When the Majokawa lords finally boarded their waiting ship, every oarman in place and the cargo stowed for travel, they offered the briefest farewell to the Red Takuma, then pushed off into deeper waters. Mists clung to the dawn, while overhead the stars spun their slow wheel. As morning’s light paled the eastern horizon, the sun rose on their port bow, a crimson orb reflecting off Majokawa’s coastline. They sailed thus for two days and two nights. On the third morning, overcast skies and low fog gave the eastern sun a dim, fiery glow as they made landfall at last. By midmorning, the tide was favorable, and so the Majokawa vessel paused briefly off Tenmyō before negotiating the bar, gliding upriver along the sluggish flow of the Dorima. They slipped past dunes, mudflats, and the misty expanse of the Eregasumi Marsh until they saw it: the black fortress of Kasei, looming from a bluff that reared over marshland as far as the eye could see.

Kasei sprawled like a monolithic nightmare on the southern face of that bluff. Fashioned of coarse-cut black marble, its outer walls enclosed acres of yard and cypress trees, and the inner defenses—bearing a tower at each corner—rose still higher, culminating in a dark palace perched above the water. At the southwestern corner, the keep itself soared seventy cubits, iron-clad and unyielding, the carved crest of the crab of Majokawa repeating endlessly below the parapets. Sable cypress stood about it like black flames. A water-gate opened to the Dorima below. From a fortified bridge and bridge-house near the keep, turrets and battlements loomed over the murky river. It was a sight both desolate and fearsome, embodying an age-old violence that darkened the forlorn marsh.

As the ship drew alongside the water-gate, the Majokawa lords disembarked with grim faces. Their fighting men followed, bearing a solemn burden: the body of King Goritsu XI. in his royal wrappings. The fortress gate grated open, ushering them along the steep path to the palace halls. That evening, by flickering torchlight, they laid the dead King in state in the grand hall of Kasei. Yet there was no word from the new monarch, King Goritsu XII.

Night had nearly settled when a chamberlain found Lord Gurou pacing the western terrace. With hasty bows, the man said, “My lord, His Majesty requires you in the Iron Tower. He bids you carry with you the royal crown of Majokawa.”

Gurou—tall, lean, tension in every line of his body—followed at once, retrieving the iron crown set with priceless gems. He walked behind the chamberlain up a winding staircase in the fortress’s highest keep. At the first landing, the guard at a thick oak door let them pass, but the chamberlain only waved Gurou onward, murmuring, “His Majesty awaits you in the secret chamber at the tower’s summit.”

The last King to use that chamber—Goritsu VII.—had perished under strange, whispered circumstances. Folk said that for generations, no King had dared practice the black arts once invoked there. Yet Gurou, a figure draped in midnight-blue robes, felt a pulse of dark excitement. He was [Lv 42 Arcane Tactician], cunning and ambitious, boasting Special Abilities: Mind’s Eye (Rank A) and Calculated Deceit (Rank B). His [System] screen flickered in the corner of his vision as he ascended, steps echoing on dusty stones. At last, he reached a small door, rapped lightly, and heard from within a deep voice say, “Enter.”

The secret chamber spanned the entire top floor of the round keep, its walls thick with gloom. Outside, night’s final glimmer was fading, and the faint glow of a banked furnace threw flickering shapes across retorts and crucibles, hourglasses and astrolabes. Strange vials glowed on shelves, glass tubes twisting into monstrous three-necked alembics. Under the northern window, a massive table bore heavy tomes bound in black leather and sealed with iron locks. In a great chair beside them sat King Goritsu XII. He wore a conjurer’s robe of black and gold, lean cheeks resting against an eagle-claw hand. Lamps were unlit; the only light was the furnace, dancing on the King’s shaved upper lip and the dark cut of his brows, glinting off eyes an unsettling hue of wolfish green. As Gurou entered, the door closed silently behind him. The hush of the tower, broken only by the low purr of the fire, pressed in on them.

After some moments, the King spoke. “You advised King Goritsu XI. to take a certain course, urging him mightily. I see now he rejected that final counsel. Do you wonder how I know?”

Gurou bowed his head but let none of his inner tension show. “Your Majesty,” he said softly, “I can only guess that the departed King’s spirit endures in some realm, or perhaps there are ways for you to glean what transpired in the Takuma Isles.”

The King’s thin lips twitched. “Your tongue is quick. Keep it in check, Gurou—realms beyond death are perilous to name. I have called you here because your counsel was good. Goritsu XI. spurned it, and now he’s gone. We’ll not repeat that mistake.”

Gurou cast an eye around the chamber. The texts, the retorts, the heavy hush. A slight dryness seized his throat. “I stand ready to serve,” he managed. “What will you have of me, King Goritsu XII?”

Rising from the chair, the King moved with the spare grace of a hawk. He laid both hands on Gurou’s shoulders, his voice low. “Are you afraid to meet me in this tower at night, among all these…tools? Do you know the history of this place?” He gestured at odd flasks and implements that reeked of forbidden alchemy.

But Gurou, swallowing the hard knot of anxiety, answered quietly, “I suspected from your summons that we’d not be passing a quiet evening. I’m no master of black sorcery, but I know enough to keep my wits. If this is what we must do to preserve Majokawa’s future, so be it.”

A flicker of approval ignited in the King’s green eyes. “Good. Because we have no time for faint hearts. My father—Goritsu XI.—trusted in raw strength. He fell to that Onikawa savage, Lord Kinryu. And now the Oni sail home unchallenged. But I am not cut from the same cloth. I intend to strike them with more subtle power. We will call forth a sending, hammered from the depths of hell itself, and set it upon them at sea.”

The King motioned for Gurou to place the crown of Majokawa on the table. Then he flipped open an immense black tome, each page veined with symbols that glowed faintly like embers. “This is the dreaded Book of Summonings, used by King Goritsu VII. decades ago. Its magic devoured him, for in the final moment he lacked the will to finish the incantation. He died under the claws of that which he had summoned. I will not share that fate. But you must stand by me, lend your own skill—should I falter.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Gurou felt a thrill of alarm. “If you want me to recite the incantations in your stead—”

“Only if you must,” the King snapped. “Pray it doesn’t come to that. Let me be absolutely plain: these spells drain one’s essence. If my strength slips, if my voice wavers, you take up the next page. You speak the words. If you blunder, we both die. Or worse.”

Gurou’s system window pulsed with a new prompt:

[New Quest: The Midnight Conjuration, Objective: Assist King Goritsu XII in a forbidden ritual to strike against the Oni, Risk Level: S, Reward: Unknown XP / Favor of King Goritsu XII]

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Your Majesty, I understand.”

So they spent the next hour laying out apparatus: colored powders, crucibles, retorts where strange fluids bubbled and hissed. The King commanded, “Observe well. First the Unholy Distillation, then we fix it in the Earthseethe.” By the furnace’s glow, King Goritsu’s tall shape loomed, chanting near-silent words as he drew three pentacles within a seven-pointed star. Then, pointing to a crab symbol, he uttered a first incantation from the seventy-third page. At once, the air stilled, temperature dropping as though the tower were locked in eternal winter.

Gurou’s breath shuddered. He felt cold seep into his bones, but steeled his nerve. He recalled how, in his wide travels, he had once walked alone across the Moruno Morana in Upper Imaraku, a place of haunted winds and malicious spirits. He had survived that ordeal. This was no time to fail. Following instructions, he snapped the tail from a black glass droplet, letting the fragment crumble into pitch-colored dust. When he tossed the powder into a roiling green solution, it turned a violent red, sparks dancing in the vapors. Even as tension rose, the King scrawled a swirling Uroborosu around the star, and pronounced the next incantation.

Now the air grew colder still, stinging like knives. Outside, the midnight sky turned a sickly hue from all directions. Candles burned pallid and flickered as if frightened. The King’s voice rang out in a second, harsher chant. The shadows trembled, and an unnatural glow flooded the chamber. Gurou’s lips parted in silent horror—this light was no dawn, but a hateful luminescence from some nether plane. Everything in the tower—every instrument, every page, every man—stood etched in savage relief.

The King, sweat beading on his brow, forced a final phrase. A wave of soundless concussion crashed through Kasei. Gurou half expected the keep to crumble. He glimpsed swirling shapes of black wings, heard the wind shriek through unseen caverns. The reek of brimstone stung his nostrils. King Goritsu roared, “By these figures and spells, by wolf’s gall and serpent’s fang, by the devouring crab that stands in the sign of Cancer this hour, hear me! Become my instrument—go forth against my enemies, the Oni, before they reach Onikawa’s shores!”

A laughter, sweetly sinister, filled the chamber. Gurou heard it in his mind more than with his ears. The entire fortress quaked. The King strove to speak a concluding word—one last command—but exhaustion weighed him down. His lungs failed to push air. He shot Gurou a panicked look, pleading for him to read from the grammarie. Gurou scrambled across the rocking floor, the swirling wings of a half-manifest fiend buffeting him with hurricane force. The Book of Summonings lay open to page ninety-seven. One specific word was underlined. With trembling fingers, Gurou slammed a palm onto the pages, pronouncing that final command: “TSURAMIKO-SEKAREN!"

An ear-splitting thunderclap followed. The black swirl of wings vanished, leaving only the faint reek of smoke and sulfur. Gurou felt his body give way, consciousness plunging into darkness.

When Gurou awoke, sunlight raked across the tower from a high, narrow window. It was well past dawn—noon by the look of it. The room lay in utter ruin, strewn with shattered retorts and spilled exotic substances: lethal extracts of yew and monkshood, plus precious potions rumored to grant perfect vigor or dissolve any metal. Sorcerous volumes had tumbled from their stands. The King lay slumped near the furnace, unconscious but breathing. Gurou nursed an aching head, rising slowly to check on his monarch. At last, King Goritsu stirred, propping himself on an elbow.

“That,” the King croaked, “got out of hand. But we did not fail. The sending is loosed upon them.”

Gurou exhaled in relief. “We survived. If that’s our measure of success, let’s call it a triumph, Your Majesty.”

A grim smile played on the King’s lips as he rose, scowling at the devastation. “Crown me. The line of Goritsu stands unbroken in Kasei, and I mean to see that all of Suisei knows it.”

So Gurou took up the battered iron crown, encrusted with jewels that caught the midday sun, and placed it upon King Goritsu XII’s brow. With staff in hand, the King swept from the tower, Gurou trailing behind. Below, in the courtyard, lords of Majokawa had assembled—Korudo, Kozu, Koren, Gando, and many others who had served the old King but now swore fealty to the new. And among the gathered throng, half-hidden behind a row of banners, Haruto Watanabe stood as a silent observer, drawn here by the currents of fate. The [System] display flickered in the corner of his vision, though it showed him no path, no class—merely the swirling question of what role he might eventually play.

They formed up, leveling halberds in salute as King Goritsu XII emerged from the gate. He stood clad still in his conjurer’s robe, crowning himself in front of them all. A hush stole over the courtyard. Then, with a regal nod, he spoke, voice echoing off the black walls of Kasei.

“Men of Majokawa, behold your King. I, Goritsu XII, declare the Oni of Onikawa my sworn enemies. Let no man speak of the oaths sworn by Goritsu XI. He paid with his life at their hands. Now they must learn fear. I have unleashed a power to haunt them upon the seas, even as they sail from the Takuma Isles. Let that be their last voyage.”

Korudo, a stalwart War Master of Majokawa and [Lv 47 Royal Spear], stepped forward. “Lord, your will is a comfort. Last night, the fortress shook as if to topple into the Dorima. We feared some cataclysm.”

King Goritsu gave a short laugh. “I tested the black arts—yes. Soon enough, you’ll see how fruitful that test proves. Now, come. Let us gather in the banquet hall and pay final respects to our fallen Goritsu XI.”

As they made for the hall, the King laid a hand on Gurou’s shoulder. “Gurou sits at my right hand this day,” he announced. “I owe him a debt for services rendered under the darkest of nights.”

Many of the Majokawa lords frowned at the favor shown to an exiled tactician, but King Goritsu’s glare stifled their protests. He spoke in a low voice that carried the weight of command. “Let any among you who serves me so well earn such honor in turn.”

Glancing at Gurou, he added quietly, “When we’ve consolidated power, you shall have rank beyond measure. Perhaps you shall rule in Zae Zakuro, or even some greater fortress, if we drive out Yōkawa’s Katsuragi. I do not forget loyalty.”

Gurou bowed with carefully masked pride. “I live only to expand Majokawa’s glory.”

No further words were spoken. They filed inside the black palace to feast, to drink, and to plan the vengeance now riding the seas at King Goritsu XII’s bidding. The sun shone outside in a clear spring sky, but within those marble walls of Kasei, shadows of new wars stretched long across Suisei’s horizon.