PROLOGUE: The Dawn of Rebirth

Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and fell; mortals built cities atop ruins; demons carved fortresses into obsidian mountains. The story of the War God faded from history to myth to the hush of a lullaby. But the runes remained — hidden, waiting.

On the outskirts of the Golden City, in the alleys of the slums, a woman walked home from the tavern. Sayaka — half-human, half-beast, ears twitching beneath her hood — was tired but steady, carrying bread for her son, Kaito. She passed the marketplace, now silent, stalls covered for the night. Then she heard it: a thin cry on the wind.

A baby.

Curled in the dust of the empty square lay an infant wrapped in a white cloth threaded with faint gold. No one else was there. No one seemed to hear.

Fear pricked her skin. In the City, such cloth was used in temples — reserved for divine rites. To touch it was to risk death.

The child cried again. Something in her gave way. With trembling hands, she lifted him. The cloth shimmered, then dulled, as if recognizing her touch. Tiny fingers gripped her own with surprising strength.

Sayaka hesitated, then tore the cloth free and tossed it into the gutter. It smoldered, then burned to a pale flame, vanishing without smoke.

"I don’t care who left you," she whispered, cradling him close. "No one deserves the cold. From now on, you’re mine."

The crying softened. He settled against her chest, soothed by her heartbeat.

"Itsuki," she said at last. "A tree that stands through every storm."

Above the slums, the night flickered. For an instant a rune glowed red among the stars — and vanished. Few noticed. Fewer believed.

Far away, in the obsidian halls of the Queen, Raiga — her loyal right hand — paused. His wolf-like eyes turned to the horizon, sensing a change.

"What is it?" the Queen asked from her throne, crimson hair spilling over her shoulders like blood.

"A spark," Raiga said. "Somewhere in the gutter, a flame has been born."

The Queen’s eyes narrowed, hungry. "Then let it grow. Flames are sweetest when they burn at their brightest — just before I snuff them out."

Sayaka carried the child into the dark of the slums, unaware of the vow she cradled.

And so the last ember of the God of War was reborn — not in palaces of gold or temples of marble, but in filth and shadow, in the arms of a woman who had nothing and gave everything.

The world had forgotten the War God’s vow. It would remember soon enough. For the fire had a name again.

Itsuki.

He stepped through.

He cut inside.