The autumn wind carried the scent of burning incense, weaving through the temple grounds where the final rites of Shirogiri Kenzou were being prepared. The temple, nestled atop the old district''s highest hill, overlooked the city—a silent guardian witnessing the end of an era. The great hall, adorned with hanging lanterns and the deep crimson banners of the Shirogiri, stood as the last testament to a bloodline that had once shaped history.


    Ash Atsuyuki stood before the altar, clad in the black mourning robes of his ancestors, his ash-colored hair tied back in ceremonial fashion. The weight of the moment pressed upon him. His grandfather, the last pillar of the Shirogiri name, was gone. And now, the world had come to see the burial—not just to pay respects, but to witness the closing chapter of a once-great clan.


    The procession of mourners arrived in waves. First, the allied clans—those who had stood beside the Shirogiri in the past, their banners trailing behind them in solemn acknowledgment. The Takeda, the Hoshin, the Iwakura—all remnants of a fading age, warriors now bound more by tradition than power. Their elders bowed deeply, their younger members exchanging glances, some filled with sympathy, others with quiet calculation.


    Then came the enemies.


    The Mori. The Tsukihime. The Kurogane.


    They arrived not as mourners, but as spectators, their expressions carefully composed, their presence a reminder of the world Ash now stood against. Tsukihime Rei walked among them, her golden eyes unreadable. Takeshi Mori, standing beside his father, smirked ever so slightly—a silent acknowledgment that the Shirogiri were no longer a threat.


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    The ceremony began. The monks chanted sutras, their voices a steady drone beneath the rustling of trees. The incense smoke curled upward, disappearing into the gray sky. Ash stood still, his hands clenched at his sides as his grandfather''s body was prepared for its final journey.


    Kenshiko stood beside him, her face emotionless, but Ash could sense the tension in her posture. She had known Kenzou for longer than anyone, had served him, protected him, and now, she too was left with only the burden of memory.


    The funeral pyre was lit.


    Flames consumed the wooden frame, and with it, the last physical remnants of Shirogiri Kenzou. Ash felt something inside him shift—not grief, not sorrow, but a quiet, seething determination. This was the moment the world had been waiting for, the moment when the last heir of the Shirogiri would either fade into obscurity or rise from the ashes.


    A voice cut through the silence.


    "The passing of an era," spoke an elder from the Kurogane clan, his tone measured, his gaze sharp. "The old ways burn away, leaving only the future. The question is—who will claim it?"


    Murmurs spread among the gathered clans. Some nodded in agreement. Others turned to Ash, waiting for his response.


    Ash exhaled slowly, stepping forward, his voice steady.


    "The past does not burn so easily. Nor does the legacy of the Shirogiri."


    Silence fell over the gathering. A challenge unspoken, a declaration made not with defiance, but with certainty. The game had begun.


    And the world was watching.