The wind carried ash before the screams reached them.
Ishikawa's stride quickened, hand on Kurayami's hilt, even as his side throbbed from barely-healed wounds. Asaki followed closely, her eyes sharp, one hand guarding Yumi, who trudged between them with her small fists clenched. Sayaka trailed behind, quiet but watchful.
They'd followed the smoke to a hillside village outside Uji. A place that once sang with windchimes and children's laughter.
Now silence waited like a blade.
Then—
A scream. Short, ragged. Then nothing.
Ishikawa broke into a run.
They passed toppled carts, burnt doors hanging loose, rice scattered across bloodstained steps. A shrine to Hachiman stood in ruin, its offering bowl cracked open like a skull.
And then they saw them.
Kurohana rebels—half a dozen—standing over three villagers forced to their knees. A mother, a boy no older than Yumi, and a grandfather, trembling, hands bound with twine.
One of the rebels—a woman in black lacquer armor—raised a curved naginata. Her mask bore the sigil of a black flower blooming from a skull.
"No more false gods," she said coldly.
The blade descended.
Yumi's scream shattered the air.
The world ignited.
Flames burst from the child's body—not red but white-gold, searing the ground in a perfect circle. Ishikawa barely had time to shield Asaki and Sayaka before the fire expanded.
The rebels turned.
Too late.
Wings of pure fire unfurled from Yumi's back—massive, feathered, pulsing like a heartbeat. Her hair whipped upward, dancing like sunlit embers. Her eyes had gone blank—no whites, no irises—just swirling suns, furious and ancient.
"ASH TO ASH…" her voice echoed, layered with something deeper, inhuman. The ground cracked beneath her. Trees bent away from her heat.
The nearest rebel raised her blade to strike.
Yumi raised a hand.
A jet of fire lanced through the woman's chest.
She didn't scream. Her body turned to ash before it hit the ground.
The others tried to flee. They didn't make it far.
The fire chased them like judgment incarnate—serpents of flame curling through the air, carving burning trails that erased bone and metal alike.
It was not a battle.
It was execution.
When it ended, nothing remained of the attackers but soot. The villagers knelt, eyes wide, silent in horror.
Yumi stood in the middle of the scorched square, shaking. Her wings flickered.
Then she turned toward Ishikawa and Asaki.
"I—" she tried to speak, but her mouth trembled. Her eyes still glowed.
And then, like a storm passing, the fire vanished.
Her knees buckled. Ishikawa ran forward, catching her before she collapsed.
"Yumi!" Asaki dropped beside them, grasping the child's hand. It was hot, but cooling.
Yumi blinked up at them.
"I didn't mean to—" she whispered. "I didn't— I was just scared— and— and they were going to kill them and—"
Then she broke.
Sobs tore through her, raw and shivering.
Ishikawa held her close, unsure of what to say. Fire had always been his enemy, his punishment, his sin. Now it clung to a girl's breath.
Yumi buried her face into his chest.
"Why does it hurt," she whimpered, "when they scream?"
The question struck like a blade to the ribs.
Sayaka approached slowly, kneeling beside them.
"You're not a monster, Yumi."
Yumi looked at her, eyes red and swollen.
"You're proof," Sayaka continued softly, "that we don't need gods to protect us. You are power. But you still cry. You still care. That's what matters."
Asaki looked away, wiping at her cheek.
The villagers slowly approached. One of them, the boy who had been moments from execution, walked forward. He looked at Yumi, wide-eyed.
Then bowed deeply.
"Thank you," he said.
Yumi shook her head.
"I didn't mean to…"
"You saved us," said the boy. "Even if it hurt."
The words hung heavy in the air. The village was destroyed. Lives lost. But others saved.
What, then, was the cost of mercy?
---
That night, they made camp near the remnants of the river shrine, far enough from the blackened square.
Yumi slept uneasily in Ishikawa's cloak, curled into Asaki's lap.
Sayaka stared into the fire, arms wrapped around her knees. "She's changing," she said finally. "Faster than any child should."
"She's not just a child," Ishikawa said, sharpening Kurayami slowly. "She never was."
Asaki looked down at the girl in her arms. "But she still feels like one. That's what scares me."
The silence after that was long.
When Ishikawa spoke again, his voice was low.
"Kagura said she watched Tomoie rise."
Sayaka flinched.
"I don't know what happened that night. I don't know what I saw. But… Yumi—she wasn't just born. She was forged. From something divine. Something cursed."
"Then what do we do?" Asaki asked. "If she burns everything she touches?"
"We teach her how not to."
---
Later that night, while the others slept, Ishikawa sat alone with his blade across his lap.
He remembered fire.
Not divine.
Not golden.
But screaming, hellish red.
He remembered his wife's face—burning in the temple. His own hand holding the blade. A choice he couldn't remember making.
A seal that never held.
And a baby that didn't cry.
Until now.
He looked at Yumi, curled near the fire, cheeks tear-streaked, face calm at last.
"No more," he whispered. "You won't carry this alone."
Then he closed his eyes.
And prayed—not to gods.
But to the dead.
To Tomoie.
And the child they never got to raise.
---
To be continued…