The next few days passed in a strange, shimmering warmth — a golden haze that bled through the stone ceilings of Shukigan. The city was quiet, almost reverent. The caretakers went about their duties as if afraid to disturb the calm, the hum of the golden veins beneath the streets faint but constant, like a heartbeat resting after a fever.
And yet, that peace was a lie.
It sat heavy. Unnatural.
Because Gomi felt it first.
He always did.
Something was wrong beneath the calm — something alive, awake, restless. The pulse of the city had changed tempo. It was subtle at first, a rhythmic tremor that licked through the soles of his feet as he stood outside the shrine gates each morning. Then louder, like drums beneath his ribs. A heartbeat that wasn't his.
At night, when even Hosogiri had fallen asleep beside the embers of their small fire, Gomi would lie awake and listen.
The city breathed.
And its breath was growing faster.
He would stare at the golden stones, watching how they flickered from steady warmth to trembling light. Every time his eyes closed, he swore he could hear it whisper — not with words, but with pain.
A groan buried deep within the veins of the world.
The same kind of sound an animal makes when it dreams of the cage it was born in.
And then, one morning, that cage broke.
A thunderous rumble split the air like the earth itself had screamed. The golden skyline of Shukigan fractured. Bells rang out — not in ceremony, but in alarm. The caretakers screamed as entire spires of sculpted gold shook and cracked.
Gomi bolted upright. Hosogiri was already at the door, clutching his weapon.
"What's happening—"
Another explosion ripped through the courtyard. The fountains burst apart, sending molten gold and stone into the air.
"The veins!" a caretaker screamed. "The veins are rupturing!"
But Gomi knew better.
"It's not the veins," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "It's the heart."
They ran through the collapsing corridors, dodging falling debris and waves of radiant dust. Every step was heavier than the last — the golden stones beneath them pulsed violently, alive, like veins feeding into a monstrous organ somewhere far below.
And then came the sound — that guttural, bone-splitting roar that seemed to shake the entire underground city.
The sealed beast.
The god they had drained.
It had never died.
It had only slept.
And now it was waking.
Pillars of blackened gold erupted through the streets, splitting open roads, swallowing buildings whole. The screams of the caretakers mixed with the shattering of sacred bells, the sound spiraling upward like the end of a prayer that had gone unanswered for centuries.
Hosogiri stumbled as a street cracked beneath him. "Gomi! We have to get out!"
Gomi turned, face half-lit by the glow of rising corruption. "No," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "We have to go down."
"Down?"
"Beneath the heart of Shukigan. The beast isn't breaking free — it's being broken open."
Hosogiri stared at him, horror crawling across his face as the realization sank in. "You mean this whole city… it's built on—"
"On its pain," Gomi finished. "And now it's done being quiet."
Together they descended.
Past the shrines that flickered with fading prayers.
Past the altars engraved with holy names that no longer mattered.
Past the signs that warned in ancient tongue — Disturb not the Heart.
And then they found it.
The chamber was enormous — a cathedral carved into the earth itself. Its walls were covered in murals of gods devouring their own creations, of light feeding on shadow, of paradise built from screams. And in the center, suspended in golden chains that pulsed with ancient energy, was the creature.
The Oni Beast.
Its body was vast — a mountain of scarred flesh and bone fused with the roots of Shukigan. Its stomach rose and fell in shallow, pained motions, every breath tearing through its cracked ribs like thunder. Its eyes — blind, glassy, veined with gold — rolled weakly toward them.
Not in anger.
But in pleading.
Gomi took a step forward. "You've been awake this whole time, haven't you?"
The air shook in response, the beast's breath rumbling like a storm beneath the ground.
Hosogiri's voice trembled. "Gomi… if we free it—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
They both knew the cost.
The city would die.
But the beast would finally be free.
Gomi looked at his reflection in the creature's broken eye — small, scarred, insignificant. And then he saw something else in that reflection.
Himself as a child. The trash piles. The names. The blows. The laughter. The filth.
And he thought — maybe this was what the world deserved to see crumble.
He raised his hand.
"We're ending this."
Hosogiri nodded, gripping his sword with shaking hands. "Then let's make sure it doesn't die alone."
The first wave came almost immediately.
Corrupted sentinels — gilded war machines, guardians from a forgotten empire — erupted from the temple walls. Their faces were blank masks of gold, but beneath the cracks, Gomi could see what powered them: flesh. Souls bound to gears.
He tore into them.
Every punch broke metal and bone alike. The air filled with sparks and screams as Hosogiri fought beside him, his movements desperate, almost animal.
When the sentinels fell, more replaced them.
The ceiling cracked.
Blood — molten and gold — poured down from above.
Hosogiri barely dodged a falling tower, the blast sending him crashing into a broken pillar. He tried to stand, but his leg gave out beneath him.
"Gomi! Don't stop!"
Gomi roared, his eyes flaring crimson. His horns grew, jagged and raw, and the ground shattered beneath his feet. His punches weren't just strikes — they were vengeance.
He tore through the final chain with his bare hands.
The creature screamed.
The sound wasn't rage. It was relief.
The chamber erupted in light.
And then silence.
The beast — free at last — exhaled one final breath, a shuddering sigh that rippled through the golden veins above. Then it collapsed, its body turning to dust and embers.
The city trembled.
Without its living heart, the veins dimmed. The light faded from the stones. Towers fell. The fountains stopped flowing.
The city's perfection rotted in seconds.
Hosogiri coughed blood, clutching his side. "We… did it…"
Gomi knelt beside him, wrapping his arm around the kids shoulders. "We freed it."
But as they emerged from the collapsing underground, they weren't greeted by gratitude.
They were met with rage.
Hundreds of Shukigan's citizens surrounded them — caretakers, priests, guards. Their faces twisted not in sorrow, but hatred.
"You killed our god!" someone screamed.
"You doomed us!" another shouted.
Hosogiri stumbled backward. "No, we— we freed it! You don't understand—"
A rock hit him in the face. Blood trickled from his cheek.
Chains followed.
Gomi was too weak to resist. His oni power was drained. His breath came shallow and sharp. Hosogiri tried to carry him, to protect him, but they were both overpowered, dragged across the blackening streets as the city burned.
The golden tiles beneath them had turned dark — no longer radiant, only cold.
Gomi's eyes rolled back. He barely heard the jeers.
"You are no king," spat a priest, his voice dripping with venom. "You are nothing but filth wearing a crown made of pity."
Hosogiri screamed as they bound his wrists. "You don't understand what he did for you!"
But the crowd didn't care.
They never do.
They threw Gomi into the dirt like refuse, chaining his wrists with blessed steel that sealed his energy. The weight of it pressed into his bones, numbing him. His eyes flickered — black to red to empty.
Hosogiri was dragged away, still shouting his name.
And Gomi — the Oni King, the savior, the heretic — was hauled through the streets like a corpse.
They didn't even bother with a trial.
They just opened an ancient well in the heart of the city and threw him in.
He hit the stone floor below with a crack that echoed for miles. His ribs shattered. His breath came ragged. And then there was only darkness.
The crowd above spat one final curse.
"The Oni King is dead."
Broken Silence
He didn't know how long he lay there.
The well was black. Silent. The only sound was the drip of water and the distant hum of the dying city above.
His body ached. His ribs felt like shards of glass inside his stomach. Every breath was a punishment.
But worse than the pain were the voices.
"You killed our god…"
"Monster…" "Filth…" The echoes from above burned deeper than any blade. He closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. But his mind wouldn't rest. Instead, memories came.
The trash heaps of Cheri.
The laughter of child's who called him garbage.
His adoptive parents, cold and merciless, forcing him to bleed just to prove he could.
And that first word that ever stuck to him like tar — Trash Kid.
He whispered it into the darkness. "Trash…" It felt heavier now. Like it wasn't just his name anymore — but what the world had carved him into. And then, through the haze of pain, he saw something. A face. Hosogiri. Smiling, pouting, scolding him for eating the last bit of soup again. It wasn't real.
A hallucination born of blood loss. But it spoke. "You're not trash to me." The memory sliced through the silence like light through fog. Gomi clenched his fists. Tried to move. Agony tore through him. His scream echoed up the well, unheard. Above, in a locked chamber, Hosogiri sat alone — battered, broken, and whispering. "He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not…"
Tears fell, staining the cold floor. "You said we'd keep going, remember? You said you'd always get up…" He looked at the earring Gomi had given him once — a small cross-shaped blade, now dulled with ash. "So get up, you idiot…"
Down below, Gomi's hand twitched.
The stone beneath his fingers pulsed faintly — purple, alive. Smoke began to rise from the cracks, curling around his body like old spirits remembering his name.
The same mist that once greeted him in the depths of the Pit. And then, a voice. "You were thrown away again, weren't you?" it whispered. "But you are the King of what they discard. You were chosen to rise from rot. Get up." His horns shimmered faintly. His blood glowed through torn skin, pulsing like molten iron. He screamed. Not in pain. In fury. He drove his fist into the stone wall. It cracked. Then shattered. The well trembled. The earth shook. The black sky above split with a pulse of violet flame.
Hosogiri, far away, turned toward the rumbling. His eyes widened. "…Gomi?" The Oni King was not dead.
Not yet.
Beneath the Ash, a Crown
The well exploded.
A geyser of purple energy tore through the ruins of Shukigan, splitting the dying city apart. Guards scrambled, priests screamed, and from the center of the collapsing ground rose a figure cloaked in smoke and fire.
Gomi climbed from the pit.
Every bone in his body screamed, but he stood tall. His skin was cracked, glowing faintly where the Oni blood burned beneath. His horns curved upward like crescent moons dipped in fury. His left arm — broken, mangled — wrapped itself in spectral bandages made from his own blood.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The people saw him and froze.
"The Oni King…" one whispered. "He lives…"
Fear spread faster than any plague.
Gomi took one step forward — and the ground blistered beneath his heel. The air around him trembled, vibrating with barely contained wrath.
A priest screamed, throwing blessed dust toward him. It evaporated before touching his skin.
"You killed our god!" the person cried.
Gomi's eyes glowed like dying stars. "No," he said, voice low. "I killed your cage."
He walked through them, unstoppable. The chains that had bound him turned to ash with each step. He remembered the path they'd dragged him along. The chambers where they'd taken Hosogiri. The places he'd been spat on, beaten, called filth.
He remembered everything.
And he followed that memory straight to the locked prison doors.
The stone shattered at his touch.
Hosogiri looked up from the shadows, eyes wide, breath trembling.
"You…"
"I told you," Gomi said. "I wasn't done."
Hosogiri ran forward, throwing his arms around him despite the blood and smoke. "You really did it, huh? You climbed out again."
"No," Gomi murmured. "I just stopped staying down."
He looked past Hosogiri — toward the golden temple where the city's high council cowered. "Let's end this."
And together, they did.
The palace was a fortress of corruption and lies — guards armed with relics of light that burned against their own souls when drawn. Gomi tore through them like paper. Hosogiri fought at his side, wounded but unyielding.
The high priests screamed that he'd doomed them, that he'd defiled tradition, that he was the reason the golden light was dying.
Gomi asked only one question.
"Would you still call it light if it only shines through someone else's pain?"
No answer. Only silence. Then — fire. Purple flames devoured the temple, consuming every golden root that had once fed off the bound oni's life. The air filled with screams, prayers, collapsing walls. By the time it was done, Shukigan was nothing but ash.
And its people — what remained of them — stared at the two figures standing amid the smoke.
No cheers. No gratitude. Only hate. You'll never belong," someone hissed. Gomi turned, cloak tattered, skin burning beneath the glow.
"I stopped trying long ago."
He walked away. Hosogiri followed. Behind them, Shukigan fell silent for the first time in centuries. The Oni King had risen. And the world still refused him. But he walked anyway. Because even filth can keep moving.
TO BE CONTINUED (END OF ARC)...