma,
The Demon Tower calls for those who seek power, truth, and purpose. I offer you a path, one that may explain the beast within you and the blade you unknowingly protect. Come alone. The answers lie at the summit.
— G
"Gimori…" Xzavier whispered.
Gara leaned in. "You don't have to go."
"I know," Xzavier said, already packing his things. "But I want to."
Before leaving, he made one stop—at the blacksmith. He had questions about a blade he didn't yet understand… and a feeling it might soon awaken.
---
Elsewhere, in the dim-lit quarters of the Crimson Division…
Yagumi's eyes flared open.
The dream still lingered in his mind: Gimori, dead at his feet… his cursed blade in Yagumi's hand… the throne of the damned beneath him.
He sat up slowly, voice low and venomous.
"You know what… Maybe I should just be the strongest. This world doesn't need Gimori Aku no. This world doesn't need Xzavier Shishiroma. I'll just have to kill them both and claim my spot in the history books."
His thoughts were cut off by a bang—his cabin door thrown open.
A faceless instructor tossed a letter at him with disdain. "From the Demon Tower. Probably another test."
Yagumi opened it and read:
> Yagumi Takashi,
There is a throne no man has claimed, a demon no man has tamed. Come to the Demon Tower. Let us see if your ambition burns brighter than your blood.
— Gimori
Yagumi smirked.
"Perfect," he whispered.
He packed his blades, his cloak, and one last vial of crimson essence—then stepped out into the wilderness, his Reaper Eyes simmering with resolve.
---
Two destinies. One trap.
Both unaware that Gimori Aku no, the shadow of legends, had orchestrated the whole thing.
He didn't want peace. He didn't even want war.
He wanted blood.
And soon, he would have the two greatest weapons of the age—one born of Sacred Light.
The other, forged in cursed death.
And then, Gimori would become god.