Greetings, readers:
Thank you for reading this fan-made work...
"I hope you enjoy today's chapter." I, Wissumi Wizaki, wish you a happy reading
1048 B.N. - October 30
Masanobu's POV — Land of Black Iron
"In my past, they stole the edge of my innocent existence. And they didn't even wield a sword to do it..."
I have never believed in justice. Nor in gods. Nor in kings. Only in the sharp crack of a perfect ambush… and in my cunning.
But since last year, those perfect plans were shattered. Everything changed when King Tenji of the Land of Sō —that brat who had only recently begun to rule, doing so from his flower-filled mansion— decided to "modernize his trade routes." And how did he do it?
He placed his trust in an escort company from a neighboring country. One that doesn't even belong to a large and powerful nation. A company led by a man I have never met, but whose name burns in my thoughts like a curse: Giotto.
That name and its advertisements began to echo like a mantra among merchants and kings:
"Hire the Vongola and you'll reach your destination alive."
"Bandits don't attack if you're carrying their seals."
"If you don't want to be robbed, look for the Vongola."
Lies.
Or perhaps not.
Because during the following months, I lost more than any mistake by a subordinate or bad move had ever taken from me. My ambushes failed. My men died or fled. Goods flowed like a blessed river, protected by those dogs in uniforms, but well-trained young men.
I tried to strike back.
We lost a village we used as a hideout.
An entire network of my informants collapsed within a week.
One week. Everything I had built with months of patience, calculated bribes, and favors delivered at exactly the right moment so they would create the right debt. A company of child escorts dismantled it in seven days, as if my plans were nothing more than dust someone had decided to sweep away without bothering to look at what it was.
They treated us like cockroaches.
And then, as if fate wanted to make sure the wound hurt from every possible angle, the rumor arrived: King Tenji had invited the foreigner to his palace. To his table. Under his roof.
That child who shouldn't exist in any serious calculation of power was being received by the king as if he were someone who mattered.
My frustration had no adequate name. It was too hot to be called anger and too cold to be merely wounded pride.
Then the letter arrived.
No seal. No sender. Nothing identifying it to anyone who didn't know how to read it.
Only black ink on unmarked paper, with that handwriting I recognized before I had even finished opening it, a coded script I hadn't seen in years and which could only belong to one person in the known world.
A single word.
Kaien.
I needed nothing more.
That name was an entire argument in itself. A legend among those who operated in the shadows: a master of silent theft, a tamer of rebellious clans that others had declared impossible to control, an architect of alliances that should never have held together and yet had endured for years. A man who had brought kings to their knees without those kings ever knowing exactly when it had happened or how.
And in his beginnings, during the years when I was still learning to read the world, he had offered me a place at his side.
I remembered my hands back then. The trembling that ran through them when I read his first message.
It wasn't fear. It had never been fear.
It was admiration. The only form of reverence someone like me could afford.
I carefully folded the letter again.
If Kaien planned to bring down the Vongola, then I was what I had always been: his most loyal companion, the one who executes without hesitation and understands without needing an explanation.
And if that boy named Giotto fell into Kaien's plans without honor or glory worth remembering...
Even better.
Because when it came to Kaien, no one won. No one had ever won.
Mist-Shrouded Forest — Days Later
Underground Refuge
The torches hung crookedly from the intertwined roots of the ceiling, dripping hot resin in irregular drops that hissed when they touched the ground. The light they produced was not ordinary: bluish, unsteady, with that particular flickering of flames burning in places where the air does not circulate freely. The shadows they cast across the packed-earth floor had no proper shape, as if the underground itself distorted whatever it touched.
The chamber was circular and ancient. Older than any structure the men occupying it could claim as their own. The roots of trees that had died generations ago still intertwined with the stone walls, as if the forest above had decided to descend and guard its own secrets here.
Kaien stood before the map carved into stone.
It was not a map that appeared in any known document: forgotten routes, paths that official cartographers had omitted through ignorance or by instruction. His finger traced them with the slowness of someone who wasn't seeking information, but confirmation of what he already knew. His right arm, wrapped in a bandage that had gone from white to black at some point over the past few days, held the knife with the firmness of habit.
—A frontal attack would be foolish —he said, without raising his voice, without needing to. In that space, his voice had the same quality as the flames: omnipresent, yet silent—. A premature roar makes us prey. Not hunters.
Masanobu did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on Kaien with the patience of someone who had learned that this man's ideas were not to be interrupted, but waited for.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it needed to It was broken from the darkest end of the room.
Saruo was there, almost dissolved by the shadows, crouched in his usual corner with an old bone between his teeth that he gnawed with the indifference of someone who was in a place he considered his by right. It was difficult to determine his age: he had the body of a boy, but the eyes of something that had seen too much and had decided not to bother hiding it. Only Kaien knew the complete story behind that gaze, and the fact that he had never told it was, in itself, the clearest demonstration of the loyalty that existed between them.
He dropped the bone.
—Why do you put so much effort into this, Dad? —he said, with that cold voice that would have sounded childish in another child, but in him sounded like something completely different—. According to the latest reports, the leader of that company is a child.
Kaien did not flinch. He did not blink. He did not change the angle of the knife over the map.
—We have no certainty as to whether he is a child or a calculated distraction —he replied—. But what we do have is this: their organization possesses a structural discipline unlike anything comparable we've seen. We've only just begun analyzing it, and it's already evident that it isn't the product of chance. —He paused, and during that pause, the knife stopped over the map—. If anyone suspects we're plotting against them, that organized force will respond. And they have something we cannot buy: a connection with King Tenji of the Land of Sō.
At the other end of the room, Masanobu absorbed this in silence. He knew better than anyone what it meant to have rulers as enemies: he had spent years living with the consequences of a subordinate's mistake that had turned his family's name into a synonym for criminals in the lands of Tenji's father. Kaien's warning was not abstract to him.
—Just as we plot in the shadows —Kaien continued, his voice carrying the certainty of someone stating a natural law—, he can forge pacts with kings.
No one argued.
There was a silence of collective contemplation, the kind of stillness that occurs when several people reach the same conclusion simultaneously and none of them has anything new to add.
Masanobu was the first to speak, his voice low, like someone who already knew that what he was about to say had no easy answer, but needed to be said.
—Then... what do you propose? They're a threat to our businesses. If it's true that they're still children, we have to act now. If we let them reach adulthood, eliminating them becomes an entirely different matter.
Kaien did not answer immediately.
Instead, he angled the knife over the map and made five small, precise cuts, forming a pattern around the territory controlled by the Vongola. It was not random: it was a star. An invisible encirclement with five pressure points.
—You're right —he said, putting the knife away—. We won't waste any more time. But neither will we act in haste, which is the same as wasting time by taking additional steps. —His eyes traveled across the map—. The first principle is this: the attacks cannot have an apparent pattern. No visible connection between them. No signature linking them. Each one must appear to be an accident, a coincidence, a separate stroke of bad luck.
Masanobu nodded, listening.
—The Vongola leader must not be attacked at his base or within his territory. It must be when he's outside, on the move, in a place he doesn't control. And if the first strike doesn't eliminate him, what follows must guarantee attrition without allowing him to identify the source. Sleepless sentries. Hunters shooting at their own shadows. Noise where there shouldn't be any noise. —A calculated pause—. When he begins moving his pieces in response, we'll know how he thinks.
From his corner, Masanobu let out a low laugh, almost a hiss.
—I missed working with you, boss.
—I use it as any resource should be used —Kaien replied without turning around—. Silent, useful, and leaving no visible trace. And before destroying anything they have, I want to understand their system. —A brief pause—. Perhaps it will be worth stealing.
Saruo narrowed his eyes. In his gaze was something that in another child would have been excitement, but in him was pure calculation.
—Those forests where they live will be a merciless judge. If they play with our rhythm... even trees bearing Vongola names will fall.
—The first strike —Kaien said, pointing to a spot on the map without touching it— will be in the Land of Fire. Southern trail, near the Gray Village. A small group. An accident within an opportunity. Nothing more. —He raised his eyes—. The following ones will come at calculated intervals based on what that first strike reveals about how they respond.
Saruo clicked his tongue in satisfaction.
—They won't even know who struck them.
—That —Kaien said, with the final calm of someone closing a conversation that had already ended before it began— is exactly the point.
Silence returned. The bluish flames continued flickering over the map carved into stone, over the five star-shaped cuts, over the faces of the two people he trusted most, who had just decided the beginning of something that would be important to his future.
1046 B.N. - February 6
Capital of the Land of Lomo, Vongola Headquarters
On a bright morning, in the spacious command room, Sana and Daiki carefully reviewed the reports from recent missions. There was a tense silence in the air: every loss, every deviation, carried its own weight. Although the routine had accustomed them to high demands, something felt different that day.
An adolescent —an orphan already trained under the Vongola system— entered with a firm yet respectful stride. His face showed signs of exhaustion and barely contained fear. He bowed.
—Administrators —he greeted—. I have come to report a serious loss: a caravan was attacked by bandits in the territory of the Land of Black Iron. The orphan in charge —the assigned soldier— managed to escape and has provided details of the incident.
Daiki looked up, alarmed. He and Sana exchanged a glance. For them, mission failures were rare, but not impossible: one or two failures a month were normal. Giotto had mentioned that, even with good organization, the Vongola were not perfect.
Normally, a case like this would not be investigated. But if the orphan in charge of the mission had died, an investigation would indeed have been necessary; after all, he had been trained and shaped by the Vongola, and could become an exemplary figure in the future.
Daiki responded.
—Thank you for the report —he said in a firm voice—. Is the leader of the caravan alive? Is he injured?
—I am not sure —the boy replied—. The wounded man was evacuated to the medical post. He said he was hit by a crossbow bolt and could barely move.
—Understood —Daiki nodded—. Send him immediately to consult with Knuckle so he can be treated with the Sun Flame. Afterward, let him rest in the infirmary. But there will be consequences: he will be sanctioned and demoted for the failure of the mission.
Giotto and the Guardians always chose adolescents who were mentally prepared to assume responsibilities on missions, but failure still warranted demotion.
—Understood, Captains. With your permission —the boy said, leaving through the door.
Sana, frowning, intervened:
—Daiki… this is already the third failed mission this month. We have to inform the Boss. This could be a bigger problem.
—Sana —Daiki replied calmly—. This isn't the first time there have been three failures in a month. Remember when we used to carry out escort missions. We had ten failures in a single period… and we survived. The Vongola organization is not infallible, and even the Guardians —even the Boss— acknowledge it.
She wanted to argue, but took a deep breath and accepted it. She trusted Daiki; she knew Giotto was immersed in critical training and didn't want to interrupt him over a report.
—You're right —she murmured—. For now, let's follow protocol and monitor how the situation develops.
The boy nodded and left with the dignity of a veteran. Sana and Daiki remained silent, exchanging concerned looks.
They knew that three failed missions in a single month were a sign. Now, they could only proceed with caution… and bear the weight of difficult decisions...
1046 B.N. - June 18
In the Courtyard of the Old Mansion
The afternoon breeze swayed the leaves in the courtyard as Giotto positioned himself in front of Ugetsu. The stone floor gleamed beneath the fading sunlight. The air smelled of wood and freshly cut grass.
Preliminary Exercises and Preparation
Giotto stood with his gloves on, a system reward for becoming friends with Tenji, breathing deeply. His feet were shoulder-width apart. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled slowly, and let the Sky Flame flow through his arms —a faint glow, barely perceptible on the surface of his gloves—. He couldn't use large amounts; only a subtle halo capable of warming his body, defining his muscles, and tightening his skin.
To one side, Ugetsu took his position. He held his wooden sword, whose dark surface was still stained from previous training. His fingers brushed the hilt, and then he raised the sword to shoulder height. He breathed calmly and began reciting to himself the traditional Rain kata, a sequence of fluid steps —advance, turn, block, advance again— imitating raindrops falling and silently breaking upon a lake. Every movement was slow, deliberate, unwavering. The echo of the wooden blade cutting through the air resonated in the courtyard, creating an underestimated serenity.
Giotto watched him intently, feeling the tension increase. That kata was not merely a technique: it was calm, control, precision. His own style needed to harmonize with that stillness.
With a sudden gust of wind that shook the trees like a signal, Ugetsu finished his kata by raising his sword in front of his chest. Giotto lowered his guard, exhaled softly, and stepped forward. His flame flickered.
1046 B.N. - February 6
Capital of the Land of Lomo, Vongola Headquarters
On a bright morning, in the spacious command room, Sana and Daiki carefully reviewed the reports from recent missions. There was a tense silence in the air: every loss, every deviation, carried its own weight. Although the routine had accustomed them to high demands, something felt different that day.
An adolescent —an orphan already trained under the Vongola system— entered with a firm yet respectful stride. His face showed the marks of exhaustion and barely contained fear. He bowed.
—Administrators —he greeted—. I have come to report a serious loss: a caravan was attacked by bandits in the territory of the Land of Black Iron. The orphan in charge —the assigned soldier— managed to escape and has provided details of the incident.
Daiki looked up, alarmed. He and Sana exchanged a glance. For them, mission failures were rare, but not impossible: one or two failures a month were normal. Giotto had mentioned that, even with good organization, the Vongola were not perfect.
Normally, a case like this would not be investigated. But if the orphan in charge of the mission had died, an investigation would indeed have been necessary; after all, he had been trained and shaped by the Vongola, and could become an exemplary figure in the future.
Daiki responded.
—Thank you for the report —he said in a firm voice—. Is the leader of the caravan alive? Is he injured?
—I'm not sure —the boy replied—. The wounded man was evacuated to the medical post. He said he was hit by a crossbow bolt and could barely move.
—Understood —Daiki nodded—. Send him immediately to consult with Knuckle so he can be treated with the Sun Flame. Afterward, let him rest in the infirmary. But there will be consequences: he will be sanctioned and demoted for the failure of the mission.
Giotto and the Guardians always chose adolescents who were mentally prepared to assume responsibilities on missions, but failure still warranted demotion.
—Understood, Captains. With your permission —the boy said, leaving through the door.
Sana, frowning, intervened:
—Daiki… this is already the third failed mission this month. We have to inform the Boss. This could be a bigger problem.
—Sana —Daiki replied calmly—. This isn't the first time there have been three failures in a month. Remember when we used to carry out escort missions. We had ten failures in a single period… and we survived. The Vongola organization isn't infallible, and even the Guardians —even the Boss— acknowledge it.
She wanted to argue, but took a deep breath and accepted it. She trusted Daiki; she knew Giotto was immersed in critical training and didn't want to interrupt him over a report.
—You're right —she murmured—. For now, let's follow protocol and monitor how the situation develops.
The boy nodded and left with the dignity of a veteran. Sana and Daiki remained silent, exchanging concerned looks.
They knew that three failed missions in a single month were a sign. Now, they could only proceed with caution… and bear the weight of difficult decisions...
1046 B.N. - June 18
In the Courtyard of the Old Mansion
The afternoon breeze swayed the leaves in the courtyard as Giotto positioned himself in front of Ugetsu. The stone floor gleamed beneath the fading sunlight. The air smelled of wood and freshly cut grass.
Preliminary Exercises and Preparation
Giotto stood with his gloves on, a system reward for becoming friends with Tenji, breathing deeply. His feet were shoulder-width apart. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled slowly, and let the Sky Flame flow through his arms —a faint glow, barely perceptible on the surface of his gloves—. He couldn't use large amounts; only a subtle halo capable of warming his body, defining his muscles, and tightening his skin.
To one side, Ugetsu took his position. He held his wooden sword, whose dark surface was still stained from previous training. His fingers brushed the hilt, and then he raised the sword to shoulder height. He breathed calmly and began reciting to himself the traditional Rain kata, a sequence of fluid steps —advance, turn, block, advance again— imitating raindrops falling and silently breaking upon a lake. Every movement was slow, deliberate, unwavering. The echo of the wooden blade cutting through the air resonated in the courtyard, creating an underestimated serenity.
Giotto watched him intently, feeling the tension increase. That kata was not merely a technique: it was calm, control, precision. His own style needed to harmonize with that stillness.
With a sudden gust of wind that shook the trees like a signal, Ugetsu finished his kata by raising his sword in front of his chest. Giotto lowered his guard, exhaled softly, and stepped forward. His flame flickered.
With the same slow grace, Ugetsu stepped back. He remained in position, ready to receive him. Giotto, focused, lowered his center of gravity, bending his knees. His gaze hardened. He didn't want to use too much energy —his endurance was much lower than the Guardians' when it came to the Dying Will Flame— but he still needed to gauge his strength.
Giotto launched his first attack. A direct advance, gloves forward, propelling a faint flame toward Ugetsu. The flow was smooth, quick, almost imperceptible. Ugetsu imbued the wooden sword with the Rain Flame and blocked; the impact produced a faint crack, but Ugetsu simply smiled slightly, showing no surprise. The sound of wood clashing against flame hung suspended in the air.
There were no elegant arcs, only an immediate collision. Ugetsu recovered quickly and launched a horizontal slash. Giotto ducked as low as he could, and the wooden blade brushed a few strands of his golden hair.
Giotto stepped back twice and then leapt backward, breathing heavily, his heart racing. His eyes remained fixed on Ugetsu, who followed him silently, searching for an opening.
Ugetsu gave him no room to breathe. He took another step forward and, with a barely graceful movement, brought the sword downward in a vertical slash —a technical counterattack, intended more to break Giotto's posture than to exert real force, though it was enough to disrupt his rhythm.
Giotto responded with a backward leap to evade the strike line. In the air, he made a quarter turn, curving his torso. Upon landing, he planted his right hand on the ground, rolled forward, and rose with an upward kick. That was his next exercise: coordinating rotation, momentum, and flame in a single movement.
1046 B.N. - June 21
The kick was aimed between Ugetsu's center and right side. He blocked with the blade of his sword, absorbing the impact. Both felt the vibration. Ugetsu barely faltered; Giotto noticed the slight backward shift of Ugetsu's foot —a sign that something was giving… or that his opponent was holding firm.
Giotto changed tactics. He advanced again with a couple of quick, small strikes —first to the torso, then to the side—. Ugetsu blocked both with the hilt of his sword, bracing the wood to stop the blows. Giotto retreated, calculating the distance.
This was how Giotto breathed constantly and rapidly during training. Ugetsu remained deeply calm, although sweat dripped down his temple. His wooden sword, imbued with the Rain Flame, crossed his torso as he prepared for a possible charge from Giotto.
Giotto, using a pair of poor-quality gloves, did not emit much —but a thin layer of Sky Flame still shimmered—. He lowered his center of gravity and launched himself explosively toward the calm swordsman. Ugetsu, remaining composed, responded first with defense, waiting for his leader's strike.
Giotto leapt and launched a front-to-back kick. Ugetsu dodged it —sliding to the side with instant fluidity—. In a moment, taking advantage of the evasion, he counterattacked with a vertical slash of his wooden sword, advancing swiftly toward Giotto's torso.
In the air, the Vongola Primo spun a quarter turn and blocked the blade with the soles of his feet. Giotto landed on the ground with his hands, still leaning forward, and used the momentum to launch upward kicks toward Ugetsu's face.
The first two kicks were blocked; Ugetsu deflected them almost entirely with the hilt of his sword.
Giotto, having used the first two attacks as a feint, extended his back on the third and delivered a kick to the side. Ugetsu reacted in time, bracing his shoulder against the sword to block. The impact was strong: wood and flesh collided, producing a sharp sound. The force pushed him away from Giotto.
…
The silence was absolute. Ugetsu exhaled and said softly:
—I yield.
His voice was calm. He wiped the blood from the corner of his lips with the sleeve of his tunic. Giotto held his breath. He approached slowly and carefully touched the tip of Ugetsu's sword, as a sign of respect. Ugetsu lowered the hilt to the ground, accepting the gesture.
Giotto, still upside-down, smiled and flipped upright, leaving his hands relaxed inside his gloves.
—That was excellent, Ugetsu —he admitted in a calm voice—. Your defense is not just technique: it's your aura, your composure.
Ugetsu nodded.
—Your movements… there is determination, vigor… but we are still fighting without fully using the flames. We haven't mastered their range —he commented.
Giotto lowered his gaze.
—I'm afraid… that if G trained against me using his Storm, things wouldn't go well. His flames… are long-range. Without Hyper Dying Will Mode, a direct hit from that kind of flame could… make it far too dangerous.
Ugetsu looked at him with understanding:
—Among us, G has the greatest offensive power —he said, pointing toward the sword—...you need to recover.
Giotto raised his gaze:
—Yes. It's true.
...
1046 B.N. - June 21
The murmur of welcome dissolved when the messenger entered, announcing in a trembling voice:
—Excuse me, Vongola Boss... I bring an important letter from our King Kiku.
The group, which had been laughing and sharing a relaxed moment, fell silent immediately. Startled, they turned their attention toward the young messenger.
Giotto looked at him calmly, making a subtle gesture that was followed by a slight raise of an eyebrow. For a moment, the Guardians watched in silence; that quiet authority spoke louder than a thousand words.
—Enter —Giotto ordered, his voice soft but firm.
The boy approached with military respect. The envelope was sealed with the emblem of the Kingdom of Fire —a dragon wrapped in golden flames— and carried the weight of imperial diplomacy.
The messenger placed the letter on the table before Giotto and took a step back, facing his superior expectantly.
—His Majesty has sent this...
Giotto took the envelope between his fingers, his gaze focused. His Guardians —G, Ugetsu, and Knuckle— stood at his side, sensing the tension in the air.
With a fluid motion, he broke the royal seal and unfolded the letter. He read it in silence, but his reactions betrayed his thoughts; every word seemed to weigh on his mind.
—Does it say something important, Boss? —Knuckle asked in his childlike yet calm voice.
Giotto raised his gaze. His eyes gleamed with seriousness.
—The letter comes from the Land of Fire, and it is from the younger brother of the King of the Land of Fire. He wants to meet with me near the border between the two countries to discuss the future —he replied.
G frowned and crossed his arms.
—Will he request our escort services? —he asked in a deep voice.
Giotto shook his head.
—I don't think so —he said slowly—. The Land of Fire is strong and secure. They don't need our escort or commercial services. This request goes beyond physical protection.
A moment of silence fell like a cold breeze. The Guardians understood the implication: it was an offer of alliance —or perhaps a test of power.
—The prince? —Ugetsu asked in his serene tone—. What could the Land of Fire be planning?
Giotto nodded.
—I agree. He wouldn't come unless he had something in mind. Perhaps they want political recognition... or they're looking to strengthen trade ties... or worse —they want to measure how influential we truly are.
—And what do you think, Boss? —G asked.
—I think we should accept. It would be rude not to —Giotto said after a pause—. But with caution. We must make sure that, when he reaches our borders, his safety is guaranteed.
—So this means it will be a special trip? —Knuckle asked, with a smiling tone.
—Yes, special and careful —Giotto replied—. Take note, Knuckle. You'll lead a section focused on physical escort and first aid. G, you'll protect the rear and command the formation. Ugetsu, you'll handle strategy and diplomatic etiquette. This visit will require more than strength —choose your support teams wisely. I don't want any mistakes.
The messenger, still attentive, added:
—He told me the meeting will take place in two weeks, under the highest moon... a date marked on their calendar.
Giotto nodded:
—Very well. Take my official response to the council this afternoon. Tell them we accept the meeting, but we will not allow ourselves to be manipulated.
The boy turned and left as quickly as he had arrived. When the door closed, the tension increased —silent, but heavy.
—Take a seat —Giotto ordered, gesturing toward the chairs arranged in a circle—. Let's review our strategy for this visit.
1047 B.N. – August 23
The moons passed like a ribbon suddenly cut.
The moons had passed as quickly as a ribbon being cut during an inauguration. The ceremonial glow had faded from the capital of the Land of Lomo, although the corridors still echoed with its memory. In the main hall of King Kiku's palace, the summer rays filtered through the windows, bathing the tapestries depicting epics from the past.
Beside the throne, King Kiku —stone-faced and imposing, his presence matured by the growing responsibilities Giotto had entrusted to him— carefully examined his guest: Prince Yaskar. At his side, barely noticeable, stood a child dressed in an immaculate uniform: Giotto, the Vongola Primo, only eight years old. His analytical gaze and dark eyes followed the intruder, as if weighing every word.
Yaskar, in his thirties, wore a friendly smile and seductive eyes; he always seemed to radiate genuine kindness. However, Giotto could recognize a political mask when he saw one, and understood that this man was simply the pleasant face of a kingdom ruled from the shadows with a firm hand.
Minutes turned into hours... Yaskar spent a week visiting and analyzing the Land of Lomo. He had believed the rumors about the capabilities of the Vongola Company were false, but what he witnessed in this country surpassed his expectations. Nowhere else had he seen financial strategies as ingenious as these.
Yaskar, in his thirties, wore a friendly smile and seductive eyes; he always seemed to radiate genuine kindness. However, Giotto could recognize a political mask when he saw one, and understood that this man was simply the pleasant face of a kingdom ruled from the shadows with a firm hand.
And at his side, little Giotto, only eight years old, dressed in his pristine Vongola Primo uniform. His dark eyes attentively observed the visitor, his gestures controlled, his mind analytical. The boy was respectful, yes, but he was not easily deceived by empty words.
For seven days, Yaskar attended audiences, banquets, tours of the Mint and the Vongola Bank. Each visit was a systematic deconstruction: financial flows, security, seal cryptography, commercial contracts. Upon entering the bank's main hall —whose white marble columns stretched toward the sky— he frowned, intrigued:
"Why would such a small country produce a genius who invests so much in financial security?" he wondered.
Whispers came from the corridors:
"Foreign merchants prefer the solidity of the Vongola Bank."
"Local nobles support the transparency that provides stability."
Everything painted a perfect image... and that was precisely what aroused his suspicions.
And at the end of that week, as the golden summer light faded after the grand farewell banquet, Yaskar requested a private audience with little Giotto. The boy sat before a carpet embroidered with the Vongola emblem and the royal crest of Lomo, his back straight.
After so many formalities with King Kiku, and with the brat who had earned his admiration, Yaskar's greatest fear now was that the boy owned a company. He even considered taking Giotto away from King Kiku. He knew that such a small country would waste that talent; he needed to closely monitor the child's monstrous abilities.
He couldn't leave Giotto there. He feared that Lomo would gain influence through Giotto's strategies. Yaskar's older brother had already planned to conquer the Land of Lomo and the neighboring Land of So (Land of the Moon) after dominating the western countries.
The week ended, and one morning, Yaskar requested a private audience with Giotto. The child appeared immaculate before the carpet embroidered with the Vongola emblem, specially made for the occasion.
A grand banquet followed: exotic dishes, foamy music, aromas of spices and silk wine. Among red rice, glazed salmon, and vegetable tempura, Yaskar slipped in his question:
—Boy —Yaskar began with cultivated softness—I must say, your composure has impressed me. At your age, no one endures so much protocol without faltering. Should I forge a direct alliance with your father... or with you?
His voice was warm, devoid of apparent malice. Giotto replied without hesitation:
—My father? He must be a very discreet noble...
Yaskar had heard that Giotto had no father. But he found it impossible; the child's knowledge must have been nurtured by a merchant or a noble.
Giotto stared at him, without the usual childish reverence or ornate rhetoric. His voice was clear and firm:
"The Vongola Company is mine. Yaskar-san, don't ask questions whose answer you already know... I have no father. Here, we are a company. You want to do business, right? Not unilateral relationships. If you want to do business" —he paused— "then speak clearly. We don't make offers without tangible guarantees."
That break in protocol left the prince frozen, although he maintained his smile. That unexpected answer was exactly part of Giotto's plan: to test boundaries, to perceive threats.
Yaskar maintained his smile. That answer surprised him... If a child could respond that way, he was already negotiating like an adult.
—Young Giotto... I've observed how you manage Lomo's monetary system. In the outside world, we have ports, fleets, trade routes... I wonder if you've considered opening branches in the Land of Fire. It could lead to a strategic joint investment —he proposed, weighing every word.
Giotto gave a subtle smile.
He smiled faintly, knowing that this was an opportunity... His hyperintuition sharpened, but he also sensed danger. Another part of him felt that something important was about to happen. It wasn't as overwhelming as the premonition he had felt in the Land of the Moon with Tenji, but this letter came from another powerful and expansionist country.
—Lord Yaskar —he replied with childlike composure—for now, Lomo must consolidate itself. Opening our borders without solid agreements would leave us vulnerable. If you wish to invest... first, submit a strategic plan backed by a royal guarantee from your court.
The prince paled slightly. His smile did not disappear, but his gaze darkened with a trace of frustration, subdued by the child's sharp intelligence.
…
As night fell over the banquet, Yaskar took Giotto for a walk beneath the cherry blossoms illuminated by lanterns. Everything was arranged to make it appear like a casual conversation, but the atmosphere was charged with diplomatic tension.
—Giotto... it would be a waste not to make use of your talent on a larger scale —he said softly, in a confidential tone—. The world needs transparency... but also vision and strategy. I could offer you support.
Giotto chuckled inwardly at Yaskar's words. The man had no idea that he possessed far more experience; his fused souls had allowed him to live for more than a hundred years.
—Lord Yaskar, I appreciate your concern. But my expansion will not be rushed. In three years, we will request to open a branch in the Land of Fire. For that, I will need permission to operate with escorts in your territory. I am sure such an investment would be beneficial to both sides —he replied calmly.
Yaskar paled for the second time. That response was a diplomatic challenge: "You want an alliance? Prove it first."
But the prince nodded, accepting the promise of a "win-win" agreement.
Yaskar gave a slight bow.
—Young Giotto, I must admit that I'm surprised by your confidence. Your speeches surpass those of many experienced diplomats, even with their ornate words. How did you cultivate such clarity?
Giotto responded naturally, half-lying:
—I grew up among numbers, down there... But from merchants, I learned about transactions, and from foreign clients, I learned their needs. Words can conceal intentions, but numbers and guarantees speak clearly.
Yaskar, with a thoughtful expression:
—Interesting. And if I offered you a firm alliance... resources, fleets, routes... would you sign?
Giotto, firmly:
—As long as the agreement guarantees Lomo's autonomy, we could consider it. But first, we need time to grow step by step.
Yaskar, smiling cunningly:
—Then we'll give it time... But you should know that my court expects progress. Three years can pass quickly... I'll be waiting for those days.
...
Author's Note:
Hi everyone! I want to sincerely apologize for the irregular update schedule lately. I've been working hard to re-establish my daily routines—getting back into practicing the violin, staying consistent with my physical training, managing work, and balancing writing.
Also, I'd like to mention a quick lore correction: through further lore research, Tenji's nation is actually the Land of Sō (Land of the Ancestors) rather than the Land of the Moon.
Writing this chapter has been a unique challenge because it's a rewrite of previous drafts. I'm carefully re-reading my past notes to decide what fits best, refining the narrative flow, and raising the overall quality to match modern writing standards.
Thank you so much for your patience, support, and understanding. I truly hope you enjoy today's chapter!
Happy reading! Bye-bye!
— Wissumi Wizaki
Until the next chapter!