The ruins of the Oda clan's main hall became a stage for conflict. Broken wooden pillars, cracked walls, and flickering candles created a tense atmosphere. In the center of the room, family members, soldiers, and refugees gathered with anxious faces. The Astral Theorist's aura seeped in, blurring the lines between past and present—every word spoken felt like a spell, every anger seemed to inherit the grudges of seven generations.

  “Masanori,” Ryumaru glared sharply, “This clan will not survive if you continue to impose power through fear.” He gestured around them, showcasing the destruction. “The people need protection, not threats in every word that comes out of your mouth!”

  Masanori smirked, his fist clenched at his sword belt. “Protection? That’s only for the weak. The Oda clan must act like fangs, not sheep waiting for slaughter.” With a swift motion, he drew his sword, glinting under the candlelight. “Who will stop me?”

  “If your fangs only hurt your own family,” Ryumaru shook his head, his voice holding back anger, “You do not deserve to be the head of the family.” He averted his gaze towards the sword, recalling his time in the dojo, controlling every movement with the martial arts flowing in his blood.

  Masanori stepped closer, his eyes gleaming like a trapped predator. “I do not care about the Oda legacy, Ryumaru. What I know is that by tomorrow morning, one of us will not be here. Too many compromises will destroy us,” he said, raising his hand, conjuring void magic that gathered into a black sphere in his palm.

  “You only know violence,” Ryumaru said, his voice full of pain as he assumed a fighting stance. “The void magic you wield is already dangerous, but you are even more dangerous as an admirer of power without purpose.” He summoned energy from within, a glowing light surrounding his hands as he prepared to counter Masanori's dark magic.

  Masanori chuckled softly, bowing his head, “Without purpose? This world has sunk into a mad spiral because of softness like yours. Fitran only hastens the fall. You see for yourself: our family no longer speaks with one voice, every pillar cracked by magic and fear.”

  Takeshi stood between the two adult men, his breath ragged, hands trembling as he held back anger that had been building for days. “You talk about family, but I see emptiness in your eyes. Where has all the trust gone?”

  Takeshi stepped into the center of the hall, his sharp gaze piercing the darkness, “Ryumaru, Masanori, you speak of family, but the world that Fitran has created is a search without meaning!”

  Fitran leaned against the back wall, a thin smile on his cold eyes, “Look around you, Takeshi. Everything you consider right is merely a reflection of your weakness.” With a graceful gesture, he waved his hand, conjuring shadows of void magic that danced in the air, absorbing the surrounding light.

  Takeshi pointed at Fitran, his voice exploding, “Don’t think everyone here needs your protection! You brought void magic into our world—this dream has become poison. You will not let us fight!”

  Fitran straightened, his steps slowly ascending the stage, “Why not, Takeshi? Every wound and dark secret of this family will be revealed, and that is beautiful. When you lift the curtain, you will understand!” He glanced at Masanori, “Or perhaps you want to remain trapped in an illusion?”

  “Illusion?” Takeshi waved his hands, gathering energy within, preparing to attack. “This is not an illusion! This is a struggle against you!” He launched a quick attack, his inner energy shining, but Fitran raised his hand, creating a void shield that absorbed the attack, reflecting it back with equal force.

  Fitran smiled, “See, Takeshi, every effort you make doesn’t even leave a scratch. You do not understand the nature of this void magic. It controls all emotions!” He stepped forward, ready to exploit the fear within Takeshi with his magic manipulation technique, as the room began to darken with a terrifying aura.

  Takeshi held his ground, his voice trembling with emotion, “Reality? Do you want our children to grow up in a world without dreams? All of this is just because you want to wield power as a deity?”

  Fitran grinned, as if enjoying the tension, “Dreams are merely the first lies taught by parents. This world has been broken from the start, Takeshi. I am just forcing you to stop dreaming.”

  A wave of dark energy enveloped Fitran, the light from his void magic flickering as he stepped forward, leaving a trail of emptiness. Saburo and other soldiers felt the cold seep into their bones, their gazes focused, yet fear lurked behind their resolute demeanor.

  Nobuzan bowed her head, her eyes wet, caught between reality and illusion. Hana screamed as Fitran's dark aura spread, “Chiyo, we must act! Don’t let him control us!”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Chiyo squeezed Hana's hand, trying to maintain her courage, “But how? He controls everything—if we resist, bad things will come.”

  Masanori shouted, glancing between Ryumaru and Takeshi, “Listen carefully! Fitran is merely toying with our fears with his dark magic. If we allow his void power to continue, soon all of Yamato will be trapped in a living grave!”

  Ryumaru growled, his hands trembling as he prepared his stance, “I will not allow anyone—including Fitran—to turn the Oda clan into a machine of violence! We are protectors, not killers!”

  Masanori rolled his eyes, his tone mocking, “Speak to your own shadow, Ryumaru. This world belongs to the strong. The weak will be crushed!”

  Takeshi raised his voice, his eyes blazing with determination as he stared at Fitran, “If you are truly a responsible man, answer: what is the price of all this, Fitran? How many lives and memories must be lost just for your void magic?”

  Fitran casually walked to the center of the arena, his sharp gaze scrutinizing the faces around him, “Price? This world knows no justice. The strong rule, the weak are neglected. I am merely accelerating the process of natural selection. So weak, all of you…”

  Takeshi clenched his fists, his body ready to move, “This is not natural selection; this is a lust for power! Do you care so little who gets crushed just to achieve your victory?”

  Fitran laughed coldly, his voice sharp as a knife, “Caring is a weakness, Takeshi. Caring means becoming a slave to the illusion of hope. I have freed myself from all that—look at me, standing here, while all the heroes you trust are now dead or insane.”

  Saburo approached Takeshi, her voice quiet yet sharp as a sword's edge, “Don’t provoke him, Ki. The world is already broken enough. Don’t give Fitran a new reason to disrupt everything.”

  Takeshi stared at Fitran, his voice almost desperate, “What is your purpose? You talk about reality, power, price. But for what, Fitran? For whom will you leave this world?”

  Fitran met Takeshi's gaze, his voice cold and slow, “For those who can bear the truth, not those who live under the umbrella of lies. The old world is dead. The new one needs discipline and strength, not soft tears.”

  Ryumaru stepped forward, his voice trembling but firm, “You have no right to determine the direction of our family. The Oda clan will survive without your void magic.” He moved his hand, ready to strike if necessary.

  Fitran grinned, the aura of void magic shimmering in his hand, “The Oda clan is merely an illusion. Without me, you will all become victims of the spiral or Izanami. Don’t pretend to be pure, Ryumaru. The blood on this floor is also yours.” He unleashed a wave of black energy, creating sorrow and fear in the hearts of his opponents.

  Masanori scoffed, “Do you think you are irreplaceable, Fitran? A bringer of destruction is not a hero, but rather a poison in the family’s body.” He prepared in a fighting stance, his feet firmly planted on the ground, ready to fight.

  Fitran casually turned to Masanori, “Poison is the medicine needed for a world that has suffered too long. You want to heal, but you refuse to feel the bitterness of the process.” He melted into the shadows, ready to strike with terrifying void magic.

  The tension thickened, the somber atmosphere turned oppressive. The soldiers exchanged glances—fear, anger, despair. The rumble of the Astral Theorist in the air became increasingly dizzying: the cries of children, the mad laughter of adults, bad memories colliding.

  Takeshi stepped forward, his eyes blazing with anger, “You want war, Fitran? Don’t hide behind others! Show your teeth in front of everyone!”

  Fitran grinned, the aura of darkness surrounding his body, “Ah, Takeshi. So naive. True power lies in the ability to manipulate the weak. How foolish of you to think your courage will change fate.”

  Saburo, her eyes full of panic, pulled Takeshi's arm, “Ki, don’t dare to challenge him. He is using your emotions to bring me down!”

  Takeshi shook his head, focusing on Fitran, “I don’t care, Saburo. Power cannot be measured by blood or family.”

  Masanori stood in the middle, his voice trembling with tension, “This world needs courage, Fitran, not a coward like you. You are merely a terrifying shadow, but I will not let you control our fate!”

  Ryumaru snorted, the aura of magic vibrating around him, “Whatever happens today, one thing is certain: the Oda clan will fight until the end, no matter who our opponent is.”

  Fitran walked around, circling everyone present, his voice low, full of poison. “The Oda clan died the moment you surrendered hope for redemption. I am merely destroying your last illusion.”

  The atmosphere of the room turned into an internal wager. Everyone held their breath—as if one more word could be the end of all family pillars. The Astral Theorist pressed down on them from within; bitter truths mingled with grudges, regrets, and the will to survive.

  Nobuzan stood slowly, her voice soft, “If this family wants to survive, we must stop believing in anyone who claims to be a hero. The world has changed, and only those willing to accept wounds deserve to live.”

  Fitran nodded, a sly glint in his eyes. “Finally, one who understands. Wounds are strength, not curses. Those who refuse wounds only delay destruction.”

  Takeshi stepped forward, his body ready, his aura vibrating. His voice hoarse, “Let’s see how strong your world is, Fitran. But if the price you demand is lives, I will be the one to collect it someday.”

  The sound of footsteps thundered as Takeshi prepared. He unleashed his technique: a beam of dazzling light with swift movements, deceiving Fitran. “You must be faster if you want to avoid it!” he shouted, before launching a barrage of attacks utilizing the element of wind.

  Fitran smiled coldly, softly chanting the void spell. “You think your attack can defeat the darkness?” He raised his hand, creating a void shield that calmly absorbed all attacks. “You are too naive.”

  Behind the ruins and the voice of the Astral Theorist, the Oda clan no longer had a solid pillar. Every family must choose: submit to Fitran's new world, or write their own destiny under the shadows of wounds that never heal.