Marked by The End

Kenji’s knees trembled. Rokuro’s mind echoed with a single thought.

Why does this all feel so familiar?

“Get away! Somebody help!”

Screams filled the air as panic swept through the streets. Families, students, strangers—they all ran. From the flames. From the impossible.

Towering armored soldiers descended from the sky, blades of light and rifles glowing with cold, alien power.

“AHHHH!”

A woman collapsed. A blast took out a car. Smoke swallowed everything.

Kenji’s voice cracked as he pulled at Rokuro’s arm. “We need to go! Now!”

“Wait—Kana’s still inside!”

“Inside—? Look at that building, man!”

Kana’s school was barely a structure anymore. Flames licked the crumbling walls. The front gate had melted into slag. No one could survive that. No one.

But Rokuro’s feet wouldn’t move.

Not again.

His brain flooded with memory—shouts, smoke, a fire from long ago. And that feeling in his chest—the helpless, skin-crawling burn of guilt.

He couldn’t run away again. He swore he wouldn’t.

“I have to save her.”

“Roku—!”

Too late. He twisted free of Kenji’s grip and charged against the crowd. Against common sense. Against fate itself.

Kenji stood frozen.

Then turned.

Then ran.

Rokuro didn’t blame him. Part of him was glad. One less person to die today.

But the moment was over. And the soldiers had noticed.

Three of them stepped into his path, spouting metallic gibberish through distorted helmets.

Rokuro didn’t make out the words—but he understood the intent.

“Shit!”

He ducked just in time. A glowing blade seared through the air where his head had been. Another swing—he barely spun away. Reflexes honed from too many street fights, not near enough for this.

Rokuro ducked and swung a punch at the soldier’s head—clang. His knuckles bounced off the metal uselessly.

Of course it didn’t work. That helmet was built like a tank.

Shit.

The third soldier didn’t miss.

A black baton crashed into Rokuro’s ribs. He flew—crashed against a streetlight—and collapsed.

Pain exploded in his side. Breath stolen. Vision blurry.

Then—fingers in his hair.

The soldier yanked him up. Its voice snarled more garbled syllables.

But somehow… he understood.

“You’re nothing.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

“Damn bastards!”

His hands clawed weakly at the armored grip around his throat—

—and then, a foot smashed into the soldier’s head.

“BACK OFF, TIN CAN!”

Kenji.

The idiot was back.

The blow knocked the soldier off balance. Kenji stood there, surprisingly steady.

“You dumbass,” he muttered, hauling Rokuro to his feet. “You just had to stay.”

“What the hell are you doing?! You were safe!”

“I said I’m coming with you, didn’t I?” Kenji smirked.

Rokuro blinked. Then laughed—just a little.

“Stupidity like yours only comes once in a million years.”

“Same for my guts.”

They turned. The soldiers raised their rifles.

Too many. Too fast.

Kenji’s smirk faded.

“…Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have come back.” Kenji tried to stand his ground but the overwhelming pressure made him flinch, “The hell do we do now Roku?”

“What makes you think I have a plan?!”

Click.

Dozens of weapons locked on target.

“Halt.”

The word cut the air.

A towering figure stepped through the smoke—his silhouette broad, cloaked in a long crimson cape that dragged across the blood-slicked ground. A silver-and-red mask hid his face, gleaming like polished steel, with a single glowing eye etched into the forehead.

His steps were slow. Commanding.

Rokuro and Kenji stood still as ice.

The masked man stared at them both, then raised his hand.

And in the blink of an eye—

Before he could move, even breathe…

Fingers closed around Rokuro’s throat.

“Ghk—!”

“You…” the man growled. “You’re the one.”

The voice trembled with fury. With certainty. Rokuro’s feet left the ground as the figure’s grip tightened.

“He’s the one!”

With that, the soldiers turned their rifles—not at Rokuro.

At Kenji.

“No—!”

Too late.

The blasts came all at once. Flash after flash of red-hot light tore through the air.

Kenji never even screamed.

He just stood. Knees buckled. Then collapsed.

His eyes never left Rokuro.

“…Roku…”

Gone.

Rokuro screamed. Or tried to. The sound barely came out—strangled, broken.

Blood soaked the street. His friend’s body lay in a mangled heap.

Why? Why him? Why not me?

Kana was gone. Kenji was gone. Everything—

The city. The sky. The world itself—

Gone.

“I finally found you…” the masked figure whispered, lowering a blade to his neck. “Roku.”

The dagger shimmered faintly in the smoke. Crooked. Ornate. Edged like a key.

“And I will erase you… before you get the chance to interfere.”

The metal kissed his skin—hot, humming, wrong.

“C-come closer… I’ll tear you apart…” He managed to spell out with what little air he had.

He stared into the glowing eye of his killer—

And then suddenly… right before it ended… everything slipped into darkness.

╒ 🗝 ╛

Everything was dark.

His head throbbed like it was caught in a vice, temples pulsing as if they’d explode. Were his eyes closed… or had he gone blind?

No sound. No feeling. Just weightless static.

Was this death?

Was death even something you could feel?

For a brief moment, the numbness felt… peaceful. But it didn’t last.

His eyelids, heavy as lead, finally twitched open—and bright blue sky bled through the haze. A blazing sun scorched his vision. Blurry shapes shifted in and out of focus.

The pain returned like a brick to the skull.

A smell hit him next. Strange. Heavy. Earthy in a way he’d never smelled back home.

And then—sound. Something sliding. Horses. Chatter.

Voices.

Movement.

He wasn’t walking. He was being moved. Rocked by a slow, uneven rhythm.

A carriage?

As his senses clawed their way back, treetops in his periphery turned to rooftops—old, slanted, wooden rooftops. Like something out of a history book.

Definitely not Tokyo.

Was this a dream? Another hallucination?

Then something silver flickered in his view.

SPLASH.

Cold water slammed into his face.

“Wha—?!” Rokuro gasped, jerking upright with a hoarse cough, lungs burning.

Panting. Soaked. Confused. But awake.

Two armored men stood over him, one holding the bucket like it was no big deal. Behind them—an open market. Robes. Armor. Swords. Wooden stalls. Dirt paths.

Everything screamed medieval fantasy.

Rokuro stared, wide-eyed. Not in shock—but in creeping disbelief.

This wasn’t home. This wasn’t even close.

╒ 🗝 ╛

Click. Clack. Click.

Boots echoed on polished marble as the same two guards escorted him down a hallway far too clean for the world outside. Chandeliers. Velvet curtains. Gold-trimmed everything.

A palace. A literal palace.

Neither of them would answer his questions.

Only one line…

“The king must see you at once.”

What king? What world?

Still dazed, Rokuro walked past servants, butlers, knights… all staring at him like some animal dragged in off the street.

And maybe he was.

Finally, a set of massive double doors creaked open.

A throne room.

Crimson carpet. Gilded steps. A single towering throne. And seated at the top—

A man with a well-kept beard, piercing blue eyes, and a white cloak fit for royalty. No doubt who this was.

The king.

As Rokuro stepped inside, every servant in the room turned to stare. His outfit—urban and scuffed—didn’t exactly scream ‘noble guest.’

The guards dropped to one knee.

“Your Majesty, we’ve brought the outsider bearing the mark.”

The king stood. Calm. Confident. That weirdly warm smile masked something sharper beneath.

“Young man,” he said, voice like a clear bell. “Welcome.”

Rokuro didn’t reply. Just tilted his head in a half-bow, too stunned to speak.

One of the guards tensed. “Show some respe—”

“Leave him,” the king cut in. “He’s not here to grovel. You’ve done your part.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The guards saluted and left.

“Come closer,” the king said.

Rokuro obeyed—wary, but curious.

“Do you know where you are?” the king asked. “Who I am?”

“I have no clue, Your… Majesty,” Rokuro replied, tripping slightly over the title.

“But we know who you are, young man.”

“You… do?” Rokuro furrowed his brows.

The king simply pointed at the back of Rokuro’s hand.

There lay a glowing mark. A circular sigil etched into his skin like a scar. Interlocking lines formed a keyhole shape, bound by broken chain-like patterns.

“What the—“

“This is the mark that proves you aren’t here by chance.”

“Where is here?”

“You’re in Portalia, capital of the kingdom of Renwall.”

Rokuro clicked his tongue.

“…None of that means anything to me.”

Servants whispered. The king only sighed.

“Even so, you must know why you’re here.” The king paused.

“Why you were summoned.”

Rokuro blinked.

Summoned?