It was no longer snowing; it was raining blood from the sky.
In the narrow mountain pass, the wind howled like a wolf, and with every breath, a new volley of arrows tore through the darkness. Poisoned tips struck stone, sparking fire, while others found flesh with a soft, wet thud.
The Black Tiger—Kurogane no Tora—had fallen to one knee.
The breastplate of his armor was torn, the chainmail beneath severed. A hot liquid streamed down his back, meeting the white snow on the ground to form a steaming, crimson river. Behind him, the villagers he had shielded with his own body were huddled together, crushed under the weight of terror.
"Run..." the samurai said. His voice was thick with blood, raspy, yet still as hard as steel.
But there was nowhere to run.
The final arrow came from the dark corner of the narrow pass with a sinister hum. The blood-stained steel, loosed from the enemy's bow, buried itself in his throat.
His sword did not leave his hand. With one last act of will, he drove it into the earth olmso that he would not topple over—so the enemy would see him kneeling, but not defeated. Blood frothed at his mouth and ran down his chin. His vision blurred; the world turned grey.
This cannot be the end, his mind screamed.
As the coldness of death climbed from his fingertips to his heart, regret sat like a fist in his stomach. He hadn't been fast enough. He hadn't been strong enough.
As his eyes slowly closed, he spent his final breath not on a prayer, but on a bargain.
If there is a power beyond this frozen hell... hear me.
The voice in his mind was louder than the storm.
Give me one more chance. One more life. I swear... I swear upon my soul that this time, I will not waste it. This time, I will not just fight; I will win.
And in that moment, the impossible happened.
The howling of the wind ceased. The falling snowflakes hung suspended in the air. The blood flowing from his throat stopped. Time froze, as if held by an invisible hand.
From the depths of the universe, a mechanical, rhythmic sound echoed—audible only to his soul.
TICK-TOCK.
It was not the sound of a clock, but the turning of a gear in a massive, cosmic mechanism.
An entity, from beyond eternity, had heard this desperate vow. And accepted it.
Infinite darkness swallowed him.
This darkness was not the silent finality of a grave; it was merely the breaking of a rusty cycle. The cold, cosmic mechanics of the Pantheon of the Chain Vow engaged. It plucked the weary soul of the Black Tiger from the void and linked it, like a massive chain link, to the gear of a new destiny. He was no longer the master of the world he saved, nor the owner of the vow he made; he was now merely a fresh seed carrying the cursed blood of Ignis.
Time bent within unconsciousness. Then, that absolute darkness turned into a metallic, creaking sound. The ancient hum of chains rising from the depths of the universe was the first reality to strike the old soul's consciousness. The peaceful cold of the void gave way, for a split second, to the sharp, throat-burning scent of rust.
And then gravity, like a cruel hand, grabbed the soul by the scruff of its neck and pulled it down—far, far down.