Chapter 3: Lord of the Black Dynasty
I. Into the Dead Woods
The cobblestones of Zenin City dissolved into gnarled roots and damp earth as Doumar strolled into the forest outskirts. The crimson moonlight barely penetrated the thick canopy, casting fractured, skeletal shadows across his path. He walked with his hands in his pockets, completely unbothered by the distant echoes of his sister's battle behind him.
Suddenly, the ambient temperature plummeted. The natural dampness of the forest floor instantly froze into a fine, glittering frost.
The shadows beneath the ancient trees didn't just lengthen—they detached from the wood, swirling inward toward a single point like ink down a drain.
"Reaper's Fire Style."
A voice, low and resonant like a tolling bell, shattered the silence.
From the dense thicket, a massive scythe tore through the dark. Its blade wasn't coated in normal flames, but a churning, parasitic black fire that seemed to actively devour the ambient light. The strike descended with the weight of a falling mountain.
Doumar's lazy demeanor evaporated. Instinct overrode thought. He crossed his forearms just as the obsidian blade slammed down.
CRACK.
The collision erupted with the force of an exploding star. The shockwave detonated outward, snapping thick pine trunks like dry twigs and tearing the frost-bitten earth down to the bedrock. Doumar was violently driven backward, his boots digging deep trenches into the soil before he finally skidded to a halt.
Thin wisps of black smoke curled from his sleeves. The flesh of his arms hissed, dark embers struggling to eat through his demonic skin before finally sputtering out.
A slow, terrifying grin stretched across Doumar's face. He raised his eyes, his crimson pupils locking onto the figure emerging from the smoke.
"You fight exceptionally well, old man," Doumar mused, his voice vibrating with sudden excitement. "Tell me your name. I wish to remember the strongest warrior I have ever faced."
The figure stepped fully into the pale light. He was an elder, lines of time deeply etched into his face, yet his posture held the absolute rigidity of a king. He gripped his scythe with unshakeable hands, the black flames dancing hungrily along the edge.
"So… even demons possess a shred of pride," the old man spoke, his voice unyielding. "Very well. I am Black Shizugawa—Lord of the Black Dynasty."
He advanced a step, the shadows around his boots writhing like living serpents.
"And the son of the great Shin Shizugawa."
Doumar's grin stiffened. His posture went completely rigid. "…Shin Shizugawa," he repeated, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. "The human who survived the First Battle of Dawn. The one who hunted my kin."
The demonic energy radiating from Doumar's body mutated, turning heavy, violent, and wild. "No wonder. You carry the blood of a butcher. Splendid—let us see if your lineage can save you!"
II. Echoes in the Grand Hall
Miles away, deep within the inner ring of Zenin Palace, the heavy oak doors of the grand hall were violently thrown open.
Silver Fangar stumbled inside. His chest heaved violently, his silver hair was matted with sweat, and his pale face was completely stripped of color. His boots clicked frantically against the polished marble as he sprinted past the columns.
"Silver-senpai?!" Rein Shizugawa called out, dropping his training wooden sword. "What's wrong? Why are you—"
Silver didn't even look at him. He blew past the young disciple like a gust of panicked wind, his singular focus locked on the inner sanctum doors.
Rein's hand remained frozen in the air. He slowly lowered it, his fingers clenching into a tight, trembling fist. His teeth ground together until they ached. Left behind again. Ignored again. Why does everyone always look down on me…?
Inside the main office, the chaotic noise immediately drew the attention of Lord Tomioka Zeki. He looked up from his desk, his sharp eyes instantly assessing Silver's disheveled state.
"You're pale, Silver," Tomioka said. His voice was a calm anchor, though his hand subtly shifted toward the hilt of his sword. "Speak."
"Lord Zenin…" Silver gasped, gripping the edge of the desk to keep his knees from buckling. "Two abnormal entities… Ancient Demons… have breached the outer gates. One is engaging Aiken right now. The other walked past toward the forest."
The air in the room changed instantly.
Tomioka slowly rose from his chair. As he did, his hidden Eminence energy ignited. It wasn't a loud explosion, but a terrifying pressure—like a localized hurricane forming within four walls. Loose papers lifted from the desk, swirling in a violent vortex around him, snapping tightly against the bookshelves.
"So it wasn't my imagination," Tomioka murmured, his expression darkening into a mask of pure steel. "That suffocating presence from earlier… it's them."
He looked directly into Silver's panicked eyes. "Where are they now?"
"The forest outskirts," Silver steadied his breathing, a fierce resolve flashing through his fear. "I am coming with you."
III. The Sovereign of Death
Back in the shattered woods, the sky had completely lost its color.
Black Shizugawa and Doumar clashed in a terrifying blur of motion. Every contact of their weapons sounded like a clap of thunder, sending rings of compressed air rippling through the ruined trees.
Doumar laughed maniacally amidst the chaos, his bare claws striking against the black iron of the scythe. "Incredible! Truly incredible! You look sixty—no, seventy at least—yet you can still match my speed!"
With a brutal parry, Doumar forced Black back a few inches. "If you were only thirty years younger, old man… this might have actually been a problem for me."
Black didn't speak. He simply planted his back foot, his lungs burning as he pulled every scrap of energy from his core. He slammed the blunt end of his scythe directly into the cracked earth.
"8th Stage — Death Pulse."
An invisible, catastrophic wave of pressure detonated outward from Black's body.
The ground shattered in a perfect, flawless circle. The sheer gravity of the pulse crushed the remaining trees flat, pulverizing rock into dust. Doumar's eyes widened as the invisible weight slammed into his chest, forcing him to slide backward, his claws tearing into the dirt to maintain his balance.
"Tch… annoying trick—" Doumar growled.
But before the demon could recover, the shadows beneath his feet snapped awake.
"Shadow Binding."
Thick, thorny tendrils of compressed darkness erupted from the soil, wrapping around Doumar's ankles, torso, and throat like living barbed wire, locking him firmly in place.
"Damn it," Doumar hissed, testing the restraints. They were rigid, fueled by the old man's very life force.
Black raised his scythe high, his eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying authority.
"12th Stage — Tomb Domain."
A wave of absolute dead silence expanded from the scythe, swallowing the entire clearing. The crimson moonlight vanished, replaced by an artificial, pitch-black void. Sound died. The wind died. It was an environment built entirely for the dead.
The shadow tendrils holding Doumar shrieked before turning into gray ash, but the absolute gravity of the Tomb Domain pressed down on the demon's shoulders, forcing him down to one knee.
Doumar's smirk completely vanished. For the first time, a cold drop of sweat rolled down the demon's temple. He looked up through the darkness at the towering figure of the human elder.
"That domain…" Doumar muttered, his voice strained. "Who would believe you're just a frail mortal?"
Black stood at the center of his dark domain, his arms trembling violently from the sheer strain, but his eyes remained fiercely alight.
"Never underestimate the bloodline of the Reaper."
—END OF CHAPTER 3—