Chapter 9: Cracks in the Mask
It had been quiet for too long.
Not the kind of quiet that brought peace, but the kind that followed a scream—still echoing, still hanging in the air like smoke that refused to clear.
The small neighborhood he lived in hadn't changed much on the surface. The streets still bustled during the day, kids still played in the narrow alleys, and people still wore their tired smiles with practiced ease. But he noticed the details others overlooked—the slightly longer glances in his direction, the tension in the air whenever he stepped outside, the way conversations stopped the moment he passed.
Word had started to spread.
Not full truths, just rumors. Whispers.
No one had proof, of course. Just fear.
Fear always knew what the facts didn't.
And the shadows—his shadows—they were growing restless.
They didn't speak, not in words. But he felt them in his sleep. In his spine. In the air when he breathed.
They were watching him.
Waiting.
He woke up just past midnight again, drenched in sweat.
No nightmares this time. Just a presence.
He sat up and scanned the room.
Everything seemed normal—except for the flicker in the corner. Just a shimmer of black, barely visible against the shadows. It wasn't there a moment ago.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared.
The flicker pulsed, then slowly took form—one of his shadows. This one was thin, stretched too tall, with no face. The air around it warped slightly, like heat coming off asphalt.
It stood silently for a long time.
Then, finally, it bowed.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
It didn't answer with words, but the intention sank into his mind like ink.
"The seal is weakening."
He frowned. "Which one?"
The shadow didn't respond.
Instead, it held out a hand.
And there, in its palm, flickered an image—brief, distorted, but unmistakable.
A city suspended in the clouds. Spires of crystal. Gates of light.
The Upper World.
He stared at the image, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"Who touched it?" he whispered.
The shadow tilted its head.
"A priest. A fool. A key."
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
Of course.
Someone had found one of the ancient seals.
One of the locks placed on his soul during his 300-year slumber.
And with every lock that broke… more of him would return.
Not the him who lived quietly, shared meals with family, or helped neighbors carry groceries.
The other one.
The one who stood atop mountains of ash and turned gods into dust.
The Devourer.
At dawn, he left the house.
Didn't bother to leave a note. He'd be back before breakfast.
Hopefully.
He moved fast, cloaked in silence, blending into shadows like they were extensions of himself.
The seal's energy was calling out—somewhere in the northeast quadrant of the city. It pulsed like a low heartbeat only he could hear.
He followed it into the ruins of a forgotten temple buried beneath an old metro line.
The place reeked of old blood and stale prayers.
Someone had tried to awaken something here. And they had failed.
Miserably.
He stepped over the charred corpses—robed acolytes, eyes burned out, fingers still twitching toward the altar.
The seal pulsed in the center of the room.
It was broken now, half-melted, the runes around it cracked like old bone. The remnants of divine magic sizzled in the air, but the glow was fading fast.
He knelt by the ruins and pressed his fingers to the charred sigil.
Pain shot through his hand.
Memory followed.
A woman's voice, soft and cold:
"This is your cage, monster. Sleep until the stars turn black."
A promise made in divine flame.
He pulled his hand back, chest tightening.
He didn't remember her face.
But the hate in her voice had left scars deeper than any blade.
Outside the temple, the sun was rising. The sky blushed red, and the wind carried a strange scent—like iron and lightning.
He didn't go home.
Instead, he walked through the city until he found himself in front of an old ramen shop tucked between two laundromats.
A bell jingled as he entered.
The place was empty except for an old man behind the counter, chopping green onions with practiced ease.
"You look like someone who's seen a ghost," the man said without looking up.
He slid onto a stool. "Worse."
"Demon?"
"Worse."
The man chuckled and poured him a bowl.
They sat in silence while he ate. The broth was hot. The noodles soft. The taste grounded him in a way nothing else did.
The old man finally leaned on the counter. "You've got that look, you know."
"What look?"
"The look of someone trying too damn hard to be normal."
He didn't respond.
"You ever think maybe you're not supposed to be?"
He paused with the chopsticks mid-air.
The old man smiled sadly. "Some people are just made different. Doesn't mean you have to be a monster. But pretending you're not something… that never ends well."
He finished the bowl, paid in silence, and left.
Outside, the wind felt colder.
The old man's words followed him long after the bell had stopped ringing.
That night, he sat on the rooftop again.
The city pulsed below him. Lives flickered in windows. Dreams hummed in the air.
He closed his eyes and reached inward.
Down past the skin. Past the blood. Past the soul.
Into the pit where the Devourer slept.
And for the first time… he stepped into it.
What he saw wasn't fire. Or torment.
It was a throne.
Floating in endless black.
And on it sat himself—barefoot, half-naked, skin cracked with glowing veins, eyes like twin suns.
He smiled when he saw his waking self.
"Finally," the throne-sitter said. "I thought you'd never come home."
He approached slowly. "I'm not here to take the crown."
The other laughed. "You already did. The moment you stopped pretending."
"I don't want to be you."
"You don't have a choice. You are me."
"I'm more than that."
The throne's eyes narrowed. "Then prove it."
Suddenly, darkness rushed toward him—an ocean of screaming voices, reaching to devour, to pull him under.
He stood his ground.
Didn't run.
Didn't hide.
He opened his arms and embraced the tide.
And for the first time, the hunger screamed his name.
He awoke with a gasp, falling from the rooftop.
He didn't hit the ground.
A shadow caught him. Lifted him back up.
He landed silently, heart hammering.
Something had changed.
He could feel it in his fingertips.
The hunger wasn't separate anymore.
It wasn't an enemy.
It was a part of him.
And now… it was listening.
In the upper world, beneath the Cloud Gates, the priests gathered.
The failed ritual had triggered alarms in the sacred stones.
The seals were weakening.
One by one.
The name passed through trembling lips like a curse:
"Kamazaki… the Devourer… has begun to stir."
And somewhere in the heavens, a bell that hadn't rung in ten millennia echoed across the stars.