The sky was clear, birds chirping, and the air unusually calm around the guild's central plaza. Adventurers gathered for the morning briefings when a strange pulse echoed across the area. It wasn’t magic. It was something far more ancient—raw intent.

  A rift formed in the sky, swirling with dark violet mist. From it dropped a single scroll—black with crimson trimming. It landed upright on the guild’s marble platform, as if guided by invisible hands. No one dared approach.

  The Duke, flanked by top-ranking adventurers, cautiously stepped forward. He knelt, carefully unrolling the scroll.

  The writing wasn’t in common tongue—it was in an ancient script only few could read.

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  “…This is bad,” the Duke whispered. He turned to his scribe. “Translate this immediately.”

  The scribe gulped, reading aloud:

  > “To the Duke of the Capital,

  To the Guild that grovels in fear,

  To the warriors who dare stand against me—

  I am Kairyuuha.

  The world has forgotten who I am. But soon, they shall remember.

  The Crimson Sigil reacts. It trembles in my grasp.

  One month from today… when the moon bleeds crimson, I will return it.

  But not as a gift—

  As a warning.

  Prepare your strongest. Let the world witness despair again.

  This era belongs to me.

  —Kairyuuha.”

  Silence.

  Then, a chilling wind passed through the guild, as though the message itself had sucked the warmth from the air.

  Kazuki, standing on the rooftop overlooking the plaza, didn't flinch. His eyes stayed locked on the sky where the rift had vanished. He already knew.

  “He’s coming back…” Rinara said, breath short.

  “No,” Kazuki whispered coldly. “He never left.”