Ash drifted through the broken hall like dying snow.
It settled over Ajin's shoulders, over Jarot's trembling fists, and over the torn body slung across Ajin's back.
The ruins of Dahana had already spoken through their scars—
through shattered walls, charred pillars, and blood-written warnings on stone.
But now…
A voice rose from the shadows.
Weak.
Ragged.
Barely human.
"Y-you… came too late. Dahana… is gone."
Ajin and Jarot froze.
The voice had come from beneath a collapsed beam near the old ceremonial grounds.
Jarot reacted first.
"WHO'S THERE?!"
His roar shook loose a rain of soot from the ceiling.
He didn't wait for Ajin's signal. The giant man surged forward and grabbed the entire mound of burnt beams—lifting them as if they weighed nothing more than a basket of kindling.
Wood shattered. Ash scattered.
Beneath it, barely clinging to life, lay a man.
An elder.
Thin—no, skeletal, his flesh clinging tightly to brittle bones. His skin was blistered and darkened, peeling in long sheets. Old burns covered him like maps of past torture.
One of his eyes was fused shut.
The other looked at them with terror… and recognition.
He tried to lift his head. Failed.
Then whispered again:
"You…"
Jarot fell to his knees immediately.
"Old man! Who are you?! What happened?! Who did this to you?! Where are they?! Where—"
The elder flinched violently at the volume, his single functional eye widening in panic.
Ajin stepped beside Jarot and placed one hand on his shoulder—
a hand that felt like cold stone.
"Jarot. Quiet."
It wasn't a request.
Jarot clenched his jaw and fell silent.
Ajin unfastened the small leather water-skin strapped to his waist—the one he had been rationing for two days—and tilted it gently toward the old man's cracked lips.
"Drink," Ajin said.
His tone was calm, but in its calmness lay steel.
"…We are not here to harm you. We're survivors, same as you."
The old man swallowed greedily—
then coughed, spraying flecks of blood onto Ajin's arm and Jarot's knee.
He blinked slowly.
Looked again at Jarot… then at Ajin.
"You… Jarot?" he breathed. "The strongest disciple… the one who escaped…?"
Jarot's face twisted in anguish.
"I didn't escape!" he roared. "I—"
"JAROT."
Ajin's voice cracked like a whip.
Jarot's mouth snapped shut.
The elder gave a cracked, broken chuckle—
a sound like burning wood collapsing inside a hearth.
"Still as loud as before… hah… Jarot, Jarot…"
His breath shuddered.
"The war… it ended before it began. They came… without warning."
Ajin leaned closer.
"Who came?"
The old man's fingers twitched.
He reached weakly toward Ajin's chest, grabbing the front of his torn shirt. His grip was fragile, but desperate.
"Not… ordinary soldiers," he rasped. "No… no… these were Bayang-Purwa."
Ajin's eyes narrowed.
Jarot's hands curled into fists so tight his nails pierced his palms.
The elder continued, voice trembling:
"Their flames… blue. Not hot. Not burning. But exploding. They don't scorch flesh—they make it burst."
Ajin's pulse hardened.
Blue fire.
He had seen its aftermath in the training field above.
The elder trembled, tears mixing with blood at the corner of his fused eye.
"They didn't kill us to conquer us…
They killed us to study us."
His entire body shook.
"They tested our anger… pushed it… forced eruptions. They wanted to see how much rage a Dahana warrior could endure before his own heart exploded."
Jarot growled.
Ajin felt something twist inside him—something ugly and familiar.
The elder swallowed.
"Their commander… he wasn't human…"
Ajin's spine stiffened.
"He watched everything. Watched us burn. Watched us scream."
The old man's voice dropped to a whisper of terror.
"His eyes… all black. No white. No iris. No soul."
Jarot's breath caught.
Ajin held still.
This…
This was the first true description of the looming enemy they had only sensed from the shadows.
The elder continued:
"He didn't swing a blade. Didn't lift a finger. He just watched… taking notes… as if we were nothing but animals."
His breathing turned shallow.
"He was searching for something."
Ajin's jaw locked.
"What?" he demanded.
The elder shuddered.
"The Scroll of Wrath. Dahana's core scripture. The origin of our flame."
Ajin and Jarot exchanged a sharp look.
"So it is true," Ajin murmured.
Jarot trembled with rage.
"That bastard burned my sister alive just for a scroll?!"
"No," the elder whispered with sudden intensity. "Not for a scroll… for a weapon. The scroll is only the key."
Ajin's eyes darkened.
"And where is it now?" he asked.
The elder coughed violently, blood pouring from his mouth.
"We… sealed it. Below. In the lower sanctum."
He pointed a shaking finger toward the northern ruins—the collapsed main hall that once held generations of Dahana secrets.
"Locked… with spiritual wards… old ones… ancient ones…"
His voice began to drift.
Jarot grabbed his frail hand again, voice trembling.
"Old man… did you see her? My sister—Rini. Did she—did she suffer alone? Did she—"
The elder winced.
It took him a long moment to focus.
"…Rini…"
Jarot leaned in, hope and agony battling in his eyes.
"She… was brave."
The elder's voice softened.
"There was fear in her eyes, yes… but also fire. She spat in the commander's face… before the flames took her."
Jarot broke.
His giant shoulders trembled.
Tears—real tears, not anger—fell onto the old man's burnt cheek.
The elder inhaled one shallow, rattling breath.
"She… was proud of you, Jarot… until the end."
Jarot covered his mouth to hold in a sob.
His entire body shook.
The old man's trembling hand lifted once more—
toward Ajin.
His fingertip pointed toward the northern ruins.
"The scroll… go… take it… Don't let them… don't let anyone…"
His breath halted mid-sentence.
His head fell back.
His hand slipped from Ajin's grip.
The elder's body—once tensed in pain—became still.
Peaceful.
Empty.
The last witness of Dahana…
was dead.
Silence in the Ashes
For a long moment, neither Ajin nor Jarot spoke.
The wind moved through the ruins like a sigh.
Ash spiraled upward in the gust, carrying the old man's final warmth into the sky.
Jarot bowed his head.
Ajin stood slowly, closing the elder's single open eye with his hardened fingertips.
"He held on until we came," Ajin murmured. "Not for escape. Not for revenge."
"…For a warning," Jarot finished, voice raw.
Ajin nodded.
"For us."
He rose fully.
The dying experimental survivor—still half-conscious—twitched weakly against a broken pillar behind them.
Jarot wiped his face fiercely.
"What now?"
Ajin turned toward the northern ruins.
Toward the collapsed main hall.
Toward the sealed lower sanctum that held Dahana's forbidden scroll.
The scroll the commander with black eyes wanted.
The scroll that now belonged to no one… except whoever dared to claim it next.
Ajin's gaze sharpened.
"We retrieve the scroll," he said. "Before they return."
Jarot cracked his knuckles.
"And then?"
Ajin began walking, ash swirling around his feet.
"Then," he said, voice quiet and cold,
"we burn Sindewa-12 from its roots."