The chest opened.
And something changed in the air.
Not gradually. Not gently.
All at once.
Like the entire room had just held its breath.
An aura escaped from the chest — invisible, shapeless, colorless. But real. Absolutely real. It spread through the treasury like a dark and silent tide, reaching the walls, the ceiling, the floor, everything that existed within that space.
Kazuho instinctively stepped back.
Haruki brought a hand to his temple — his knees had just buckled slightly without him deciding to let them.
Enji felt the pressure crash down on his shoulders like something physical, concrete, immense — like the ceiling had dropped a full meter without warning.
Yuma was looking inside the chest.
At the bottom — a simple piece of cloth. Dark, almost black, with an emblem embroidered at the center. Hard to make out clearly in the dim light of the chest but real. Present.
Nothing else.
Then a voice rose.
Deep. Slow. With something ancient and deliberately threatening in every syllable — the voice of someone who has all the time in the world and knows it.
— …It has been a long time.
A silence.
— A very long time since anyone had the good sense — or the recklessness — to open this chest.
Another silence, shorter.
— And even longer since you, Kazuho… last spoke to me.
The pressure increased.
Not all at once this time. Gradually. Methodically. Like someone turning a screw with absolute precision, one quarter turn after another.
It swept through the entire room.
Kazuho's first knee bent. His teeth clenched — not from pain, but from effort. The effort of staying upright against something that had no shape but weighed like a mountain.
Haruki dropped to both knees, one hand on the floor, head bowing despite himself. His breathing was controlled but shallow.
Enji went down slowly — not all at once, he resisted as long as he could — until his legs gave out completely and he found himself kneeling on the stone floor, eyes cast down, unable to lift his head.
Yuma looked around him.
The three Hyôgas on their knees. Enji on the ground. The air itself seeming to press downward.
He felt nothing.
No pressure. No weight. None of that crushing presence that had brought everyone else down in seconds.
He looked at his hands.
Normal.
— What's going on? he said.
— The… said Kazuho through his teeth, voice strained with effort. The demon inside the chest. It's him who's…
He drew a deep breath.
— Arasaka. Stop this.
The voice from the chest didn't answer immediately.
Then — almost with indifference :
— No.
— ARASAKA! Enji shouted from the floor.
His voice was stronger than expected for someone in his condition. It rang through the entire room.
— Demon god of war
— STOP!
Silence.
Kazuho, still on one knee, looked at Yuma with an exhausted but precise expression.
— Yes, he said. That's exactly right.
A laugh.
Not the laugh of a monster. Not something bestial or savage. Something worse — the laugh of an intelligent being who just found something genuinely amusing.
The pressure vanished.
Completely. Instantly. Like it had never existed.
Kazuho, Haruki and Enji rose slowly, catching their breath.
Yuma turned to Kazuho.
— Who exactly is… Arasaka?
A silence.
Haruki and Kazuho exchanged a glance.
— You genuinely don't know? said Haruki.
— If I knew I wouldn't have asked.
Kazuho stepped forward slowly and leaned against one of the weapon displays, arms crossed.
— Arasaka is a rank S demon. One of the only ones ever documented in the modern history of hunters. He resided in a dungeon — a rank S dungeon, unstable for years. But unlike other demons who try to escape their dungeon or simply survive inside it…
He paused.
— Arasaka had eliminated every other demon within it. Alone. Methodically. Until he was the last living being in that space.
Yuma frowned.
— Why?
— To draw hunters in. A dungeon cleared of its creatures is a goldmine for any guild — easy entry, resources to collect, mana crystals to extract. The first groups that went in never came back out.
— He was waiting for them.
— He was waiting for them, Kazuho confirmed. At first it suited everyone — hunters thought they'd found a profitable dungeon. But the truth surfaced quickly. No group was coming back. And the dungeon portal was starting to destabilize.
— Why was the portal destabilizing?
— Can I explain that part? said Enji, raising his hand slightly.
Kazuho gestured for him to go ahead.
Enji turned to Yuma.
— When a portal stays open too long without being cleared or stabilized, it starts to crack from the inside. Those cracks widen progressively until they reach the point of no return. That's what we call a fusion.
— What exactly is a fusion?
— The inside of the dungeon and the outside world merge into one single space. The portal disappears — no more boundary, no more separation. And everything that was living inside gets released into our world with absolutely nothing holding it back.
Yuma looked at him.
— So every demon from a dungeon that fuses…
— Pours directly into our dimension. No barrier. No control. And they tear everything apart.
— Thanks, said Yuma.
He turned back to Kazuho.
— Keep going.
Kazuho nodded.
— If that dungeon had reached fusion with Arasaka inside… the disaster would have been total. A coalition of multiple guilds formed in emergency. Close to a hundred hunters entered the dungeon.
He stopped.
— None of them were strong enough. They were being decimated one after another. Arasaka waited for them, let them come, and eliminated them with a precision that looked almost like boredom.
The room was silent.
— What saved the situation was a rank S Mage who possessed sealing magic. He succeeded — after enormous effort, and through the sacrifices of those around him — in sealing Arasaka into that artifact.
He gestured toward the chest.
— The cloth you see at the bottom. That's the sealing medium.
— And how did it end up here? asked Yuma.
Haruki spoke up.
— A contact of mine in the hunter world tipped me off that the artifact was going to be auctioned. Someone wanted to sell it to the highest bidder.
— I heard about it and bought it before it ended up in the wrong hands, Kazuho continued. My original intention was to use the sealing properties as a magical material — the energy contained in that cloth is exceptional.
He paused.
— Except Arasaka still had enough influence over our dimension to communicate. And he flatly refused.
— He refused to become a material? said Yuma.
— His exact words were roughly as follows, said Kazuho with a slight grimace. "I will become no one's material. But if a true warrior recognizes me… I will accept."
Silence.
Yuma looked at the chest.
Then a slow smile spread across his lips.
— He must be incredibly strong.
A mocking laugh resonated from the chest.
Deep. Slow. Satisfied.
— Kazuho.
Arasaka's voice filled the room again with that characteristic deliberateness that made every word heavier than the last.
— You've finally brought me someone interesting.
Kazuho looked at the chest. Then at Yuma.
— You're… talking about him?
— Who else would I be talking about?
A beat.
— Yes. I'm talking about him.
Silence.
— Come see me, said Arasaka.
— No, said Kazuho immediately.
— I wasn't talking to you, Kazuho.
— The answer is still no.
A new pressure surged.
But this time it touched no one else but Kazuho.
Targeted. Precise. Total.
Kazuho clenched his jaw and held his ground — barely.
— And what exactly do you plan to do? said Arasaka's voice with a cold politeness that made the question even more threatening. Stop me?
— Besides talking to me, said Kazuho, voice strained, you can't do anything else from inside that chest. And you know it.
Silence.
The pressure disappeared again.
The silence that followed was different — not empty. Thoughtful.
— …I just want to talk to him.
Yuma looked at the chest.
— That works for me, he said.
— No, said Kazuho.
— Kazuho.
Yuma looked at him directly.
His gaze was calm. Not reckless — determined. With that flame at the back of his eyes that appeared every time he had made a decision and nothing in the world was going to change it.
Haruki, from the entrance of the room, had been watching the exchange.
— We should accept, he said.
Kazuho turned toward him.
— Haruki —
— He looked at Yuma and stopped his pressure. He could have kept going — he chose not to. That's not nothing.
Kazuho looked at his eldest son. Then at Yuma. Then at the chest.
A long silence.
— Fine.
He turned to Yuma and spoke with the precision of a man who weighs every single word.
— Here's what you're going to do. You place your hand on the cloth inside the chest. You focus. You channel a small amount of mana into it — very little, just enough to create a connection. And you concentrate as hard as you can.
— And then?
— Then your mind will shift into another dimension. The one where Arasaka exists.
Yuma nodded.
— And the risk?
Kazuho didn't look away.
— In that dimension, if Arasaka decides to attack you seriously… your mind may not come back. Your body would remain here. Intact. But empty.
The word landed in the silence of the room.
Enji, standing behind Yuma, said nothing. But his fists had closed.
Yuma looked at the chest.
Then at Kazuho.
— Understood.
He didn't hesitate.
He stepped toward the chest, reached out, and placed his fingers on the cloth.
It was cold. Strangely dense to the touch — like the material itself was more real than everything around it.
He closed his eyes.
Focused his mana — gently, carefully, a thin line of energy he let flow toward the cloth like water running between fingers.
And concentrated.
The Hyôgas watched Yuma.
Standing in front of the open chest, eyes closed, hand resting on the cloth, completely still.
Then his body relaxed entirely.
And he fell.
Haruki took a step forward — Kazuho raised his hand to stop him.
— He's in the other dimension, he said quietly. Don't touch him.
Enji knelt beside Yuma, pressed two fingers to his wrist.
Pulse. Steady.
He looked up at the open chest.
— Come back, he murmured.
When Yuma opened his eyes, the ceiling of the treasury was gone.
No walls. No stone floor. No ordinary light.
Just space.
Dark and vast. Not the darkness of a room without light — something more absolute. A blackness that had texture, density. Like the darkness itself was made of something.
Yuma stood up slowly.
Looked left. Right. Behind him.
Nothing.
— Anyone there?
His voice disappeared into the void without an echo.
He took a few steps.
Stopped.
Something behind him.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
A presence.
Massive. Perfectly still. Like a star had just materialized at his back — no heat, no light, but gravity. A weight in the space itself that hadn't been there a second ago.
Yuma turned around.
And dropped into a fighting stance before he'd consciously decided to.
A low laugh resonated through the darkness.
— Good.
A silhouette emerged from the black.
A man. Or something that resembled a man — imposing height, broad frame, sharp and regular features with something indefinably ancient in the gaze. Small curved horns growing from the top of the skull, subtle but real. Dark clothing, simple, no unnecessary ornamentation.
He stopped a few meters from Yuma and looked him up and down with eyes that evaluated everything and revealed nothing.
— You interest me, said Arasaka.
— Feeling's mutual, said Yuma.
The demon's eyes lingered a fraction of a second longer.
— Then let's start with what matters.
He tilted his head slightly.
— I want to fight you. Before we talk about anything else.
Yuma looked at him.
A rank S demon.
In another dimension.
Without Enji. Without Reishin. Without anyone.
He thought about it for exactly two seconds.
— Fine.
Arasaka's lips curved into something that resembled a smile — not warm. Satisfied.
— Get in position.
Yuma activated Dancing Thunder immediately — lightning ran along his arms, his legs, his shoulders. Blazing Mantle ignited in a thin layer across his body. He dropped into a low stance, hands slightly apart, center of gravity low.
Arasaka didn't move right away.
He closed his eyes for one second.
The air changed.
Something concentrated around him — not visible, not audible, but absolutely perceptible. Like an accumulation. Like a storm choosing its shape before it strikes.
— Art of War…
His voice was different when he spoke those words. Lower. Heavier. Like a phrase recited so many times it had become pure instinct.
— …Strike of the Empty Sky.
He disappeared.
Yuma dove sideways on pure reflex — the blow passed one centimeter from his shoulder. The air pressure alone nearly threw him off balance. He felt the wind of the passage brush his cheek like a blade.
He spun and countered immediately.
Right fist, compressed fire, straight toward Arasaka's flank.
A single hand rose.
His fist stopped dead. Like he'd punched a stone wall.
Arasaka watched him with that calm, slightly bored expression of someone who just blocked something without the slightest effort. His hand hadn't moved a millimeter under the impact.
— Not bad for a start.
He released Yuma's fist.
— Art of War…
Yuma stepped back instinctively — body before brain, two weeks against the clone speaking for themselves.
— …Inner Tempest.
The strike came too fast to see — an open-palm hit to Yuma's sternum, and with it a wave of wind mana that poured into his body like an interior gale. Yuma felt his lungs compress, his mana destabilize, his legs lose their solidity for a moment like the ground had just changed consistency beneath him.
He absorbed the blow and stumbled back three steps.
Spat through his teeth.
— Alright.
He recentered. Closed his eyes for a fraction of a second — just long enough to feel the energy in his limbs, put it back in order, find the thread again.
And charged.
Dancing Thunder at full power in the dark frictionless space of this dimension — every electrical impulse under his feet converted to pure speed with nothing to slow it down. He vanished into an electrical arc, direction change, reversed arc, lateral arc — the sequence that fourteen days against the clone had carved into his muscles like second nature.
Arasaka tracked him with his eyes.
Yuma surged from the front — left hand open as a feint, right fist at maximum charge. Not a technique he'd learned. Not something born from training or repetition. Something that came out in the moment itself, raw and instinctive, forged by the fight.
— Blazing Fist!
Fire mana and lightning mana fused in the impact at the precise moment of contact — a sudden compression followed by total release.
The blow landed square on Arasaka's chest.
And this time — he moved.
Launched backward two meters, he landed on one foot, the other barely grazing the ground, and stabilized in complete silence.
He looked down at his chest.
Then at Yuma.
Something in his eyes changed — subtle but real. Not surprise. Not pain. Something else. Something Yuma hadn't seen in them before.
Interest.
— Good, he said simply.
One word. But delivered the way Arasaka delivered it, it carried more weight than any elaborate compliment.
— Very good.
He straightened completely. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly — not tension, not open threat. But something adjusted. Something that hadn't been there before.
— My turn.
Yuma readied himself. Mana in position. Knees bent. Eyes open.
— Art of War…
Arasaka's voice was slower this time. More precise. Like someone taking the time to aim before releasing.
— …Thunderbolt of Judgment.
The electrical arc that hit Yuma came from everywhere at once — not from one direction, not from one angle. From the space itself. Yuma blocked with crossed arms, felt the discharge pass through his guard like it didn't exist, and was launched sideways into the darkness.
He rolled. Got up.
Barely standing.
— Art of War…
He looked up.
— …Conqueror's Blaze.
A sphere of fire — nothing like his, nothing like Enji's. Something denser, more ancient, that absorbed the ambient light rather than emitting it. Like the flame itself had decided to have weight. It struck Yuma before he'd finished stabilizing.
The impact lifted him off the ground.
He traveled through the darkness for several meters before crashing down hard.
Tried to get up.
His arms responded. Halfway.
— Art of War…
He looked up.
Arasaka was above him. Already there — he hadn't heard him approach. Hadn't sensed him coming. Just present, as if the space between them had never really existed.
— …Silence of Extinction.
A single palm strike. Flat. Downward.
Yuma tried to block with both arms crossed, every last bit of mana he had left concentrated into that final gesture.
The impact passed through the guard like paper.
He crashed into the floor of the dark space and this time his arms didn't respond to get back up. Neither did his legs. Everything was heavy — his eyelids, his breathing, his thoughts that were starting to unravel at the edges like burnt fabric.
He stayed there.
Flat on his back in the dark.
Eyes fixed on the blackness above him.
He searched for something to hold onto to keep from losing consciousness — his dream, his grandfather's face, Enji's voice — and found just enough to keep his eyes open.
Arasaka approached slowly.
Stopped beside him.
Looked him over from above with those eyes that never showed anything.
Except now.
Now they showed something.
— …It has been a long time, he said quietly.
It wasn't quite the same voice anymore. Less performance. Less deliberate weight. Something more direct. Almost private — like a thought spoken aloud without meaning to.
— A very long time since someone made me move.
He looked at Yuma's fallen silhouette one last time.
The eyes still fighting to stay open.
The smile still trying to form despite everything.
— You just might be the warrior I've been waiting for.
The darkness closed in gently.
End of Chapter 16