The next morning, after resting in the cave, they set off again. The mist clung stubbornly between the trees, as if the whispers of the night still lingered in the air. Kurotaka silently led the way toward Shinkou. Rei was walking on her own now — pale, but strength had returned to her steps.
As they ventured deeper into the forest, they encountered several small demon groups. The creatures' fur gave off a strange rasping noise — that bizarre, grating sound — always signaling their approach. Thanks to that, none of the ambushes came as a surprise. During one such skirmish, just as it seemed they were gaining the upper hand, a demon lunged at Kuroda from the side.
Kuroda fell backward, and the sword in his hand — Daiki's blade — flew from his grip and landed out of reach. He reached for it in vain. The demon pounced, but Kuroda didn't hesitate: he rolled to his side and instinctively grabbed the hilt of the ancient sword strapped across his back.
The blade slid free as if it already knew what it had to do. With a single, curved motion, he struck — and the demon fell, hissing, its body dissolving into smoke. The sword's hilt glowed a deep crimson, as if forged from blood, and the blade itself gleamed like the deepest shadow of the night. But what truly shocked the others: as Haruki rushed forward to help his friend up, a faint blue light flickered along the blade's edge.
Runes. Tiny demonic symbols, barely visible before, now shimmered with blue light — as though some ancient knowledge had awakened within them.
Kurotaka shuddered. Not physically — but Haruki could feel it. Deep inside, the spirit that lived within him had trembled. A cold sensation spread through his veins — familiar, yet alien. The dragon was afraid.
Haruki only glanced at him for a second, but he already knew: Kurotaka feared this sword. Not the blade itself, not Kuroda — but the power the weapon represented. Something no one fully understood… but somewhere deep inside, the dragon remembered.
"Are you alright?" Haruki asked quietly.
Kurotaka didn't respond. But the tremble within remained.
After the demonic attack, silence finally settled among the trees. The fog still hadn't lifted — in fact, it seemed denser than before. The group retreated to an abandoned clearing, sitting on scattered stones as they tried to recover their strength. The remaining roasted rabbit was slowly eaten. Though none of them were full, the warm food eased the tension just enough.
Haruki rubbed his hand, injured in the fight, and glanced at Kuroda, who sat silently. The sword with the blood-red hilt rested beside him. The glowing runes on the blade had faded.
Kurotaka's voice whispered inside Haruki's mind.
"Ask him. Where did that sword come from?"
Haruki nodded slightly, then spoke carefully.
"Kuroda… that sword you used earlier… where did it come from?"
Kuroda turned toward them, fatigue in his eyes — but the question seemed to pull him back to the present.
"It's… an ancient family heirloom," he said slowly. "We've guarded it for generations. It hasn't been used in ages. My father told me to only draw it in dire need… And now… I don't know why, but… I felt like I had to. Like something inside me was pulling me toward it."
Kurotaka remained silent, but Haruki could feel the spirit's unease. It wasn't just curiosity — something deeper, something ancient had stirred.
"When you touched it, the runes started glowing," Haruki noted. "I've never seen anything like that."
Kuroda shook his head.
"Neither have I. But when I struck with it… it didn't feel like I was the one controlling it. It felt like the sword itself wanted to finish the blow."
The wind stirred, and Haruki could feel Kurotaka's presence waver again.
"This sword… is no ordinary weapon," Kurotaka said at last — not just in Haruki's mind now, but aloud, his voice echoing with the strength of the dragon spirit. "I can feel the pulse of demonic magic within it. An ancient curse clings to it — a power not forged by human hands."
Kuroda looked up sharply.
"You're saying… demonic?"
"Perhaps even more," Kurotaka answered darkly. "It was forged to slay dragons. Whoever strikes with it wounds not just flesh and blood. The runes glow in the presence of dragon blood—or a dragon spirit. It's no coincidence I started trembling the moment I saw it."
Haruki asked quietly, seriously:
"Then… is it dangerous to you?"
"Yes. And maybe not just to me. This sword… it could even be used against Akumaru. If it truly came from the demons, but is no longer in their hands… then it's a threat to them."
Silence settled over them. Kuroda said nothing, only stared at the weapon as if seeing it for the first time.
Haruki gripped his reaping blade tightly. The alliance forming between them had taken on a new shade—because now they knew that they carried one of the enemy's most devastating weapons.
And still, the mist didn't lift.
The silence between them was heavier than before. Only the fog whispered through the trees, as if it carried a secret none of them yet understood.
Kurotaka slowly stepped forth from Haruki's body, his translucent form seeming to be made of light and memory. For a moment, all eyes turned to him—not with fear, but with reverence. Yet the dragon spirit's expression was grim.
"You must know something," he began, his voice deep and almost ceremonial. "During the Demon Wars, it wasn't just four dragons who stood against them. We were hundreds. Guardians, hunters, sages… my kin. And still… in the end, only four of us remained."
Rei's eyes widened.
"Hundreds…?"
Haruki listened tensely. Kuroda was motionless, his hand unconsciously resting on the sword's hilt.
"The demons gave the humans weapons," Kurotaka continued. "Blades like this one. Forged from black steel, etched with demonic runes. These blades sensed the presence of dragons and drew power from our destruction—perhaps even from our blood. Thousands of such swords found their way into human hands… The demons told them: fight, kill the dragons who hide the true power from you. And the humans believed them."
A breeze stirred the trees. The mist did not retreat—it seemed to listen.
"The sword Kuroda carries is one of them," Kurotaka said. "His ancestors fought for the demons. They served them. They were given this blade, and with it, they spilled blood for a long time."
Haruki stared tensely at Kuroda, who neither moved nor spoke—he only nodded silently.
"But they betrayed the demons," Kuroda finally said softly. "Something changed in them. Or maybe… maybe they always knew they were on the wrong side. My grandfather used to tell me… our ancestors laid down the blade and guarded it for generations, but never used it. My father spoke of it as a sin—something that had to be atoned for."
Kurotaka nodded.
"That's why Gakurō warned us. He senses what this sword means. He knows that if you now wield it—not the demons—then this ancient weapon may be turned against its creators. And he knows your trust is still new. Fragile. One crack is all it takes to drive a wedge between you."
Haruki looked up quickly.
"You mean Gakurō's trying to break us apart? Using Kuroda's past to divide us?"
"Yes," the spirit replied. "Because now that the blade is no longer in the hands of the demons—but in the hands of someone who turned against them—it's become dangerous to them. Perhaps… even to Akumaru."
"Then…" Haruki barely whispered, "…we're using the demons' weapon against the demons."
Kuroda gave a bitter smile.
"Maybe that's the only way."
Kurotaka looked at Kuroda, serious but not hostile.
"That sword carries your past. But now, it also carries your present. The only question is—how will you use it?"
Silence returned. But now, it wasn't filled with fear alone—there was something else. Something ancient, awakening… and dangerous.
And somewhere deep in the mist, something stirred among the trees.
The battle had only just begun.
As they pressed deeper into the forest, the fog thickened until it became almost suffocating. A dense, blinding whiteness surrounded them, as if the sky itself had fallen to shroud what remained of the world. The trees cast warped shadows, and every sound bred suspicion. The demons had not relented.
Wave after wave attacked them—twisted creatures with sharp claws, eyes that leaked dark smoke, and that sinister, cracking voice they had all grown to hate. The fighting grew more exhausting. Legs grew heavy, arms slowed—but their blades still flashed. Now, each of the four held a sword—and that gave them strength.
Jinzou wielded his father's blade, the one Haruki and Daiki had inscribed with protective marks before Aokiri fell. Rei fought with Daiki's sword—awkwardly, but with a burning will, striking again and again. Kuroda's demonic blade blazed crimson with each swing, while Haruki's dragonblade shone with a blue light that pierced even the fog.
Climbing a hill, they suddenly stopped.
From the distance, a bell rang out.
A deep, dull chime that drifted through the mist like an ancient memory. The demons' shrieks fell silent among the trees. The bell tolled again—then another joined it, higher and more trembling.
Haruki froze.
"That's… two bells," he whispered, then said louder in disbelief, "That's not one… it's two!"
Rei's head snapped up.
"Shinkou?"
"Or maybe someone else…" Kuroda muttered, but Haruki wasn't listening.
The girl's eyes burned with anger. Her jaw clenched, her gaze fixed on the direction of the sound.
"How… how do they know to ring them?" she asked hoarsely. "How do they know this helps? Why… now?"
Kurotaka watched her in silence. This was Haruki's thought—Haruki's fury.
"Then why did they let Isanori fall?" Her voice cracked. "Why didn't they protect Aokiri? If they knew all along… if they knew the bells could stop the demons… why… why didn't they ring them?!"
No one answered. Because there was no answer.
The mist had swallowed the past, but the bell's sound brought a painful truth: someone had known—and still let the world burn.
In the silence, they found new resolve. They were no longer merely fleeing, no longer just surviving. Now, they had to reach Shinkou. They had to know the truth. Questions thundered in Haruki's heart, and the sword in her hand demanded answers.
As they moved, the bell grew louder. The fog seemed to recede before them. The demons, who had circled like shadows, now fell back—or dissolved into the whiteness.
Then Haruki gripped her blade and looked at the others.
"We all carry a weapon now," she said quietly. "We are no longer hunted. We are warriors now. For the truth. For the fallen. And for those who were betrayed."
No one spoke, but all understood: the war had truly begun.
And as they continued toward Shinkou, the bell rang again—but now it sounded as though it was calling them.
…as if someone, somewhere, had known something. And still, remained silent.
Haruki's fists clenched.
"Be careful, Haruki," she whispered. "Anger is a weapon too. But if you let it guide you… you may play into the demons' hands."
Haruki closed her eyes. For a moment, she just breathed. Deeply. Slower. The bell rang once more—this time clearer, deeper than before.
"Is this the end of our journey?" Rei asked softly, her voice laced with exhaustion and hope.
Kuroda slowly shook his head.
"No. It's just a new gate. Maybe to Shinkou. Maybe to something else. But one thing's certain—they're watching us now."
Haruki's eyes stared into the mist, as if she could see through it. Her thoughts were already far ahead—in the city she had never seen, in the bell that might have saved others, in the sword that could bring the end—or another ruin.
"Let's go," she said at last. "The bell is calling. And I want answers."
The group moved forward, one after another, silently. The mist gave way, reluctantly, like living tissue unveiling secrets. Their steps echoed dully on the damp earth, their swords swaying at their sides—like ancient memories now reborn with purpose.
And as they disappeared among the trees, the bell tolled again.
This time, its sound was no longer a summons alone.
It was a warning.
As the fog grew thicker and the number of demons seemed endless, Haruki turned to the group.
"Something is coming... and it won't be easy to survive."