The wind whispered through the broken arches of Laginaple's western reach, its voice caught between sorrow and remembrance. Where once a Falzath-claimed stronghold stood defiant in shadow, now silence remained—a different kind, laden with echoes of battles lost and won. Maika and Olga's victory had carved a wound into the corrupted west, a wound now ready to bleed truth. Shin felt the tremor before the messenger arrived.
The Fourth Talon scout knelt in the charred grass, breath ragged, blood speckling his cloak.
"Maika succeeded," he gasped. "The fortress has fallen. But… a Renegade spoke. He mentioned Voryn. And... the Soma."
Shin didn't respond at first. His crimson eyes narrowed, but there was no spark of surprise. Only a heavy weariness, the kind that settles on old wounds that never quite healed. The orb at his side pulsed, dimly at first, then brighter—as if it too had heard the name and remembered the betrayal.
He dismissed the scout with a nod and stood from the makeshift war tent. Laverna approached from behind, her eyes alert, jamadhars still bloodstained from a recent skirmish. "Something wrong?"
"Something old," Shin said. "Something that's been waiting in silence for too long."
He turned toward the hills beyond the fort. There, tucked into the cliffs, was the last unmarked spot on their map—a place the old texts referred to only as Sanctuary of the Fox. A shrine buried before the fall of the first Soma Clan. Hidden behind illusion, forgotten by choice, and preserved by something older than time.
Shin walked alone.
Each step toward the shrine was measured. As he climbed the craggy trail, the wind seemed to push back—not with malice, but warning. The path was narrow, carved by hand long ago, and overgrown with ivy and ash-burned moss. The trees here grew twisted, but not corrupted; their bark bore symbols of forgotten gods, silent witnesses to an age when Soma meant salvation.
The entrance was a simple stone arch, overgrown but unmistakable. Upon the threshold, Shin paused. His orb throbbed in its satchel. The pulse deepened, resonating with something beneath the earth. He stepped inside.
The shrine was cold, carved into the mountainside like a wound. Torches long dead still clung to walls etched with the language of the Ancients. Moonlight streamed in through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating a single altar at the far end. Upon it, a sigil carved in both gold and obsidian—the Crest of Elders.
Shin's left hand burned.
He tore off the glove.
The Master's crest on his hand writhed and shimmered, lines shifting like a living flame. Then it glowed, brighter than ever, and reshaped itself into something deeper. Older. More intricate.
The Crest of Elders.
And with it came the memory.
Not his.
Tristan's.
The vision hit like a tidal wave.
A burning hall. Falzath voice whispers in every corner. Tristan, knees to the ground, clutching the corpse of a man they tore apart—his own father.
Voryn stood in the shadows, hands clasped behind his back, eyes glowing red.
"They abandoned you," he said calmly. "The Elders chose Shin. Not you."
Tristan's scream shook the heavens. The transformation began. Bone cracked. Flesh warped. The mark of the Elders twisted into something monstrous. Wings tore from his back—wings that were once angelic but now glistened with black ichor.
"The Elders' legacy was a lie," Voryn said. "Let me show you the truth."
And Tristan accepted.
Shin gasped and staggered back from the altar, eyes wide, lungs clawing for breath. The vision faded, but the pain lingered. His orb glowed brighter, reacting not with anger, but resonance.
He unsheathed Yoshimatsu.
The katana vibrated violently. Crimson lightning licked its blade, the High Frequency mode activating on its own. Shin had only seen this once before—when he fought Tristan beneath the dying tree of the Soma Clan.
And now it pulsed not with wrath… but with sorrow.
The blade hummed.
The orb at his side grew hotter, shifting in hue.
He understood.
Yoshimatsu had not been forged by coincidence. The Mithril. The enchantments. The resonance with his crest. All of it tied to the Crest of Elders. To the true legacy of the Clan.
He collapsed to one knee.
Pain surged through him. His ki fractured.
"Enough!" Laverna's voice cried out from behind him.
He barely registered her arrival. She caught him as he fell, the orb sliding from his satchel, rolling to the altar where it shone against the carved Crest.
From the shrine's depths, light bloomed.
Father Grent emerged.
Not in armor. Not with a staff. Just the man. Cloaked in humility. His eyes were sorrowful, but steady.
"You found it," Grent said gently, kneeling beside Shin. "I feared the burden would be too great. But you carried it all the same."
Shin gasped. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because the truth needs choice. Not burden."
Grent placed a hand upon Shin's back. Holy energy surged through him, not violent, not forceful. It was warmth. Steady. Calming. The pain dulled. His ki realigned. The orb floated from the altar and returned to his pocket, rejoining him as if drawn by destiny.
Grent looked at him with fatherly sorrow. "You were never just a Master. You were the last Elder. The one meant to restore what was broken, not destroy it further."
Shin nodded slowly. "And Tristan?"
"Still trapped in the lies Voryn spun."
Grent stood. "But not beyond reach."
Laverna stepped closer. "What about the others? Maika, Zera, Tessara… They're part of this, too."
"Yes," Grent said. "And each of them bears a piece of what was lost. But you, Shin, carry the heart."
The shrine pulsed one final time.
On the altar, the stone split.
Inside it, wrapped in ancient silk, was a second mask. Silver. Cold. Etched with symbols of both sun and moon.
"The Elder's Mask," Grent whispered. "Worn only by the one chosen by both the Soma and the Ancients."
Shin reached forward and took it.
The mask felt heavy. Like truth. Like sacrifice. Like the road yet walked.
He turned to Laverna. Her amber eyes were wide, her fingers brushing the tiger-eye necklace at her throat.
"You okay?" she whispered.
Shin nodded. "No. But I will be."
They exited the shrine together.
As they stepped back into the twilight, the wind no longer warned.
It wept.
For a legacy nearly lost.
And a war that had only just begun.