The sky over Tanshiro was too quiet.
General Kael Ryou stood motionless at the edge of the airship ramp, his black cape billowing in the warm breeze. The war medals glinting on his chest felt heavier than usual. He should've felt relief—joy, even. Six years of blood, victories, and pyrrhic peace treaties had finally ended. The war was won.
So why did his heart feel like it was sinking into an abyss?
He stepped down, boots thudding against the landing platform—no honour guard. No steward. Not even a single carriage was waiting for him.
The silence gnawed at him.
Something was wrong.
He passed through the familiar streets of the province capital, now oddly subdued. Children peered from behind doors. Shopkeepers bowed respectfully, but no one met his gaze. Whispers followed him like shadows.
A thick knot formed in his throat. Every instinct screamed. His battlefield mind calculated probabilities.
Sabotage. Coup. Retaliation?
He ran.
Past the shrine gates. Past the merchant quarters. Past the bamboo grove at the foot of Ryou Hill. The estate came into view—and with it, the smoke.
Thick. Grey. Ominous.
Kael froze.
The Ryou Estate—the house of his bloodline, the sanctum of his ancestors—was no more than scorched timber and fractured stone. The front gate had collapsed inward like broken ribs. The air stank of burnt cedar, molten lacquer, and something else—flesh.
He walked in a daze, heart pounding. His eyes refused to believe.
The family shrine had caved in.
The sakura trees were blackened skeletons.
And at the centre of the courtyard, nailed to a half-burnt column, was a symbol he hadn't seen since the secret war days—painted in blood.
A coiled red serpent.
Kael fell to his knees, the wind knocked from his lungs as though he'd taken a spear to the chest. His mouth opened but no sound came.
Not his mother…
Not Aya. Not little Haru…
He slammed his fists into the ground. Once. Twice. Over and over until blood mingled with dust. His vision blurred.
They were supposed to be safe. He had written them letters. Sent gold. Assigned personal guards. He had fought on distant fields to keep the fight away from them.
And still, they died.
Because he wasn't here.
"Coward," the voice in his head whispered.
"General Ryou…"
The hoarse voice jolted him. He turned.
A bloodied figure limped from the rubble—Hanzo, the old retainer. Half his face was burned, and he cradled his left arm uselessly.
Kael rushed forward and caught him before he collapsed.
"Who did this?" Kael demanded. His voice trembled.
"They came in the night… black cloaks… poison in the well… the guards—gone before they drew swords…"
Kael's breath caught. "My family?"
Hanzo closed his eyes. A tear escaped down his soot-covered cheek. "Gone… all of them… Lady Aya tried to fight. Little Haru—he called for you until the flames took him."
Kael felt his knees buckle again.
Hanzo pressed a small object into his hand—a child's wooden whistle. Haru's favourite.
Kael stared at it for a long moment.
Then, a flicker of something deep—primordial—awoke in him. Grief. Rage. Guilt. And something colder.
Resolve.
He stood slowly, closing his fingers around the whistle.
"They left a mark," Hanzo rasped. "Crimson Serpent…"
Kael stared at the serpent sigil again.
Once, he had thought the war had ended. That peace had been won.
But peace was a lie carved by bloodied hands.
Now, he would become the storm they never saw coming.
"I don't need an army," Kael whispered. "Just time."