"So the loyal hound returns.
Welcome back, Renji."
"Thanks for the welcome,
you treacherous mutts."
The voice emerging from the dark paused.
"...Who are you calling a traitor?"
Renji took slow, deliberate steps.
With every step, a spark rose from the ashes of the past.
Three figures peeled themselves out of the dark, as if the tower itself was spitting them out.
Their armor gleamed, their eyes were sharp—and furious.
"The last emperor,"
said the youngest one, his voice deep and sharp.
"belongs to history's darkest page."
Another stepped forward.
His eyes were prideful.
"Our ancestors stood to prevent the people's suffering.
They chose justice, not betrayal."
Renji lowered his head slightly.
Not a smile—
but a twitch of the cheek, full of disdain.
"Your ancestors," he said, his tone growing harder with sarcasm,
"turned their backs on the Emperor.
And you… became Lord Minato's well-groomed lapdogs.
And you bark louder than your ancestors."
"
The tallest of the trio clenched his fist.
His fingers trembled—
not with rage,
but with something remembered…
perhaps the cold sting of pride.
"So it's true... the Smiling Flame," he said with anger.
"A monument of arrogance.
A legend who burned his own people.
Now standing before us...
like a ghost."
Renji smiled.
"I'd address you by name, if I knew you.
But I don't.
Because while I walked through the blood of your friends and families…
you were still nobodies."
At those words, the tall one—armed with a spear—lunged forward.
Like a predator in the dark.
Silent.
Thoughtless.
But that... was the fatal mistake.
A crack.
A dagger swept through the darkness like a shadow.
When Renji moved, there was no rage in his eyes.
No arrogance.
Only certainty.
The warm liquid spilling from the spearman's neck
was his last memory.
His eyes never even found Renji's blade.
His body collapsed like a sack of stones.
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Cold.
The two behind screamed—
"You idiot!" one of them shouted.
"How do you underestimate a legendary warrior?!"
The other stepped back.
There was a tremble in their hands.
Their gaze locked on Renji's eyes.
And those eyes...
were like a wall.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just looking at a foolish boy.
"Ryota, look..." the other said with fear.
"Look at his eyes…
it's really...
Dark Crimson.
Fifth Flame — Stage Five!"
Renji said nothing.
He stood tall.
As if a thousand years of mourning rested on his shoulders...
but he did not bend.
"This man," Renji whispered,
"he's lived a good life...
but someone at that level
should've learned to master his rage."
Then he took a step.
A firm echo on the stone floor.
And walked forward.
---
The youngest one and the blond one moved in unison,
preparing a perfect pincer assault.
Renji quietly respected their coordination.
His eyes were Dark Crimson—
not just a mark of one's level,
but a measure of control.
Flame Eyes are not about brightness.
They're about balance.
Crimson — Stage Three: the most stable, ideal state.
Deep Crimson — Stage Four: high power, high risk.
Dark Crimson — Stage Five: power at the edge of control.
One step further… permanent damage.
Letting the flame control you… that's the weakness.
And Pitch Black means suppressed flame.
The boys were Fourth Flame — Stage Five.
But at this pace... their bodies probably wouldn't last long.
They attacked simultaneously.
Their katanas sliced through the air like a deadly symphony.
One from below.
One from above.
Renji unsheathed both his blades at once.
He met their strikes.
Metal rang in the dark.
The younger one was faster;
the blond—stronger.
But they pushed too far.
The moment their movements began to slow...
it was the body's way of saying: "Stop."
Renji's mind flickered—
sixteen years into the past.
Back then, he'd faced Minato's men in this very place.
Four against eight.
Today… he was alone.
When his memories faded,
only one thing remained—
A thick silence...
and within that silence—
the graves of three warriors.