Way to The First Ring

[Australian Ring – Outskirts]

The wind screamed over the shattered plain, a hot, dry breath that carried sand and ash across the land. Hiroshi stood upon the cracked roof of an ancient temple, his lone figure silhouetted against the blood-red horizon.

Below him stretched a mechanical ocean: tanks aligned in perfect rows, the muzzles of laser cannons glowing faintly in the dusk, squads of soldiers moving with militant precision. The sight was overwhelming—even for him.

Hiroshi’s eyes narrowed, sharp as blades.

“What the—!? How did they know I was coming here?”

His heart hammered in his chest. He had passed through the portal unseen, yet somehow an army lay waiting. To him, the answer was obvious: Varkonian forces. Who else had the numbers, the weapons, the cold discipline to choke the world in iron?

And yet… the truth was more twisted. They were not alien conquerors but Earth’s own resistance—the last desperate fragments of humanity’s rebellion.

A metallic groan echoed across the battlefield as one of the tank hatches opened. From it stepped a boy. His boots struck the ground with a purposeful rhythm, dust swirling at his feet. A white coat with deep-blue stripes framed his lean form, covering a black vest and dark jeans. His hair, stark white, shimmered faintly in the dying light, while his royal blue eyes cut like steel against Hiroshi’s gaze.

For an instant, time froze.

Recognition struck Hiroshi like a lightning bolt. His expression twisted from disbelief into searing rage.

“…Krimson!?” His voice cracked. “How are you still alive!?”

The boy’s response came not as words but as a weapon—his hand lifting a megaphone, his voice ringing sharp and unyielding across the desert.

“HEY YOU! Surrender now! We’ll kill you quickly—less pain. Otherwise…”

The unspoken promise hung heavy in the air.

A silence stretched, taut as wire, both sides measuring the other. In Hiroshi’s mind, the boy was no different from the traitor he remembered—Krimson, the man who had once been brother-in-arms and then knife-in-the-back. In Shinzo’s eyes, Hiroshi was no savior but a monster in human skin. He thought that Hiroshi was a Varkonian enforcer sent to crush them.

The tension shattered with Hiroshi’s roar.

“You backstabbing snake, Krimson! You dare show your face to me again!?”

The boy lowered the megaphone, his eyes unwavering. “I’m not Krimson. I’m his great-great-great-grandson. My name is Shinzo Korosei.”

Hiroshi froze for a fraction of a second. The name rippled through his memory like oil on water. But his fury only grew darker.

“Of course you are,” he clenched his fists. “Treachery runs in your blood. Your ancestor betrayed me—sold us out to the Varkonians. And now here you stand, just another filthy soldier under their banner.”

The words were knives, jagged and merciless.

His fists clenched, his eyes glowing faintly—not with fire, but with a fury even older than the ruins around him.

“I won’t let your cursed bloodline stand in the way of Earth’s freedom.”

The air cracked with his leap. In the blink of an eye, Hiroshi soared from the temple roof and landed on the turret of a laser cannon. The earth shuddered under his weight, dust exploding outward. The soldier sitting on the turret barely had time to gasp before Hiroshi seized him by the collar and hurled him through the air like a discarded doll.

Sliding into the turret seat, Hiroshi bared his teeth in a grimace that was almost a snarl.

“DIE!”

“EVERYONE, DOWN!” Shinzo’s voice thundered.

The soldiers obeyed instinctively, bodies diving to the dirt as the cannon erupted. Plasma bolts screamed across the battlefield, carving fiery scars through sand and steel alike. Tanks buckled and burst into showers of sparks. Cannons melted under the furious barrage. Soldiers scrambled for cover, weapons forgotten in the storm.

And yet—even in his fury—Hiroshi’s strikes were measured. Vehicles crumpled, weapons burned, armor shattered, but no soldier fell to death. His rage was a fire that wounded, not a blade that killed.

When the cannon at last wheezed and fell silent, smoke hung thick in the air. The battlefield was full of twisted metal, scorched earth, and slightly wounded soldiers.

Hiroshi rose slowly from the turret, disgust etched into every line of his face.

“Tch. Using that pathetic toy makes me feel weak.” He shook his head. “I need my true powers back… and soon.”

He stepped away from the wreckage, his boots crunching over shattered stone. Behind him, Shinzo staggered to his knees, His hand reached out feebly, his voice ragged.

“No! wait… stop him..!”

But Hiroshi never looked back.

[450 Meters from the First Ring]

The savannah stretched endlessly, barren and lifeless. Dry grass whispered against the wind, brittle as bones. Alone now, Hiroshi walked across the cracked earth, his shadow long and lean beneath the fading light.

Something caught his eye—a structure, old and crooked, huddled against the emptiness. A hut, slightly large in size, weathered by time, its wooden beams worn grey by sun and sand.

Hiroshi frowned. “A hut? Out here? Shouldn’t that be inside the Ring?”

His curiosity pulled him closer.

[Inside the Hut]

The Hut from inside was large and clean. A small kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom and two chairs kept in the middle were visible.

The air was still, heavy with the scent of old incense. At the hut’s center sat an old mage, cross-legged on a frayed mat. His eyes were closed, but his presence filled the room like a tide.

Before Hiroshi could speak, the old man’s voice drifted out, calm and knowing.

“Ah, Hiroshi. I’ve been expecting you.”

The words stopped Hiroshi in his tracks. “Who are you? And how do you know me?”

The mage’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Who doesn’t know you? You are a living legend—the Varkonian Slayer. The Flame Demi-God, Hiroshi Soraya. To meet you is an honor. I am Majuro Torojima, a mage.”

Hiroshi’s eyes narrowed, studying him with suspicion. “Majuro, huh? Interesting name. But why live out here, beyond the Ring? Isn’t that forbidden?”

The old man gave a dry laugh. “Not exactly. To the Varkonians, I am insignificant. They allow me to remain. An old man poses no threat.”

“Hmph.” Hiroshi’s voice sharpened. “Then answer me this, mage. If you’re so wise, tell me—how do I reclaim my powers?”

Majuro’s expression grew grave. Slowly, he opened his eyes, revealing a gaze ancient and piercing.

“When you were sealed in the cryogenic chamber, the Varkonians extracted your abilities. And the one who did it… was my great-great-great-grandfather, Bajuro Torojima.”

The name cut through Hiroshi like a blade. His breath caught. “…Bajuro? My mentor? He… he betrayed me?”

“Not willingly,” Majuro said gently. “He was forced. But he preserved your gifts. He locked them away inside seven artifacts—the Blaze Embers.”

“Blaze Embers?”

Majuro nodded. “Shards of magical glass, shaped like flames. They are vessels, created to contain unstable powers that would otherwise tear the world apart.”

Hiroshi’s fists clenched, his voice low and dangerous. “But my powers were part of me. How could they be taken?”

Majuro’s tone was steady. “Ancient magic, Hiroshi. A forgotten craft that even now few dare to remember.”

Suspicion lingered in Hiroshi’s eyes. “How do you know all this? How long have you been watching me?”

Majuro smiled faintly. “I keep track of those who matter. Tell me, Hiroshi—how did you reach this place from Hong Kong? You escaped barely five hours ago.”

Hiroshi hesitated, then spoke. “I found a village. Varkonian raiders were pillaging it. They had uncovered a temple—dedicated to me. I stopped them. And above the temple, a portal opened. It brought me here. When I arrived, I encountered… soldiers. I thought they were Varkonians.”

Majuro’s eyes sharpened. “Did you meet Shinzo Korosei?”

Hiroshi’s jaw tightened. “Met him? I nearly killed him. He carries Krimson’s blood—the blood of a traitor. If that turret hadn’t run dry, he’d be dead already.”

Majuro’s staff struck the floor with a thunderous crack. His voice cut like thunder.

“You fool! Do you understand what you’ve done!?”

Hiroshi’s fury flared. “What are you talking about? Krimson betrayed me. His bloodline is poison!”

Majuro’s eyes burned, his voice low with centuries of grief. “No, Hiroshi. The plan you made back then—it backfired. You never knew the whole truth of that day.”

Hiroshi’s stare was unyielding, sharp as a drawn blade. “Then tell me. What exactly happened?”

Majuro inhaled deeply, his voice heavy with the weight of hidden truths.

“…Let me explain.”

To Be Continued…