The paralysis had worn off but no one moved for fear of getting caught in the middle of the battle before them. The surviving Aoshima watched in horror and powerlessness as Wasuren was sent flying. The remaining intermediate sarugami had formed a small audience several meters away and watched in silence.
Other than Wasuren, Kiyoshi and Masaki here were five wolf wardens left. They gripped their katana and ran towards a collapsed Wasuren, but as they got closer the advanced tier sarugami released another screech paralysing them on the spot.
The ground trembled beneath the steps of the advanced tier sarugami.
Wasuren knelt in the dirt, his hand pressed against a seeping wound in his side. His blade was shattered, the half still clutched in his trembling fist. His skin burned, his vision danced. The smell of blood—his blood—sang in his nose like metal.
He had fought well, or so he thought, he looked round at his dead comrades, those who engaged in battle against these monsters that sought to claim their lives. The horde was never meant to be this powerful, the Hoshigamis should have been here to prevent this much death in Aoshima. Why weren't they here, they promised to send help if it got more dangerous than it already was, why weren't they here already, Ren wondered.
"am I going to die here" he said to himself.
He wasn't supposed to be on this battlefield. His brothers and sisters and cousins, the sons of the sun, stood high above in towers of flame, commanding light like it was their breath, wielding it like it was born to them. He, on the other hand, had been thrown into the ranks of the town's fodder—the forgotten, the weak, the untrained. It was their way of not killing him outright. Let the beasts do it.
Let the lightless one die, he isn't one of us.
A screech echoed through the sky.
The sarugami beat it's chest as it walked toward Wasuren. He tried to move, tried to call on the light with his weakened body but it sputtered—flickered—and died in his chest. He tried again and failed again.
No fire. No warmth. No power.
"Why…?" he whispered, choking on blood.
He collapsed fully, face to the soil. The mud welcomed him like a coffin.
The advanced tier stopped just a few meters away.
Its growl vibrated through the earth. It was coming.
His fingers clenched uselessly around the hilt of his broken sword.
"I don't want to die," he whispered. "I don't want to die…"
His voice cracked with the desperation of someone who never expected to be heard. But in the breath between heartbeats, he spoke again. Louder. Clearer.
"Amaterasu onegai, ONEGAI!!" He said with a blood curdling scream as he tried to get up again. "AM I NOT YOUR CHILD AMATERASU, AM I NOT AN HOSHIGAMI, AM I NOT A CHILD OF THE SUN?"
"If any god can hear me… please."
"If the gods of the dead walk still… save me. Save my brethren."
"I don't care who. I don't care what. Take my soul. Take my body."
"I will be yours."
"I swear my life and allegiance to you."
He waited for silence.
Instead, the wind died.
The battlefield froze.
Even the beast hesitated.
A shadow moved and rose—from beneath him, dark as pitch, curling around his limbs like fingers made of smoke.
And then he heard her.
A whisper that cut deeper than swords.
"Wasuren Hoshigmi, the forgotten child of light"
A presence stepped through the blackened mist.
She walked with the silence of forgotten tombs and the grace of something too divine to be of this world. Her skin shimmered like polished obsidian. Her hair flowed behind her like a cloak of shadows, and her eyes glowed with stars that had long since died.
"Poor soul, you have been cast away by the sun."
Wasuren looked up, his breathing shallow. He couldn't speak. Could barely think.
" Izanagi ?"
But she smiled—a soft, mournful thing.
"No not Izanagi. Look at you, left to die. To serve and never to be served. The see you as nothing."
She knelt beside him. Her hand—cold as still water—touched his chest, and something ancient burned in his bones. A brand made of silence. Of grief. Of power long buried.
"I am Yami-no-Anagami," she said, her voice like smoke curling from a funeral pyre.
"The Forgotten Flame. The Goddess of Ash and Shadows."
"I have a bargain.
Abandon the light that betrayed you."
"Take my darkness instead. Swear to honor me, to live for me and die for me, to kill for me and I will give you power to end your enemies, to rise above those that forgot you. Be mine, I shall be yours and they shall say your name never again to be forgotten."
He didn't hesitate.
He couldn't.
What else was there?
"I accept," he rasped. "I… I am yours."
Her eyes flared like dying stars.
"Then rise, my child."
"Rise… and burn them all."
Darkness erupted from within him—a surge of black fire laced with ash. It consumed the lightless corner of his soul and replaced it with shadow that pulsed like a heartbeat. His wound sealed with smoldering embers. His limbs surged with new weight—terrible, heavy, and full of power.
The sarugami moved.
But the darkness moved first.
His own shadow stretched and coiled like a beast unchained. It struck upward—piercing through bone and limbs—tearing the creature down. The advanced tier sarugami let go of its weapon. It dropped to the ground with a loud thud.
Wasuren rose, he felt his body move but he wasn't in control. He did not fight it though, it was a feeling he welcomed. The feeling of power. He walked towards the sarugami o. The floor and from the shadows that strangled it, ash kept in. Grey ash burned through the fur, skin, and bones of the beast leaving nothing but a brown crystal after its death.
The battlefield fell quiet again.
Only the sound of Wasuren's breathing could be heard.
A sigil burned on his back—a sun swallowed by a ring of ash.
He was not the boy he was moments ago.
Not the bastard prince.
Not the broken soldier.
He was the bearer of a forgotten god's curse.
A new voice lived within his silence now.
And the sun would tremble when it saw what it had left behind.