The iron gates loomed before him, their once-imposing presence now silent and unkept. Time had wrapped its fingers around them, vines creeping over the metal, their tendrils curling like silent witnesses to the passage of years.
They stood as they always had, but their grandeur was buried under the weight of nature.
Yet the clan's settlement stretched before him, untouched yet lifeless. The structures, built of dark bamboo and aged wood in the traditional style, still stood firm, their intricate carvings of ancient gods and legends unmarred. The roads, once bustling with laughter and conversation, lay empty, save for the bodies.
They were everywhere.
Men, women, and children lay motionless, some collapsed mid-step, others resting as if they had merely fallen asleep. Their faces were peaceful, undisturbed. But they were dead.
Renzoku felt his pulse hammer against his ribs. His people were immortals. Their bodies did not rot, their lifespans stretched across the ages. Yet here they lay, perfectly preserved, untouched by time but unmistakably lifeless.
His throat tightened. His clan had not been slaughtered. They had ceased.
He walked past a group of warriors, their hands still resting on the hilts of their weapons. There were no shattered blades, no scorch marks from spells, no arrows protruding from backs. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched the blade of a fallen guard. The steel was cold and perfectly clean. Not a single drop of blood had been spilled in the entire city. It was as if their very life-force had been snuffed out like a candle in a sudden wind, leaving the physical world behind without a scratch.
The uncanny silence was more terrifying than any battlefield. It wasn't a scene of war; it was a scene of erasure.
His legs carried him forward, his heart a dull thud in his ears. He recognized their faces—elders who had once lectured him, warriors who had trained him, children who had played in the temple courtyards. His people, his family.
For a hundred years, he had survived the wilds alone, telling himself that one day he would return as a success. He had spent six months traveling through ice and rock just to find this place. And now, the very reason for his journey—the people who were supposed to guide him—were nothing but statues of meat and bone.
'What happened here?'
His steps quickened, breaking into a desperate sprint as he raced toward the heart of the settlement. The towering residence of the clan leader stood at its center, its great doors slightly ajar. He didn't hesitate. He shoved the doors open.
The grand hall was just as silent. Golden torches lined the dark wooden walls, their flames dead. A long carpet stretched toward the throne room, where the doors stood wide.
His breath hitched as he stepped inside.
His father sat upon the throne, his sword resting across his lap, his expression calm. His mother sat beside him, her posture regal, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Around them, the elders occupied their seats, faces composed, unmoved by fear or pain.
They had died knowing their fate.
Renzoku's vision blurred. His steps faltered as he rushed forward, his knees crashing against the polished wooden floor before the throne. He reached out with trembling hands, grasping his father's sleeve. He looked at his father's legendary sword—the blade was sheathed. There was no sign of a struggle. The strongest warriors in the world had simply sat down and waited for the end.
"Father… Mother…" His voice cracked. His fingers curled into fists. 'Why didn't you fight? Why did you leave me?'
His chest heaved as despair clawed at his throat. The stoic hunter who had killed hundreds of beasts was gone, replaced by the fifteen-year-old boy who had never been able to make his father proud. The isolation of a century finally broke him.
He gripped the hilt of his father's sword, his knuckles white. The cold weight of the weapon offered no comfort. He was the last of the Eien no Bannin, the only survivor of a race that had once guarded the world, and he didn't even know why he had been spared.
'What do I do?'
As his grief turned into a hollow, freezing anger, the air in the throne room changed.
A chill crawled up his spine.
The silence, which had been heavy and peaceful, suddenly felt sharp. Predatory.
The throne room, despite its silence, was no longer empty. Renzoku's breath grew shallow as he turned his head. In the farthest corner, the shadows didn't just exist—they thrived. They began to thicken unnaturally, curling upon themselves like living tendrils, consuming the dying light of the sunset.
Then—they moved.
Renzoku's body seized with an instinctual fear as the darkness twisted and reached toward him, a wave of absolute nothingness that promised to swallow everything he had left.