The Return of the Dark Ronin

The Jade Fortress: A Bastion of Shadows

The Jade Fortress stood solemn and abandoned in the mist-choked mountains, a relic of war and vengeance. The fortress, once alive with the march of warriors and the clang of steel, now lay in a restless slumber. Its green stone walls, carved with the sigils of the Dark Ronin, were worn and cracked, whispering of past battles long faded into memory.

The few who remained—the Heel, the last loyal foot soldiers of Kemono—stood like silent statues in the dim corridors. They did not speak. There was nothing left to say. The wind howled through the fortress halls, a lonely ghost moving through empty chambers, rattling old banners that still bore their master’s mark.

In the great hall, the shrine of the Dark Ronin remained untouched. Before it, a lone warrior knelt, his head bowed in eternal devotion. His armor was old, the black lacquer peeling, but he had never removed it. None of them had. They were waiting. Not in hope, for hope was a fragile thing. They waited in duty, in the cold, unshakable belief that their master was not gone—merely delayed.

And far, far beneath the earth, something stirred.

The Rising from Tartarus

The ground trembled. A deep, guttural groan escaped the depths of the world, a sound that had not been heard in an age. Stones cracked, splitting open like rotten fruit, and from the earth’s wound, thick steam billowed, carrying with it the foul stench of the underworld.

Then—fingers.

Blackened, cracked, clawing at the broken earth, they forced themselves upward, digging into the crumbling ground with the desperation of something that refused to remain buried. The hand, scarred by Tartarus, emerged fully, steam curling around it, as though the abyss itself was unwilling to let him go.

A breath—ragged, seething.

And then Kemono rose.

His face was the face of a man who had seen the pit of despair and refused to drown in it. His hair, matted and streaked with soot, clung to his face in wild strands. His eyes—once smoldering embers of fury—now burned like twin infernos, filled with a purpose sharpened by suffering. His tattered robes, once deep crimson, now hung in blackened strips, burned and frayed by the fires of the abyss.

His hands clenched into fists, veins rising against his skin like the roots of an ancient tree. The weight of death had pressed against him, crushed him, tried to devour him whole—but he had clawed his way back, step by agonizing step, through the endless dark.

A deep, unholy hiss filled the air as the ground sealed behind him, steam rising in angry tendrils, as if the world itself resented his escape. He exhaled, watching the mist swirl in the dim light, his breath no longer that of a man, but something far greater—something unbroken.

The wind carried a whisper, a voice that had haunted him even in the abyss.

"Kemono…"

He turned his gaze toward the distant mountains, toward the forgotten fortress where the Heel waited in silence. The weight of his sword, strapped to his back, was familiar, comforting—a reminder that he was not done. Not yet.

His return was no miracle. It was inevitability.

And vengeance would follow.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3