The beast

In a floor above Aether's suffering, on the night of the confrontation with his mother and the meeting with the heads—

"Father is dead. Yes, he is dead. He was killed..." The voice wavers, uncertain. "Killed by whom? Yes, I wonder... Father died by someone's hand. My hand? No, that's a lie. My own father?" The voice falters again, the confusion thick in the air. "I wouldn't kill Father. Who kills their own father?"

Silence follows, unsettling and heavy.

"Unless Father lied... Yes, lying is a sin. The five major sins."

A flash—Henri's face. The moment he hits the floor. Then it's gone.

A pale hand reaches toward a sheath. The white is ordinary, not unnatural, but stark in the dim light. Fingers brush the hilt of a sword.

"Yellow," the voice murmurs, reverent. "A sin. A sin. A sin."

The sword glows faintly—its edges painted in a vibrant yellow-orange hue. Even in darkness, it glows.

Only a dying candle near the window flickers—its light the last thread keeping the void at bay.

The boy—this voice—sits in seiza, knees pressed to the wooden floor. A position of solemn preparation. The sword lies poised.

"But the quest... What of the quest? I'm speaking to someone... Am I replying? Definitely," he mutters.

His fingers curl around the hilt, drawing the blade to his chest.

His body shudders. Thoughts crush down on him. He staggers slightly—then, instead of piercing his heart, he slashes his right arm.

The blade slices flesh. He gasps—not from the pain, but from a scream that isn't his.

A memory. A farmer. Nameless. Dying.

Blood spills. A modest amount. Not fatal.

The boy lets out a jagged sound—half scream, half laughter, soaked in madness and pain. It collapses into sobbing.

His body writhes. Blood streaks the floor beneath him. He clutches his wounded arm. His voice breaks again, weaker now, desperate:

"Father! Father! Father!"

Each cry louder. Each more pained than the last.

"I didn't mean to kill you! I was taught to kill! It's not my fault!"

His screams shake the walls.

He laughs again—unhinged.

"I killed an ant! So did everyone else. Then I killed a snake—just like everyone else!"

A sharp breath.

"I killed a hawk... a great one... like anyone else..."

His voice drops to a whisper.

"Then I killed a dog... Was it then I tried to kill a monster?"

Silence.

Only his ragged breathing fills the room. Then—he speaks. A manic edge returns.

"I was taught to kill! Killing isn't a sin! I don't deserve to die! But lying is!"

His grip tightens on the bloodied sword.

It lies beside him, catching flickers of candlelight. His long black hair spreads across the floor, sweat-slick and clinging.

Tears fall, thick and hot, mixing with the blood.

"I don't want to die..." he sobs. "But he... deserved to—for lying."

The candle flickers once.

Then dies.

Darkness swallows the room. Time passes—uncounted. He lies still, wracked with pain. Slowly, trembling, he rises.

"Wait... wait a minute..."

His voice is faint, as if pulling a thought from far away.

"Who killed Father? It can't be me! A son doesn't kill his father unless asked to!"

His eyes widen.

"Henri... Henri!"

He gasps, clutching his head, realization slamming into him.

"It was him! And when I tried to save Father's severed head..."

He collapses again, screaming, gripping his hair.

His eyes—wild, bloodshot—bulge as his mind spirals.

"Why!?" he roars, slamming his fists into the floor. "Why didn't Father's armor protect him?!"

Henri. The name pulses through him like a war drum. Every nerve screams it.

"Your mother called it corruption," his father once said. "But it was just me... reminding you of what you were born from."

Elsewhere in the castle—

"I'm concerned for the heir," Wata says, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit room. His voice is cautious, hesitant.

"And?"

A woman's voice responds—cold and unyielding.

"He's supposed to be the new head," Wata continues carefully. "But as you know..."

He hesitates.

"As everyone knows, the current quest prohibits that. In ways not directly spoken."

"He killed his father," she snaps, cutting him off. Her voice brims with disdain.

"And as long as I live, he shan't be the head!"

She screams, her voice echoing through the chamber, reverberating with rage.

She sits behind a pink, translucent net. The fire crackles softly from large ornate vases at her sides. Flames dance, casting long shadows.

"I am the current head," she declares.

"I know what it means to rule. The Kokoro throne once stood surrounded by vases filled with water. Now, under my reign, they burn. Fire where peace once was. Interpret that however you wish."

Her voice sharpens.

"Ryuji's throne, should he ever claim it, will be built atop rotting corpses. The stench of death will replace these flames. And the peaceful hymns that once graced Kokoro's reign..."

She pauses, breathing deep, hands trembling on the armrests, clutching her stomach.

"It isn't his fault," she continues, softly now.

"He's broken. A shattered vase, abandoned by its sculptor. A failed creation trying to convince the world it's a masterpiece. Ryuji was taught to kill... but a head must be more than a killer. He'll never be fit to lead."

She shakes her head. The fire flares, fed by emotion.

"But he may serve... as a guard."

Her tone is final.

"When I pass, his brother shall inherit—not him."

She places a hand over her stomach. Her expression hardens.

"I will raise this one strong. Without Kokoro's guidance. Whether man or woman, as fate decides. But not here."

Her voice drops to a whisper.

"Now, leave."

Wata hesitates.

"Yes... Ma'am."

"Do not call me 'Ma'am,'" she snaps. "I am not your master. Ryuji is."

Wata bows and exits. The room remains steeped in firelight.

"These vases once held water, Ryuji. I remember that.

I burned them. I burned what was left of me," she whispers.

As sleep takes her, the words linger. Heavy with sorrow.

"It doesn't want him..."

From somewhere—no, from nowhere—the beast rose.

Not from the present, but from the past. A moment buried in a forgotten memory. It surged from the heart of a boy—once normal, untouched by cruelty.

"I came to slay you!" the boy shouted, voice trembling with fear, yet firm in resolve.

His small hands clenched, as if holding an invisible sword.

The beast—vast, ancient—regarded him with curiosity.

Its voice rumbled from deep within:

"What for, boy?"

A strange eagerness laced its tone. As if it sought something... more.

"You'll corrupt my soul! If I give you the chance!" the boy cried, eyes wide with frantic determination.

"No one wants a corruptible soul! Not even Father!"

The beast's expression shifted.

Its voice softened, yet retained its immense weight:

"People grow."

"I don't want to grow," the boy replied.

His voice trembled—not from fear, but sorrow.

A sorrow far too heavy for someone so young.

The beast said nothing.

It watched.

As the boy's resolve faltered.

As his fragile innocence stood before the unknown—afraid to move forward, yet knowing he must.