In the half-collapsed main hall, the Oda clan's tattered flag hung from a stone pillar. The air was thick with the scent of dust and old blood, mingled with the whispers of restless spirits. Survivors huddled in the corner, waiting for someone to lead them after the disaster. The three family pillars—Masanori, Hisayuki, Senzaburo—stood facing each other in the center of the room, their shadows intertwining in a circle once called “Oda Blood.”

  Masanori stood tall, his eyes blazing with vengeance. “Tradition is the foundation, Senzaburo. The Oda clan has survived for centuries because of blood and oaths, not spiral magic. Do you want to sell our heritage for a false sense of security?”

  Senzaburo looked at Masanori coldly, “Heritage without a future is just a gravestone, Masanori. If we remain trapped in the shadows of the old deities, we will all perish.”

  Hisayuki stepped between them, her tattered robe billowing, her voice heavy and defiant. “Enough. There’s no point in debating if the people have already lost faith. Now, who is worthy to lead the remnants of the Oda clan?”

  Masanori clenched his fists, “Not a coward who speaks peace with monsters.” He stood tense, as if filling the room with fiery energy, challenging anyone to debate him.

  Senzaburo quickly retorted, “And not a coward who fears change.” He stepped forward, his gaze sharp as a dagger, piercing Masanori's mental defenses.

  Outside the hall, the sound of Fitran's footsteps approached. The void runes glowed, forming intricate patterns on the stone floor. The atmosphere was tense, a chill seeping into the soul, making anyone who resisted feel the weight of the oppressive magic.

  Fitran stepped in, his gaze as cold as a canyon. “You’re busy fighting for a throne among the ruins,” he said, his voice trembling with indifference. “I’m not here to choose a winner, but to ensure no one is foolish enough to obstruct the new world being created.”

  Masanori glared at Fitran, his anger boiling. “You’re not my family, Fitran. You’re a monster,” he said bitterly. “Do you think by scaring us, the Oda clan will submit?”

  Fitran smirked cynically, standing tall amidst the glowing void glyphs. “I don’t need you to submit,” he replied calmly. “I just want to ensure this clan is not the last obstacle in a greater history.”

  Hisayuki stepped forward, her voice hoarse and challenging. “Do you think you can buy time with threats? We’ve seen enough death today.”

  Fitran turned his palm, the void runes shining with a chilling intensity. “Death is not a threat,” he said, his tone cold and meaningful. “It’s a reminder. You survive only because no one has been cruel enough to erase the Oda blood from this dark world.”

  Senzaburo held back his emotions, his voice booming. “What is your purpose, Fitran? If you truly want to erase this clan, why are you still here?”

  Fitran circled them like a wolf, his voice soft yet laced with poison, “This world doesn’t need heroes. What the world desires is unhealed wounds. Let’s see who among you is strong enough to survive without the shield of tradition.”

  Masanori, raising his sword with burning anger, challenged, “Try to take our blood! Who will fall first—you or us?”

  With a finger raised, Fitran intoned, “Void Bolt.” The magic mechanism gathered, unleashing a burst of black energy that split the ground before Masanori. Smoke from the void billowed, blocking the young warrior's path.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Hisayuki quickly restrained Masanori, “Don’t! This opponent is far more dangerous than you think.”

  Fitran met Hisayuki's gaze with a flat voice, “Today your wisdom saves one head. But remember, wisdom never changes the world; it only delays death.”

  Masanori gritted his teeth, his anger peaking, “Why don’t you destroy us all at once, Fitran? Isn’t that your goal?”

  A thin smile crept across Fitran's lips, his void aura intensifying, “I want you to feel fear. Fear of this new world, of magic that transcends the old names. To feel marginalized, realizing that you are no longer relevant.”

  In the dim light, the void glyphs crawled across the floor, creating the illusion of thousands of fallen Oda spirits, each face depicting shattered anticipation and hope. The atmosphere grew oppressive, the breaths of the warriors and family felt constricted, as if weighed down by the invaluable burden of the past.

  Senzaburo stepped forward, challenging Fitran, “You cannot lead with fear forever. Sooner or later, every monster falls to its own shadow.”

  Fitran approached, his whisper like poison, “I never intended to lead. What I want is to ensure that what remains is the most stubborn—and the cruelest.”

  Hisayuki bowed her head, her voice bitter, “How many more must die for this world to feel satisfied?”

  Fitran stared at Hisayuki, his cold voice sharp, “The world is never satisfied. But I’m clever enough to know that sometimes the strongest are the ones who bleed the most.”

  Masanori gripped his sword tightly, “If this is the end of the Oda clan, I will ensure our blood will not be your game!”

  Fitran raised both hands, the void runes flickering, producing a sound like thunder, “Void Spectre.” Shadows of Oda spirits appeared around Masanori, holding him back, the faces of their ancestors showing disappointment that pierced the heart. The echoes in the air created a tense atmosphere, every movement felt weighed down by the burden of the past.

  Masanori shouted, slashing at the shadows that held him, “I am not a coward!”

  Fitran grinned, “But you are a past that you can never change.”

  Senzaburo bowed his head, “By only instilling fear, do you think this world will obey? There are no winners in fear.”

  Fitran walked slowly toward the main pillar, his void aura rumbling, “Obedience is a reward for those who have no other choice. I only provide reality, not hope.” His hands raised, creating a wave of dark energy that vibrated in the air, shaking the minds of anyone who felt it.

  Hisayuki whispered, “If this new world is only filled with fear, no one will survive, Fitran.”

  Fitran turned sharply, his eyes gleaming. “Those who survive are the ones who learn to conquer fear. The Oda clan can either become the next spirits or a wound that refuses to die. Choose for yourselves.”

  The void glyphs danced in the air like black serpents full of mystery, forming chains of spirits around the room. Some young warriors fell to their knees, stunned by the whispers of names of ancestors that were beginning to be forgotten.

  Masanori stared at Fitran, his voice hoarse and challenging, “What will you do if we do not submit?”

  Fitran turned sharply, “You will remain alive, but without a place. The new world will erase those who choose silence.”

  Senzaburo bowed his head, his face filled with despair, “So this is what remains of Oda Blood? Fear and emptiness?”

  Fitran approached Senzaburo, his voice low yet pressing, “What remains of any blood is just a legend of who stands last.”

  Hisayuki took a deep breath, “Once the world honored Oda for courage and determination. Today, you make us ghosts.”

  Fitran looked sharply at Hisayuki, a sly smile gracing his face, “Ghosts are more honest than heroes. They know the world owes nothing to anyone.”

  The room grew darker with the void aura, the voices of Oda spirits growing louder, as if every whisper pierced the hearts of the heirs. Fitran stood in the center of the rune circle, his gaze unwavering, the cold aura pressing anyone who wished to resist. His presence created tension, pushing them into a deep moral dilemma.

  Masanori finally bowed his head, his voice sinking into the darkness, “I will endure—not because I fear you, but because this world is just a remnant of blood and vengeance.”

  Fitran patted Masanori's shoulder with a cold smile, “Welcome to the new world. Vengeance is the only tradition that never fails.”

  The Oda hall now echoed with the whispers of vengeance, the void traces spreading like thick fog, and the wounds that never healed throbbed in the walls. Fitran, cunning and cold, stepped out in arrogance, leaving Oda Blood trapped in shadows—ready or not, they would endure, even if only with the anger and fear passed down from generation to generation.