The transition from Necromancer: The Mortal King to Reincarnation of the Mortal King marks a shift in the very marrow of the story. In Season One, we watched a man break himself against the gears of a cosmic machine. He was the underdog, the "glitch" in the system who won through sheer, bloody-minded attrition.
Season Two is a different animal.
To the world, Renji is a martyr, a memory etched into a memorial stone. To the entities on the Golden Throne, he is a ghost story that didn't end. Writing him back into existence from the Null requires a specific kind of coldness. We aren't just bringing back a hero; we are reintroducing a stranger. The red hair, the perfected body, the dual-colored tracers—these aren't just upgrades. They are the scars of a three-year meditation in a place where time doesn't exist. Renji isn't just the strongest "anime character" in this world; he has become the world's immune system.
Season 2, Chapter 1: The Ash of Memory
Kyoto smells of exhaust and expensive perfume.
December 2, 2025. Three years since the sky bled. Three years since the city was rebuilt with the efficiency of a guilty conscience. The new skyscrapers are taller, the glass clearer, as if the architects were trying to hide the fact that the soil beneath the foundations is still soaked in demon ichor.
Shinjo stood at the intersection of Karasuma and Shijo. His breath hitched in the cold air, forming small, ragged plumes. He didn't look like a Hunter. He looked like a man who had forgotten how to stand straight. His hands were tucked deep into the pockets of a worn jacket, his thumbs tracing the callus where his dagger hilt used to rest.
"Hurry up, Shinjo. I'm going to be late."
Hikari stood a few paces ahead. She was taller now. The softness of her childhood had been burned away, leaving behind a sharp, quiet gaze that mirrored the brother she thought was dead. She carried her school bag like armor.
"The light's still red," Shinjo muttered. His voice was a dry scrape.
"It's been green for ten seconds."
Shinjo blinked. He looked at the light. He looked at the people crossing. He was living in a delay, his mind perpetually three years behind his body.
Then the sound hit.
It wasn't a bang. It was the sound of reality being unzipped.
A vertical slit of crimson light tore through the center of the intersection. The asphalt didn't crack; it dissolved into red sand. A heat, dry and smelling of burnt ozone, hammered into the crowd. People didn't scream yet. They just stopped. They stared at the gate with the hollow, wide-eyed recognition of a recurring nightmare.
Shinjo's hands came out of his pockets. His knuckles went white.
"Hikari. Get behind the van."
"Shinjo—"
"Now!"
The command was a reflex, a ghost of Renji's authority.
From the red haze of the gate, a boot emerged. It was heavy, plate-armored in a dull, non-reflective grey. It hit the ground with a thud that vibrated in Shinjo's teeth. Then another. Six figures stepped through. They weren't demons. They were Vanguards—tall, encased in ancient metal, carrying spears topped with obsidian blades that hummed with a low, predatory frequency.
The leader of the Vanguards scanned the intersection. It didn't see the civilians. It didn't see the cars. It saw the mana signatures. It saw Shinjo.
"The source is dormant," the Vanguard stated. The voice was a mechanical resonance, filtered through a spiked helm. "Initiate the harvest. We must find the anchor."
Shinjo didn't have his daggers. He didn't have his guild backup. He had a piece of rusted rebar leaning against a nearby construction barrier. He snatched it up, the cold iron biting into his palm.
"There's no anchor here," Shinjo said, stepping into the road. "Just a lot of people who want to get to work."
The Vanguard didn't reply. It simply raised its spear.
The Golden Hall
The figure on the throne didn't move. It sat with its chin resting on a fist, watching a projection of Kyoto through a pool of shifting mercury. The violet fire of the hall cast long, jagged shadows against the gold-leafed walls.
"The gate has been accepted by the local reality," a voice said from the dark. It was the Elder Sage, his skin looking like wet parchment stretched over a skull.
"The Vanguards are on site."
"And the Mortal King?" the figure asked. The voice was a deep, resonant baritone that made the mercury ripple.
"Dead. The Null does not release its grip. We have scanned the ley lines for three years. There is no trace of the signature."
The King on the throne narrowed his eyes. "The signature can be masked. But the soul... the soul leaves a scent. If he is dead, why does the Abyss still feel like it is holding its breath?"
He waved a hand, dismissing the Sage. He looked back at the mercury pool. He watched the Vanguard raise its spear toward a man with a piece of rebar.
"Kill them all," the King whispered. "If he is there, he will move. If not, the world is just a garden waiting to be razed."
Renji opened his eyes.
He wasn't in the Null anymore. He was in the space between.
For three years, he had been a thought without a body. He had drifted through the grey salt flats, his mind a recurring loop of Hikari's voice and the smell of the Kyoto bus station. He had rebuilt himself molecule by molecule, using the blue power of the System and the yellow fire of the Monarch's soul as needle and thread.
He looked at his right arm. It was whole. The skin was etched with faint, glowing tracers that pulsed like a heartbeat. He felt a weight in his chest—a density of mana that made his previous power feel like a candle next to a forge.
His hair was no longer black. It was the color of a setting sun, a deep, fiery red that didn't move with the wind.
[ System Restoration Complete ]
[ New Vessel: Primordial Monarch ]
[ Current Objective: Reclaim the Throne ]
Renji stood up. The grey salt of the Null crumbled under his boots, turning to fine dust. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel the hunger. He felt the tether.
Across dimensions, he felt a sharp, sudden spike of fear. He felt Shinjo's ribs crack. He felt Hikari's breath hitch.
"I'm late," Renji said.
His voice didn't echo. It was a solid thing, a command that the Void had no choice but to obey. He reached out with his right hand and gripped the air. He didn't chant. He didn't draw a circle. He simply tore a hole in the fabric of the dimension.
He stepped through.
Shinjo hit the side of a delivery truck. The metal caved in, glass showering his hair. He tried to stand, but his left side was a scream of broken bone. The Vanguard walked toward him, the obsidian spear glowing with a dull, executioner's light.
"Secondary source identified," the Vanguard said, looking at Hikari, who was frozen ten feet away. "Termination authorized."
The spear began to descend.
The air in the intersection didn't just stop moving; it vanished. A sudden, absolute vacuum pulled the oxygen from the lungs of every living thing in the ward. The red gate flickered, its crimson glow turning a sickly shade of violet.
A hand caught the spear.
The sound wasn't a clash of metal. It was the sound of a mountain stopping a pebble.
Renji stood in the center of the road. His grey cloak was tattered, his fire-red hair a sharp contrast to the drab winter sky. He held the obsidian blade between two fingers. The blue tracers on his skin flared, a low, rhythmic hum vibrating through the asphalt.
The Vanguard tried to pull back. The spear didn't move. The armored entity let out a sound of static-filled confusion, its sensors failing to categorize the man in front of it.
"You're making a mess," Renji said.
His voice was a calm, steady weight. He looked at the Vanguard, and for the first time in three years, the entity felt something it wasn't programmed for.
Terror.
"Identification: Mortal King," the Vanguard hissed. "Status: Deceased. Error. Error."
"I've been hearing that a lot," Renji said.
He tightened his fingers. The obsidian blade—a legendary artifact designed to pierce gods—shattered into a thousand black shards. Renji didn't wait. He drove his palm into the Vanguard's chest-plate.
The armor didn't dent. It pulverized.
The entity was launched backward, a streak of grey metal that tore through three brick buildings before disappearing into the rubble.
Renji didn't look at the carnage. He turned his head. He looked at Shinjo, slumped against the truck. He looked at Hikari.
The silence that followed was heavier than the battle.
"Renji?" Shinjo's voice was a wet wheeze.
Renji didn't smile. He didn't offer a dramatic speech. He looked at the five remaining Vanguards stepping out of the gate, their spears leveled at him.
"Stay down, Shinjo," Renji said, his eyes returning to the red portal. "I'll be with you in a minute."
The blue and yellow tracers on his arms began to swirl, merging into a blinding, predatory light. The ground beneath his boots began to liquefy, turning into a swirling pool of black shadows.
Season Two was just beginning. And the King wasn't in a mood for mercy.