His attention shifted to Morve Di Sun. The tormentor wore a twisted smile, his eyes shining with a sick curiosity. He distractedly scratched his arm, a small, trivial gesture that made the air shiver. Shiro could already see him at work, dissecting a mind, collecting screams. The psychological weapon. Indispensable.
Beside him, Lyra Moon was a porcelain statue. Graceful, silent. But between her slender fingers, almost invisible threads of shadow danced, coiling and uncoiling like snakes. Betrayal incarnate. To turn their own forces against them.
Shiro's gaze passed over Droneur Grande, whose greenish aura seemed to make the ground rot beneath his knees, then over Renji Dalek, who held a paintbrush between his fingers with the devotion of a priest. He saw Minamite Ren, the archivist, his face hidden behind a strange book, and Kai, whose mere silence seemed to absorb the sound around him.
Finally, he sensed, more than he saw, the presence of Luc Most Senior in the deepest shadows of the room, his secret weapon, his ultimate insurance.
His analysis complete, Shiro addressed them.
His calm, composed voice resonated with an authority that brooked no argument, yet it was tinged with a weariness as old as the world.
Shiro: It has now been thirty-seven long years since I was separated from my brother. It was at the age of five that I understood my role in this world.
The walls of the room faded away, replaced by the dark woodwork and the smell of old wax of his maternal grandparents' house. The memory was intact, etched in his mind with the precision of a diamond.
The young Shiro stood there, beside his twin, Kuro. Their hair, one snow-white, the other ink-black, seemed to absorb the dim light of the living room. Around them, the world of adults was tearing itself apart in a clash of hateful words, but the two children remained motionless, their faces impassive, like two ancient statues observing a mortal quarrel. They knew. They had always known.
On one side, their paternal grandfather, a man whose rigidity was matched only by his arrogance.
Paternal Grandfather (Part A): We have the right to these children. They carry our blood.
On the other, their maternal grandfather, his face wrinkled with grief and a fragile defiance.
Maternal Grandfather (Part B): Yes, and ours too! Your own son never wanted his children to go to your home, his own family! He entrusted them to us. It is a shame for you.
The adults did not understand. They thought they were fighting over an inheritance, a lineage. They did not see the two ancient souls that inhabited them, bound by a destiny they were only fulfilling.
Paternal Grandfather (Part A): He had lost all consciousness, the poor man. He was no longer worthy of our name. But anyway, that's not why we are here... Give us the child. The one with white hair. Stay with the other one and we will leave. Otherwise, you will regret it.
The threat hung in the air, heavy and venomous.
Maternal Grandfather (Part B): You will never have these children... Never!
It was then that the twins' silence was broken. In a single synchronized movement, Shiro and Kuro stood up. Their eyes met, and in that gaze, everything was said. Shiro turned to his brother, his small voice clear and without a hint of hesitation.
Shiro (as a child): You know how this must end, my brother.... We will meet again in a few years.
Then, without a glance at the family that had raised him, the five-year-old boy turned his back and walked with a steady step toward his captors. The maternal family wanted to intervene, but Kuro's voice, just as devoid of childish emotion, froze them in place.
Kuro (as a child): No. Leave him, for you are not strong enough for this.
He said this without even turning around. At the precise moment Shiro crossed the threshold, an invisible light pulsed between the two brothers. A seed of obsidian, floating for a moment in the air, split into two perfect shards. One, a deep black, came to nestle in Kuro's palm. The other, a milky white, materialized in Shiro's, already cold.
The memory closed. Shiro was back in the command room, his face a mask of icy determination.
Shiro: A day later, the consequences manifested. Natural reactions, but harmful. I could no longer get wet. No matter the nature of the water, as soon as it came into contact with my skin, I would burn violently. For Kuro, it was heat.
He paused, sweeping the assembly with his piercing gaze.
Shiro: But now, we finally have a lead to my brother... and the seed seems closer now.
A thin, predatory smile stretched his lips.
Shiro: We will not attack their sanctuary right away. That would be too predictable. Before we destroy the nest, we will break the fledglings.
Final scene...
Far from Shiro's cold command room, a completely different atmosphere reigned in the heart of the Tempio Zenith. This place had not been built by mortal hands; it was a manifestation of the cosmic will itself.
In the center of this tranquil immensity, under the floating crystal, two silhouettes were outlined.
One, kneeling, was that of Rajax, the Zenith Star, his humble posture contrasting with the power that emanated from him.
The other, standing, was Kuro. Thirty-seven years had transformed him. If his brother had become a blade of ice, Kuro was a pure flame, controlled but intense. Dressed in flowing robes that seemed cut from the very fabric of the night, he contemplated the dance of the stars above him. In his palm, barely visible, a shard of perfect black pulsed with a soft, constant warmth.
The silence, which had lasted an eternity or an instant, was broken by Kuro's voice. Deep and calm, it carried within it the warmth of a fire.
Kuro: Rajax... we are getting closer and closer to the inevitable. I feel that the great battle is near.
The resonance of his words did not disturb the tranquility of the temple, but on the contrary, seemed to merge with it, like a long-awaited truth. The voice of Rajax, deep and powerful like the rumble of a distant star, rose in response.
Rajax: Then we must be ready.
Slowly, the kneeling man raised his head. His face, marked by unwavering loyalty, turned toward Kuro. His eyes, like two orbs of liquid gold, reflected the determination of the entire universe. The time for meditation was over, it was time for action. The time of peace was coming to an end.
Next scene...
The night was clear and cold over the city of Goma. The moonlight carved sharp shadows in the alleys, turning the city into a labyrinth of black and silver. Cornered against a brick wall, a young couple trembled, their faces pale with terror. Facing them, two massive silhouettes reveled in their fear. Kageyami. Their Black Kara pulsed weakly, an aura of death that was beginning to thicken.
Woman (pleading):
Please... leave us... we have nothing...
One of the Kageyami let out a hoarse laugh, his fingers elongating into black claws.
We don't want your belongings. We want your screams.
Just as he was about to strike, a calm, sharp voice echoed from the rooftops.
Celestial Kara... Whirlwind of a Thousand Blades.
A silhouette plunged from the sky, a silver flash wrapped in a cyclone of pure Kara blades. The movement was so fast, so precise, that it was a mere flash of light and steel. The two Kageyami were cut down in an instant, their bodies collapsing heavily on the pavement without even a cry.
The assailant landed softly, the sound of his boots barely audible. He approached the body of one of the Kageyami, grabbed his hair, and lifted his lifeless head. The harsh moonlight finally illuminated his face.
It was Raizen. His gaze was hard, cold, empty of his former fear. He let go of the head, which fell back with a dull thud.
He turned to the couple, still paralyzed with fear.
Raizen (in a neutral voice):
Go home. Don't speak of this to anyone.
Without a backward glance, he took a running start. With a powerful impulse, he launched himself onto the wall, then onto the roof, beginning his long run toward Kazemori. The city of Goma passed beneath him, a checkerboard of lights and shadows.
End of Chapter 17