The British medical line, once filled with witches, healers, and victims of war, now lies soaked in blood and lamentations. The makeshift tents of healing have collapsed, some licked by the flames of the Gamma magic that spread even to the safe zone. The scent of wounds, metal, and incense used to banish spirits mingled together, creating a grim atmosphere that marks a place already transformed into a mass grave.

  "Why is this building here?" Nobuzan asked, her voice trembling with deep curiosity.

  "What really lies hidden behind Ente Island?" she continued, his tone laced with intrigue.

  In the heart of the zone, an ancient stone edifice rose majestically—Basilica of Woe—serving as the last sanctuary for healers and the wounded. Its dark pillars were adorned with carvings of twisting dragons, withering cherry blossoms, and ancient Yamato symbols rich in meaning. An aura of sorrow and hope entwined among those pillars, like spirits refusing to abandon a world steeped in suffering.

  Oda Nobuzan—commander of the Yamato clan, her body stained with blood and the dust of battle—stood resolute at the threshold of the basilica. She turned her gaze toward the tents engulfed in flames, her conscience weighed down by the cries of soldiers trapped in chaos.

  “We cannot allow this place to fall,” she declared, her voice filled with determination; though each word felt heavy, as if torn from the depths of her soul.

  Beside him, Hanashi—a medical magus clad in a tattered white robe—clutched a scrap of cloth, struggling to staunch the flow of blood from his own wound. “Miss Oda, we cannot hold out much longer. Our healing magic has run dry, and the remaining soldiers number only half of what we once had.” His eyes were filled with panic, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.

  “If this basilica falls, the entire medical world of Britannia will plunge into darkness…”

  Nobuzan shook his head slowly, his conscience rebelling against Hanashi’s words. “As long as a single drop of Yamato blood still flows, this basilica shall not fall. But this time… I must relinquish something precious,” he said, gazing at his cursed sword, Onikage-no-Tsurugi, bound tightly to his waist in a sheath adorned with sacrificial incantations. “I never intended to wield this power, yet…” He took a deep breath, realizing that their fate now rested in his hands.

  Amidst the jarring chime of magic that disrupted their reverie, the Gamma monster began to breach the basilica. Outside, soldiers and healers fought with all their strength, but the number of casualties continued to rise with every passing second.

  “We have to strike!” Hanashi shouted, his eyes flashing with a fiery mix of hope and despair. “We won’t survive just by waiting for fate!”

  “Once this curse is lifted, we won’t be able to return…” Nobuzan's voice was soft yet resonated clearly through the turmoil. He felt the weight of life and death gripping the tip of his sword. The terrifying movements of the approaching Gamma monster only added to the fear swelling in his heart. “But if that’s what must be done to save them, then let it be.”

  Then, he raised his sword, and a beam of dark light shot forth from its tip, creating an aura of dread that surrounded them. “Now, prepare yourselves!”

  Nobuzan looked at Hanashi with a firm gaze full of sorrow. His voice was low yet sharp, like a dagger poised to strike. “As long as a drop of Yamato blood flows in my veins,” he declared, with unwavering determination, “this basilica will not fall. But this time… I must unleash the power I’ve held back all this while.”

  Hanashi shook his head, his face pale, haunted by the looming fear and anxiety. “That sword… you know what that curse brings, Nona! Even the mighty gods of Yamato in heaven wail at the thought of it being awakened once more. No one survives its shadow!”

  Nobuzan wore a bitter smile, his eyes fixed on the sword hanging at his waist. The gentle chime of the night stirred the long-buried spirit within him. “If the world must choose between languishing in futility or being cursed to protect what remains,” he emphasized with a trembling voice, “then I will choose to face both. I will become a sacrifice, not just for myself, but for every lost soul.”

  Nobuzan stood resolutely at the altar of the basilica, beneath the carvings of dragons and wilting cherry blossoms that seemed to recount a tale long forgotten. He felt his heartbeat echoing, the shadows of past souls disturbing his thoughts. With utmost care, he drew the sheath of Onikage-no-Tsurugi. As the dark blade rose, its impact absorbed the light of the surrounding lanterns, signaling the presence of a profound emptiness. Ancient magic began to flicker around him, the engravings on the blade glowing with a crimson hue—symbols of sacrifice and repressed vengeance that had dwelled for centuries within Yamato's traditions.

  Nobuzan shouted in the ancient Yamato tongue with fervor ablaze, “Spirits of my ancestors, heed my oath! Today, in the Basilica of Mourning, I offer my blood, my name, even my soul— to protect those who never had the chance to say goodbye!” His voice flowed like an unstoppable river, enveloping all the listeners in a wave of burning hope and vigilance.

  With each word spoken, his body trembled, struggling to contain the pain and fear surging within him. There was something far greater than himself; his legacy, his blood, and the responsibility borne by the name Yamato. In the darkness of his soul, he felt the urge to wage war and the desire to protect locked in an eternal struggle.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The aura of the sword erupted, waves of magic crashing against the Gamma monsters that had breached the basilica’s doors. Nobuzan attacked with the resurrection of his spirit, each swing of his sword radiating a chilling crimson light. “Prepare to feel the wrath of the ancestors!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the silent space of the basilica. One by one, the bodies of the creatures dissolved, vanishing into ash, as if erased from the annals of history. Yet, each time Onikage-no-Tsurugi struck, a shadowy figure emerged behind Nobuzan— the souls of the samurai once cursed for their betrayal or failure. They floated, their faces reflecting an eternal pain and regret.

  One of the spirits, clad in cracked armor and an oni mask, stepped closer, resembling a dark mist surrounding Nobuzan. “We once failed to defend this fortress, my grandchild,” the voice came out hoarse, filled with anguish and despair. “Do you wish to repeat our fate?”

  Nobuzan restrained the tremor in his voice, sweat streaming down his temples, as his eyes remained fixed on the sword. “No, my ancestors,” he stated with certainty, though his heart stirred with confusion. “I want to give meaning to your failures—let my sins be the redemption for a world still struggling.” A heavy weight enveloped his heart, but his spirit ignited, replacing doubt with steadfast resolve.

  The battle within the basilica transformed into a dance of death. Each slash of Nobuzan's sword cleaved through monsters, but also deepened the wounds in his own body—the curse of the sword drained the life from every wielder, exchanging life for terrible power. “You will not win!” he shouted at the creatures with a voice empowered by hatred. “I will protect those who remain!”

  In the corner of the room, Hanashi and the healers were chanting spells to strengthen the souls of the wounded. “We will save them,” Hanashi said, his face betraying tension. “But we need time. You all must hold on!” Some among them prayed in a language their hearts understood, while others could only shut their eyes, hoping to depart without feeling pain. He continued to struggle to calm the shattered hearts around him, though he himself was burdened by the weight of responsibility he bore.

  A young soldier named Hiro, who had lost his legs, whispered to Hanashi, his voice faint yet filled with hope. “Do we still have hope, Sensei?” He bit his lip, his eyes shimmering with doubt. Hanashi looked deep into him, striving to probe the depths of his spirit, seeking the strength to rekindle hope. “You are still alive. As long as Nobuzan stands, this basilica has not yet fallen. But should we all survive, remember its name… and remember also those who fell today,” Hanashi said, his voice quivering, struggling to hold back tears, trying to instill courage in the warriors surrounding him.

  Hanashi looked at Hiro, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears in the dim light of the basilica. His voice trembled as he spoke, “You are still alive, Hiro. As long as Nobuzan stands, this basilica will continue to fight. But remember—do not forget the names of those who fell today. They sacrificed everything to protect us.”

  Nobuzan stepped forward, his body growing heavier with each movement. Blood dripped onto the altar floor, staining the marble with unspoken tales. Each time he stumbled, the spirits of the samurai behind him urged, “Rise, Nobuzan, we stand with you!” Their words pierced his heart, giving him strength yet also a profound sense of regret. “Why must I feel this?” he thought, as his sword felt as if it were becoming heavier, as if the weight of the world pressed down upon him.

  Outside, the last of the creatures staggered in uncertainty, forced back by the emptiness radiating from the Onikage-no-Tsurugi. That red-black light crept, engulfing every corner of the basilica, spreading a chilling dread, not just for the enemies, but for every eye that beheld it. In the shadows, Nobuzan grit his teeth, fear and hope clashing within him. “No one can escape the fate that has been woven,” he whispered softly, his voice seeming to fade into the gloom. He realized—he too was ensnared in the web of this cursed sword's fate.

  With a resounding shout, Nobuzan plunged his sword into the cold stone of the altar. “Unite, my protector!” he cried, as the ancient protective glyph began to glow, weaving the magical web of old Yamato throughout the basilica. “Let this be the final wall! This basilica shall not fall before the world is ready to embrace a new tale!”

  Monster Gamma recoiled, shadows of the curse looming over them, creating an unspeakable terror. The wounded victims gazed toward Nobuzan—half-conscious and teetering, his body surrounded by the spirits of ancestors that radiated hope even amidst the thickening darkness. “What will happen to us all?” they wondered, feeling despair seep into their souls.

  Hanashi rushed closer, grasping Nobuzan's trembling body. “You cannot die here, Lady,” he cried with a panicked tone that shattered the silence. “The world still needs witnesses of Yamato! We—we need you to depict the story after all this.” With sparkling eyes, he tried to convey a glimmer of hope, even as the shadow of death lurked keenly in the corners of his mind.

  Nobuzan smiled faintly, gazing around the now empty and ruined basilica. His voice was quiet yet resolute, “If my fate is to die here, then let my name become a legend, eternal upon this altar. What is the point of fighting if it all ends without a trace?” He emphasized the word 'trace' as if it were his last glimmer of hope. “But,” he added, his eyes now shining, “never let this sword be your second hope. The sins of Yamato… should not be passed on to those who do not understand.”

  Silence enveloped the basilica, punctuated only by the slowing heartbeat and the whispers of spirits, as if they roamed among the ruins. Once more, Nobuzan felt the heavy weight of history laid upon his shoulders. "Will all these sacrifices be in vain?" he murmured, his voice nearly drowned by sorrow. In his mind, the voices of his ancestors echoed, reminding him of the burden of legacy that every samurai must bear. In that silence, beneath the debris of a world, one name, one sword, and one oath continued to resonate, refusing to fade—Nobuzan, the legacy of Yamato, and the Mourning Basilica that stood firm even as hope teetered on the brink of extinguishment.

  Hanashi, standing beside him, felt the depth of sorrow enveloping them. He tightly grasped Nobuzan's hand, sensing its warmth in the darkness. “You are not merely a samurai, Nobuzan. You are a beacon for those lost in this gloom. Remember every soul that has fought alongside you.”

  “They will never forget what transpired here, my lady. But… will they understand the reasons behind it all?” The question hung in the air, piercing the uncertainty that cloaked their hearts.

  With a trembling voice, Hanashi expressed, “By our side, they shall come to comprehend. We vow that your legacy will not fade like dust in the wind.” Recalling their struggles on the battlefield, he was reminded how every sword strike and the echo of magic bore profound meaning. Each loss was not merely a number, but a narrative that demanded to be told.

  As the whispers of spirits crept back in, Nobuzan felt the chilling grip of doubt. “Yet tread carefully, Hanashi. In every legend, there often lurks a bitter truth ready to pounce.” His voice now waned, like the rustling wind carrying the weight of worries about a dark future.

  With determination, Hanashi lifted his head, resolving not to merely be an observer but to become a force. “If we must confront the truth, let us do it together. Do not allow this sorrow to shatter our hopes.” In their gaze, a promise was etched to continue fighting, even as the world around them slowly crumbled into emptiness.