Smoke rose from the far quarter of District 13. Not from fire, but from forges—ten of them, each fueled by salvaged coal and repurposed wind-cranks from the mountain tribes. Men and women who once fought over rotten scraps were now hammering steel under the guidance of Daeseok, the copper-armed engineer. Each blade forged had a simple etching at its base:
陽, the old Kan script for "Sunlight."
"Don't brand them," Kaito warned. "Let the power speak through function, not flag."
Daeseok looked up from his schematics. "Then how do you plan to protect them from flags of other men?"
Kaito walked past the roaring furnace. "With debt. Loyalty earned through bread, not banners."
But even as he spoke the words, a growing pressure pulled in his lungs—a weight coiling beneath the calm. The Church hadn't struck back. Not yet. But silence was never mercy. Silence was preparation.
And that silence broke the next morning.
Two men in white cloaks arrived outside the school. They carried gilded rods and parchments bearing silver seals. No escort. No armor. Just the poise of those who believed no blade would dare strike them.
They stood before the new school bell—melted from old chains. Children gathered near the window bars, whispering.
Kaito arrived moments later. He didn't bring Jiroh or Seina. Just himself, and the cloak made from the cloth of the dead quarter.
"Lord Kaito Arase," one of the men said. He was tall, thin, and old enough that his knuckles resembled gnarled roots. "I am Hwan Saejin, Registrar of the Temple of Ancestral Blood."
The other, younger and with gold-painted irises, remained silent.
"Registrar?" Kaito asked. "Didn't realize education required divine bookkeeping."
Saejin ignored the jab. "You've built an institution. Without ecclesiastical approval. Without bloodline tracing. Without prayer."
"It's a school."
"It's a domain of thought. And thought without doctrine invites corruption."
Kaito's eyes narrowed. "You're here to shut it down."
"Not if you comply," Saejin said. "All you need do is register the children under the ancestral roll. They'll receive Temple names. Swear the birth oath. A minor tithe per quarter, and of course, sermons at the start of each week."
Kaito stared at him for a long moment.
Then turned to the children.
"Cover your ears."
When they had obeyed, he stepped closer. His voice dropped into ice.
"Do you know what these children were doing before I opened this school?"
Saejin tilted his head. "Surviving?"
"No. Dying. One sold her blood to a plaguehouse to buy crusts. Another carried corpses for the Butcher's Guild in exchange for boiled bone broth. They've never known prayer, and yet they live. They've never sworn to a god, yet they dream now. So why should I let you claim them?"
Saejin gave a mild smile. "Because the alternative... is very final."
The younger priest opened a scroll. The ink shimmered. Magic. Blood-inked. Forbidden in District 13 since the Sunder.
"I could raze this building by naming it heretical," Saejin said. "But I came to offer a chance instead."
Kaito looked to the children one more time. Their faces—hopeful. Terrified. Innocent.
He exhaled.
Then turned back and extended his hand.
"Fine. Give me the scroll."
Saejin blinked, surprised.
"Are you... agreeing?"
Kaito smiled. "I want to read it. Thoroughly."
The younger priest hesitated.
Kaito stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Give me the scroll. Let me read what binds the next generation of my people."
Reluctantly, the younger priest handed it over.
Kaito took it gently. Opened it. Ran his fingers along the first line.
Then tore it in half.
Gasps from the crowd.
Saejin flinched. "You—"
Before he could finish, Kaito struck him with the torn scroll—right across the face.
The younger priest reached for a hidden charm. Kaito kicked his hand away and slammed him against the school's wall.
Children screamed. Teachers rushed out. Seina appeared moments later with Jiroh and two of the mill guards.
"Let them leave," Kaito ordered.
"Or?" Saejin spat. Blood ran from his lip.
"Or I feed you to the poor you ignored for decades."
They left.
But not before Saejin turned at the district gate.
"Your name is unclean," he said. "Your lineage unsanctified. When the wheels turn, Kaito Arase, no god will speak for you."
Kaito stared him down.
"Then let the silence become my sanctuary."
That night, Kaito sat alone in the archive vault. The walls were filled with reclaimed ledgers, census scraps, oral histories, and banned books.
Seina entered, arms folded. "You knew what that scroll was, didn't you?"
"I had a guess," he said. "Binding oath. Full inheritance. Ownership of soul rights. Bloodline mapping."
"That's... spiritual slavery."
"No," Kaito said. "It's worse. It's erasure."
She sat beside him, quiet for a moment.
"Why do they fear you so much?"
Kaito pulled a slip of parchment from his coat. It was old. Thin. Covered in blood-smudged figures.
His hospital bill.
"I used to think being poor was just about money," he said. "But it's about voice. You scream for help, and the world walks past. You cry for justice, and the gods ask for coin first."
He turned to her.
"They fear me because I answer without asking for a tithe."
The next attack wasn't political.
It was personal.
Three days after the incident, Jiroh went missing.
He was last seen walking toward the old river trench with a group of mill workers. Only one returned.
A boy. Fifteen. Eyes hollowed out. His clothes soaked in crimson.
"They had hoods," he whispered. "Black robes. They... they used a charm. His mouth—his mouth disappeared—"
Kaito didn't sleep that night.
He walked the trench. He found Jiroh's boot. A broken shard of his spear.
But no body.
No blood.
Just a symbol carved into the stones:
환상혈 — Phantom Blood.
A cult. A myth. Purged a century ago. Supposedly.
Kaito returned at dawn. Seina waited for him with a stack of documents.
"I dug through the royal registries," she said. "Cross-referenced names with the old Bone Scrolls."
She handed him a slip.
"House Munakata funds them. Secretly. Through orphanage grants and temple burnings. They believe pain unlocks purity. They think the Church has gone soft."
Kaito stared at the page.
"Then we harden first."
He looked up.
"Draft a message to my father."
Seina froze. "You want to involve House Arase?"
"I want to remind them I exist."
The letter was short. Precise. Sealed with the district's new emblem—an open hand beneath a rising sun.
Kaito dictated:
> To Father.
I write not as a son, but as a citizen. I have built a structure that feeds thousands. That heals. That educates. Yet those in power seek to erase it because it threatens their monopoly on suffering.
I will not beg for protection. I ask only this: remember what happens when power forgets its shadow.
I am no longer your forgotten son.
I am the one rebuilding what you abandoned.
Kaito
—
Two days later, a black carriage arrived at the district gates.
The crest: Arase.
But not the main branch.
The fourth son.
Arase Haejin—the Sword of Dust. Exiled for rebellion. A tactician known for war crimes during the Siege of Dakuen.
He stepped down from the carriage with a cane wrapped in snakeskin.
"Little brother," he said, smiling with teeth too white. "Heard you made quite the mess."
Kaito bowed slightly.
"Came to help?"
"No," Haejin said. "Came to watch. And maybe steal your thunder."
Seina leaned in. "Is this a good thing or bad?"
Kaito watched his brother walk toward the school, already charming the guards.
"Both," he muttered. "Very much both."