Chapter 40 – For the Memory of Yukino

Snow fell over the capital, dyed red as it mingled with the smoke of mana cannons and the screams of the fallen. The city itself had become a battlefield—a canvas of steel, fire, and blood.

Amid the chaos, Yura gripped the Yukihana Katana. Her frosted breath mixed with the vapor rising from blood-stained ground.

Before her, Shogun Tsukihara stood firm, his blade planted like a pillar in a raging sea. His troops wavered all around him, but not a flicker of doubt clouded his eyes.

“Look at what you’ve done, Aseina…” he spat, pointing toward the piled corpses. “All these dead… this is your legacy.”

Yura shook her head, tightening her hold on the hilt.
“Don’t try to pin your failures on others. My soldiers always knew why they fought. They fight for their convictions.”

“And you…” Her gaze sharpened. “You use people as pawns to excuse your lack of morality—just to maintain this façade of an ‘orderly nation.’”

“I gave them peace!” Tsukihara roared, lunging forward.

The clash of swords split the street. The divine edge of Yukihana against the brute force of the traitor. Sparks burst, scattering across the snow like fleeting embers.

“For my entire reign, Yukihana has never known war!” the Shogun bellowed, driving his overwhelming strength against her.

“The people hiding in fear behind their doors…” Yura pushed him back, her voice cutting cold. “That isn’t peace. That’s oppression.”

Their blades crossed again, the impact shaking the walls. Rebels cheered for the heiress, while loyalists shouted the Shogun’s name. The capital trembled under the weight of its leaders’ duel.

Tsukihara leapt back, seeking distance.

“It’s pointless,” he sneered. “You’re young—you don’t understand how the world works. That’s why my logic seems absurd to you.”

Yura’s stare pierced him, sharp and frigid as winter.

“You don’t get it…” Tsukihara continued, his eyes burning with fury. “I saved this nation. Yukino betrayed us!”

The air froze.

“…Don’t you dare speak her name,” Yura whispered, her fury contained like a storm about to break.

She slid her katana into its sheath and lowered into the ancestral stance of the Aseina—the very style she’d inherited from her mother.

Friends and foes alike held their breath.

“Or have you forgotten who trained me?” the Shogun growled, mirroring her stance. Every movement of his body echoed Yukino’s form—but twisted, warped by years of brutality.

A cruel glint flashed in his eyes.

“Though come to think of it… who taught you the Aseina style?”

For the first time since the war began, Yura smiled.

“That’s a secret…” she replied calmly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tsukihara spat. “Whoever it was, it wasn’t Yukino. You’re only trying to deceive me.”

“Then why don’t you find out for yourself?” Yura said, steadying her breath. “Aseina Style—Ice Slash!”

The blade slid slowly from its sheath, drawing in every trace of cold from the air. The atmosphere thickened, heavy with frost, as though the whole of winter had been compressed into her sword. A strike of ice honed to lethal precision.

Tsukihara’s eyes narrowed.

“That technique… whoever taught you never revealed its weakness.”

His sword shuddered, howling with glacial force.

“Aseina Style—Winter Vendaval!”

A whirlwind of snow and steel tore forward, colliding with Yura’s frozen slash. The sky thundered with a frigid roar, as if two storms had crashed into the same point.

The Winter Vendaval twisted her strike aside, shattering its path and scattering shards of ice in every direction. Yura staggered back, breath ragged, cuts searing across her arms and cheeks. The snow beneath her feet ran red.

Rebels cried out her name, voices straining to lift her spirit. Loyalists roared in triumph, convinced their lord had seized the upper hand.

At the center of that unbearable tension, both raised their katanas once more. Each revealed technique brought them one step closer to the end.

“Told you…” the Shogun taunted, his blade still trembling. “I’m superior.”

Yura slowly rose to her feet. Her kimono was torn, blood running down her arms, yet her eyes burned with unshakable resolve.

“Of course you are…” she answered calmly. “You may have stolen the Aseina techniques… but…”

She sheathed her katana in a solemn motion. Her stance—firm, silent—mirrored Ren when he executed his enemies.

“There’s something you could never learn. Something no one else can use… because only this blade is strong enough to endure it.”

The Shogun removed his helmet, his twisted smile faltering with unease.

“Impossible…! No one knows that move! Your mother never taught it to you!”

A faint smile curved Yura’s lips.

“What can I say…? I had a good teacher.”

“Lies!” Tsukihara roared, charging at her. “Aseina Style—Silent Winter!”

He lunged with the speed of a rabid wolf, his sword wreathed in deadly frost.

But Yura didn’t move. Her eyes closed. Her katana still sheathed. Waiting.

Silence spread across the battlefield.

“…Dimensional Cut,” her voice cracked the air. “Winter Judgment!”

A blinding frost erupted as she drew in a flawless strike. Two diagonal slashes tore through space itself—inescapable.

The Shogun’s body was swallowed by a tunnel of ice and hurled across the battlefield, slamming brutally against the castle walls.

For an instant, everything fell silent. No one could believe it.

The Shogun who had ruled with an iron fist for thirteen years… had fallen to the blade of the rightful heir.

Yura raised the Yukihana Katana high, her hands trembling from the strain.

“Mother… Yukihana is free.”

For a moment, the city believed dawn had arrived.

A thunderous cheer of victory broke out, the voices of the revolution echoing through the plaza and drowning out the last remnants of battle.

The war was won. Only the throne remained to be claimed.

In Sekka, Lilith yawned, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. Then suddenly, a chill ran down her spine.

A dense, unnatural aura crawled over her skin.

“…No way,” she whispered, her demonic eyes glowing.

The air twisted around her, swirling into a spiral of shadows. In the blink of an eye, she vanished.

The same vortex opened in Kurogane, where Ren was still celebrating with his troops.

“Lilith?”

“No time to explain. Take my hand!” she ordered sharply.

Ren didn’t hesitate. He knew she never acted without reason. The moment his hand brushed hers, the world dissolved into spirals.

An instant later, the two appeared before Luisina and Latina. Before either girl could ask, Lilith dragged them into the whirl as well.

Within seconds, all of them were gathered in the capital.

Yura turned in surprise, still holding Yukihana aloft.
“What are you doing here? The battle’s over… I assume yours are too.”

Lilith stepped forward, her eyes locked on the ruins of the castle.

“No. Be careful… I sense a demonic presence. A powerful one.”

Ren clenched his fist, his expression grim.

“I figured… If Lilith moved, it could only mean one thing.”

The ground rumbled with a hollow roar. From the wreckage of the castle, Shogun Tsukihara staggered forth. His body was mangled, yet in his hand he clutched a dark horn.

“That’s…” Lilith’s voice dripped with hatred. “A forbidden relic… the Horn of Lucifer.”

“What did you say?” Yura gasped.

“Now I see…” Ren said gravely. “The puppeteer finally shows his hand.”

The Shogun lifted the horn and shattered it in two with a savage cry.

Blue fire burst from his body. His veins blackened, and from his back sprouted twisted spikes of ice like writhing tentacles. They pierced soldiers indiscriminately—loyalists and rebels alike—draining their lives as fuel.

The screams fell silent. The mana of hundreds of bodies was devoured in mere seconds.

The Shogun grew, his human form erased beneath a grotesque shell of ice and blue fire. A demonic abomination loomed over the capital’s walls, its shape warped by Lucifer’s will.

“This nation… is miiiiiine!” he roared, his voice no longer human—a demonic echo that shook the city to its core.

The figure that rose was no man.

It was a demon forged from frost and hatred.

A monster worthy of one who had long ago sold his soul.

A traitor reborn as his own blasphemy.