Everything slows.

  Watari is suspended in a void of golden mist and storming skies.

  He isn’t in the battlefield anymore.

  He’s somewhere… deeper.

  And there, standing before him—

  Takemikazuchi.

  The entity isn’t just a form anymore. It is the storm itself, swirling, shifting, its presence stretching across eternity.

  “You have withstood much, boy.”

  Watari breathes.

  His body is breaking.

  His soul is burning.

  But he’s still standing.

  “You have always weathered the storm…”

  Takemikazuchi’s voice rumbles like distant thunder.

  “Because you are the storm.”

  Watari clenches his fists.

  “Then why—why does it still feel like I’m being torn apart?”

  Takemikazuchi chuckles. It isn’t mocking.

  It’s knowing.

  “Because this is what it means to be truly unleashed.”

  And then—the scene shifts.

  A memory.

  Watari as a child. The orphanage. The stormy night.

  The rain pelting against the windows, the distant crashes of thunder rolling across the sky.

  A younger Watari, sitting at the window, watching.

  And in the lightning—a shape.

  It wasn’t just a storm.

  It was him.

  Takemikazuchi had been watching him that night.

  Waiting.

  And now, all these years ter—

  Watari finally understands.

  “You were always meant to be here.”

  Takemikazuchi lifts a hand.

  The storm around them howls.

  And then—

  “Now go. Show him what a true storm looks like.”

  ——Back To The Battlefield

  The sky is filled with surging cores, unstable, brimming with energy.

  And then—

  BOOM.

  But something is wrong.

  It wasn’t the cores that exploded.

  No, this storm was something else entirely.

  This storm… doesn’t explode outward.

  It converges.

  Into Watari.

  He takes it all.

  The battlefield is white-hot with lightning.

  Tamashiki energy surging, crackling, searing.

  Watari’s body is burning alive.

  And yet—

  He doesn’t fall.

  His fingers twitch.

  His body is shaking.

  And then—

  He breathes.

  The storm around him calms.

  No longer raging.

  No longer erratic.

  It’s just—

  Still.

  And in his grip—

  A new bde.

  A long katana, gleaming with pure lightning.

  The bde shifts, like it isn’t fully physical—like it’s a conduit of something much rger.

  The sound of thunder follows its every movement.

  Ikazuchi no Kami.

  Watari grips the hilt.

  The moment he does—

  The world itself bends around him.

  ——Cut to the Chūkan

  In the Chūkan, the air is thick.

  Ayase watches, his fingers tightening around his robes. His voice is barely above a whisper.

  “It can’t be…”

  Koharu’s gaze is locked onto Watari’s form, the storm around him, the presence that should not be.

  “It must be.”

  She takes a slow, shaking breath.

  “We’ve only felt this eleven times before. The Ten Elders…and Ancient himself.”

  A hush falls over the elders.

  Then—Koharu’s voice.

  Sharpened. Demanding.

  “Who were the boy’s parents?”

  A beat.

  Then—a quiet voice answers.

  “He lost them when he was eight.”

  “How?”

  A pause.

  Then—

  “The Tamashkii sickness.”

  Silence.

  And then—another voice.

  One of the oldest elders, his voice cold with the weight of revetion.

  “But it was covered up by the Musabori.”

  Koharu’s breath hitches.

  Her lips part.

  But then—her eyes narrow.

  “What was their name?”

  The elder’s voice doesn’t waver.

  “It was Itsusu & Suna from the Hayashi family.”

  The air around the elders trembles.

  Not violently. Not chaotically. But with purpose. A memory is being pulled forward. A whisper of the past resurfacing.

  The golden mist twists, thickens—

  Then—a scene materializes before them. The Chūkan Elders are no longer in the present.

  They stand within a dimly lit alleyway. The scent of rain lingers in the air, distant city noise muffled beyond the walls. Ahead of them—Ren, breathing heavy, his hand on a cigarette.

  And in front of him—Watari.

  But this isn’t the Watari of now. This is the boy before the Chūkan. The one who had no idea who he truly was.

  Yet—

  Even back then—

  The resembnce was there.

  Ren looks up at the sky. A spark. A flicker.

  And then—a flood of light erupts.

  Golden. Violent. Radiant.

  The exact same glow Kuroda now wields.

  Koharu’s breath stills.

  Her nails dig into her palms.

  And then—Watari moves.

  The raw Tamashkii floods through him. A sheer, overwhelming surge—too much, too fast, too unstable. His eyes burn. The air warps around him.

  And without hesitation—

  He lunges.

  Ren barely reacts before—

  SLAM.

  Watari’s grip locks onto his colr.

  A fsh of movement—

  Ren’s body hurls backward.

  The wall cracks on impact.

  The Chūkan elders watch in absolute silence.

  The resembnce is undeniable.

  The aura, the glow, the overwhelming pressure—

  It was always there.

  The proof had been right in front of them from the very beginning.

  A gasp.

  The golden mist fades. The alleyway disappears.

  They are back in the Chūkan.

  The battlefield still rages below.

  But Koharu?

  She is furious.

  Her nails dig even deeper into her skin. Her jaw clenches.

  Her voice—sharp, venomous, livid.

  “Do they not realize it yet?!”

  Ayase exhales zily, tilting his head. He smirks.

  “They are still young.”

  Koharu’s eyes flicker between rage and disbelief.

  “Idiots.”

  And then—

  CUT TO BLACK.