Chapter 71: The Shadow’s Gift
The room was cloaked in an eerie silence, a heavy, almost palpable stillness that pressed against the cold stone walls as though trying to suffocate any lingering hope. Shadows danced across the surface in irregular patterns, cast by flickering torches that struggled to hold back the darkness. The temperature itself seemed to drop, as if the air were steeped in sorrow and ancient foreboding. In this oppressive chamber—where the past and present converged—the Kurushimi brothers were scattered about, each lost in their own private contemplations as they prepared for the war looming on the horizon.
The atmosphere was charged with tension, each heartbeat echoing in the silence like a distant drum of impending doom. Amidst this foreboding calm, thoughts of old battles and scars—both seen and unseen—weaved through their minds. There was a shared understanding that everything was about to change, that fate was drawing them inexorably toward a confrontation that would redefine their very existence.
Without warning, that tenuous equilibrium was shattered by a sudden rift tearing through the very fabric of reality. A vortex of darkness materialized in the center of the room—a swirling, churning maelstrom of shadow and crimson energy that defied natural law. The air around it crackled with raw, chaotic power, and as the void expanded, its sinister light bathed the room in a spectral glow. The brothers instinctively snapped to attention, weapons drawn, muscles tensed in readiness. In that instant, every ounce of their training and hard-won experience converged into a single, unified purpose: to face this unearthly threat.
From the heart of the void emerged a towering figure—a being of colossal stature, easily over ten feet tall. His presence was overwhelming, a physical embodiment of malevolence and despair. Clad in dark, tattered robes that seemed to drink in every stray beam of light, he moved with a slow, deliberate grace that belied his monstrous size. His eyes, two burning orbs of red, pierced the dimness with a gaze that was as unforgiving as it was mesmerizing. In each eye was etched the unmistakable symbol of inverted satanic stars, a mark that spoke of unspeakable horrors and the embodiment of ancient, eldritch evil.
For a moment, the very air seemed to quiver in the presence of this dark entity. Even Krishna—whose soul was normally ablaze with unbridled, chaotic fury—felt his blood run cold. His heart pounded in his chest, and his usually unflinching determination wavered under the overwhelming weight of the entity’s aura. The brothers exchanged glances, their eyes a mixture of defiance and trepidation. They were warriors, hardened by years of battle, yet here they faced a force that defied comprehension.
“Who—no, what are you?” Martin’s voice, usually measured and calm, trembled slightly as he broke the silence. His tone carried an edge of uncertainty, an acknowledgment that even he was not immune to the dread that filled the room.
The towering figure’s lips curled into a semblance of a smile as he spoke, his voice deep and resonant—a sound that seemed to emanate from the very depths of existence itself. “I am Deimos,” he intoned, his words echoing in the vast chamber. “The God of Rape, Torture, and Murder.”
Those words, brutal and unyielding, sent shockwaves through the gathered warriors. The very mention of such atrocities was enough to chill the soul, yet the brothers felt an odd stirring deep within them—a recognition that this was no ordinary foe. The name Deimos, ancient and feared, carried with it a legacy of carnage and a promise of unrestrained chaos.
Even as the gravity of his proclamation sank in, the brothers instinctively tightened their grip on their weapons. Their minds raced with questions and memories of past horrors—of battles fought and sacrifices made. Yet, even as Krishna’s fists clenched, his chaotic rage was tempered by the sheer, overwhelming presence of the being before him.
Deimos raised a shadowy hand, and the very air around him seemed to shudder. “Sixty-five years ago,” he began, his tone imbued with a mix of pride and sorrow, “I descended upon this world to grant my blessings to those who dared to challenge the impossible. Kaizen, Michael, Ray, Maya—each of these souls, in their moment of darkest need, received my gifts. With my intervention, they turned the tide against Akuma. Without me, there would have been no victory.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed as he processed these words. “If that’s true,” he said slowly, “then why now? Why come to us?”
For a long, charged moment, the room remained still as if waiting for Deimos to divulge the secrets of destiny itself. Then, taking a slow, measured step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the remaining light, Deimos answered, “Because you stand on the precipice of annihilation. Akuma has risen once more, and the world teeters on the edge of ruin. You will not defeat him as you are now.”
The words reverberated throughout the chamber, each syllable a cold reminder of the stakes at hand. The brothers stood frozen, their minds reeling from the gravity of his message. The prospect of facing an enemy as ancient and formidable as Akuma, with the forces of chaos at his command, filled the room with a palpable dread.
Breaking the silence, Krishna’s voice emerged, laced with suspicion and defiance. “And you expect us to trust you? A god of—” He spat the words with loathing. “—rape, torture, and murder? What’s your angle? What do you gain from this?”
A slow, almost imperceptible smile played upon Deimos’ lips as he tilted his head slightly. His eyes, alight with a feral intensity, bore into Krishna’s soul. “I exist to witness chaos and suffering, yes,” he replied evenly. “But I am not your enemy. My blessings are the very edge that your father and his allies once wielded to triumph over the impossible. Without me, you will falter, just as they would have.”
Temna, always the voice of reason amid chaos, stepped forward with measured caution. “What exactly do these blessings entail? What will you do to us?”
Deimos extended both of his hands, and in them materialized shadowy orbs that pulsed with dark, rhythmic energy. The orbs seemed to be alive—a swirling vortex of power, both alluring and dangerous. “My blessings will amplify your strength, sharpen your instincts, and awaken the dormant potential within you,” he declared. “You will become shadows of vengeance—unstoppable forces in the face of your enemies.”
Takashi, typically brash and cocky in equal measure, hesitated as he considered the proposition. “And what’s the catch?” he asked, his voice betraying his uncertainty. “There’s no way something like this comes free.”
A sinister grin spread across Deimos’ face, the corners of his mouth twisting into something almost playful in its malice. “The catch?” he repeated slowly. “You will bear my mark, and with it, a fragment of my essence will live within you. You will feel the pull of the shadows, the whisper of violence in every heartbeat. This power is not a gift to be cherished—it is a weapon to be wielded with care. Its burden is heavy, and it demands sacrifice.”
Martin’s mind raced as he recalled the legacy of their father, Ray, who had once accepted such power to overcome the monstrous threat of Akuma decades ago. Now, the same opportunity lay before them, but the cost was steep—a cost that promised to alter their very souls. His eyes locked with those of his brothers, and for a long moment, silence reigned as they each contemplated the weight of the decision before them.
Krishna’s chaotic nature flared as he stepped forward, his voice resolute despite the uncertainty swirling within him. “I don’t care what it costs,” he declared, his tone raw and fierce. “If it means taking Akuma down, I’ll take your damn blessing.”
Temna, ever the cautious strategist, nodded slowly. “If it’s what we need to win, then so be it,” he said, his voice steady even as his mind raced through the potential consequences.
Takashi, though still uneasy, couldn’t resist a wry smile. “Guess I can’t let you guys have all the fun,” he added with a sardonic chuckle. “Count me in.”
Finally, Martin—the de facto leader of the brothers—exhaled deeply, steeling himself for what lay ahead. “We’ll take your blessing,” he stated, his voice low and determined. “But know this: if you betray us, god or not, we’ll find a way to destroy you.”
Deimos chuckled—a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the very walls of the chamber. “Betrayal is not in my nature, mortal,” he replied coolly. “My interest lies solely in your triumph, for it shall bring forth the chaos I crave. Now, step forward and claim your power.”
One by one, the brothers approached the dark god. The shadowy orbs, as if drawn by some irresistible magnetism, drifted toward each of them. When the orbs touched their skin, a searing pain shot through their veins, a burning sensation that was both agonizing and exhilarating. As the dark marks etched themselves into their flesh, glowing faintly with an inner light before fading into permanence, each brother felt as if a part of him were being forever altered—bound to an ancient legacy of violence and despair.
With the ritual complete, Deimos stepped back, his red eyes gleaming as they took in the sight of the newly transformed warriors. “It is done,” he pronounced, his tone both declarative and final. “You are now my shadow warriors. Wield this power wisely, for the fate of the world now depends on your strength.”
In the lingering silence that followed, the brothers stood in quiet awe, their minds reeling with the enormity of their new reality. The battle against Akuma was no longer simply a test of martial skill—it had become a trial of will, of strength, and of their ability to harness the darkness that now resided within them. They had crossed a threshold from which there was no return, and the final war now bore an even darker, more ominous edge.
The Truth Bomb
As the lingering shadows of Deimos’ presence dissolved into the corners of the room, the Kurushimi brothers could feel the dark power surging through their veins—a raw, untamed energy that heightened their senses and sharpened their instincts. Their muscles hummed with newfound strength, and every nerve felt alive with the pulse of ancient malice. Yet, the oppressive silence was soon shattered by a voice—Deimos’ voice—echoing once more, though his physical form had receded back into the void.
“There is something else you must know,” the dark god began, his tone laden with gravity and ancient secrets. His words, heavy with implication, sent ripples through the minds of the assembled warriors. They tensed, their hearts pounding as they braced themselves for further revelations.
“You fight for a legacy,” Deimos continued, his voice a dark melody of both warning and promise. “But that legacy has roots deeper than you could ever fathom. Your father, Ray, was never a lone warrior in his battle against Akuma. No, he was nurtured and honed by the greatest assassins SAAHO has ever produced—Michael, Kaizen, and Maya. They were titanic figures in their time, the #1, #2, and #3 assassins in SAAHO’s storied history. They were the pillars upon which your father built his strength, the architects of his destiny. Without them, Ray would never have forged the path that led to your very bloodline.”
The revelation struck like a thunderclap. The brothers exchanged stunned glances, each of them processing the gravity of this secret. For years they had believed their father to be a lone, heroic figure, yet now they learned that his legacy was intertwined with legends whose names were spoken of in hushed, reverent tones.
“Michael, Kaizen, Maya…” Martin murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he tried to reconcile this newfound truth with the stories he had grown up with. “They were more than legends?”
Deimos’ eyes gleamed in the dim light as he continued, “They were gods among mortals in their prime—immortal in spirit if not in flesh. But 65 years ago, when the tide of battle was at its darkest, they faced annihilation at the hands of the very enemy who now stands alongside Akuma—Dr. Machinist.”
At the mention of Machinist, a chill ran down the brothers’ spines. They had battled his monstrous creations, witnessed his merciless ingenuity, and now they understood that he had been a force of destruction long before they had taken up arms. His name was synonymous with terror, and his legacy was as dark as the void from which Deimos had emerged.
“He sought to eliminate them,” Deimos revealed, his tone a curious blend of disdain and grudging admiration. “They were too dangerous, too capable. Their existence threatened to upend the order Machinist sought to impose upon the world. So, he came for them with his hideous creations, intending to snuff out their light once and for all. In that brutal campaign, he nearly succeeded.”
Temna’s analytical mind raced as he absorbed every word. “What stopped him?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with equal parts curiosity and apprehension.
Deimos’ voice darkened, a somber note threading through his words. “I did.” A hush fell over the room—a silence so deep that it seemed to swallow even the sound of their breathing.
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The god’s confession hung in the air like a specter. “I saved Michael, Kaizen, and Maya from certain death,” he declared, his tone unyielding and imbued with a grim purpose. “Machinist had them cornered—broken, bleeding, and on the verge of oblivion. I intervened, not out of mercy, but because their survival was necessary for the chaos I so dearly cherish. I battled Machinist myself, forcing him to abandon his assault and retreat into the shadows.”
Krishna’s fiery nature flared, his eyes narrowing in anger and disbelief. “Why? Why would you save them, if you are a god of suffering?” he demanded, his voice trembling with both rage and confusion. “What game are you playing?”
A low, humorless chuckle escaped Deimos before he responded. “Because destruction without balance is meaningless,” he explained, his tone measured yet filled with an otherworldly conviction. “Those assassins—Michael, Kaizen, and Maya—were the architects of chaos. They not only shaped the battlefield, they inspired fear and resistance. Their continued existence ensured that chaos remained the natural order. Their deaths would have heralded a stagnant, lifeless world—a world bereft of resistance, where order reigned supreme. I could not allow that.”
Takashi, crossing his arms in a mix of skepticism and indignation, interjected, “And our father? Where does he fit into all this?”
Deimos’ form softened momentarily, his voice carrying an unexpected tenderness as he spoke of the man who had set the course for their destiny. “Ray was their protégé, their chosen successor,” he said. “Michael, Kaizen, and Maya molded him, trained him to be their equal—and, eventually, to surpass them. He became their beacon, their legacy. When I saved those titans of chaos, I saved him as well. Without my intervention, Ray Kurushimi would have perished long before you were ever born.”
The weight of that revelation pressed down upon the brothers like an iron mantle. Their lives, their struggles, their very identities were now entwined with a legacy steeped in blood, sacrifice, and a darkness that defied easy explanation.
“Everything we are,” Martin said softly, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger, sorrow, and newfound resolve, “is because of you.”
Deimos’ towering silhouette reappeared as he drifted back into view, the red glow of his eyes piercing through the gloom. “Indeed,” he intoned. “And now, the cycle comes full circle. Just as I granted your father and his allies the power to stand against the impossible, I bestow that power upon you. But heed my warning, mortals: the power I give you is not a mere gift—it is a weapon. A weapon that carries with it a burden as great as it is potent. Wield it with wisdom and fortitude, for it can either forge your path to victory or consume you entirely.”
For a long, heavy moment, the brothers stood in silence, the truth of their lineage and the enormity of their destiny searing into their very souls. Their fight against Akuma was no longer solely a battle for the survival of a fractured world or the redemption of a tarnished family honor. It was a continuation of a story that stretched back through the annals of time—a narrative shaped by gods, monsters, and the indomitable will of those who dared defy fate.
As Deimos’ voice faded into the dark ether, his final words lingered like a haunting echo: “Your destiny was forged in the shadows long before you were born. Now, it is your turn to wield the darkness and decide the fate of this world.”
The Old Story
Even as the heavy truths of destiny and sacrifice settled over the room, the oppressive atmosphere was unexpectedly punctured by a quiet chuckle—a sound so incongruous amidst the grim revelations that it drew the brothers’ puzzled glances. The tension shifted, if only for a moment, as if the very fabric of destiny allowed a brief reprieve to recount an old tale.
“There is something else you must know about your father, Ray,” Deimos began anew, his tone now laced with amusement and a hint of mischief. The darkness in his eyes softened ever so slightly, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were savoring a cherished memory.
The brothers tensed once more, uncertain of what further truths might be revealed. “Your father, at fifteen years old,” Deimos continued, his voice carrying the cadence of a long-remembered story, “was barely a man—yet he was unreasonably brave, or perhaps simply foolish.” His laughter, quiet but resonant, filled the chamber. “I encountered young Ray for the first time when he was still under the rigorous training of Michael, Kaizen, and Maya. Imagine, a mere boy thrust into the brutal crucible of battle, with the weight of expectation upon his shoulders.”
Martin’s eyes widened in incredulity. “Wait… you’re saying our father faced you when he was just fifteen?”
Deimos chuckled again—a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. “Faced me? That’s one way to put it,” he replied with a wry inflection. “The boy did more than merely face me—he punched me.”
A stunned silence fell over the brothers. Krishna’s mouth opened in disbelief. “He… punched you? As in, his fist connected with your face?”
Deimos repeated the words with a tone that balanced incredulity and reluctant admiration. “Punched me. Right in the eye,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Your father stood before a god of death and destruction, trembling yet resolute, and with all the strength his youthful body could muster, he swung at me. And… well, his blow found its mark.”
Takashi burst into laughter, the absurdity of the image too potent to resist. “You’re telling me that our dad, a mere kid, actually punched a god in the face—and you just let him?” he exclaimed, shaking his head in amazement.
Deimos’ eyes flared for a brief moment—a flash of crimson intensity that was quickly tempered by amusement. “Let him? No, not exactly. The boy caught me off guard,” he explained, his tone mixing pride with the inevitability of fate. “I wasn’t expecting a mortal child to exhibit such audacity, such reckless boldness. Of course, his punch carried little real power, but it was enough to disrupt my balance—so much so that I stumbled, if only for a moment.”
Temna’s lips twitched into a wry smile as he absorbed the tale. “You’re telling us that a fifteen-year-old Ray Kurushimi nearly knocked over a god?”
Deimos growled softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of begrudging admiration. “I wouldn’t say he knocked me over, exactly. I simply... tripped. A fleeting lapse in my otherwise flawless form. It was a moment of vulnerability—a crack in the armor of destiny—that I have never forgotten.”
Krishna, ever the embodiment of defiant humor, couldn’t hold back a grin. “So, our dad literally floored a god?” he teased, his voice light with incredulity and pride.
Deimos snapped, though his tone was devoid of true malice, “I wouldn’t phrase it that way,” he countered. “But yes, your father’s sheer audacity caught me off guard. There he stood, fists clenched and eyes burning with a fire that even a god could not ignore. He said to me, ‘If you’re going to kill me, get it over with. But I won’t bow to you.’ And that defiance… that fiery spirit changed everything.”
The room fell silent as the weight of the old story sank in, each brother picturing the young Ray—raw, untempered by time, yet already brimming with the indomitable will that would come to define their lineage. The audacity of a child challenging the embodiment of death was a tale both terrifying and inspiring.
“Your father, despite his youth and inexperience,” Deimos continued softly, his voice carrying a rare note of respect, “possessed a courage that even I found impossible to ignore. It was in that moment, that singular defiance, that I chose not to end his life. I wanted to see how far that fire would carry him. And, as fate would have it, it did not disappoint.”
Martin crossed his arms, a small, wistful smile breaking through his otherwise stern expression. “Sounds like Dad, all right—bold to the point of recklessness,” he murmured, the admiration in his tone mingled with a touch of sorrow for the hard road his father must have walked.
Krishna laughed, the sound echoing off the ancient walls. “And he punched a god in the face at fifteen! That’s a legend that’ll be sung for generations,” he declared, his voice booming with pride and amusement.
Deimos sighed, his towering form once more cloaked in shadow. “Mock me if you must, mortals,” he said, his tone now gentle yet resolute. “But understand this: your father’s defiance was not merely an act of youthful bravado—it was the foundation of everything you stand for now. That fire, that unyielding spirit, burns within each of you. It is the legacy of Ray Kurushimi, and it will carry you through the trials that lie ahead.”
As the brothers exchanged glances, their hearts swelled with both pride and the weight of responsibility. They saw in each other the reflection of that youthful defiance—a spark that had been kindled long ago in the heart of their father. Even as Deimos’ presence faded back into the void, his final words lingered like a reluctant benediction:
“Ray Kurushimi... the only mortal foolish enough to strike a god. For that, he has earned my eternal respect.”
Epilogue to the Chapter
In the hours that followed, the room remained steeped in the aftermath of revelations both ancient and immediate. The brothers gathered around a low, rough-hewn table in the center of the chamber, each lost in his own thoughts. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and the lingering taste of destiny—a destiny that had been forged in blood, sacrifice, and the relentless pursuit of chaos.
Martin, the eldest and the steadying force among them, finally broke the silence. “We have been given a tremendous burden today,” he said softly, his eyes scanning the faces of his brothers. “Our father’s legacy is woven with threads of darkness, and our path will be no easier than his. But we must embrace it. We must master this power, not let it master us.”
Krishna, his spirit still ablaze with the fire of defiance, nodded slowly. “I’ve always believed that true strength comes not from the absence of fear, but from the willingness to face it head-on,” he replied, his voice resonating with quiet determination. “Our father’s punch was not just an act of rebellion—it was a declaration. We, too, must declare that we will not bow to fate, no matter how dark it may seem.”
Takashi, ever the pragmatic warrior with a sardonic edge, added, “This blessing is a double-edged sword. We must learn to control the darkness within us, or it will consume us entirely. But I say, if we’re going to face Akuma and whatever monstrosities he unleashes, we’d better be ready to let that darkness work for us.”
Temna, ever the tactician, contemplated the gravity of their situation before speaking. “There is a price to every gift, and the mark on our skin is a constant reminder of that. But perhaps this is what we need—a reminder of the sacrifices made by those who came before us, and a beacon to guide us through the coming storm.”
In that dimly lit chamber, the brothers made a silent pact. They would honor the legacy of their father, the teachings of Michael, Kaizen, and Maya, and the dark, terrible gift bestowed upon them by Deimos. They would harness the power within, transforming it into a force for defiance—a shield against the encroaching darkness, and a weapon against the tyrant Akuma.
As they sat together, the air thick with the promise of battles yet to be fought, each brother resolved to honor the ancient legacy and to forge their own destiny amidst the chaos. Their hearts beat in unison with the pulsing rhythm of their new power—a constant reminder of the price of rebellion and the glory that could be attained when one dared to defy the gods.
Deimos’ final echo resounded in their minds: “Your destiny was forged in the shadows long before you were born. Now, it is your turn to wield the darkness and decide the fate of this world.” And with that, the Kurushimi brothers—bound by blood, honor, and the shadow’s gift—rose to face the coming war, their eyes shining with the fire of rebellion and the weight of a legacy that would define the future.
Thus, the chapter closed with a lingering note of both hope and grim determination. In the interplay of light and shadow, of ancient curses and newfound power, the warriors embraced the darkness within them. They were no longer merely men—they had become living embodiments of defiance, shadows incarnate, destined to challenge the very foundations of tyranny and despair.
The legacy of Ray Kurushimi, with all its bloodshed, sacrifice, and unwavering courage, pulsed through their veins. It was a reminder that the greatest strength often arises from the most harrowing depths of suffering. And in the gathering gloom of a world on the brink of destruction, the Kurushimi brothers would be the harbingers of a new age—a time when the shadows would no longer be mere echoes of past horrors, but the driving force behind a rebellion that would shake the heavens.
In the quiet aftermath of that fateful night, as the embers of ancient battles flickered in the recesses of memory, the brothers vowed to carry forward the torch of rebellion. They understood that every mark on their flesh, every surge of dark power, was not a curse but a testament to their resilience—a symbol of the unyielding spirit that refused to be broken by the relentless tides of fate.
And so, with their hearts steeled by the weight of destiny and their minds aflame with the promise of revenge, the Kurushimi brothers stepped out from the shadows. The night was long, and the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, but within each of them burned the defiant spirit of a man who had once dared to punch a god in the face—a spirit that now surged forward, undeterred by the darkness that threatened to engulf the world.
For in that moment, as the dawn approached on the horizon of chaos, they understood that the true power of the shadow was not merely in its ability to conceal and destroy, but in its capacity to transform. Shadows were not the remnants of defeat; they were the fertile soil from which strength could be reborn. They were the quiet, unspoken force that often whispered truths in the ears of those brave enough to listen. The shadow could break, but it could also rebuild, shaping the very world in its image.
Armed with the knowledge that they were the keepers of an ancient legacy and bound by the darkness that had claimed their pasts, the Kurushimi brothers pressed onward into the vast unknown. They had become more than just warriors—they were living symbols of the fight for a better world, a world where no one would be forced to live in fear or silence.
In the depths of their hearts, they carried the weight of the lives they had taken, the friends they had lost, and the blood that stained their hands. Yet, they also carried the fire of hope—a fire that burned despite the ashes of their past. It was a fire that refused to be extinguished, even in the face of overwhelming odds. Each step they took was a step toward redemption, not just for themselves, but for all those who had suffered beneath the heel of tyranny.
The road ahead was long and fraught with danger. The darkness they now walked within was not a mere absence of light, but a tangible force—alive with the potential to tear apart everything they had once known. Yet, even as the shadows stretched before them like an endless sea, the brothers were unshaken. For they knew that within them burned a truth more powerful than any weapon: the knowledge that the most formidable enemy was not the one who stood before them, but the one who lay within—the doubts, the fears, the shadows in their own hearts.
Together, they would face these inner demons, as well as the external ones that sought to bend the world to their will. They had already stood in the face of gods, defied the inevitable, and emerged stronger for it. What was left but to finish what they had started? The final clash was not yet written, but the echoes of their ancestors rang in their ears, urging them onward.
And so, with each passing day, as the Kurushimi brothers made their way through the trials of war, they remained ever vigilant. For they knew the battle was far from over. The light and dark, once opposing forces, were now bound together in a cosmic dance—a dance where every step was weighted with the knowledge that both were needed for the world to truly change. The shadows would no longer be mere remnants of past fears, but the vessels for an unstoppable tide of revolution.
In the end, as the final curtain fell and the heavens trembled beneath the weight of their resolve, it would not be the light that triumphed over darkness, but the fusion of both—forever intertwined, creating a force greater than the sum of its parts. And in that moment, the Kurushimi brothers would know that their legacy was not only one of destruction, but of transformation—transforming the world itself into something new, something free from the chains that had bound it for so long.
End of Chapter 71: The Shadow’s Gift
