PROLOGUE
I thought it would mean something.
The Ishikari Champion — a name that promised strength, protection, purpose. But it didn’t save them. Titles don’t stop death, don’t mend the quiet places where people vanish. When the dust settled, the victory I’d imagined felt thin, hollow, useless.
Atonement… that’s the part no one tells you about. It’s not a single act, not a grand gesture. It’s the quiet weight you carry every day. The guilt of knowing you didn’t do enough. The shame of standing alive while your friends—Lyselle, Alaric, Rainer, Hecate, Axel—are gone. I keep asking myself: what more could I have done? And the answer never comes.
Every step I take now feels like penance. Every breath is a tally: another day I didn’t save them, another day I owe.
Redemption isn’t about saving the world. It’s about proving to myself that I can still try… even if I’ll never forgive myself for what happened.
Sirens wailed through the city, their echoes tangled with the barking of dogs and the sharp shatter of glass somewhere in the distance.
At the mouth of an alley, a man sprinted through, his breath ragged, shoes slapping against the wet pavement. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting fractured light across the street as he darted into the narrow throat of darkness.
He skidded to a stop, pressing himself against the wall, chest heaving, trying to melt into shadow.
Then—crunch. A sound from nearby froze him in place. He held his breath, eyes darting across the alley.
A blur streaked across the rooftops — swift, silent, predatory. The man’s gaze snapped upward, searching desperately for the source. Before he could react, something descended from above, landing with unnatural grace at the alley’s mouth.
The figure rippled like smoke, its eyes gleaming with feral hunger.
When it spoke, the words were old, carved from another age:
“Ek finn blóð drekanar…” — I smell the blood of the dragon.
The man’s hand trembled as he reached for the katana at his side. Steel whispered against the scabbard, half‑drawn, but before he could free it, the shadow seized him by the collar. With monstrous strength, it hurled him across the alley. He crashed against the wall, pain exploding through his ribs.
“Argh! Stop, please!” he cried, voice breaking.
The figure stepped forward, her face catching the dim glow of a broken streetlamp. It was Emory Sanchez — but her eyes were wrong, gleaming red that twisted her features into something cruel.
On the ground, the man staggered to his feet, blood streaking his lip. His hands trembled as he pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt, revealing himself at last — Kenzo Kazomaki.
“Emory… please, snap out of it,” he pleaded, voice raw and desperate. “Em, fight her. Get her out of your head.”
For a heartbeat, Emory twitched, her body jerking violently as if some inner war raged inside her. Her eyes flickered, caught between recognition and shadow. Then her hands flared with unnatural light.
Emory stood in the street, possessed and rampaging, her voice shrill and terrible in Old Norse: “Hvar er drekan? Farið úr vegi, menn!” —Where is the dragon? Get out of my way, humans!
Kenzo’s chest tightened. He couldn’t let the crowd suffer. “Emory!” he shouted, forcing her attention back to him. Her burning gaze locked onto his.
Without hesitation, Kenzo darted toward the looming parking lot building. He slipped inside, boots pounding against concrete, racing up the ramps and stairwells. Behind him, Emory followed, her pursuit relentless, her power shaking the very air.
At the top, Kenzo had nowhere left to go. Without choice, he braced himself, facing the door where he could hear Emory’s footsteps climbing closer.
“Em! Emory… don’t let me do this,” he whispered, raising his hand. Fire sparked to life across his palms, flickering with desperate resolve.
The door creaked open, ever so slowly. Emory eerily crept through, her voice curling in Old Norse: “Fann þig, dreki.” —Found you, dragon.
Her eyes narrowed at the fire in Kenzo’s hands. She spoke again, guttural and commanding: “Þessi eldur verður okkar. Með honum munum vér móta heiminn sem vér viljum.” —That fire will be ours. With it we will forge the world as we see fit.
Her lips moved, whispering a spell in Latin, each syllable resonating with raw power:
“𝖁𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖆, 𝖊𝖗𝖚𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔!” — Arcane force, erupt!
A surge of energy burst from her hands, an arcane blast that tore through the air with a shrill hum. The projectile cracked against the alley walls, leaving fractures in the stone as it barreled toward Kenzo.
Kenzo, left with no choice, thrust his palms forward. Fire ignited across his hands, his power flaring in defiance. Flames roared outward to meet the arcane blast, colliding in a storm of sparks and heat.
The clash lit the rooftop in a storm of flame and sorcery, their powers colliding, shaking the night as the battle began.
Then—BOOM. The rooftop exploded outward, shards of concrete and steel raining down as both figures were hurled across the city skyline.
Kenzo spun through the air, the neon lights of the streets below flashing past in dizzy streaks. He clenched his arms together, fire sparking to life across his palms. With desperate focus, he bent the flames beneath him, slowing his descent.
He hit the ground hard, rolling across the pavement, the fire cushioning but not saving him from the impact. His shoulder slammed against a wall, pain flaring sharp. He groaned, forcing himself upright, smoke curling around him.
As he tried to get up, his eyes caught the glint of steel — his katana. He staggered toward it, fingers brushing the hilt.
From the shadows, Emory emerged almost unscathed, blood streaking from a cut on her cheek but otherwise untouched, her possession still burning in her gaze.
Kenzo raised the katana. For a moment, Emory faltered, her expression flickering back to herself. “… What the—Kenzo?” she gasped, before the possession clawed back.
Kenzo’s breath caught. He whispered, almost reverent, as his eyes fixed on the blade in his hands: “Right… Axel’s katana.”
Lowering the weapon, his voice trembled but carried a resolute edge. “Em… if you’re in there, remember whose katana this is. That’s right — it’s Axel’s. Remember Axel.”
The words cut deeper than steel. Emory’s body shook, her eyes flickering between shadow and self. The possession clawed at her, refusing to let go. Her lips twisted, and in Old Norse the shadow hissed: “Nei… nei! Hann skal gleymast!” —No… no! He shall be forgotten!
Kenzo stepped closer, his voice raw with hope, pushing against the darkness. “Axel was our friend. Do you remember him? He meant more to you than anyone… and he wouldn’t want to see you like this, Em.”
Emory’s breath hitched, her body trembling as the shadow fought to hold her. Her eyes flickered again, the struggle visible in every twitch.
Kenzo’s voice broke, but he pressed on, desperate. “Emory… please. Come back.”
With that, the possession shattered. The darkness peeled away, leaving Emory trembling but free, her eyes clear once more.
Kenzo caught Emory in his arms, steadying her trembling frame. “Hey, hey… I’m here. Are you… you?”
Emory groaned, clutching her head. “I feel like I’ve had a hangover for five days straight. The fuck happened?”
Kenzo let out a weary laugh, half relief, half exhaustion. “An old friend paid us a visit. Decided your body was a good vessel to destroy the world. You know… typical Tuesday.”
“I see,” Emory muttered, her voice still shaky. She straightened, eyes narrowing. “Now… where is this friend of ours?”
The air thickened. A red mist seeped into the rooftop, curling like smoke, staining the night. From its depths, a figure emerged — an old, pale witch with eyes burning crimson. Her cloak was the color of blood, flowing like a living shadow, and in her hand she carried a staff etched with runes that pulsed faintly with power.
The witch — the Völva, Blood Witch — stepped forward, her crimson cloak dragging across the rooftop, staff pulsing with runes. Her pale face twisted in fury, red eyes burning like embers.
In Old Norse, her voice cracked the air: “Kenzo… þú komst í gegnum hana. Næst mun ek eigi bregðast.” —Kenzo… you broke through her. Next time, I will not fail.
A passerby, panicked and stumbling, tried to flee down the street. The witch’s hand flicked, a knife appearing as if conjured from mist. With a cruel thrust, she stabbed the innocent.
“No!” Kenzo and Emory cried together, horror in their voices.
The witch’s lips curled into a smile. She muttered a spell, her words heavy and ancient: “Jarðar rís, blóð gefur þér líf.” —Earth, rise, blood gives you life.
The ground trembled. Behind her, stone cracked and split as a massive figure clawed its way upward. An earth golem began to form, its body sculpted from dirt, rock, and bone, towering as the life bled from the passerby’s eyes.
Kenzo’s fury ignited, fire sparking across his hands, his jaw clenched tight. The Völva laughed, her voice echoing like a curse, reveling in the chaos.
Emory forced herself upright, swaying but determined, one hand braced against the wall. Her eyes locked on the witch, resolve hardening despite the weakness in her limbs.
Kenzo smirked faintly, katana in hand. “I think our friend’s overstayed her welcome.”
Emory stepped beside him, magic flaring from her hands, her voice steady despite the tremor in her body. “I agree… just like old times?”
He raised his free hand, flames sparking to life across his palm. With a sharp motion, he dragged the fire along the katana’s edge — steel catching flame, the blade igniting in a blaze of crimson light.
The katana burned like a torch of vengeance, its reflection dancing across the cracked pavement. Kenzo held it steady, the fire wrapping around the steel without consuming it, a weapon reborn in his grasp.
Emory smirked faintly, magic flaring from her own hands as she stepped beside him. “Now that’s more like it.”
Together, they faced the witch and her looming golem, the night trembling with the promise of battle.
