"Are you Izochi?"
The question cut through the rhythmic clatter of the departing train. On the soot-stained platform, a middle-aged man stood with his shoulders hunched in a bow, his eyes fixed on the grime-covered tiles.
"I am here to guide you to your destiny."
Izochi and Marco followed him in a silence so thick it felt physical. Inside the car that whisked them away, the stranger sat like a stone statue, eyes averted, lips sealed.
Not a single word escaped him to bridge the gap between their arrival and their destination.
As the heavy oak doors swung open, a voice sliced through the room like a silver blade.
"Izochi Horitoshi, Welcome back."
The air in the hall was stagnant, weighed down by the stares of dozens.
They were everywhere—teenagers leaning against pillars, elders perched on high-backed chairs, men and women of the clan whose eyes burned with a mixture of curiosity and hidden daggers.
Izochi scanned the crowd, his gaze sliding over faces that meant nothing to him.
"So,"
Marco whispered, his voice a low vibration. Unlike Izochi's searching look, Marco's eyes were chips of ice—still, lethal, and calculating.
"This is your bloodline."
He leaned closer, his lips barely moving.
"Seventeen of them. All positioned against you."
The atmosphere was a powder keg, waiting for a spark.
"Why have you come alone?"
An old man at the center of the room demanded, his voice gravelly with age.
"You were ordered to bring your siblings."
"My siblings are no business of yours,"
Izochi replied. His voice had lost its warmth, turning into something cold and metallic.
He didn't bow; he didn't soften his stance. He looked at the elder, a man five times his senior, as if he were looking at a stain on the floor.
"Is this how you treat your elders?"
A girl snarled, stepping forward. She looked barely younger than Izochi, her face flushed with indignation.
Izochi didn't even turn his head.
"You lack the standing to question me, girl."
"Enough,"
The old man intervened, raising a withered hand.
"Let us speak of why you are here. On the 26th of October, the Leader of the Horitoshi clan passed away."
"And?"
Izochi's response was a sharp snap.
"Where is my aunt?"
"We lost contact with her family after the... incident."
"The incident,"
Izochi repeated, his eyes narrowing.
"What happened to his family?"
The old man exhaled a breath that smelled of stale tea and secrets.
"They are gone. Your grandfather, your grandmother, and their adopted daughter. All perished. It appears it was... a calculated slaughter."
A flicker of understanding crossed Izochi's face, gone in an instant. He tilted his head, a chillingly casual smirk playing on his lips.
"So, by the Laws of Blood, you are now bound to obey me. Correct?"
The old man's chest sank as he let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Certainly."
"In that case,"
Izochi's voice dropped an octave, commanding the very air in the room,
"This meeting is adjourned. We reconvene on the 29th. And hear me well—I don't want these children present. I want the actual Heads. Only those with the power to act."
"Excuse me!"
"How dare you….."
"Do you even know who we are?"
A chorus of outrage erupted from the younger members, their faces turning a heated red.
But Izochi stood like a monolith in the center of the storm. He didn't blink. He didn't sweat. He remained a statue of frozen glass.
Beside him, Marco was a phantom, observing every twitch of a hand, every shift in weight. He stood with a terrifying grace, more self-possessed than anyone in the room.
"I am the authority now,"
Izochi's voice boomed, heavy and resonant. It was the voice of a man who had seen too much, not a boy who had once wept over a piece of Baklava.
The innocence of the previous day had been stripped away, replaced by a terrifying, sudden weight.
"My words are the final words. There will be no debate.
I AM THE AUTHORITY."
To Marco's eyes, Izochi looked like a stranger—a boy blinded by a sudden crown, a child wielding a sword far too heavy for his soul.
But inside, Izochi's mind was a different battlefield.
"Am I being too cruel?"
He wondered. Then, the answer came with the coldness of a winter night:
"No. Their shadows are long and their intent is poison. To be soft is to be buried."
"We have arranged a suite at a hotel for you,"
The old man muttered.
"You may rest while we... discuss."
"We will find our own lodging,"
Izochi countered.
Throughout the entire ordeal, the two boys had remained remarkably still—Marco with arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall; Izochi with hands clasped behind his back, the posture of a sovereign.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the manor and stepped into the street, the mask shattered. Izochi's shoulders slumped, and his voice returned to that of a sixteen-year-old boy.
"Forgive me for the performance,"
He sighed.
Marco didn't look back.
"That's another deduction from your score. High amount."
"But didn't the club give you money for our needs?"
Izochi asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Marco stopped, his face twitching with irritation.
"How do you know that? I never told you."
"Ms. Angela mentioned it."
"That woman,"
Marco growled,
"Can't keep her nose out of anything."
They walked through the streets of Alola. The buildings were humble compared to the steel giants of District A, mostly two-story homes with flower boxes and sloped roofs.
The air, however, was a revelation. It was crisp, clean, and carried the scent of distant pines.
Despite the "Leader" of the great Horitoshi clan walking right past them, the townspeople remained blissfully ignorant.
"How much for a night?"
Marco asked at a modest hotel reception.
"175 Yarks. Includes dinner and breakfast,"
The clerk replied without looking up.
"Fine. Book it."
As they climbed the stairs, Marco glanced at the key in his hand.
"You could have stayed in the luxury they offered. They had the funds for a palace."
Izochi didn't care for silk sheets.
"I'm sure those 'Heads' would have loved to put us in a gilded cage—balcony, wide beds, and."
He looked at Marco.
"I'll give you a share of the leftover money. Call it a bonus."
Marco saw through the joke, his eyes remaining serious.
"Why didn't you stay there tonight, really?"
Izochi pushed open the window of their small room. A piercing, frigid gust of Alola night air rushed in, filling the vacuum. It felt like the wind of the Vinland fields, the kind of cold that could cauterize a wound or clear a clouded mind.
"Because,"
Izochi said, his eyes reflecting the stars,
"The vacuum in the Horitoshi clan wasn't an accident. It was carved out by those f***king 'Heads'."
"You mean..."
"Yes. My grandfather and his family were slaughtered by the very people sitting in that room."
"And your aunt?"
"They saw the shadows moving,"
Izochi whispered.
"They fled before the blade fell."
Marco leaned against the window frame.
"What are they after?"
"Two things.
First, control over one of the Four Deities. That gives them unparalleled leverage.
Second... they want to know about the Four Orcs."
Marco looked at his partner, wondering if the boy's mind had finally snapped under the pressure. But the conviction in Izochi's eyes was undeniable.
"What happens next?"
"Nothing good for them,"
Izochi said, a dark, jagged smile spreading across his face as he looked at the vast, uncaring sky.
"They are too blinded by greed to see they've already started a war for control. They will tear themselves apart."
Izochi's face was turned away, but Marco saw it through his Vision Chronicle, the reflection in the glass.
It wasn't the face of a comrade or a friend. It was the face of a king who had already decided who would live and who would burn.
For a moment,
the room,
the city of Alola,
and the name Horitoshi
all seemed to tremble.
And deep down, so did
Izochi Horitoshi.