The night after the battle at the eastern wall, Yamato did not truly sleep. Small fires still burned in the yards of the houses, and some citizens sat on the porches, holding back exhaustion that could not be chased away by mere rest. In the air, the aroma of burnt earth mixed with sweat and the incense remnants of last night's ritual. Yet above all, one thing remained in the minds of the people: the whispers of ancestral protection, about who truly kept their lives intact amidst the storm of war.

  "Fitran," Nobuzan called as they gathered in the corner of a house, "what are we going to do? The people need more than just words. They need miracles!"

  Fitran looked sharply at Nobuzan, "You know what they need, don’t you? They need hope, and I cannot give them that without a greater intervention."

  "But what can we do?" Nobuzan asked, her voice trembling between fear and hope. "Do those spirits really exist?"

  "They are listening to us," Fitran replied calmly, "I trust the whispers that came to me tonight. They have given me guidance."

  Fitran turned his gaze to the servants gathered in the corner. "Shizu, tell us again about that vision. What did you see?"

  "I saw a white shadow at the altar, and I heard a voice: 'Place your hope in Fitran. He is the right hand of the spirits…'"

  "Are you sure those spirits were talking about you?" Nobuzan asked skeptically. "Or perhaps, they are just remembering the king before us?"

  "What difference does it make?" Fitran said firmly. "What we believe can change everything. We need to give them something to hope for."

  As a push, one of the young servants added, "But Fitran, if they hope in you and you fail, they will be shattered."

  Fitran looked at them seriously, "Every relief requires sacrifice. Are you willing to fight for that miracle?"

  Nobuzan nodded, "If we can talk to the ancestral spirits, why not? We must try. There is nothing left for us but hope."

  Since dawn, the most loyal servants and guards to Fitran began spreading the story: some claimed to have dreamed of the Oda ancestors descending from the sky, whispering to them that the protection of Yamato had now passed to the figure of the 'western king'—Fitran himself.

  "I heard them discussing outside," Shizu whispered to Fitran one night. "They are not so sure, but those words give them something to think about."

  "We need to capitalize on this," Fitran replied. "This belief could become our strength."

  "I saw a white shadow at the altar, and I heard a voice: 'Place your hope in Fitran. He is the right hand of the spirits…'"

  Rumors spread quickly, like fire in a dry field. Some citizens claimed to have shared the dream, though they were not entirely sure, yet dared not reject it—because the world was crumbling, and miracles were the only thing left to cling to.

  Morning approached. At the main altar, the people gathered to give thanks for Yamato's survival from the attack of Qihuang Shin. Fitran was present with Nobuzan—now looking pale and increasingly thin—along with Ryumaru and the elders. However, the aura of the altar felt different that morning: there was a thick darkness, and the flames of the candles felt sharper, taller than usual.

  "Nobuzan," Fitran said with a trembling voice, "do you feel that? Something is not right here."

  Nobuzan looked at him, her expression tense. "I feel it, Fitran. This darkness is unlike any other. It feels as if our ancestral spirits are speaking, reminding us of something forgotten."

  Fitran stepped forward, asking Nobuzan for permission to speak. In a soft voice, he said, "We must listen to them. This is not just a dream—I am sure they want us to rise. Last night, in the darkness, they came to me. Their voices, like whispers in the wind, said, 'Do not let Yamato fade away.'"

  "Are you sure it was the spirit of Oda?" Ryumaru asked, his eyes full of skepticism. "Or just an illusion from our anxiety?"

  "Ryumaru," Nobuzan interjected, "do not doubt the voice transmitted to Fitran. When our world collapses, sometimes messages from the unseen realm emerge to provide guidance. We may feel lost, but that is because we refuse to accept the path that truly exists."

  Fitran looked at them all, "All of this is more than just our fight against Qihuang Shin. It is about the damp smell of the earth that is beginning to rot. We must be brave enough to take action—are we ready?"

  In a softer tone, Nobuzan said, "Are we brave enough to hold onto hope in this darkness? Sometimes, pain and loss become our driving force."

  The conversation flowed in tension, creating a bond that seemed tight among them. "But what should we do?" Ryumaru asked. "Are we going to leave, ignoring the danger?"

  "We must stand united," Fitran replied, "calling upon our spirits, seeking their guidance. We are not alone in this struggle."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Nobuzan nodded, "And if we dare to step forward, we are not just defending this place, but protecting the hope of our entire people. We become the fire that burns the darkness, not just for today, but for the future."

  "Today, I do not stand here merely as a king, or a husband, or a leader," Fitran said with a hopeful tone, yet his voice was heavy. "I come as a man who has felt both loss and hope."

  In the midst of the tension, he continued, "Last night, in a dream, I was visited by the spirits of the Oda ancestors. They said to me, 'Do not let Yamato fade away. Be the fire that burns the last darkness.'" There was a brief pause, then he added, "Even... even in this darkness, I feel as if they stand beside me. What do you all feel?"

  Nobuzan, standing beside Fitran, answered with a firm yet empathetic voice, "We feel the weight of all this, Fitran. But we also feel hope. What do you want us to do? What is your effort?"

  He bowed his head, closing his eyes for a moment, and then continued softly, "I am nothing without your prayers. But if indeed the ancestors want me to guard this home..." his voice began to blaze, "I promise—I will do anything, even if I must bear hatred and blood."

  Suddenly, the voice of an elder in the crowd was heard, "Are you all ready to pay that price? The pain will not be easy."

  "Pain can be endured, as long as we are together," Fitran replied, his eyes shining with conviction. "These spirits do not ask us to fight; they only want us to remember."

  One woman in the front row wiped her tears and whispered, "This is indeed destined..." Her voice fought against the silence, but it was filled with deep trust.

  "But we can choose to fight against that destiny," another voice echoed, "The spirits choose him; who are we to resist..."

  Fitran gazed at the crowd, wondering in his heart, "Is this what we want? The fight continues? Or can we reshape destiny with our courage?"

  The people fell silent, some bowed their heads, praying. The tension felt like heavy air, every heart beating in resonance of hope and fear. "We must be willing to face anything, for the sake of our future!" Fitran exclaimed. And among them, whispers grew, reflecting their deepest hearts.

  After the ritual, the servants began distributing holy water, and the women scattered flowers in the corridors of the house. The children were asked to sing the old songs of Yamato. From house to house, whispers grew:

  "Fitran is not just a protector; he is the embodiment of the ancestral spirit..."

  The elders exchanged glances, some suspicious, some doubtful, but no one dared to directly contradict. "Are we really sure?" Nobuzan asked, her voice low and trembling. "If we oppose, what will happen to us?"

  "We have no choice, Nobuzan," Fitran replied firmly. "If the spirits ask, we must honor them. To resist means challenging a force far greater than us."

  They knew that anyone who opposed the current of belief in times of crisis could be ostracized, or worse—considered to be against the will of the spirits.

  "But to relinquish everything for this belief... is that right?" Nobuzan shook her head, "Do we live for the spirits or for ourselves?"

  Fitran realized, this was the time to lock the narrative. "We must speak," Fitran said, calling Kenji, Mira, and several village leaders. "We will shape this narrative together."

  "Make sure every house receives altar candles. Send food from the remaining logistics—but ensure that every collection is done in the name of offerings to the ancestors. Do not mention my name; just refer to it as 'the spirits' gift.'"

  "But, Fitran," Mira spoke up, "if we do not say who leads, will people think we are weak?"

  Kenji nodded, understanding: "This is a way to build loyalty and a sense of indebtedness subtly, without overt coercion. We must be clever."

  "But be careful," Fitran warned. "There are those who do not like our way, and they may be closer to the spirits than we suspect. We must do more."

  Nobuzan looked at Fitran with doubt. "Are we sacrificing ourselves for all this? We need to live our lives without the shadows of spirits constantly following us."

  "We live our lives honoring those who have passed," Fitran said. "Remember, those who hear the whispers of the spirits will not be disturbed!"

  At night, behind the Oda family house, the youths discussed the new rumors.

  "Is it true that the ancestral spirits side with Fitran?"

  "I don't know. But the important thing is, now no one dares to contradict him..."

  One of them, Tatsuya, murmured to his younger brother,

  "Sometimes, I feel the spirits are crueler than humans. They choose leaders without asking who is ready to bear it..."

  "Maybe they only see what is visible, Tatsuya. The truth is, we are all part of this game."

  In his room, Nobuzan sat quietly, staring at a small lamp. Hana brought him water, whispering:

  "You must be careful, Nobi. If the people's trust is born only from fear, one day everything could turn to embers."

  "Hana, do we really believe in those spirits? They say they protect us, but how far will they go? How much must we sacrifice?"

  Nobuzan could only bow her head, her heart a mix of gratitude and anxiety.

  "Maybe it is time for me to no longer be the center of prayer..."

  "But if not you, who else? I fear losing this peace, Nobi."

  "This peace is built on fear, Hana. Is that really peace?"

  The night grew late. Fitran stood at the window of his study, gazing at the starry sky. "How far can we go, Nobuzan?" he asked, his voice heavy with burden. "Must every step we take be determined by our own strength?"

  Nobuzan looked at Fitran, anxious yet curious. "We promised to maintain balance, right? But sometimes I feel there is something greater than us. Like... those spirits that keep watching." She added, "Can we really control everything?"

  Fitran grabbed a piece of new logistics paper—proof that spiritual power must be supported by material strength, or it would easily collapse. "Trust is born from hunger and fear. As long as I can feed and promise protection, no one will dare to question the direction of the world. But I must be ready... if this ember turns into a fire."

  "But is that power enough, Fitran? Or just an illusion?" Nobuzan asked, her eyes shining with concern. "I often hear whispers from the ancestors. They seem to have high hopes for us."

  "True, they may hope," Fitran replied, emphasizing the paper in his hand. "But their fear is just as great. We must find a way to calm them."

  Outside, Yamato felt calm. "But behind this calm, I sense something is amiss," Fitran said, looking back out the window. "The wheel of power is starting to turn, and we cannot turn back now."

  Nobuzan nodded, "I know. The people are beginning to trade their will for hope in a new figure—the king who burns the night with the promises of the ancestors. But..." she paused, "what will we do when they are disappointed?"

  "We will stand beside them," Fitran replied firmly. "And if those spirits are waiting for something, we must be ready to answer their call." He shrugged, trying to hide his fear, "We should also be able to joke about this, occasionally, right?"

  And in the deepest corner of the Oda house, the old spirits watched, whether with approval or with wrath waiting for the time. "They are out there," a soft voice echoed in Nobuzan's mind. "Are you ready for what is to come?"