The Sovereign-V2: C60: Rekindled Blood

The Sovereign-V2: C60: Rekindled Blood

Juro scrambled to his feet, chest heaving, the cold venom numbness spreading from his axe hafts into his hands. Takeshi’s words were arrows finding gaps in his armour he hadn't known existed.
Vengeance? For exile?
It felt disproportionate, insane. Yet the raw conviction in Takeshi’s voice, the depth of the loathing in his eyes… it was terrifyingly real.
Why? Why does it burn so deep?
The question screamed silently in Juro’s mind with every beat of his heart, every clash of their weapons. He saw the brother he trained beside, shared secrets with, trusted implicitly… and saw only a stranger forged in bitterness.
Takeshi pressed the attack, his movements regaining their lethal fluidity. He drove Juro back towards the massive, weeping statue, its frozen tears dripping thick, dark fluid onto the ledge. Juro fought defensively again, parrying, dodging, the psychological weight of Takeshi’s hatred a tangible force slowing his reactions, clouding his judgment. He saw openings but hesitated, second guessing, the question
Why?
echoing in the split second decisions of combat.
Then Takeshi executed
The Pheonix Wing
, their father’s signature combination, drilled into them both since they could hold wooden swords. A blindingly fast low sweep aimed at Juro’s ankles, designed to force a high block or jump, immediately followed by a committed, powerful overhead thrust targeting the exposed centreline.
As Takeshi dropped into the low sweep, blade hissing inches above the stone, time fractured in his mind.
Fujiwara Dojo, Ten Years Earlier loomed into reality….
Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. The scent of polished wood, sweat, and leather wraps filled the air, a stark contrast to the Plaza’s decay. A younger Takeshi, face set in fierce concentration, executed
The Phoenix wing
against Juro. Their father, Lord Takahashi Fujiwara, a stern but proud figure, watched intently from the sidelines. Takeshi’s sweep was perfect, forcing Juro to leap. The follow up thrust was fast, true… but Juro, quicker, stronger even then, twisted mid air, using
his wooden sword
not to block, but to hook Takeshi’s thrusting arm, leveraging his momentum to slam Takeshi hard onto the mats.
THUDDDD!
"Enough!" Lord Fujiwara’s voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the dojo. He strode forward, his gaze fixed not on Takeshi, winded on the floor, but on Juro, who stood poised, barely breathing hard. "Juro. Again. Show your brother the
commitment
required. The thrust must be unstoppable, not a feint to be exploited." He turned to Takeshi, his expression hardening. "Control, Takeshi. Precision is wasted without the will to finish. You hesitate."
Takeshi pushed himself up, face flushed with exertion and humiliation. He met his father’s gaze, then Juro’s. There was no hatred then, only a deep, burning frustration and… something else. A flicker of desperate longing for approval Juro seemed to garner effortlessly.
Then a snap back to present..
The overhead thrust descended, a shard of venomous darkness aimed at Juro’s heart, identical to the one in the flashback. The echo of his father’s voice, "
You hesitate
" seemed to scream in Juro’s mind alongside Takeshi’s current hatred. The psychological battlefield within Juro collapsed into a single point of terrifying clarity:
He blames me for Father. For everything.
Instinct, muscle memory forged in that sunlit dojo, took over. Juro didn’t try to block the thrust head on. Instead, he mirrored his younger self’s desperate move. He dropped
his left axe
, letting it clatter to the ledge, and used his now free hand to grab Takeshi’s thrusting wrist just below the guard,
exactly
as he’d hooked his arm years ago. Simultaneously,
the right axe
, not to attack, but to brace against Takeshi’s chest, using his own momentum against him.
THUDDDD SCRAAPEEEEE!
It wasn't a clean throw onto mats. Juro lacked the leverage and space. Takeshi stumbled forward violently, his venomous blade scraping harmlessly against the weeping statue’s base as Juro wrenched his arm and shoved hard with
the right axe
. Takeshi crashed shoulder first into the slick, obsidian wall beside the statue, the impact jarring a grunt from him. He rebounded, momentarily off balance, his sword arm trapped awkwardly against the stone.
Juro stood panting,
his axe
still extended,
the other one
lying useless near his feet. The Plaza’s stench flooded back. The distant battle sounds roared in his ears. He stared at his brother, pinned for a moment against the weeping stone, the mask of pure hatred momentarily fractured by shock and the jarring impact. Takeshi’s defiant ruby eyes met Juro’s, wide with surprise and… something else? A flicker of the boy from the dojo? Or just the shock of a tactic he hadn't expected Juro to remember, let alone use?
The hesitation was microscopic. But it was there. A crack in the façade of absolute vengeance. Juro saw it. The question
Why?
transformed into a desperate, silent plea:
Who are you now, brother? And who made you this way?
Takeshi recovered fast, pushing off the wall, his venomous blade coming up, the hatred snapping back into place, colder, harder. "Sentiment?" he sneered, the word dripping with contempt, though his breathing was slightly quicker. "Still your weakness, Juro." He settled back into his fighting stance, ready to renew the assault. The moment of vulnerability was gone, buried again beneath the mask of the enforcer and the brother consumed by a bitter, burning need for revenge. The deadly dance on the crumbling ledge was far from over.
The crack in Takeshi’s mask, that fleeting glimpse of the brother Juro knew, vanished as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath a fresh wave of icy hatred. "Sentiment? Still your weakness, Juro," Takeshi spat, settling back into his lethal stance, the venomous blade gleaming with renewed menace. The enforcer was back, the brother lost once more.
Something within Juro shattered. Not hope this time, but restraint. The sight of that familiar pain flickering in Takeshi’s eyes, instantly smothered by the void forged persona, ignited a supernova of pure, unadulterated fury. It wasn't just battle rage; it was the incandescent grief of two years of loss, betrayal, and now, the unbearable torment of seeing the ghost of his brother trapped behind enemy eyes.
"NO MORE!"
Juro roared, the sound raw enough to scrape his throat bloody. He abandoned defence. He abandoned finesse. He became pure, relentless offense, a force of nature fuelled by anguish. Both axes became extensions of his fury, whirling in devastating arcs that forced Takeshi back, step by desperate step, towards the weeping statue. The ledge seemed to tremble under the onslaught. Takeshi parried, deflected, but the sheer, overwhelming power and speed of Juro’s assault, driven by a grief that transcended pain, pushed him beyond his void touched precision. The cold calculation in Takeshi’s eyes flickered, replaced by genuine surprise, then dawning alarm.
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"WHAT DID THEY PROMISE YOU?"
Juro bellowed, tears streaming freely down his battle grimed face, hot against the Plaza’s chill, freezing instantly into icy tracks. Each word was a hammer blow punctuated by the clash of steel.
"POWER? A TITLE? YOUR PATHETIC RANK BACK?"
CRACK!
A blow jarred Takeshi’s sword arm.
"WAS IT WORTH SELLING YOUR SOUL?"
SCREEE!
Venomous steel shrieked against frost forged haft.
"WHAT DID THEY DO TO MY BROTHER?"
The final scream tore from Juro’s soul, raw and broken, echoing Takeshi’s own earlier cry of betrayal.
"WHAT DID THEY DO TO
TAKE
?"
The sound of his childhood name, screamed with such profound, tear streaked agony, was the detonator. Takeshi’s defence faltered. His defiant ruby eyes, moments ago filled with manufactured hate, widened. The void hardened mask didn’t just crack; it
shattered
. Raw, unguarded emotion flooded his face, shock, profound sorrow, and a desperate, aching love that had been buried, not destroyed. He lowered his blade a fraction, his mouth opening, not to snarl, but to speak, to explain, to
plead
.
Juro, blinded by the white hot haze of his own fury, the tears blurring his vision, saw only an opening. He saw the lowered guard, the hesitation of the enemy. The brother was lost in the red mist. With a guttural cry of finality, Juro lunged, committing all his weight and momentum into a single, brutal thrust with left axe, aiming not for a disabling blow, but for the heart.
PUNCHHHH SQUELCHHHHH.
The sound was sickeningly intimate. The point of the axe punched through Takeshi’s void leathers just below the collarbone, skewering deep into the meat of his shoulder, missing vital arteries by inches. Not a killing blow, but a grievous wound. Ichor, dark and steaming, welled around the blade.
Juro felt the impact jar up his arm. He expected a cry of pain, a snarl of defiance, the death rattle of a traitor. He didn’t expect the soft gasp. He didn’t expect the hand that came up, not to claw at the blade, but to rest weakly on his wrist. He didn’t expect the
smile
.
Through the haze of rage and tears, Juro saw it. Takeshi’s head was tilted back slightly against the impact, but his eyes were locked on Juro’s. And on his lips, despite the agony, despite the dark blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, was a smile. The
real
smile. The one Juro hadn’t seen in two long, desolate years. The lopsided, genuine grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes, the one reserved for shared triumphs, stupid jokes, and moments of pure, uncomplicated brotherhood. It was a beacon in the Plaza’s gloom, utterly incongruous and devastatingly familiar.
Juro froze. The white hot fury evaporated, replaced by an icy wave of shock that washed away the battle haze. He stared, his own breath catching, the tears still flowing but now born of confusion and dawning horror.
What?
The question screamed silently in his mind. The hatred he’d fought, the loathing he’d believed in… it wasn’t reflected in that smile. Only pain, relief, and… love?
Takeshi’s grip on Juro’s wrist tightened weakly. The smile remained, fragile but unwavering. "J…Juro…" he gasped, blood staining his teeth. The voice was weak, stripped of House Malkor’s coldness, stripped of bitter resentment. It was just Take’s voice, strained with pain but achingly familiar. "I… I could never hate you… brother." Tears welled in his own eyes, spilling over and tracing paths through the grime on his cheeks. "Never… no matter what… I knew… our paths diverged… it was just… destiny…"
Juro’s hand trembled violently on the haft of
the axe
. He tried to speak, but only a choked sob escaped. Takeshi continued, the words tumbling out in ragged bursts, each one a hammer blow to the wall Juro had built around his heart.
"I wasn’t… good enough… to be Head of House Fujiwara… Father knew it… I knew it…" A shuddering breath. "But you… Juro… when you stood… in the ceremony… the mantle placed on your shoulders…" The smile widened fractionally, filled with a painful pride. "I was there… in the shadows… watching…" He coughed, more dark blood appearing. "I was… so overjoyed… I couldn’t hide it… truly… brother… I love you… I’ve never… harboured hatred for you… How could… I… after all… we are brothers…"
The confession hung in the air, shattering Juro’s world. The exile, the enforcer, the venomous blade, the bitter words, all a performance? Takeshi winced, pain flaring as he shifted slightly. "The reason… why…" he gasped, urgency entering his voice. "Father… conspires with Ryo… They plan… to destroy Nyxarion… We cannot… let that happen… I learned of this the night I got exiled…so… I’ve been acting…as… a spy"
Juro’s eyes widened.
Father? Conspiring with the Butcher King?
"Nyxara…" Takeshi pressed on, his voice gaining a sliver of strength born of conviction. "She is not evil… Only painted that way… so Ryo looks… the saviour… She fights… for her people… A true queen… That’s all… I know…" He met Juro’s stunned gaze, the love in his eyes undeniable. "But more than that… I’m glad… I could see you… Juro…"
The dam broke. Juro wrenched the axe free from Takeshi’s shoulder with a cry that was half sob, half scream. He dropped both axes, the clatter echoing dully on the ledge. He didn’t see the wound, the blood, the Void Guard leathers. He only saw his brother, broken but finally, finally
here
. He lunged forward, not with violence, but with desperate, crushing need, wrapping his arms around Takeshi in a hug that ignored the injury, the pain, the years of separation. He buried his face in Takeshi’s uninjured shoulder, his body wracked with violent, uncontrollable sobs.
"Take…" he choked out, the word muffled, saturated with tears. "Take… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I love you too… brother… I love you…"
Takeshi groaned in pain but returned the embrace as best he could with his good arm, his own tears mingling with Juro’s. The hatred, the Void, the Plaza of Screams, none of it mattered in that fragile, reclaimed moment of kinship.
After a long moment, Takeshi gently pushed Juro back, his face pale but resolute. "Juro… listen…" He winced, pressing a hand to his bleeding shoulder. "Volrag… down there… with Ryota…"
Juro stiffened, wiping his face hastily. "The traitor?"
"Not… by choice," Takeshi said urgently. "Twisted… by Ryo… by House Malkor… Poisoned… like they tried with me." He met Juro’s eyes. "He doesn’t want… to fight Ryota… He see’s him… as his father… The only person… he cares for…" Takeshi’s expression was grim. "It’s all… for Ryo’s plan… To destroy Nyxara… fracture the north…" He took a ragged breath. "Now… go! Help your friends… Our brothers… not in blood… but always… Haruto… the others… They need you… Akuma…" A weak, pained chuckle escaped him. "Akuma is… one twisted fucker… hah…"
Juro’s gaze snapped to the grievous wound in Takeshi’s shoulder, dark ichor welling steadily. "But your wounds…!"
Takeshi shook his head, forcing another faint, pained smile, the real one. "It’s nothing… Don’t worry… Your friends… need you…
Now
, Juro." His voice held the old, familiar note of command, softened by affection. "Go… Be the Head… of House Fujiwara… Protect your people…"
He gripped Juro’s arm with surprising strength. "I hope… to see you… again… brother…"
Juro looked from Takeshi’s earnest, pain filled face to the chaotic maelstrom of light and void far below. Haruto’s desperate fight, Ryota’s guttering star, Shiro and Kuro’s defiance against impossible horror, they needed him. The cycle of hatred that had almost consumed him and Takeshi was broken. But the larger battle raged on. He nodded once, a fierce determination replacing the tears. He scooped up both axes, the axes feeling lighter now, purpose renewed.
He clasped Takeshi’s forearm one last time, a warrior’s grip, a brother’s promise. "Stay alive, Take. I
will
see you again." Without another word, Juro turned and sprinted towards the edge of the ledge, leaping down towards the fray, leaving his wounded brother leaning against the weeping stone, a silent testament to a bond reforged in blood and tears. The personal war was over. The fight for Nyxarion demanded its due. But first comes Akuma.

.
!
V2: C60: Rekindled Blood