Reika stands alone in the vast, torchlit hall, her katana dripping blood as the metallic scent of death hangs heavy in the air. Each drop that falls from the blade splashes against cold stone like a drumbeat of finality, echoing through the chamber. Her legs tremble—muscles screaming in protest—yet in her chest, a singular rhythm takes hold: the pulse of revenge given form. Around her, the Shikibans freeze in horrified silence, their eyes wide with disbelief, unable to reconcile the crimson-smeared girl before them with the timid recruit they once knew.
Before her lies Usui—once her comrade—now shattered in grotesque fragments, his life extinguished in a brutal frenzy. Limbs lie twisted, intestines coiled like discarded rope, and his face, half-buried in a pool of congealing blood, bears the last semblance of shock. Reika's lips curve into a slow, terrible smile as she surveys her work: not merely killing, but erasing every trace of him, every memory he carried. Her chest heaves, and she tastes iron on her tongue, the final, intimate proof of her own transformation.
A ripple of gasps hums through the Shikibans. "She… she killed Kageshiki?" one whispers, voice cracking. "But she's one of us… how—?" "Impossible," another chokes out. Each syllable drips with fear and fascination; they see a monster forged from human hands, and they cannot look away. Reika's eyes lock onto theirs—dozens of witnesses in her moment of triumph, and potential threats to the secret she has carved in blood.
Her throat tightens with guilt that claws at her heart. She sees flashes: Ishigo's hopeful grin, Daigo's steady encouragement, Yeaga's gentle taunts. They believed in her, cared for her. What would they think, if they ever discovered the truth? A sob rises in her chest, but she clamps her jaw shut. "No," she mutters to herself, voice hoarse. "They'll never know." The words solidify into a vow as her grip on the katana tightens, knuckles whitening.
Before she can think further, Shikiban Sakuro lunges forward, crimson flames coalescing around his fists in a deadly dance of sparks and heat. The roar of the Infernal Void Technique tears through the hall. Blades of fire slice the air toward her, sizzling through the stagnant gloom. Reika reacts on pure instinct—feet pivoting, body rolling low, blade flashing in a single fluid arc. The heat sears her arm, clothes igniting in molten sparks, but she endures, every searing pain fueling a grim exhilaration.
"FLAME TECHNIQUE: INFERNAL VOID OF TORNADO!" Another Shikiban bellows. A spiraling inferno erupts, a cyclone of flaming razors that rips at the stone, carving deep gouges as it hurtles toward her. Reika charges forward, katana held before her like a wand of salvation, slashing through the roiling vortex. Fireballs erupt, scorching skin and sending rivulets of acid-hot blood down her forearms. She grunts, claws of pain digging at her focus, but she presses on—driven by a force deeper than mere survival.
The tornado explodes on impact, shattering like glass against her body. She is cast backward, chest slamming into stone. Bones crack, pain erupts like shotgun blasts through her ribs. Stars blossom behind her eyelids as she crumples, consciousness slipping. And then—an urgent murmur cuts through the haze. A Shikiban approaches, his lips curling in contempt. "Pathetic. Still haven't unlocked your true power, have you?" He stoops, inspecting her wounds as if judging a broken blade. "Why even bother trying to become a Kage'shiki?"
Reika fights to lift her head. The room swims, black spires dancing at the edges of her vision. In her mind there are ghosts: a lullaby from a mother she never loved, the flash of a father's blade descending toward her. Memories of abandonment, cruelty, rejection—each one a weight bound to her soul. She tastes bile. "Because," she rasps, voice shredded, "I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be free." The words are both confession and curse, hanging heavy like a dying ember.
The Shikiban's laughter is cold steel. "Freedom? There is no freedom here—only power. Power to kill, to survive, to conquer. Your motives weren't noble; they were selfish. You thirst for strength." He crouches, face inches from hers. "Tell me, Reika: why spill blood if you cannot embrace why you fight for it?" His question reverberates through her battered body, cracking open the shell she built around her heart.
Beneath the mask of defiance, tears gather. Her vision blurs. "Because no one ever cared if I lived," she whispers brokenly. "My parents… they tried to kill me. They crushed my dreams—music, dance, art… They wanted obedience, not love." Every syllable is a blade twisting in her chest. "I obeyed until I shattered." She stares at him, hollow and raw. "So why should I care about saving anyone else?"
The Shikiban straightens, shock replacing cruelty on his scarred features. His fiery blades evaporate in the billowing dust, leaving only uneasy silence. He stares at her, not with contempt, but with a flicker of something like pity. Around them, the other Shikibans shift, uncertain whether to advance or flee. In that pregnant pause, Reika's chest tenses—her sorrow and rage coalescing into a single, soaring crescendo.
A low growl rumbles from beneath her skin, resonant and primal. The torches gutter, the air thickens, and a purple light, rich as bruised velvet, wells up inside her. It bursts outward in a halo of jagged energy, the ghost of a dragon's shape flickering through the haze. The aura courses over her wounds, mending flesh, hardening resolve, swallowing the hall in its unholy glow. The scent of ozone and burnt blood mingles as power unfurls around her like wings.
The Shikibans step back, unease turning to awe. Her battered form straightens, eyes alight with fierce serenity. The katana in her hand trembles with possibility—no longer a mere weapon, but an extension of her newfound self. "You wanted to mock my weakness?" Her voice, calm and resonant, ripples through the chamber. "Then behold my strength." She raises her blade, and the purple aura coils around its edge, setting it ablaze with eldritch fire.
She advances like a storm unbound. Each step cracks stone, each breath scorches air. The Shikibans launch themselves at her, but their flames flicker and die against her aura. Her strikes are lightning—quick, precise, devastating. Flesh parts, bones crack, and one by one, they fall, pale eyes wide in shock at the force she commands. Their screams echo, torn between fear and wonder, until silence reigns once more.
Reika stands amid the ruin—charred corpses, fractured pillars, and the lingering hiss of dying embers. Her katana drips with purple-tinged ichor, and her tears, mingled with soot and blood, streak down her face. The power that surged through her has left her trembling, not from pain, but from release—a release from every chain that bound her heart. She breathes deeply, tasting freedom in every rasp of air.
Her defiant smile returns, brighter and more enigmatic than before. She is no longer the girl who obeyed to survive; she is the dragon reborn from her own agony. In the shattered grandeur of the hall, she carves her legend in fire and blood—a promise that no force, no fate, can ever bind her again. And as the last flicker of her purple aura fades, she whispers to the empty air: "Then burn with it."
In that moment, she becomes both predator and phoenix, forged in the crucible of her past, soaring into a destiny she alone will define.