The main city of Reikoku shimmered beneath the moonlight, dressed in the splendor of the Festival. Lanterns of every shade floated gently above the bustling streets, casting soft glows on the roads below. The entire city pulsed with life vendors shouting over the hum of the crowd, children chasing glowing paper butterflies, and nobles in silk robes brushing past wandering travelers in mismatched cloaks.
High above, the full moon bathed the land in a silver glow, blessing the night with its tranquil light. Music floated in the air flutes, drums, and the occasional laugh echoing between rooftops. The scent of grilled dumplings and sweet plum wine wafted between rows of flower-draped stalls.
Amid the celebration, a group of travelers stood out from the crowd. Their appearance, their clothes, different from the rest, like they had crossed oceans to be here. They stood near a small shrine, where an old storyteller, dressed in ceremonial garb, gathered a curious audience. With a calm but commanding voice, he began,
"This is the first of the Eight Sacred Festivals the beginning of the cycle before the Ivory Lotus Bloom Festival, which marks the peak of spring and spiritual awakening."
He turned slightly, motioning toward the moonlit sky. "The Moonlight Festival is held on the 13th day following the first bloom of the sacred lotuses eight divine blooms said to be gifted by the heavens themselves. Each lotus blooms every 7th day, one after the other, each tied to certain gods."
"This festival celebrates the first lotus bloom—the Lotus of Love. On this day, when the first sacred flower opens in the divine part of the imperial capital, it marks the beginning of eight divine weeks. and with it, we honor the eight great gods The God of Love, Health, Wealth, knowledge, War, Balance and finally….The God of Creation."
He paused, letting his words sink in as fireworks painted the sky behind him.
"The eighth bloom celebrates—the lotus of Creation...is the most sacred. The Ivory Lotus. It never withers, never fades. When it opens, the energy of all eight gods fills Shenghara. On that day, the Ivory Lotus Bloom Festival brings blessings, harmony, and a surge of spiritual energy so powerful, the skies themselves shimmer."
"The last of the eight festivals," the old man continued, his voice dropping into a softer, more ominous tone, "is unlike the rest. When the eighth lotus—the Ivory Lotus—blooms, its divine energy surges through all of Shenghara for three whole days. During this sacred time, the mana flow becomes wild, untamed… flooding the realm with unimaginable spiritual energy."
The crowd leaned in, captivated by his words.
"But such immense power comes with a cost," he said, eyes narrowing beneath his furrowed brows. "The boundary between realms weakens. The demonic creatures beings drawn to mana like moths to flame…. sense it. And for those three days, they slip through the cracks, escaping the sealed gates and entering our world."
The children in the crowd gasped. Even some of the travelers exchanged uneasy glances, their curiosity now tinged with concern. Just then, a commotion stirred behind them.
A young man one of the foreign travelers came sprinting down the street, panting and nearly stumbling into the gathered circle. His face was flushed with excitement, and sweat clung to his brow. He gasped for breath, trying to speak, then finally managed to shout out—
"There's a sword dance over there! Hurry it's already started!"
His words lit a spark in the air In an instant, the calm shifted to energy as the crowd began to rush in the direction he pointed, Even the old man smiled faintly, while remembering something from long ago.
"Sword dances," he murmured, "I remember…..They were once performed only for the gods…"
The crowd gathered at the center of the street, forming a wide circle. People pushed and stretched their necks, trying to get a better view of what was happening inside. The Moonlight Festival had already brought joy to the streets, but now the excitement was building up even more.
"Hey! Can't you see I'm standing here?"
"What?! I'm trying to see too!"
"Move your giant head, I can't see a thing!"
"Well maybe if you weren't five feet tall, you wouldn't need to climb people!"
"I swear, if I miss even one swing, I'm blaming you and your massive shoulder pads!"
"Excuse you, these are custom-made!"
"Oh hush! I would sell my brother to see how this turns into a sword dance!"
"Same! Wait… which brother?"
"I heard they're performing Ashes of Red Flames!"
"Seriously? I've heard that story so many times—I've always wanted to see it done as a sword dance!"
While the people in the back argued and chattered, the ones in front stayed silent, completely focused on the performance.
At the center, five men moved together with perfect coordination. Their swords flowed like waves, every motion clean and sharp, as if they were one single body split into five. The metallic sound of blades cutting the air, mixed with the rhythm of their footsteps, made it impossible to look away.
"Look at that group of those handsome men! They're moving like thunder!"
"There—the one in blue! He's so handsome."
"No way, look at the one with the flute on his waist! He's really pretty!"
A group of girls at the front giggled excitedly, whispering and pointing.
Shion, noticing the attention, smirked. With a smooth flick of his blade, he created a gust of wind that swept past them, making their robes flutter. He gave them a playful wink before returning to the dance.
The group moved faster, their blades spinning and slicing through the air as they told the story through motion—every strike, every spin, a part of the tale. The way they moved was both graceful and powerful, expressing emotion without a single word.
Slowly, the crowd began to realize the performance was reaching its climax.
Only two of the five remained in motion, their steps still sharp and alive—Ryoma and Shion. The other three had stopped mid-pose, frozen like statues, embodying fallen memories of a battle lost in time.
Ryoma and Shion circled one another, their blades flashing under the lantern light as if locked in a deadly duel. With each swing, red flames erupted first small flickers, then growing larger with every strike. The flames spiraled around them, dancing along with their blades, painting the air with glowing embers.
The crowd instinctively stepped back, eyes wide, gasps escaping their lips but not a single gaze turned away.
The heat pulsed in the air, the rhythm of the swords rang like music, and for a moment it felt like the entire street held its breath watching fire and metal tell a tale of war, rage, and fate.
In the middle of the crowd, Ryoma's eyes briefly found Astra. She stood completely still, her eyes fixed on them completely immersed in the performance. For a moment, time felt suspended.
Without looking away from her, Ryoma spun and struck, his blade stopping just at Shion's neck his focus still lingering on Astra. Shion, catching his hesitation, leaned in slightly and whispered, "Ryoma… the end. Now."
Then came the final step one powerful, synchronized blow to the ground.The flames vanished in an instant, swallowed by the silence that followed.
A beat of stillness.
Then the crowd erupted cheering, clapping, whistling blown away by the finish. But just as the crowd began to cheer, thinking the performance had ended, they froze again this time, not from awe, but from the sound that suddenly filled the air.
Shion had raised his flute to his lips.
The first note rang out like a ripple through still water, silencing the murmurs in an instant. Even those who had been passing by stopped mid-step, their heads turning toward the melody that now wove itself through the night air.
It wasn't just music it was something deeper. Every note carried a story the peace found after war, the echo of a loss after a hard-won victory, the reward that came after painful sacrifice, and the fire of hate slowly being quenched by the calm waters of love.
There was something painfully beautiful in the way the tune rose and fell. A kind of peace… yet unmistakably wrapped in pain. A farewell hidden longing beneath every soft breath of sound.
And in that moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The street held its breath for the tune of pain and peace.
Then, the flute fell silent.
A hush followed deeper than before. As if something had been pulled out of the air and taken away. The crowd remained frozen for a moment, feeling an odd emptiness settle over them, like waking up from a dream too soon.
People slowly looked at each other, expressions dazed and hearts strangely full and aching. Then the murmurs began, spreading like wildfire through the clearing silence.
"Wasn't that… beautiful?"
"I've never heard anything like it."
"So this is how Ashes of Red Flames ends?"
"Yeah… it ends with peace found through pain."
"Ugh, sounds like my last relationship."
"I'm sure this moment would stay imprinted like a scar kissed by fire."
"Wait—I'm buying you one of those paintings of the scene on our way back!"
"Only if you buy me a meal first, I'm starving!" someone whined, rubbing their stomach.
Laughter fluttered through the crowd as the heaviness lifted slightly. Slowly, the people began to disperse, still glancing back at the center of the street where the men stood now silent, still and empty.