CHAPTER-12

The air in Shinjuku Forest was wrong.

Too thick. Too still. It clung to the skin like fevered breath, saturated with rust and decay. Every inhale tasted like iron and rot, like a battlefield that hadn't stopped bleeding.

Above, the canopy writhed—black trees twisted like bones, their gnarled branches clawing at a moon that bled light through the leaves in sickly streaks. This wasn't a forest. It was a throat. A maw.

And they had already stepped into its gut.

Ishigo moved without a word. His boots sank into moss that squelched beneath him, soft and hot like flesh. His breathing was shallow. Controlled. Trained.

But his heartbeat? That was chaos.

A war drum in his chest.

The deeper they went, the more the air vibrated. Like it was listening. Watching.

Waiting.

"Reika's scouting up ahead," he muttered, eyes scanning the pathless dark. "So why are you still glued to me?"

Daigo walked beside him like he belonged here—like this was just another Tuesday.

"Bro, if you die, who else am I gonna call my ride-or-die?" he said, grinning. Always grinning. That cocky, crooked smirk that screamed invincible idiot.

He smacked Ishigo's head like they weren't standing in a living nightmare.

"Don't do that," Ishigo snapped, brushing him off with a glare.

Daigo shrugged and hopped over a snarled root. "Still no booby traps. I'm telling you—this place is all bark, no—"

Ishigo stopped walking.

His eyes locked on a tree up ahead.

Crooked. Tall. Close.

Too close.

"That tree wasn't there a minute ago," he said, voice low.

Daigo rolled his eyes. "Come on, man. All trees look the—"

Then the ground shivered.

A deep, vibrating groan rolled through the soil.

And the forest exhaled.

SHING!

Blades exploded from the shadows.

Knives. Dozens. Gleaming, spinning, screaming through the air like banshees. Ishigo ducked, one blade grazing his cheek. Blood bloomed.

Daigo dove, rolled. A blade thunked into the bark where his head had been.

"NOW we're talkin'!" Daigo whooped, grabbing one from the tree and spinning it. "Let's GOOOOO—!"

But Ishigo didn't answer.

His blade was already drawn, glowing faintly in the moonlight. The forest wasn't just attacking—it was aiming.

And from beneath the earth, something writhed.

The roots.

Black, knotted things, pulsing like veins.

They were moving.

Twisting.

Hunting.

"Run," Ishigo ordered.

Too late.

The ground exploded.

Roots surged upward, snapping through the soil like spears. Trees were flung like toys. A scream ripped through the dark—animal, ancient, starving.

"BRO, MOVE!" Daigo shouted, grabbing Ishigo's arm and hauling him into a dead sprint.

Roots lashed behind them, crashing through trunks, tearing through the ground like a storm of buried serpents.

Above them—movement.

Reika.

She flew through the trees like wind wrapped in muscle and blade. Her every motion was lethal, honed. Her feet barely touched the bark as she launched from branch to branch, faster than the roots could catch.

But they tried.

They leapt up like fangs, cracking wood, chasing her like possessed pythons.

One root lunged from below.

Reika twisted mid-air—SLASH!

Her blade flashed silver, cleaving through it.

But what poured from the wound wasn't sap.

It was ichor.

Green. Glowing. Pulsing.

It splashed across her sword—hissed.

Then something happened.

Her blade shifted.

It vibrated, then split—growing longer, gaining a second edge that shimmered with raw energy.

Reika blinked.

"It's feeding the weapon..." she whispered. "With every cut."

She landed on a lower branch, blade gleaming with new hunger. A grin ghosted across her face.

"Well then…"

She launched forward, steel singing.

"Let's feed it."

Back below, Daigo's stolen blade now glowed. Dim, then brighter. With every slash, the blade changed. Grew. Reacted.

"Yo! My knife's evolving!" Daigo crowed, slashing through roots with a laugh. "This place is a damn loot dungeon!"

Ishigo didn't smile.

He slashed clean through a trio of roots, black ichor splashing across his jacket. His own blade was growing longer, humming with energy. For every root he cut, his weapon pulsed like a living thing.

It was terrifying.

It was perfect.

But it didn't matter.

The roots kept coming.

Faster. Smarter. Angry.

The more they fought, the more the forest changed.

This wasn't random.

It was adapting.

Learning.

And deep inside Ishigo's skull, a terrible thought burrowed in:

What if we're already dead?

What if this is the loop?

Endless battle. Endless blood.

No rest.

No escape.

But he didn't stop.

Because to stop was to die.

Time broke.

The battle blurred.

Blood sprayed. Roots writhed. Blades sang.

And then—silence.

Sudden. Heavy. Dreadful.

The kind of silence that screams wrong.

Ishigo dropped to one knee, panting. His muscles felt like molten iron. His blade dripped black ichor that steamed against the earth.

The forest around them was devastated. Roots hacked apart. Trees felled. The ground torn and bleeding.

And the bodies—

Some were crushed.

Others impaled.

Some were just... gone.

Reika stepped into the clearing, hair soaked in sweat and blood, her blade glowing with unnatural hunger.

She was alive.

So were they.

Barely.

Daigo limped toward her, blood running down one arm, smile faded but still hanging on.

"You guys good?"

No one answered.

Then—

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Slow. Mocking.

From the edge of the ruined grove, a figure stepped forward.

Tall. Relaxed.

Smiling.

Souta.

That same icy calm in his eyes. That same twisted smirk on his lips.

"I honestly thought those trees might chew you up, Reika," he said casually.

Reika didn't move. "They tried."

Souta chuckled. "Too bad for them."

His eyes sparkled.

"Can you swim?"

Reika blinked. "What?"

Souta turned, hands behind his back.

"Because tomorrow," he said, voice smooth as silk on a blade, "you'll need to hold your breath a very long time."

He vanished into the mist.

Behind him, the forest began to close—roots shifting, knitting themselves shut.

The nightmare wasn't over.

It had just begun.