The Day the Sky Burned White

The rain had thinned into a drifting mist by the time they reached the inner grounds, but the air felt heavy, saturated with a "static" that made the hair on Toshinori's arms stand up

“The hell happened here?” Tatsu whistled. “Looks like a hurricane hit this place.”

Toshinori knelt, pressing two fingers to the broken stone. His kishin flowed outward in a careful spiral as he assessed the residue.

“Yokai presence confirmed,” he murmured. “However……there is an unfamiliar lingering aura.”

Tatsu pointed. “Yo Toshi.”

Toshinori turned locking onto the two brothers sitting on the shrine steps.

“You. Samurai. Identify yourselves.”

Reiji couldn’t stand; his left arm was still numb. He simply inclined his head. “Akashi Reiji.”

The Onmyoji exchanged a glance.

“Akashi, huh?” Tatsu repeated softly.

Toshinori nodded once. “Give us your report.”

“There were two Yokai,” Reiji said evenly. “High-ranking. Possibly B or A. We defeated one. The other escaped. I believe they opened a gate.”

“N-no,” Asahi interrupted, clutching his ribs. “It wasn’t a gate… Just vanished into the mist. That way.”

He pointed toward the torii gate, its vermillion paint charred.

Toshinori turned his gaze to him. “And you are?”

“He’s Asahi,” Reiji replied. “My brother.”

Toshinori followed the line of his finger.

“Hm.”

He produced a talisman—ivory paper etched with kanji inscriptions—and let it burn between his fingers then cast the ashes into the wind, chanting under his breath.

The air remained still.

After a moment, he shook his head.

“…I cannot sense their aura,” he said quietly. “It has dispersed. Deliberately so.”

Tatsu scratched his chin. “Maybe the water soaked it up.”

Toshinori surveyed the shrine once more.

“Unlikely,” he said. “…but not impossible.”

He turned back to the brothers. “Did either Yokai identify themselves or the Lord they serve?”

Reiji and Asahi exchanged a glance.

Both shook their heads.

“Very well,” Toshinori said. “This incident will be recorded as an unresolved breach.”

His gaze lingered on the shrine—on the stone basin, the torii, the ground itself.

“…And this area has put under bureau jurisdiction until further notice. Understood?”

Reiji nodded. “Understood. I’ll relay the information to the other clans.”

The Onmyoji departed without further inquiry.

Reiji and Asahi remained on the steps for hours afterwards. Only when they got feelings in their limbs did they manage to make their slow way home, leaning on each other.

To an outsider, the brothers’ lie by omission of their fight with Tsukuro and Murei would have seemed puzzling.

But the truth would have been more dangerous.

The reason lay in the old conflict between Samurai and Onmyoji. Older than the world as it existed now.

The year was 2065.

Ask ten people what happened, and you would receive ten different answers. Shrine priests claimed it was a cleansing of the world. Scientists insisted it was a spatial anomaly.

But Asahi’s great-grandfather told a different story.

White fire rippled across Kyoto’s skyline, devouring the sun in a vast circular void— Light bent inward. Sound vanished.

Then the screaming began.

According to Akashi Seijuro—who was only a boy at the time—it wasn’t light pouring down.

It was an eye.

And from that eye, the Yokai emerged.

The government was the first to respond.

They deployed everything modern warfare could offer—airstrikes, artillery, containment units. Explosions scattered bodies that reassembled seconds later. None of it mattered.

Some escaped overseas.

The rest were not as lucky.

Hope collapsed as quickly as infrastructure.

Until a lone warrior appeared—katana in hand

Witnesses described him gliding across shattered streets, feet barely touching the ground. Yokai fell in his wake. Humans bowed, calling him a hero.

Seijuro, however, saw something else.

Skill.

This should have been a victory for Japan.

But, as many would tragically learn, it was not the sword was that killed the Yokai.

Not really.

What struck them down was something unseen - something that surged through the warrior’s body.

And then—

The warrior vanished.

Years passed.

Yokai became more prominent. It became so bad that Japan was quarantined from the rest of the world. 

By then, Seijuro had grown. He founded a dojo alongside his childhood friend, Hayate Takeru. Together, they sought a way to fight back—to understand what truly harmed the Yokai.

They failed. Repeatedly.

Until they met Semei Azasahiro.

Azasahiro descended from an ancient Onmyoji lineage that had returned to magic out of necessity. In forgotten texts, they uncovered the essence of life itself.

An all-encompassing energy that had always existed before but had waned over time due to modernization and psychological suppression that fractured the natural balance.

It was Kishin that had awakened in the warrior, enabling him to exhibit impossible feats.

Together, Azasahiro, Takeru and Seijuro were the first to awaken it consciously. They called the process Kishin Harmonization.

To harmonize with Kishin, they developed the three spheres: the Body, the Mind and the Soul. These spheres became the foundation for shaping Kishin as weapons against the Yokai.

For the first time in years, humanity had hope.

More humans followed until finally Kishin overflowed, most awakening it naturally.

That era became known as the First Mythic Awakening.

However, the trio would soon face a problem that even they could not solve.

Betrayal.

Presently……

Sayo ran.

Rain lashed against stone as she vaulted a pile of discarded crates, a boy clutched against her chest. Her hood was drawn low, but the curve of her porcelain mask caught the dim glow of the approaching attack.

“Stop!” a voice barked behind her.

Shirukens tore through the air, embedding into bricks with sharp cracks before detonating in concussive flashes of Kishin.

Sayo twisted mid-air, her fingers snapping in a precise gesture. A wall of compressed wind flared around her, batting a stray shuriken aside just as it hissed toward the alley wall.

The shockwave hit Sayo like a physical hammer, sending her and the boy skidding across the slick cobblestones at the alley’s entrance. She rolled on the ground, turning her body to shield the boy, boots scraping as she came up on one knee.

She rose slowly and gently tugged the boy’s hurt back into place.

Footsteps splashed behind her.

With a deliberate movement, the pursuer pulled back her hood and peeled away the indigo face wrap. Damp hair clung to her cheeks as she ran a hand through it, slicking it back.

“Well, well,” Sayo said dryly, removing her mask. “Of all the Bureau’s hounds….they sent you?”

She tilted her head.

“Hello, Shion.”

Shion smiled, unsheathing her Ninjatō (straight sword).

“Save the flattery,” she replied evenly. “Let’s not escalate this further. Just hand over that abomination, Sayo. It needs to be contained.”

“Well,” Sayo said flatly, stepping forward, “I don’t give a fuck what you or the Bureau thinks.”

She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I’m not giving him to you.”

Shion levelled the sword. “This is your last warning, Sayo. Step aside, or I’ll cut through both of you.”

Then the air changed.

Pressure rolled outward. The cobblestones beneath groaned and buckled suddenly tearing from the ground, dancing like tiny moons around the boy. Wind blew his hat away, revealing his blood-red hair.

Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the alley in strobes of violent purple. Rain began falling, the droplets hanging mid-air before being sucked into the boy's increasing aura.

Shion's breath caught in her throat. Her sword felt heavier

The boy walked past Sayo, his eyes glowing red. He glared at Shion, opening his mouth to speak—or perhaps to roar—but the sound was a frequency that shattered the nearby windows.

And then—

Asahi jolted awake, his heart hammering so hard against his ribs that it felt like it would crack them. He sat upright, gasping for air. Outside his window, the rain patted rhythmically against the glass. 

Rain patted outside his window.

“Was that a dream?” he whispered, his hands shaking as he touched his own forehead.