The world felt different.
A pale gray light filtered through shattered stained-glass windows, painting fractured colors on the crumbling pillars of the cathedral. Dust hung heavy in the air, and the smell of damp stone filled Raizen's nostrils. He knelt on cold marble, the weight of centuries pressing on his shoulders like an iron shroud. Memories flickered at the edges of his mind: the cheers of the crowd, the warmth of Emiko's hand, the roar of the blade as it descended on him. Then—nothing.
He opened his eyes. His vision was blurry at first, but as he let his gaze wander, the ruined hall came into focus. Broken pews lay strewn across the floor, shattered from some long-forgotten battle; weavings of vines twisted through shattered masonry. Even the very roof had collapsed in places, letting in droplets of rain that fell onto the moss-covered floor. Each drop hissed against the ancient stone, as though whispering a challenge to the one who had awoken.
Raizen struggled to his feet, every muscle protesting with agony and rusted stiffness. He looked down at his body: his frame was intact, unscarred by age or decay. Not a single wrinkle marred the skin of his face; his black hair still fell straight, unhindered by time. And strapped to his side, as if it had been waiting, was the cursed blade—Shinketsu. Its red-veined hilt pulsed faintly, as though it drew sustenance from his very heartbeat.
For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain whether to grasp it. But then, like a dark melody stirring at the back of his mind, the blade called to him: Feed me… and I shall feed you power.
His hand curled around the leather-bound hilt.
At once, a surge of cold thunder washed through him. He gasped for breath as a torrent of memories—fragments of the past three hundred years—flashed before his eyes: battles, kings rising and falling, the land transforming under layers of politics and deceit. He saw the line of betrayers ascending to power, generation after generation, each one wearing his legend like a cloak to inspire loyalty in the people, all while they twisted his sacrifice into myth and half-truth. And always, in the background, a spectral echo of his own execution: rain-slicked courtyard, the raised blade, and the final rasp of his voice as he vowed vengeance.
Raizen's pulse quickened. He shook his head, as if to clear these intrusive visions, but they clung, accusing and relentless.
A low rumble echoed through the vaulted ceiling. More rain began to pour, drumming on the broken windows and splattering across the floor. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the sting of the cold water sharpen his senses. His body, though momentarily heavy with shock, felt alive again—hungrier than it had ever been.
Memories of betrayal flared within him: Emiko's cold confession, Takeshi's unreadable eyes, the final thud of the executioner's blade. The feeling was primal now, a fire igniting at the core of his being. He sheathed Shinketsu and tested his legs. He could move—run, fight, die no more. The curse of immortality had anchored itself to his flesh, binding him to the world he once served but that had betrayed him.
A single thought crystallized: Survive.
---
He left the cathedral just as the rain began to dissipate. Outside, the land was unrecognizable. Once, this cathedral had stood at the heart of the old capital—tall spires gleaming like polished bone beneath the sun. Now it lay in silent ruin, half-swallowed by nature's reclaiming grip. Towering trees had rooted themselves where marble once stood; vines snaked across broken walls. The nearby town—if it still existed—would likely be little more than scorched wood and shattered hopes.
Raizen wandered through the overgrown courtyard, his boots slipping on the moss-laden stones. Each step was a testament to his new existence: unbound by mortality, yet bound to a destiny he barely understood. He pressed his fingers to his neck, feeling the pulse of the curse thrumming beneath his skin. Every ounce of fear drained away, leaving only a cold resolve.
"Find the betrayers."
The blade's voice had faded, but its promise hung in his mind like a death knell. He needed to know what had become of Takeshi Arakida and Emiko Tsukihana. Were they still alive? Did they rule with the same callous smiles he remembered? Or had they fallen as all mortal rulers eventually do? Questions he could not yet answer.
Dark clouds gathered overhead, and he knew he could not stay exposed for long. He turned toward what remained of the western road—a cracked path that wound into the forested valley beyond. If his instincts were correct, this road led toward smaller settlements, places where he might gather news or at least find food and clothing. He had goods on his person—his ceremonial robe, now ragged from centuries underground—but nothing that could pass for anything more than relic. And so, he kept walking, ignoring the creeping ache in his limbs.
---
Hours later, he reached a small village—Ashvale, as a chipped sign revealed. Five wooden houses clustered around a stagnant pond, and a handful of villagers moved about in the dim afternoon light. They wore drab clothes of gray and brown, eyes wary as they noticed a stranger drenched and disheveled making his way through their main thoroughfare.
Raizen paused at the edge of the village. He studied the faces of the villagers: their hollow expressions, the lines etched by hardship. No one greeted him; children peered from behind shutters, and elders whispered among themselves. They did not know his legend. To them, he was only a bedraggled man with rags and a mysterious sword. But he sensed something else in their fearful gazes—a reverence for someone or something beyond his understanding. An unspoken dread of powers they could not explain.
He pulled his hood over his head and approached the nearest shop—a small stall where a middle-aged woman sold dried fish and coarse bread. He crouched beside it and watched her. Her eyes flicked to his sword, then back to her wares. She frowned.
"You're not from around here," she said, voice low.
Raizen nodded, speaking in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. "I have… nowhere to go."
"Hungry?" Her eyes narrowed, but a flicker of pity softened her expression. "Take this." She tossed a small loaf of bread at him. "But you owe me."
He caught it instinctively. "Name?"
"Lina."
Raizen bowed his head. "Thank you, Lina."
He retreated to a sheltered alcove beneath a collapsed cart. There, he tore into the bread, devouring it in three quick bites. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, reminding him that despite his curse, his body still obeyed certain rules. He drained the small waterskin he found at his belt—its liquid warm and foul.
As he ate, a group of guards on patrol entered the village—three men in tarnished armor, swords sheathed at their sides. Their tabards bore the crest of the Kingdom of Varlian: a golden hawk grasping a blood-red chalice. Raizen stiffened. His eyes narrowed. The crest was unfamiliar, but the name—Varlian—stirred something in his mind. He recalled a distant ancestor of Takeshi: a general who had served under Queen Emiko's line, one of the earliest betrayers to seize power after Raizen's death.
He slipped the sword free of its sheath and crept into the shadow of a wooden beam. The guards marched in single file, boots sloshing through muddy puddles. Their leader—a tall man with a scar across his cheek—paused by Lina's stall.
"Anything of interest here?" the leader asked, voice laced with arrogance.
Lina looked up at him, eyes defiant but afraid. "Just food and water, sir. No travelers came through."
The guard snorted, then spat on the ground. "Keep your eyes open. Someone saw a strange man lurking near the old cathedral. Could be a rebel."
"Rebels?" Lina's face paled. "Who…"
"Quiet." The guard turned and gestured to his men. "Let's move on."
They strode away, leaving Raizen's heart pounding. Rebel. He had not expected the word to still exist after three centuries. He knew there was always someone who fought against oppressive rule—he had once been one himself, rallying people against dark forces. But this? A ragged group in a village so small that no greater power cared to keep a constant guard.
He let the guards reach the edge of the village before he stepped out from the shadows. Lina watched him with wide eyes, uncertain.
"That was… dangerous," she whispered.
Raizen glanced at her. "Where do these guards go next?"
She hesitated. "Patrol north along the river. If they see you, they'll realize you're armed. They'll arrest you."
He nodded, sheathing Shinketsu so its outline would not betray him. "Thank you, Lina."
She frowned. "You can stay here tonight, but I warn you: most folk will show you the door tomorrow."
Raizen's expression remained impassive as he replied, "I will leave at dawn."
---
That night, he found shelter in a barn at the outskirts of Ashvale. An old farmer reluctantly offered him a corner to rest in exchange for an extra loaf of bread. Raizen lay on damp hay, listening to the distant hoot of an owl and the drip-drip of leftover rain outside. His thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea.
He thought about the world above—the kingdoms that now rose from the ashes of Elaria. Five great realms, each ruled by the bloodline of the betrayers. Each one celebrating the myth of Raizen's sacrifice as a founding legend, singing songs of how he died to protect them. None told the truth of why he died: at the hands of the queen and the man he called brother.
He closed his eyes, willing the memories to recede to the edges of his mind. But they pressed on him, each fragment a blade twisting in his heart. He saw Emiko's silver hair as she signed his arrest warrant. He saw Takeshi's eyes—hard, distant—when he claimed the crown. And he heard the people's cheers, believing they were free, never knowing they served a lie built on his blood.
A dull ache lulled him into a fitful half-sleep. He dreamed of fire—flames dancing across an endless battlefield, petals raining from the sky like crimson snow. He saw himself standing alone, the cursed blade in his hand, its edge glinting with promise. And then the vision shifted: a tide of black water rose around him, washing away everything he had once loved.
He jolted awake, sweat matting his hair. The moon had shifted in the sky; dawn was still hours away. He rose and stepped outside the barn, breathing deeply. The world was silent, except for the rasp of the wind through nearby trees.
Beside a small fire pit, he knelt and drew Shinketsu from its worn leather scabbard. The blade's red veins pulsed with life. Raizen stared at it, feeling its hunger. He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of the blade. If he was to survive—and if he was to enact his vengeance—he needed to test its edge once more.
He whispered a name: Takeshi Arakida. The blade responded with a faint hum. He felt power tugging at his arm—an urge to kill, to slake the blade's thirst with blood. His breath slowed; the world around him grew still, as though he had been sucked into a void of absolute focus.
A voice echoed in his mind, colder than the night air:
> "Find the blood of the false king. Feed me his kin."
Raizen's lips curved into something that resembled a smile—though his face stayed as unreadable as ever. Soon. He would find Takeshi. But first, he needed to grow stronger.
He scanned the horizon. In the distance, the faint outlines of a watchtower stood sentinel over the valley. Likely a small outpost belonging to the Varlian guards. If they retained the same structure from his legends, it housed a lieutenant and a handful of soldiers. He could kill them easily—yet not for their blood, but to test the blade's potency in this new age.
He slipped into the shadows and headed toward the watchtower. The dew-soaked grass brushed against his legs, and his boots left no prints. He was a ghost—no longer human, no longer bound by mortality. But as he approached, he realized that if he struck too soon, rumors would spread. He could not yet draw attention to himself, not until he had grown accustomed to this resurrected world. He needed to be patient.
He paused where the watchtower's dirt path split into two—one leading deeper into the forest, the other climbing a rocky incline. He chose the forest path, vanishing into a thicket of trees. The blade was sheathed once more, its hum quieted but present beneath his fingertips. He found a small clearing where he knelt and tested broad strokes of air. Each movement was precise, as if he remembered how to wield a blade—even after three hundred years.
Suddenly, a rustle of leaves to his right. He froze. A figure emerged: a young man, maybe twenty years old, dressed in patched leather, bow slung across his back. His eyes widened at the sight of Raizen. He raised his hands in a hesitant greeting.
"Traveler?" the youth asked, voice trembling. "You lost?"
Raizen said nothing. He studied the boy: dark hair plastered against his forehead, cheeks sunken from hunger, life etched in the lines around his mouth. He held a hunting knife loosely at his waist.
The youth swallowed. "You… you're that man from the legends, aren't you? The hero of Elaria?"
Raizen's eyes—once gray—flared crimson. The boy's face drained of color. "I… I didn't mean… I thought you were gone… We all thought you were dead."
Raizen inclined his head slightly. "I am not dead."
The boy stumbled back, dropping his knife. "S-sorry, sir. I shouldn't have—"
With alarming speed, Raizen stepped forward. The boy's eyes darted between Raizen's face and the sword at his hip. Fear froze him. Raizen reached out, closing the distance in a heartbeat. He paused when his hand hovered above the boy's shoulder.
"Tell me," Raizen said quietly. "What do they call me now?"
The youth stammered, "They… they speak of you as Obsidian Wraith—the ghost who roams the old kingdom's ruins. Some say you were a merciless spirit. Others… a false hero who died for nothing."
Raizen's jaw tightened, but he released the boy, stepping back. "And the kingdoms?" he asked.
"The five kingdoms—Varlian, Meridon, Cassan, Ebonfall, and Solrine. Each… each worships your legend, but twist it to their own colors. They say the Witch Queen's blade—your blade—remains cursed, that it kills any mortal who dares draw it."
Raizen nodded. This was enough. He sheathed Shinketsu and turned away. The boy watched, uncertain. "Wait—sir, please! I can guide you to the last known keep of the Arakida bloodline. Lord Takeshi's kin live near Lake Sadako. I… I can lead you there."
A flicker of something—pleasure?—ignited in Raizen's chest. Yet he said nothing. He walked past the boy, leaving him blinking in the dim light.
---
By dawn's edge, Raizen found himself at the shores of Lake Sadako. Mist clung to the water, swirling like revenant spirits. On the opposite bank, a fortress rose—stone walls blackened by age, towers jagged and cold against the morning sky. A crimson banner with the hawk-and-chalice crest snapped in the wind. This was refuge to the Arakida scions.
He approached the water's edge. A single guard—a youth no older than the one in the forest—stood watch. Raizen noted the boy's golden-brown eyes, the nervous way he clutched his spear. The guard's gaze lifted, and recognition crossed his face.
"Obsidian Wraith!" the guard gasped, nearly dropping his spear. "Turn back! You're no match for—"
Raizen took two steps forward. The guard's color drained. "Shut up," Raizen said, his voice cold as grave soil. In a blur, he drew Shinketsu. The blade sang as it slid free, severing the guard's throat before he could breathe a second word. The youth's eyes bulged in shock; life spilled across wet stones. The guard collapsed in a crimson arc.
Raizen stepped over the body and entered the courtyard. The fortress gates stood open, but inside, two more guards waited—both armored and wary. One raised a horn to sound the alarm. Raizen's response was swift: in a single motion, he thrust Shinketsu forward. The blade pierced the first guard's midsection; the second fell under a brutal slash. Blood sprayed across their breastplates, and their cries echoed through the courtyard even as the blade drank deep.
Raizen stood alone amidst the fallen, chest heaving as the crimson light in his eyes dimmed to a smolder. Shinketsu pulsed, as though satisfied. The courtyard was deathly silent. Beyond the walls, the distant cry of an eagle—perhaps a sentinel of the hawk's crest.
He wiped the blade on the ground, then sheathed it. No triumph swelled in his chest—only a grim calm. He had taken the first steps of vengeance. These guards were mere pawns, but their blood tasted sweeter than memory. He turned toward the fortress gate.
Inside, the keep's corridors were cold and empty. Portraits of Arakida ancestors lined the walls: men in proud armor, faces stern and commanding. Raizen's gaze flicked to their haloes of gold—false halos, bonuses bestowed by the crown to every portrait. None bore resemblance to his fallen self.
Footsteps sounded behind him—soldiers alerted by the alarm horns. He whirled and engaged them without hesitation: blade flashing, striking with lethal precision. Their bodies fell like broken dolls, blood pooling around their feet. One soldier, wounded and crawling, watched Raizen with eyes filled with unsteady terror.
"Why…?" he gasped.
Raizen pressed Shinketsu's hilt into the soldier's chest. "Because you breed betrayal," he said softly. The soldier's last breath left him in a shudder.
---
Raizen reached the throne room—a grand chamber with vaulted ceilings and banners that proclaimed the Arakida's dominion over Varlian. Pillars carved with hawks in mid-screech supported the weight of a balcony above, where nobles might once have observed royal audiences.
He found Takeshi Arakida there, seated on a throne of black marble. His hair had grayed with age, and a crown of iron perched proudly atop his head. He looked far different from the man Raizen had once known—older, hardened, but still possessing the same sharp countenance. Smoke from a hearth rose behind him, casting his long shadow across the dais.
Between them lay a moment of suspended time. Takeshi's eyes widened, then narrowed into cold calculation. The lords and ladies behind him scattered like frightened birds, leaving the king alone with this revenant.
"Raizen," Takeshi said, voice low but measured, as though addressing a long-lost student. "I wondered… if you would return."
Raizen's eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. He advanced without haste. "You wonder?" he repeated. "After all you did, you dare wonder?"
Takeshi rose, unhurried, stepping down from the dais to meet him face to face. He held no sword—only his regal robes and a hilted dagger dangling at his side. "You were a hero—once. You saved Varlian from the Dragon Swarm. You conquered the Shadow King. You were the cornerstone of this kingdom." Takeshi's gaze did not waver. "But you allowed legend to consume you. You became a symbol. I simply took what was offered to me."
Raizen's jaw clenched. He remembered the day Emiko had whispered: You would become a god. Her words echoed in his mind. Now I have returned—not as a god, but as a curse.
With a sudden motion, Raizen drew Shinketsu. Takeshi's eyes flicked to the blade—then hardened. He drew his dagger.
They circled each other, two predators sizing up one another. Takeshi lunged first, swinging the dagger with practiced grace; Raizen blocked easily. The clash of steel rang through the throne room. In a blur, Raizen countered with a horizontal slash. Takeshi barely twisted aside, the blade slicing a shallow gash across his armor.
Takeshi sprang back and retreated several paces, assessing Raizen with a mixture of awe and hatred. "I gave you everything—and you return to kill me?"
Raizen's reply was a whisper: "I return to bury you." He lunged again, strikes coming faster than sight. Takeshi parried and evaded, but blood began to seep through his robes as Raizen's strike grazed his shoulder. Sparks flew as dagger met cursed steel; each clash sent resonant shockwaves across the chamber.
"Takeshi!" a voice cried from the balcony. A young noble—Takeshi's granddaughter—peered down in horror. "Grandfather! Stop!"
Raizen used the distraction to his advantage. He leaped onto one of the ornate pillars, using its height to deliver a downward strike aimed at Takeshi's helm. Takeshi barely raised his dagger in time; the blade deflected Shinketsu's edge, but the force of impact sent him sprawling backward against the throne. He crashed to the ground, blood seeping from multiple wounds.
Raizen landed beside him, the cursed blade gleaming crimson with anticipation. Takeshi looked up, defiance sparking in his eyes. "You… you dishonor our line," he rasped. "You were supposed to be our champion."
Raizen knelt, placing Shinketsu's point gently against Takeshi's throat. "Your line is forged from betrayal, Arakida. You feast on my legend, but you never understood me." He paused, his voice becoming softer, almost regretful. "This ends now."
Takeshi closed his eyes. The last shred of life drained from his face. His body went limp. The moment the blade sliced through his throat, a dark whisper slithered through Raizen's skull: Power… stronger… more blood. The blade's hunger grew.
Raizen stood, breathing heavily. Silence reigned, broken only by the ragged hiss of wind through shattered windows and the gentle drip of rain from the broken ceiling. He gazed at Takeshi's body, at the stain of blood spreading across the marble floor. Then he turned his gaze to the banner overhead: the golden hawk clutching the red chalice, wilting in the dim light.
His eyes, once cold, now burned with an otherworldly intensity. He lifted Shinketsu and held it aloft. "I have fed you," he murmured to the blade. "But this is only a beginning."
---
Betrayal's descendants lie in wait across the five kingdoms.
He would hunt them all—one by one.
As he left the throne room, the sun broke through the clouds, casting a single ray of light across Takeshi's corpse. Within that beam, no monarch lay—only a fallen man whose treachery had marked the end of an era.
Raizen strode through the fortress gates, leaving death in his wake. Behind him, the bodies of guards and nobles lay scattered, terrifying proof that the Forsaken Hero walked anew. Outside, the grass was slick with morning dew, and the air smelled of earth and sorrow.
He did not look back.
Ahead lay a war-ravaged empire, built upon the bones of the truly righteous. He would bear the curse of immortality as a blade against them all.
And as he vanished into the mists of Lake Sadako, his whisper carried on the wind:
> "I once died for this kingdom. Now I'll bury it."