The moon was swallowed by crawling clouds when Chihiro Rokuhira stepped through the shattered gate of the Rokuhira smithy, the midnight air stinging his lungs with the scent of ash and old iron; his fist clenched the hilt of Enten so tight that fingernails gouged his palm, its blade humming with Datenseki-energy, the same unstable fire that once forged the six Enchanted Blades his father crafted and carried into the Seitei War. Around him the shadows writhed — charred wooden beams sagged as goldfish-spirits, spectral and blazing, flickered in the darkness, casting wavering light across walls blood-splattered from the past; the burnt tatami mats still bore silhouette-scars of betrayal, and Chihiro’s heart beat a dirge for every fatherless child born of this night. From the threshold, Hishaku sorcerers emerged — flame-tattooed arms raised, eyes like hot coals, their mouths twisted in cruel expectation. Silence broke with a single whisper: “Give me back what you stole.” Then steel rang. Chihiro lunged, metal singing, flame-magic tearing the air apart, each swing a promise, each drop of blood a ledger entry in his debt of vengeance; if dawn came, it would find one side of the Rokuhira name either restored or forever lost amid the dance of enchanted iron and sorcery.