Death Match (3)
The forest bent beneath my momentum.
Vowalkers swarmed between the trees-erratic, unstable-but easy to read.
One dropped from the right branch. Before it even moved, I was already gone, pivoting on the back foot, shifting weight. My heel swept a patch of wet leaves as I spun past the first creature, its claws catching nothing but air.
The second came faster, bounding on all fours. Its frame was larger.
Larger meant unstable.
I let it come.
A low step. Left knee bent. Right palm grazing the dirt for a second to shift trajectory.
Its charge passed inches beside me-momentum it couldn't control. I used it. One push off the inside of its shoulder, and I vaulted forward through the fog.
I didn't slow. Every movement was chosen. Planted. I wasn't running-I was dismantling the path ahead of time.
The village's broken gate appeared beyond the dead trees, almost buried in the mist. I traced the safest path.
Narrow opening. Thin incline. Two more Vowalkers near the entrance, half-submerged in the ground like corpses pretending to be still.
I stepped between them without giving either a glance. They didn't react. Not fast enough.
I entered the village.
No noise followed.
Then-two impacts behind me. One light. One heavier.
The girl landed cleanly, rolling into a crouch beside a warped wall.
Matsuo's Son landed just after, less fluid-he braced on one hand to catch himself.
I didn't wait. I kept walking.
It has become normal for us, To not talk just catch our mind after escaping Vowalkers.
***
The seventh village.
It was the largest yet.
The gate no longer stood. Only the stone stumps remained-pillars that had cracked and sunken into the soil with time.
I moved forward, barefoot, the weight of each step swallowed by damp earth and scattered gravel.
Pebbles slid quietly under my feet. The ground was uneven, pitted in places where trees had once forced their way up through the stone.
Roots still wrapped around broken walls like veins hardened into fossil.
The village didn't breathe. It endured.
Houses stood on either side of the road, not whole, but not collapsed either-just leaning, exhausted.
Their roofs were warped and half-caved in, the wood rotted into a deep, bruised black. Shutters hung loose, sometimes by a single hinge, swinging just enough to creak in the wind that barely moved.
The windows had no glass-just square holes that stared out like empty sockets.
Further in, the layout widened. Roads intersected in quiet crosses, and in the center of it all stood a cracked fountain, choked with ash and dust. Statues that once guarded its edge had lost their faces-eroded smooth by time or shattered off entirely.
I could see the outline of inscriptions, but the language was dead. No one left to read it.
This place wasn't destroyed.
It had simply faded.
And even in its silence, it felt full. As if memories clung to the stones, embedded deep enough that even time couldn't wash them out.
A village untouched by war, untouched by mercy. Left to rot by something that no longer needed to kill it.
My steps echoed as I passed through the center.
Behind me, I heard them land.
The girl first, Then matuso's son.
They said nothing.
And from across the courtyard, He stepped out from a roofless building, brushing old bark from his sleeve.
He glanced around.
"Seventy houses," he said flatly. "That gives us a little over eight hours."
***
It was the largest village we'd found yet. Over eight hours-enough to settle, briefly.
The girl chose a narrow house near the center. Its walls leaned inward like they were conspiring to fall, but it still had a roof.
She sat in a corner, arms crossed over her knees, eyes half-shut but not asleep. She listened. She always listened.
Matuso's son leaned against the remains of the fountain, head tilted back. His eyes were closed, arms resting loosely at his sides.
He picked a spot close to them, beneath the arch of a broken doorway. Dust clung to his cloth, but he didn't brush it off.
His gaze swept the village once, then stopped. There was nothing to guard here. Nothing left to lose.
I walked alone through the main path. My feet no longer felt the pebbles-just the changes in texture, the small dips where rain had worn the stone smooth.
The trees outside had crept in long ago, pressing up through the cracks between homes like they were claiming what had been theirs all along.
This village wasn't different from the others.
It was just bigger.
More time to waste. More time to set the order.
When I returned, none of them spoke.
I stopped near the fountain, looked at the sky once, and then at the broken streets around us.
Eight hours. Seventy homes. No interruptions.
I sat down.
***
The wind shifted slightly.
I adjusted my sitting position-knees bent, elbows resting on them, shoulders level with the rim of the broken fountain.
We had been following the same layout for the last few days. Find a ruined village, use it to rest, then explore the surrounding forest in search of anything valuable.
Matsuo's son stayed behind in the village, serving as our communicator. His ability was simple. He could create a minimum of two, maximum of three pieces of linked paper-each functioning like a terminal. One served as the main hub, exclusive to him. The others were side-papers.
The side-papers couldn't interact directly with each other. They could only send their written messages to the main paper. It was the main paper's job to relay those messages to the others. Which is why he had to remain stationed.
Then came the girl.
Her ability... the easiest way to describe it would be this-it makes parkour easier. That's the simplest explanation without diving into specifics.
There was a catch, though. If she wanted to share that ability with someone, there had to be physical contact. A body link.
And finally, him.
The last one.
I didn't know the specifics of his ability. But I had a clue. Each day, the number of Vowalkers in our vicinity kept dropping. And they were all going after him.
It wasn't coincidence. His ability was likely some form of Vowalker magnetism. A passive attractor.
After resting, he would go one way. Matsuo's son would stay behind. And I would take the girl with me.
***
If I had to guess how this nightmare was designed, the logic was straightforward.
Imposter.
The imposter must kill everyone to unlock the system.
The rest must find the imposter-and kill him.
I am the imposter.
And the first one I intend to kill is her.
The girl.
She's a parkourist. No doubt about it.
The first time I traveled with her-connected by touch, riding her ability-I watched closely.
The way she moved... fluid. The way she bent her knees just before each leap. The way her eyes never blinked before landing. She anticipated impact, absorbed it, and transitioned without hesitation.
That was not someone adjusting to a new power. That was muscle memory-trained, reinforced, repeated over years.
Only experts move like that.
But after that day, she shifted. Her movements turned slightly rough. She blinked more often, lingered longer on branches, staggered her landings just enough to appear clumsy.
It was calculated. She was trying to blindside me.
That was her mistake.
Once you reveal something once, any attempt to hide it only makes it more visible.
My plan is simple: when we hold hands, I'll pull her in and kill her in one sweep. If she escapes... catching up would be near impossible.
I said near for a reason.
If she runs-I will dismantle her endurance. Stamina first. Then mentality. Cut off her route back to the village. Turn her desperation against her. And wear down her mind until she breaks.
Physical exhaustion won't be enough. She's too trained.
I'll make her doubt.
Twist her thoughts. Shake her certainty. Make her hesitate.
If that doesn't work, I'll take the rougher route-bring her friends into it.
He once told me they slipped during parkour.
Slipped.
That should be impossible.
Not unless she loosened her grip on purpose.
She is the most dangerous.
Which is exactly why she has to die first.
If I kill someone else first and she realizes I'm the imposter... she'll vanish. Without a trace. No footprints, no sound, nothing. She'll simply disappear into the trees.
That cannot happen.
Second will be Matsuo's son.
He's malnourished and sleep-deprived. Even if he realizes she's dead and tries to run, it's futile. He won't get far. And unlike her, he leaves footprints.
I must admit-if there's anyone whose death might stir some hint of remorse in me... it's him.
Which is precisely why I'll make it painful.
Painful enough for me to remember.
If I make it painless, I might doubt myself. And that doubt could awaken the thing that feeds on remorse.
I'm certain all of them know I'm the imposter.
But the girl and Matsuo's son-they don't know that I know they know.
I turned my gaze toward him.
The one who orchestrated all of this.
The one who stayed with me the longest.
The girl hiding her true ability after the first day... Matsuo's son avoiding asking any further questions about his father...
All of it leads back to him.
And here's the fun part, We both know everything... What this remorse eater is... And what this remose is even about.
Afterall, we both orchestred this death match against each other from the very beginning.... Both of us even know the secret behind Vowalkers.
***
It all began on the very first day.
The moment he spoke those names-Luna and Luzi-and I heard them clearly, everything shifted.
The entire framework of this nightmare, the hidden rules beneath the surface... they snapped into place.
That moment sealed everything. I didn't react outwardly. There was no need. But internally, I already knew. I understood what it meant. And more importantly-I understood what I was supposed to do.
Still...
A small part of me clung to a fragile uncertainty. So I double-checked. Quietly, without giving anything away. A small, precise test. Just enough to confirm or deny the suspicion.
And when I revisited the first message we received, I noticed it. Two Ls. Luna. Luzi. Two names starting with the same letter, both fully audible to me.
That was enough. My theory was correct once again.
If I had wanted to protect my position, I could've stayed silent. Kept the fact to myself. Never acknowledged that I could hear those names. It would've been the safe move.
But here's the part that makes this entire setup interesting-
He already knew I was the imposter.
From the beginning.
It was never about testing me. It was about forcing me to admit it.
That kind of deduction-the logic, the pattern recognition, the subtle tests-was something drilled into us before we even learned to speak in the White Room.
We were taught to see through everything. To anticipate every angle before the other person even moved. So it wasn't surprising that he picked up on it so early.
He'd figured it out from something as simple as the starting letters of their names. I don't know what the combination forms. Maybe a code. Maybe a phrase. But they know. Now every single one of them.
The most telling detail was this-they could all say my name.
That alone proved it.
The first letter of my name... K... wasn't part of the equation.
It was exclusion, subtle and absolute. A quiet disqualification from their shared understanding. They belonged to a pattern I wasn't part of.
When we relocated to that ruined house, I knew something was off. It wasn't a strategic rest point. It wasn't about safety.
He wanted to isolate me.
He wanted the space to confront me.
When he pointed the gun at me and I responded that I couldn't remember his name, I wasn't just deflecting.
I was confirming everything.
He already knew the truth. And I had just admitted it.
That place wasn't a refuge. It was the arena for silent acknowledgment.
And then... he spoke their names. Luna. Luzi.
It was a signal.
Because if I repeated those names aloud, it would mean I was no longer hiding. It would mean I had accepted his challenge. That I was stepping into the open, fully aware of the consequences.
I knew it wasn't the smart choice.
In a structure like this, where one wrong move means death, the imposter should be invisible-blending into the dark, moving through cracks and silences. I should've played it from the shadows. Waited. Observed. Let him wonder whether I knew.
But if I hadn't accepted it, I would've been hunted from the start. I would've had to stalk them in the dark while they stayed grouped, prepared, synchronized.
With someone like her among them-someone who doesn't even leave footprints-I wouldn't have lasted.
So I made the call.
I said the names out loud.
Luna. Luzi.
I accepted the challenge.
I only did it because, back then, I still believed that each of us had different bodies.
But I was wrong.
The moment I stepped outside, just as I was preparing to leave, he reached out and grabbed my wrist.
And I froze.
It wasn't the pressure of the grip that stopped me.
It was the realization.
His body hadn't changed.
But the moment he touched mine-he knew.
He could feel the difference. The bone structure. The texture. The lack of familiarity.
He knew immediately that I wasn't in my original body.
He knew I was possessing someone else's.
That single moment undid everything I had tried to conceal.
Now he had the upper hand.
He had my profile. He knew my body wasn't physically strong. He knew that my ability to rally or manipulate the others was compromised.
Why compromised? If I had tried to build a revolt... He could just explain the pattern to them.
He knew he could control the information flow, and that I couldn't match him in a direct verbal confrontation regarding others-not without giving up even more.
He now had everything he needed.
And I had just exposed myself.
***
I've been thinking.
There's something fundamentally flawed about the structure of this nightmare.
Imposter versus group.
According to normal logic, the imposter must kill everyone else. And in turn, the others must identify and kill the imposter.
It's the classic asymmetric format. Normally, in such a setup, the imposter is balanced-given some advantage in strength, knowledge, or tools to offset being outnumbered.
But that doesn't apply to me.
Not even close.
Physically, I'm underwhelming. And I don't mean that in the usual comparative sense.
At my peak-age thirteen, just before the White Room shut down-I could dismantle trained adults in seconds.
That version of me would've completed this trial before the first sunset.
But when I was seventeen, during my time at ANHS, I was already far from that level. My body was restrained, weaker, dulled by long periods of civilian life. Still effective-but no longer extraordinary.
And this current body...
This isn't even close.
It's degraded-atrophied. As if it hasn't been exercised in years. The muscle structure is inefficient. Movement patterns are clumsy, poorly conditioned. There's no precision in motion, no instinctive response.
This is not the body of an imposter selected to face a five-against-one.
This is the body of a liability.
That's the first inconsistency.
Then there's the mental aspect.
This place... it's not just physical. The nightmare manipulates thoughts. It interferes with cognition-constantly nudging hesitation into places where none should exist. Doubt creeps in without cause. And delusion, quiet and slow, builds in the cracks left behind.
It's subtle at first-until it isn't.
I noticed it when my grip loosened around her wrist. My fingers hesitated. The body responded as if it wanted to hold on, not pull away. As if it didn't want her to go.
That's not me.
That's not how I think.
So I drew the only conclusion that made sense: the body is not only physically weak-it's mentally compromised.
If she tries to escape, I can't just chase her. I'll have to destroy her mentally.
Break her confidence. Manipulate her until this body can no longer find any reason to hesitate.
Until it stops acting on its own.
And even if I succeed... what happens when I wake up?
That's the next question.
I don't expect to return to the world I knew.
If anything, I suspect the opposite.
Either the world I knew has already changed-or I've been relocated entirely. A different world. One governed by different rules.
Why?
Because of the pattern.
This entire nightmare feels engineered.
Like something-or someone-is trying to process me. Reshape me. And it all points back to one thing:
The remorse eater.
A concept I've been circling for some time now.
It explains the presence of him.
It explains Matsuo's son.
They weren't just randomly placed here-they were chosen. They represent remnants. Pieces of unfinished history. Regrets I didn't address. Situations left unresolved.
This world is trying to consume that.
It wants to devour every sliver of remorse left in me. Strip it away before I'm moved to whatever comes next.
But if that was truly the goal... it could've done so through far simpler methods.
A conversation. A memory trial. Anything structured.
Instead, I was given this.
A battlefield. A system built to isolate me. One that intentionally suppresses my advantages and amplifies my faults.
I can't even comprehend their abilities. I can't hold their names in memory. Every time I try, the sound slips into static.
But they can speak freely. Move freely. Use abilities. Access the system. Even their bodies are fully theirs.
That asymmetry isn't just unfair.
It's deliberate.
This isn't a game where I'm one of the players.
This is the first trial.
And I am the player.
They're part of the system.
That much is clear.
They operate with no restrictions. No hesitation. No friction between thought and action. No fog.
They are allowed to function.
I am not.
Which leads to one final possibility-one theory that binds all of this together:
What if I'm the only real one here?
What if they aren't people at all?
Cheap imitations. Constructed obstacles. Echoes of figures from my past... with just enough detail to manipulate me.
This would explain why everything is stacked against me.
Why their logic flows cleanly while mine stalls.
Why I fight alone-while they move as if guided.
What if this nightmare was never meant to be fair?
What if it was only meant to evaluate me?
One candidate. One trial. One real existence.
And illusions sent to break it.
***
Huff... huff...
My breathing was shallow, muscles tightening with every motion.
Across from me, he stood completely still. He was now calm and steady, he knew way before me that he is just an illusion.
He began to raise his hands.
Deliberate. Slow. As if the world itself was waiting for them to meet.
Fingers open, palms angled just slightly.
I didn't move.
Then, right before they touched, he spoke.
His voice didn't shake.
"Why am I just an illusion?"
The words lingered. Not dramatic-just... final.
And then-he clapped.
A sharp, precise sound. Clean.
The ground responded first.
A jolt beneath my feet. Not violent. Not chaotic. Just a shiver-subtle enough that only someone standing perfectly still would have felt it.
Then came the sound. Low at first. A groan from the earth, as though something ancient beneath the village had started turning in its sleep.
Wooden beams cracked. Stone shifted.
And then everything gave way.
The nearest house collapsed in on itself, roof folding like it had lost the will to stand. A plume of dust burst out from the windows as the walls caved inward, dragging rusted metal and clay down in a messy spiral. Then another. And another.
Dominoes.
The entire village began crumbling around us, structures vanishing beneath the weight of their own rot. The air turned thick with powdered stone and plaster, stinging my throat as I tried to breathe.
I didn't flinch, currently flinching meant letting my guard down.
Even as the sky dimmed under the rising dust.
Even as the walls of the world fell apart one by one.
I simply watched-burning lungs, slow pulse, dirt settling into the folds of my skin-and kept watching him.
***
The village finnally finished collapsing.
Its bones cracked inward, one ruin at a time. Ash clouded the air. The last remnants of stone and timber vanished into dust.
The Vowalkers reacted violently. Their shrieks tore through the stillness like blades, filled with frustration and rage. Some clawed at the ground, others pressed forward only to hesitate at the edge of the clearing. But none crossed the threshold.
Not a single one dared step between us.
He'd trained them with precision, not just like soldiers-but like animals. Conditioned. Bound by an unspoken order. Their restraint wasn't respect. It was fear. They wouldn't move unless he allowed it.
And he didn't.
That alone said more than anything else could.
Did he give up on facing the Remorse Eater? That was the question gnawing at the edge of everything.
Was that what all of this was for?
To hold the line, to stall, to bury something deeper beneath the illusion?
Maybe he thought this was enough. Maybe part of him believed that if he just kept me here, even as an illusion, it would change the outcome.
But even now-after all that's happened-he still believes he's at a disadvantage.
And I can feel it. His hesitation.
Which makes no sense on the surface.
Because I'm the one bleeding, a slow, warm ache spreading through my left side.
Every breath scrapes against broken tissue.
My legs are slow to respond, slower still to recover between steps. My thoughts feel thick, slowed by exhaustion, and I'm surrounded on all sides with nowhere to run if he presses forward.
Every movement costs more now.
And yet in his mind, I'm still the threat.
He understands the cost of waiting. He knows that the longer he stands still, the more time I get to adjust-to let my lungs settle, to shake off the weight, to find the smallest advantage again. Even seconds matter in this state.
So he begins walking.
Not quickly. Not with a rush of anger or urgency. But deliberately. With purpose.
There's nothing left to say. Not between us.
We already understand everything that needs to be understood. Every move, every scar, every choice-it's already been accounted for.
This is the last thing left.
The end that was always meant to happen.... We both knew this from the very beginning.
***
The moment his foot shifted, I moved.
He lunged with a straight punch-Kyokushin form, tight from the hips, knuckles turned just enough to sell commitment. It looked fast. Sharp. Deadly.
But the line was wrong.
Too smooth. Too centered. Like it wanted me to see it coming.
A bait.
I stepped in-not away. No retreat, no dodge. I tilted right and entered the punch's path, letting it slide past my shoulder by a margin no wider than a breath. I didn't need to evade. I needed proximity.
He seized it.
Both hands locked behind my neck. Forearms wedged tight. Muay Thai clinch-pure leverage. I felt the pull, direct, as he tried to break my posture and open the line for a knee.
I didn't resist it directly. That would be wasteful.
Instead, I dropped my weight. Bent the knees, folded the spine, let my center fall beneath his.
My right hand curved around his wrist and turned outward-Aikido tenkan, smooth redirection. It took nothing but the right angle to dismantle the hold.
He didn't force it. He spun with it.
He pivoted, circling to my side, arm wrapping behind my head. Hips rotated in front of mine.
Koshi Guruma.
A shoulder-hip throw. He had the position, and his stance was low. Just a small shift and I'd be airborne.
I broke the rhythm.
Moved my hips back half a step-subtle, but enough. His hip didn't catch mine. The throw lost its spine.
He adjusted instantly.
His grip slid from my head to my arm. Yanked it sharply across his body-an arm drag. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. He wanted my back.
I clamped my elbow in tight to my ribs, rotated outward and slightly down. His hand lost purchase, slipped off.
But not before brushing the side of my torso.
The right side.
I felt the contact-not pain exactly, but something slower, heavier. A dragging warmth across tissue that wasn't moving as cleanly as it should.
Old damage. Not fatal. But felt.
He knew it too.
He didn't press. Not yet.
Instead, he circled again. Palm strike-vertical, close range. Wing Chun, no windup. He tapped the same side, just enough to check for resistance.
I let it land.
Leaned into it slightly. Disguised the favoring of the rib.
It wasn't enough.
The next attack came before I fully resettled. A downward elbow-snapped from above without warning. Krav Maga. Direct. Merciless. Aimed for the base of my skull.
I dipped under it. Dropped and spun. One step turn, narrow pivot. As I rotated, my right foot planted and the left whipped behind-a Taekwondo hook kick, fast and wide.
He didn't block.
He stepped forward into the arc, catching my thigh mid-swing. Wrestling grip. Low center. He shifted to a single-leg takedown almost instantly, weight pressing forward.
I grounded my other foot. Brought the balance back. Held frame.
But his knee came up with no delay.
Clean. Fluid. A classic Muay Thai knee, same side.
It hit.
I tried to roll with it. Absorb. Redirect. But it still landed. It pushed air from my lungs-not violently, just enough to disrupt the flow.
My right arm dropped with it, driving an elbow down into the top of his thigh. Sambo strike-disruptive more than damaging.
He shifted just enough to soften it.
But his hand caught my wrist. Pulled it outward, rotated the joint back toward my shoulder. A standing shoulder lock-Jiu Jitsu again. The kind that ends in a break if held too long.
I didn't fight it head-on.
I dropped forward into a roll, using the torque to escape. My shoulder twisted, pressure spilling across the blade, but I followed the motion through and let the floor meet me.
The impact stung. Low shock through the ribs. I kept moving-rolled once, rose.
He rose with me.
Faster.
Not by much. But enough to notice.
My breath lagged a moment. Just one count off-beat. Chest tight, not from panic-just the edges of fatigue beginning to thread through the motion. Nothing visible. But I could feel the tempo drifting.
He advanced again, arms open, hands rotating with the waist-Bagua style. Circular pressure. Meant to uproot.
I slid around it, using tight footwork and precision steps. No break in spacing. No misstep. But I had to measure the angle more carefully than before.
He spun into a ridge-hand chop from above-Karate influence. My left arm rose and caught it at the forearm.
But his leg was already rising from below.
Savate. Low line. Heel cut in sharply.
Same ribs.
I stepped forward into the path-blunted the force by closing distance early. Still connected. Still pulsed through the side like a dull iron weight.
But I was in now. Too close for him to finish cleanly.
My hand cupped behind his knee, and I dropped again. Drove my elbow into the inside of his thigh-a Systema percussion strike, sharp and vertical.
His leg faltered slightly.
I came up with it. My palm rose like a spear beneath his chin. Jeet Kune Do-short and vertical, meant to shake the brain in place.
He pulled back at the last moment. It didn't land full.
But his guard dipped.
And the line opened.
I planted both feet. Fully rotated from the hips.
One clean cross.
Boxing form. Center mass. Precision only.
It landed in his solar plexus.
He exhaled, hard. The hit didn't throw him. But it forced him back. Three full steps.
He didn't fall.
Neither did I advance.
I stepped back too. Matched his retreat. Three paces. Deliberate. Controlled. But the truth was-I needed it.
Each of his attacks had forced movement out of me. Not raw exertion, but directional pressure.
Most of his strikes weren't meant to land clean; they were meant to guide my body. Redirect it. Draw it.
And they had.
Every pivot, every evasion, every counter-I had to shift weight, adjust posture, re-center balance. It was starting to build. Not enough to hinder me fully, not yet. But the tempo... it was shifting. Each adjustment now required just a little more force than the last. A little more calculation. A little more breath.
Worse still-he had fully committed to a side.
The right.
Every strike, every angle-his setups all looped back to my injured flank. He wasn't reckless about it, either. He didn't strike it constantly. That would've been transparent. Obvious. Easy to adjust for.
No-he used it like a center of gravity, drawing me into patterns that made it harder to protect.
The Wing Chun palm hadn't been a strike-it was a probe. The Krav Maga elbow afterward was the real intention.
The Savate kick had landed not because it was fast, but because he used the ridge-hand feint to force my block high. That forced me to lean-just slightly. Which shifted my ribs forward. Which made the kick land deeper.
Even the Muay Thai knee-it hadn't been thrown with killing intent. Just enough power to break rhythm. Dislodge control.
He was testing. Measuring. Seeing how far I could rotate on my right before it disrupted my base. Seeing how wide I could extend without compromising my core.
He was building a map.
Not of my technique-but of my limitations.
And I had given him data.
Not through mistakes. Through necessity. My only optimal counters had been ones that required exertion.
Ones that pulled energy. The hook kick. The roll. The elbow from a downward angle. All of them required motion that originated from the right. All of them stung-not sharply, but enough.
It had been enough for him to sense the strain.
So now he used it.
With each exchange, he made sure I had to move more than him.
Even when I landed the cross to his solar plexus-a clean, textbook blow-he didn't fall. He didn't even drop. He staggered. He reset. And then made me do the same.
Because while I had landed a strike, he had landed control.
He had stolen momentum by making me earn it.
That was the quiet danger of it.
He wasn't trying to win through domination.
He was trying to win through attrition.
Through tempo.
Through precision.
And if I let that pattern continue-if I let him decide the pace-I'd bleed seconds. Not in my body. In my rhythm. And when the tempo is taken, the rest follows.
I inhaled. Deep. Through the nose.
Not ragged. Not gasping.
But slower than before.
He had seen it. I didn't need to look. I knew. His stance was looser now. Not lazy-just waiting. The arms weren't tensed. The shoulders hung evenly. He wanted the next exchange to come from me.
Because if I moved first-he could shape the next dozen.
He'd thread in a reaction, stretch my angles, keep circling the injury like a drain circling water. Not striking with force. But intent. Calculation. Enough to make each motion longer than it had to be. More draining. More telling.
He was building the frame.
Trying to dictate where I'd have to go before I moved at all.
And I knew that. He knew I knew.
But that didn't stop him.
Because that was the exchange now. Not a contest of speed or power-just patience. One waiting for the other to commit first, not out of fear, but necessity.
I could feel it now, just under the ribs-a tightening that hadn't been there before. Breaths still clean, but the diaphragm pulled tighter with each one. Less elasticity. The blood loss wasn't fatal. But it was starting to whisper.
This body... it really is weaker than his.
Not flawed. Just not made for strain.
Still.
I'm going to give him what he wants.
Let him see exactly what he expects.
I wonder how far this body can actually be pushed. How much edge it has hidden beneath the timing. Beneath the blood.
Will I be able to end him before it collapses?
Or will this body catch fatigue one step too soon?
Either way-
I'm going to find out.
đšđš
Ayanokouji took a step forward.
His bare foot pressed into the dust with quiet finality, toes splaying slightly as they settled, grounding his weight.
The earth was dry and warm beneath his skin, but there was no comfort in it-only friction, and the sensation of movement beginning.
Shirou mirrored him.
Perfectly.
His posture adjusted down to the angle of the ankle, the subtle inward roll of the sole. A dance without music. A rhythm only they could hear.
The distance between them didn't shrink. It tensed. Like a wire drawn too tight.
The air turned from still to something almost tactile-thick with the pressure of possibilities. Not anticipation. Not fear. Just calculation held in equilibrium.
Neither blinked.
There was no signal. No need to tell anything. No breath wasted. Just two figures stripped of context, barefoot beneath a dying sky, waiting to see who would claim the next heartbeat.
A flicker.
Shirou's hand rose.
Only two fingers lifted-delicate, precise, as if he were adjusting a scalpel rather than initiating an attack. The thumb cocked back into place with a grace that felt unnatural, almost ceremonial.
A finger gun.
Not a threat. Not a bluff. Just a gesture honed by ritual. Drawn in silence, as if it had always been meant to exist in this moment.
But even before it fully formed, Ayanokouji was already moving.
Not in response.
As if synchronized from the start, his body slipped into action like a second hand passing a minute-inevitable, smooth, without resistance.
His right hand slid beneath the folds of his cloth, his movements devoid of urgency. Not a draw. Not a reach. Just motion-slow enough to be mistaken for nothing, fast enough that it mattered.
He wasn't grabbing a weapon.
What emerged from beneath the fabric wasn't steel, or stone, or anything with a hilt.
It was something far older.
A blackened shard-jagged, warped, thick at the base, tapering into a broken claw point. The surface was uneven, like bone that had been melted and then frozen mid-scream.
It did not belong in a human hand.
He had taken it from the first Vowalker he ever killed.
A creature that moved as if its own body rebelled against being whole-its claws pulsing in and out of flesh like muscle memory gone wrong.
He remembered standing in the rain, breath fogging, watching them retract and extend again. Like a heartbeat. Like a reflex. Something sick and involuntary.
And he'd thought only one thing
That can work.
He had waited until it stopped twitching. Then, alone in the night, he'd knelt by its corpse. Picked up a stone. And broken off the claws-one by one.
There had been no firelight. No victory. Just blood and rain.
Six nails.
Hardened. Carved down in silence. Heavy enough to anchor, sharp enough to pierce bone.
He had kept them.
For when precision mattered more than power.
The first nail slipped between his fingers like it belonged there. He didn't wind up. Didn't tense. He simply released.
It shot out like a snapped tendon, a blur too fast to follow. The motion was invisible-the sound was not. A faint crack split the air, high-pitched and hollow.
Shirou's finger gun fired.
There was no spark, no flare. Just a sudden pulse of green-thin, coiled, wet. A vine lashed out from his hand, coalescing mid-air like breath turning to ice.
It cracked through the silence, carving its own path with the sound of wet rope unspooling.
The nail and vine collided in a blink.
No explosion. Just recoil-raw and sharp. The impact wasn't thunder-it was closer to tearing silk, or peeling skin too fast.
Both projectiles spiraled away, skipping across the air like skipped stones in opposite directions, carving lines into the tension.
Still, neither of them stopped.
Shirou's wrist flexed, eyes already tracking-searching Ayanokouji's weight, his next angle, calculating the reach of his balance. But Ayanokouji wasn't where he was supposed to be.
He had already shifted forward.
Not toward Shirou-but toward the falling nail. The first one. Still spinning in its descent, a glint of black tumbling in slow, unpredictable arcs.
His body folded low, bare soles pushing off the ground with near-silent grip. Dirt shifted beneath his toes as he lunged-not just toward the nail, but into a perfect intercept.
He was going to catch it.
Shirou read it.
And he moved.
From within his own cloth, he withdrew a claw. Not a forged replica. Not imitation.
A real Vowalker nail. Dark, heavy, still bearing the faint ridges of something once alive.
He threw it-not forward. Not at Ayanokouji's chest or head.
He threw it behind him. One pace off.
Because he understood.
He understood that Ayanokouji would expect a direct throw. That he'd spin to counter.
That the moment just after that spin-when his posture was halfway between offense and reset-was the only moment his defense would open.
And Ayanokouji did spin.
Heel turning in dust. Cloth catching wind. Arm rising with uncanny speed, another nail already in hand.
But he didn't throw it perfectly. Not from the center of his motion.
Just above.
Subtle. Intentional.
The nail Shirou had thrown tore through the exact height of Ayanokouji's optimal throw point-slicing past the air where his wrist should have been. It missed by less than a second.
Ayanokouji had anticipated Shirou's anticipation.
His nail flew.
Shirou bent-just barely. The projectile skimmed past his face, grazing cheekbone, tearing a thin line through skin. A line of blood beaded, slow and red against the pale of his face.
Still, it wasn't over.
Ayanokouji didn't slow.
His weight shifted down, spine folding like a drawn bow. The first nail-now tumbling just above him-dropped.
He caught it mid-stride.
His fingers snapped around it with surgical precision, as if he'd been waiting for the timing all along.
And without pause, he threw it again.
This time, with everything behind it.
No arc. No feint. Just raw, honed trajectory.
Shirou ducked-but only just in time. The nail screamed past his shoulder, the tip shaving cloth from his sleeve. A fraction slower, and it would've split skin.
And by then, Ayanokouji was already there.
The ground pressed back against ayanokouji's soles. His legs bent, the motion coiled and predatory. His eyes were empty-flat, unreadable.
No thrill.
No anger.
No joy.
Just purpose.
Just speed.
And now-
Now it was Ayanokouji's turn to strike.
đšđš
Now it was my turn to strike.
The distance between us collapsed-not in a rush, but in fractions, tension bleeding from each step.
I didn't sprint. I unfolded. The ground caught my weight without complaint. He shifted to meet it, knees softening, hands loose-waiting.
His index finger lifted.
Not toward my center-just off. Enough to register in the corner of the eye. The thumb cocked back, smooth and slow.
Finger gun.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
A signal.
He wasn't aiming. He was waiting to see what I'd do to that.
I gave him nothing.
My steps continued without adjustment. My right hand stayed low, fingers closing around a nail-not raised, not shown. Just held, tucked against the inside of my palm like a curved fang waiting for skin.
He twitched.
Too late.
I stepped in, just outside his lead foot, body folding inward. A tight, compressed entry-similar to Sanda, but grounded in boxing angles.
Head off-center, shoulder turned, ribs veiled behind the elbow. My plan wasn't impact. It was placement.
His finger flinched again-and fired.
A vine snapped forward-not long. Just a coil, spit from the knuckle like a live tendon. It flickered green and wet in the corner of my eye, aiming not for my face or chest, but my thigh.
To trip.
To pause.
To bait a counterbalance.
I didn't swat it. I stepped past it-left foot narrowly slicing inside his stance, allowing the vine to graze the fabric at my hip without catching.
I stabbed upward from the blind angle, no rear hand to telegraph, just a rising thrust aimed directly beneath the armpit-soft tissue, nerve cluster, quick bleed.
A Systema insertion, built off angle and rhythm disruption.
But his shoulder dipped.
Too early.
He had already begun to turn before I moved.
Not an evasion-a trade.
His off-hand rose from below, palm open, fingers slightly curled. He was holding a nail-but not throwing it.
He slapped my wrist.
Redirect. Just enough to shave the trajectory by a few centimeters. The point missed ribs. Glanced off the lat. Drew blood, not damage.
Then came the real attack.
He was inside my reach, wrist still touching mine-and his index flicked up, middle finger braced beneath it.
Another shot.
Point-blank.
This time, he didn't aim for a trip or a check.
He aimed for my wound.
The vine fired with no flare. No drama.
Just speed.
I moved before the pain hit.
Back knee dropped, spine torqued to the left, arm wrapped around the shoulder as I spun out-a Baguazhang step, circular exit with negative pressure, designed to carry me off the centerline while dragging his balance forward.
The vine caught nothing but wind.
But the twist cost me.
My ribs compressed-wrong. The tissue along my side pulled unevenly. Not tearing, but close. A hot pulse pushed through the wound. My breath caught-not broken, but no longer invisible.
He heard it.
His eyes sharpened.
His knee rose, tight arc.
Muay Thai.
But he wasn't trying to land it-he was drawing the guard. My elbow dropped instinctively to catch it, and as it landed-a muted thud, not dangerous-his arm came over the top.
Elbow slash. Vertical. Krav Maga.
Except... not really.
I didn't block it.
Because I saw the other hand move.
Not the elbow.
The finger.
He faked the elbow to force the angle-his finger gun raised again, this time with a nail already in the grip. He fired it point-blank, not with a vine, but pure velocity-a deadweight spike hurled straight at my face.
I bent low-deep, instinctual squat, the kind wrestlers use to reset base-and the nail passed within a finger's width of my temple.
The air whined.
He reached for my neck.
He thought I'd stay crouched-try for a takedown.
I didn't.
I came up with a twist, dragging my rear leg through with torque, Muay Thai-style, but my lead hand wasn't empty anymore.
The nail I'd drawn at the start? Still there. Still sheathed in my palm.
I punched-but the blow was a lie.
The strike was an arc. From temple to collarbone. The real attack was the tip of the nail, half-hidden in the shadow of my knuckles, angled upward for a shallow but cutting slash.
He raised both arms to cover. Classic high shell-forearms tight.
Too tight.
The nail caught his left arm, shaved skin.
Not deep. But it drew blood.
He answered immediately.
His knee rose again, but this time his foot didn't lower.
He jumped.
A flying knee?
No.
He twisted in mid-air, body rotating sideways, and his arm lashed out-a thrown nail aimed downward, toward my upper thigh, meant to pin or bleed.
I caught it on reflex.
Palm open, fingers slapping around the shaft before it embedded.
But that meant both my hands were now full.
His heel dropped behind the throw-a Savate hook kick, turning his airborne posture into a weaponized descent. Aimed not for the head-but my wounded side again.
I raised the captured nail and jammed it downward-not at him, but into the earth.
Leverage.
I pulled against it, anchoring my body just enough to twist-not away, but in.
The kick landed. But not flush.
My arm blocked it low, and the force translated through the forearm, into the nailed-down brace point. Still hurt. Still moved me.
But not enough to take control.
He landed hard, one step behind.
Too close.
I spun.
Again.
A wide, deliberate arc-but only from the torso. My hips didn't turn. The motion suggested a spinning back elbow.
He raised both arms again to cover.
So I stabbed from below.
Short arc. Knife grip. The third nail was already drawn.
The angle went under the arms, low toward the floating ribs-his this time.
He barely twisted in time.
But I felt the nail drag.
Cloth tore. Resistance gave. I didn't see blood, but I knew it landed.
He disengaged for the first time.
Two quick steps back.
I let him take them.
I needed the space.
My arm lowered, trembling-not from fear, but from force. The angle of the last stab had rotated directly from my injured side, and now, even breathing felt deliberate. Managed.
No wheeze. No collapse.
But the air no longer came free.
He stood across from me again-expression unreadable, blood trailing in a thin line down his forearm.
His fingers curled, slow.
Another finger gun forming.
He was going to test me again.
Not with force.
With rhythm.
Because that was how he fought-not to kill in one stroke, but to shape the fight around the cut that already existed.
He could sense it.
That I was faster.
Cleaner.
But bleeding.
And with each breath-
I had to wonder:
Was it pain I was ignoring?
Or was it control that was slipping?
He took a half step forward.
And smiled.
No joy.
Just understanding.
He was going to keep circling the drain.
And I was standing in it.
This is fun.
***
He stepped in-not fast, but full-bodied, like someone willing to lose balance just to provoke it in me.
The weight transferred clean-heel to ball, the hip trailing just enough to hint threat without revealing range. He was playing depth now, not speed.
Then the hand came up again.
Two fingers, thumb cocked lazily. The barrel didn't face me. It dropped-angled, diagonal across his own thigh, as if pointing at something beneath the floor.
Not a shot. Not yet. A signal.
I didn't follow it. Focused instead on the arch of his back heel-half-lifted, too light for real pressure. He wasn't committing. He was watching for flinch.
I gave him nothing.
But my ribs betrayed me. The breath that slipped in twisted under the tear just below the side-pulling skin, twitching the muscle.
He saw it.
His next step compressed space in a snap. No weight load-up. Just sudden entry-close, shallow steps gliding across ground like a fencer narrowing range without ever exposing the chest. His stance wasn't traditional; it was bent inward-like a boxer pinched forward, arms tight, elbows ghosting his ribs.
His hand was armed. A nail, hidden inside the line of his forearm. Blade grip. Flat to wrist.
He didn't strike. Just brushed shoulder to shoulder-a passing angle that almost looked like disengagement.
But from that angle, the wrist rotated subtly. A cut lashed out-horizontal, aimed for my throat.
I dropped the spine.
Didn't crouch-just folded everything downward, pulled the chin tight to the collar, and sank the weight. Enough to let it whistle past skin. I turned inside the space, slipped to his outside, reached low for the ankle.
He let me catch it.
Too easy.
The finger gun fired-now hovering directly above my head.
A vine lashed down.
It wasn't powerful. But sharp. Sudden.
A tether to hold me still for the next strike.
I felt his other arm rise-nail inverted, tip low, carving in toward my back.
I spun-not back. Side-roll, under the planted foot, pivoting around his knee in a tight BJJ curl. The blade slipped past the ribs, grazing skin.
But the vine didn't retract.
It twisted-midair-and wrapped clean around my left arm. Tight. A noose cinched on instinct.
Then it yanked.
I caught myself, barely-planted the free hand, but the pull threw my hips off axis. Something in my side tugged again-deeper. Wet heat pushed into cloth. No time to check.
He stepped in hard.
No style.
Just raw intent.
A heel came down-straight for the base of my spine.
I rolled. Blind. My hand caught a loose nail-gripped it mid-motion-and slashed upward, diagonal, not to hit but to break range.
He slipped it.
Didn't retreat. Didn't slow.
Both hands moved.
Finger gun above, nail below.
A cross-pressure feint. One to draw vision. One to cut.
I tracked the top hand instinctively-only for the bottom blade to score across my thigh.
Not deep. But enough.
I threw my shoulder into his core. No punch. Just structure-Kyokushin body ram. Hip-line driving forward.
He didn't fall.
He wrapped around me-both arms behind the back. Locked.
Then his leg rose, caught my thigh from inside, and lifted.
Uchi mata.
I felt the floor leave me.
No time to prepare. Just twisted-force-fed rotation. Hips turned hard, shoulder dipped.
I hit the ground-back first. Air rattled loose. But both nails still in hand.
He followed-knee crashing downward.
I caught it.
Forearms locked beneath his thigh. Blade edges flattened just in time. He dropped weight.
Then came the elbow-sharp, point-first, like Krav Maga, no build-up. Just collapse.
I raised mine. Not to strike. To intercept. The bone clashed. Shock blasted through the joint. My ears rang.
But I pulled him in.
Grabbed the moment-turned the clash into leverage. Rolled again. Hooked his waist with my forearm, dragged him off balance into my blind side.
We separated.
But I came up slower.
My breath stuttered. Blood had soaked enough that the cloth clung now-wet, adhesive. Every twist tugged at it. My left leg didn't lift clean-it dragged half a frame behind.
He saw it.
And this time-he didn't fake.
He rushed.
Blade reversed-icepick grip. Lead hand shaped into a low palm, angled up-a distraction.
I read it.
Swatted the palm with my elbow, snapped my wrist to catch the blade-hand mid-rise.
He didn't fight it.
He spun with the contact-Systema spiral, using my own lock as anchor.
Mid-turn, the blade flipped grip again-now stabbing, forward grip.
I shifted grip-wedged my nail under his wrist. Knife-to-knife. Edge to edge. Neither one slicing.
He leaned in.
Breath hot on my jaw. Weight pressing forward.
His finger twitched-fired again.
The vine streaked up-aimed dead center for my eyes.
I tore backward-shoved out of the bind, nothing clean about it.
The vine missed.
But I'd given up space. I was off-balance. He wasn't.
He followed.
The next cut caught my right arm. A shallow drag-but enough to feel skin open.
I countered.
Slashed forward-hips driving a horizontal angle, snapping the torso behind it.
He dropped-ducked under. The finger gun jabbed into my ribs. This time, no vine. Just pressure.
He was baiting response. Drawing tension into my core.
The trap was setting.
He was going for the next kill.
I could feel it.
?!
This body is at it's limit.
***
I was fading. Not mentally. Physically.
My knee wasn't snapping back as fast as it should. Every time I threw a kick or rotated through a pivot, there was a drag-just a quarter-beat late-right at the joint where my hip flexor cinched against my thigh.
My left shoulder kept locking near the top of its rotation. The bleeding on my side had numbed into a radiating warmth, but it was leeching strength every minute.
And he saw it.
He came in low, step shifting diagonally across my centerline. The motion was classic Silat-he wasn't attacking head-on, but flowing around the axis of my stance.
His elbow came forward in a spearing line, driving straight toward my ribs. In Silat, that elbow isn't just a strike; it's a wedge.
The point isn't just to hurt-it's to displace, to break the opponent's structure before they can counter.
I caught it with my forearm, but the impact still forced my torso sideways.
He didn't stop. That same leg rotated around my support foot. A sweep. He dropped his weight into the hook to harvest my balance while his upper body leaned away, arms ready to post.
A clean trap: upper pressure to load my weight, leg to rip it out from underneath.
I shifted my balance to my rear leg and hopped-pivoting with a Capoeira-style negativa, letting my upper body swing down low as my leg cleared the hook.
My footing was shaky when I landed. The sweat on the stone floor didn't help.
He pressed forward instantly. No room. He knew I couldn't breathe.
He feinted a jab, but his rear hand came up-the index and thumb formed that shape again.
Finger gun.
The gesture itself had no sound. But it carried weight now. A pressure. I ducked slightly, expecting him to fire. He did.
The vine shot was fast, linear, straight at my neck. I twisted with a quick Tai Sabaki pivot, letting it shear across my collarbone.
A graze. But he'd closed the gap already.
This time he used Jeet Kune Do principles. Short strikes, zero telegraphing.
His rear elbow slammed forward. I brought both arms in to cover, but he didn't commit. That elbow was just the first beat of a chain.
His lead leg shot up in a snapping Taekwondo cut kick, knee high, shin flat. The kick wasn't meant to damage-it was a stop hit, to intercept my footwork if I tried to step out.
I took the impact on my thigh and pivoted in closer-trying to clinch. But even that was bait.
He'd anticipated it.
His body turned-just enough-and his rear knee came up vertically. It wasn't fast. It didn't need to be. A Muay Thai straight knee: up the center, meant to break structure.
He timed it right as I leaned forward.
I bent backward and stepped out of the clinch, slipping under his grip. My back was damp, jacket clinging to skin.
Then his hand moved.
Not high. Not to feint. Low.
No flourish. Just a flick.
A nail.
I saw the edge a heartbeat late. The attack wasn't aimed for my core-just wide, meant to cut near the cheek. I didn't dodge.
I leaned into it.
The blade bit into the side of my head. Warm blood trailed across my temple, into my brow. I felt it. Registered it. Filed it away.
Because my hand was already moving.
I dropped my elbow down and inside, wedging his tricep up as my right hand slid low, drawing my own nail under cover of motion. My hip rotated-not for power, but for angle. It placed my centerline just outside his, so when he shifted guard instinctively to shield his ribs-
I cut.
The nail didn't aim for power.
It angled inâa shallow arc under the eye line, the edge dragging across the skin just above the right brow, precise and controlled. No hook. No follow-through.
Just a grazing slice, the type honed not for pain, but for consequence.
He didn't react.
Not yet.
đšđš
The first sign was faint. A narrow line bloomed beneath the cutâbarely a glimmer at first, as though the skin were simply reflecting light. But then it thickened.
Blood gathered at the edges of the wound, pooling with the weight of capillary pressure. Not a burst. A build. Slow, steady, and inevitable.
It welled up.
From the center of the slice, two tiny rivulets formedâmerging into one as they traced downward. The line deepened with every heartbeat, fed by the rich vascular bed above the eye. It didn't pulse, but it didn't stop. It simply kept coming.
A thin, unbroken thread ran down the right side of his face, past the brow, toward the lid.
Then it made contact with the lashes.
And that was when it started to matter.
His right eye blinked, twiceâquick, involuntary. The lashes, slick with blood now, caught the flow just long enough to let it creep into the eye itself.
The sting hit an instant later. Not blinding. But intrusive.
He twitched.
His head shifted slightly left, subtly trying to realign his dominant field of view. The shoulder underneath that eye stiffened. His jaw shifted. His fingers curled tighter around the grip of the nail still in handâtight enough to signal reaction, not intention.
And then his hand rose.
It wasn't planned. That much was obvious.
He wiped at the brow with the back of his wrist, smearing the blood but doing little to stop the continuous trail.
The wound wasn't deep, but it was placed just enough into the brow ridge to keep bleeding freely, soaking that eye corner, one heartbeat at a time.
Ayanokouji didn't move.
He stayed in place, feet balanced, spine loose, nail still angled downward beside his thigh.
He let the tension simmer in the space between them, breathing shallow through his nose. It hurt.
Every breath pushed against the torn side of his ribcageâheat swelling beneath his shirt where the blood was drying unevenly.
His muscles were beginning to stiffen. Not from strainâbut from duration. His knees, his obliques, even his jawâit all burned in a dull way, like he was wading through thick fluid.
But he stayed still.
He watched.
Shirou blinked again. His right side had slowedâfractionally. His torso no longer angled full-forward. It compensated now, unconsciously guarding the blind flank.
That was enough.
Ayanokouji exhaled softly.
The air dragged on the way out, catching along bruised tissue. But his expression didn't shift.
Just a flat murmur, spoken like stating a condition.
"I am about to remember your name."
It landed like a final noteânot loud, not sharp. But surgical. A declaration that didn't need acknowledgment.
Shirou didn't speak.
But he understood.
There was no fear in his face. No retreat. Only a subtle recalibrationâas if his body had just realized how close the edge had gotten.
Ayanokouji hadn't won the exchange. He had yielded it.
Let him dominate the tempo. Let him push, press, swing wide. Every overstep, every elbow that missed its arc, every wide pivotâit had all been feeding into this.
He didn't need to win a moment. He needed to break symmetry.
And now, with blood crawling into one eye and the right side of the field just slightly obscuredâ
That symmetry was gone.
Shirou had thoroughly grasped how Ayanokouji's current body worked... And Ayanokouji grasped how Shirou's mind works.
He purposely played in Shirou's hand this entire fight, Got tired, Bleed everything, he let it happen naturally not trying to force a act.
All this just for a moment of advantage... And that's what he got.
Shirou couldn't see his right clearly anymore.
And that's exactly where Ayanokouji would be next.
***
The blood from his eyebrow had begun its slow descent, thick and heavy, threading down the ridge of his cheek in a broken curve.
It clung to his lashes now, tinting the edge of vision with red. That eyeâstill sharpâbegan to haze over slightly, but his stance didn't shift.
He was aware. He'd measured the risk. Even with one side dimmed, his posture held steady.
But Ayanokouji was already gone from view.
A flick of motionâlow to the ground. A shadow inside the blind edge.
Then: impact.
The first blow was sharp and closeâan angled elbow, crashing into the lower ribs from the side. It didn't disrupt
balance, but it created the smallest lean.
Ayanokouji rotated behind in that instantâchanging axis, switching directions mid-step. His movement was tight, footwork clean, no flourish. Just intention.
A nail gleamed. Reverse grip.
It stabbed for the soft tissue just under the collarbone.
Shirou moved exactly as he should have: side rotation, shoulder tucked to preserve arteries, nail raised in the other hand like a dagger for close-quarters.
The knives kissed, edge to edge. But the clash had been bait.
Ayanokouji collapsed the inside angleâclosed in. He used the clash to enter even tighter range, where blades no longer mattered. Shirou's hand shifted slightlyâAyanokouji read it early.
Finger gun.
Ayanokouji dropped below line of fire.
He punched the elbow from underneath, a close-range burst that misaligned the aim.
The shot went offâtoo high. Close enough that it scorched his ear, heat biting skinâbut not deep. He didn't stop.
He pressed forward, breathing close enough to taste iron.
He threw a body fakeâleft shoulder dip, right heel lift.
Shirou shifted weight to matchâ
âBut Ayanokouji wasn't committing.
He ducked to the right, then rose into Shirou's blind arc with a sudden spin.
The rear leg shot around, heel whipping at temple height. A textbook Kyokushin mawashi geriâhigh roundhouse kick.
Shirou didn't flinch. He leaned backâbut the cut on his brow ripped wider under the pressure. Blood bloomed again, bright and fresh.
Still, his eyes tracked. Still calm.
He jabbed with the nailâforward thrust, no wind-up, aimed at Ayanokouji's throat.
Ayanokouji slapped it aside.
A low scooping motion came nextâJudo foot reap, targeting Shirou's planted leg. Ayanokouji pulled the ankle forward while pushing at the opposite shoulder. Momentum folded Shirou briefly, enough to stagger him.
Again, the knife flickedâedge curved toward Shirou's jugular.
Shirou dropped his chin and parried with the shaft of his own nail. Sparks cracked between them.
Then vines burst from his sleeveânot in panic, but as a layered defense. Wide arcs, baiting entanglement.
Ayanokouji stepped through them, letting one whip across his shoulder, carving a shallow trail.
It was controlled chaos.
No feints remained unpunished. Every angle tested.
But the blood from Shirou's wound had tilted the rhythm.
That blind sideâalways a half-second slower.
Ayanokouji exploited it again. Another elbow from that arc. A shin rake to the thigh. A stab at the ribs while Shirou turned his head to refocus.
It was damage by accumulation.
But Ayanokouji was slowing. Breathing harsher now. His side pulsed. Blood was no longer leakingâit was flowing.
Down his waist, across his thigh, soaking fabric. His steps were less springy. Knees stiffened. Recovery time grew wider between attacks.
He forced one more spinâstabbed down.
Shirou leaned just enough. Not dodging wildly. Just adjusting. Knife passed his side. He slid back a stepâthen anotherâangled away.
Their exchange broke.
Shirou doveânot backward, not out of fearâbut at an angle, diagonally, toward the place where Ayanokouji had stood when this all began.
And now Ayanokouji stood where Shirou had started.
At the center.
The old well was gone. Nothing marked its presence now except the barest imprint in the dustâlike memory itself had been scraped out of the earth. No stone ring. No shadow. Just a faint ring of sunken ground, silent and void.
Ten steps of scorched silence stretched between them.
Two figures.
One bleeding, his side darkened by sluggish crimson. Chest rising with effort. Hand clutched to his ribs not out of panic, but to stop something from unraveling beneath the skin.
The other perfectly still. Not a tremor in his breath. No twitch of fatigue in his limbs. Just balance. Quiet.
Shirou stood at the edge of that invisible circle, where the fight had truly begun.
The posture of someone who had not lost anythingânot control, not footing, not the thread of what came next.
The wind passed like a question left unanswered.
Ash scraped across broken stone.
A beam shifted somewhere far behind, collapsing under its own decay.
But here, in this circle, nothing moved.
Nothing, until Ayanokouji's head lowered slightlyânot a nod, not a signalâjust a fractional shift in weight.
And then, suddenlyâ
He turned and ran.
No preparation. No visual cue. Just motion.
His body surged forward all at once, like the choice had been waiting beneath his skin the entire time.
His legs drove into the cracked ground, but there was no strength left in his stride.
The third step staggered, foot catching on debris, and only the contraction of his core kept him upright. Blood spilled faster now, the pressure of movement forcing it loose.
His hand pressed harder against his ribs, as if holding himself from falling apart entirely.
Shirou watched him run away a small smile crept upto his face.
He didn't accelerate.
He simply endured the forward momentum.
"No matter the circumstances it feels like I will never be able to defeat you."
And behind himâ
The village breathed.
It began as a murmur, like wind cutting through dead wood.
Then came the weight.
The ground shudderedânot in tremors, but in impact. Dozens. Then hundreds. Then more. A sequence too fast to track, too heavy to ignore.
They moved.
All of them.
The Vowalkers.
No longer statues lining the ruined village.
No longer silent.
They ran.
Hundreds of them, they were the only one remaining others had already been killed by shirou.
Pouring out from every collapsed building, every corner of shattered architecture, every crack in the ash-ridden earth. Not like soldiers. Not like hunters.
They ran like they were being pulled forward by something just beyond reachâlike their bodies couldn't keep up with their own momentum.
Their limbs flailed wide. Their torsos pitched forward so hard they should have collapsed.
Their steps came in broken cadences, as if they were falling in every direction at onceâ
âbut they never fell.
Not a single one.
Their speed was violent. Desperate. A constant, feverish stumble that never once broke apart. Each movement threatened to send them tumbling into one another, but the chaos held. Barely. Just enough. They surged like a current of broken anatomy, pulled together by one command.
Some had eyesâdozens, clustered and blinking without rhythm.
Some had no eyes at all, only slits, pulsing open and closed with insectile rhythm.
Others had nostrils flaring, heads jerking at every scent shift like hounds too tightly trained.
Some had nothing. No features. Just twitching motion where a face should've been.
But they all ran.
All of them.
After him.
Their feet tore into the ground behind Ayanokouji like the world itself was trying to catch him.
The dust didn't settleâit lifted, dragged upward by the force of their passage. The sound was not a roar. It was not a scream. It was heavier. Like a thousand bodies slamming into the future at once.
Still, he didn't look back.
He couldn't.
There was no space for reflection. Only steps.
Steps that burned with effort.
Steps that bought time.
And Shirou now followed.
***
The forest loomed aheadâdense and endless, trees thick with vines, the air hot and green and wet.
The underbrush didn't part; it clung. It caught on his legs, scratched along his arms. Leaves tore against his face. He didn't slow.
Ayanokouji barreled through.
Each step was a crack through the ribs. His vision had begun to blur at the edgesâtoo much blood lost. Too much weight pressing down from within his own body.
He couldn't tell how many steps he had left before it gave out.
But he didn't need many.
Behind himâno, inside the treesâbranches snapped, leaves burst apart, and the earth trembled. Not from one. Not from ten.
But from hundreds.
The Vowalkers had entered the forest.
They didn't scream. They didn't howl. They ran.
Collapsed forms, twisted limbsâsome dragging themselves faster than most men could sprint.
Mouths split in the wrong directions. Eyes missing, eyes overlapping.
Faces half-formed or stretched too thin. Not one looked alike. Yet they all moved togetherâlike a single, broken nerve system lashing out through flesh.
They chased him, and they didn't fall. Their movements were wrongâtoo far forward, heads dipping low, spines bent as if collapsing mid-runâbut not one of them touched the ground.
They caught themselves in impossible angles. They ran with a madness that didn't know pain.
And in the midst of that horde, cutting through it like a single thread of balanceâ
Shirou.
No stagger. No exhaustion. His clothes were torn, his face bruised, but his stride never broke.
He weaved through the trees, ducked under vines, and never once looked away from Ayanokouji.
They were close now.
Too close.
The forest thinned. Light broke aheadâsharper, wider, reflecting off something vast.
And then Ayanokouji saw it.
Still movingâstill gasping for breath he no longer hadâhe saw the world fall open ahead. Trees stopped. The land dropped.
Beyond itâ
Water.
Wide.
Still.
Blue with depth.
He didn't stop to think.
He pushed harderâdug in with what strength remained, legs shaking under his own weightâand burst free of the trees.
A single heartbeat of sky. Open. Exposed.
And then he dove.
No hesitation.
His body arched forward and vanished over the edge, cutting clean through the drop as gravity seized him.
For a moment, there was only airâwind whipping past his skin, blood trailing in an arc behind him.
And then the lake swallowed him whole.
Silence.
***
Shirou had believed he was the one pulling the strings.
When Ayanokouji met him in that ruined villageâhe thought it was his design.
That the pressure, the setup, the timing, the damageâall of it had lined up perfectly because he had dictated the flow.
That if Ayanokouji had chosen to strike at the start, he'd be forced into a slow, grinding failureâchasing ghosts through darkness. And with Perla's ability in effect, there would be no footsteps to follow. No sound. No presence. No trail. Not even the ground would remember she was there.
Shirou thought that was why Ayanokouji stayed.
He believed the trap had worked.
Perla had made him tired. Eichiro had pushed him toward the next village. The Vowalkers had guided him forward. No time to recover. No space to turn around.
The noose had tightened perfectly.
And the village where they now stoodâit was ideal. Flanked on three sides by broken settlements and ruin. Behind Shirou⌠only the river. Shirou had used it as a natural wall.
A sealed-off escape route. Deep. Wild. Stretching wider than a hundred meters. No way across. No land beyond.
He assumed Ayanokouji had been funneled here like prey.
But he was wrong.
Ayanokouji hadn't wandered from village to village in desperation. He wasn't chasing to escape from Vowalkers or stumbling through their trap. He wasn't reacting at all.
He had been choosing.
Mapping.
Positioning himself for this.
Not for the fight.
For what came after.
The moment the dust settled, Ayanokouji stood where Shirou had begunâten steps apart, the circle reversed. One bleeding. One steady. Neither speaking.
Then his hand clenched against his side.
And he ran.
He didn't hesitate. No last glance. No warning. Just a jolt forward, as if his bones themselves had decided to move.
He ran not toward Shirou.
But away from him.
Away from the village.
Straight toward the one path Shirou had dismissed as impossible.
The dead end.
Shirou thought he had cornered Ayanokouji.
But the truth was simpler.
Ayanokouji had never been chasing the villages. He wasn't being ledâhe was positioning himself. Every step he took wasn't escape. It was alignment.
He had chosen this route, this path, this sequence of collapses, for one purpose:
To reach the river.
Not to cross it in pursuit.
Not to escape someone behind him.
But to dive into itâfrom the very beginning.
Long ago, when it had still been just a ten-meter stream, and later, when he noticed it had begun to expand unnaturally to 130 meter lake. Ayanokouji had drawn a single conclusion:
Something was below it... Not a monster but treasure that was uncovering itself.
Something that wasn't meant to be reached yet.
That changeâquiet, growing, unannouncedâwas the only meaningful shift in this broken world. And if there was any chance of overturning the current state, it lay there.
He had never intended to fight.
He had only intended to escape.
And this place, this final village?
It wasn't a corner.
It was the destination Ayanokouji wanted from the very beginning.
***
The canopy parted.
Shirou burst from the trees, his foot slamming against a moss-draped branch mid-leap, using its bend to redirect his weight forward. He landed in a crouchâsoil damp, breathing steady, Mud placed on the cut above eyebrowâbut his eyes were already locked ahead.
The lake.
It stretched 130 meters wide, still and glassy, its surface painted with faint green light refracted from the forest above. Mist clung to the edges, curling upward like fingers too afraid to touch the water. Nothing moved.
Not yet.
Behind him, the trees groaned.
And then came the Vowalkers.
They didn't pour inâthey stumbled, crashed, collided. One bounded off a trunk and collided with another mid-sprint. Their speed was unnatural, but their unity fractured.
Some sniffed at the ground, animal-like. Others twisted their heads, hearing somethingâfollowing sound or instinct rather than command.
Then the lake's scent hit them.
The ones with noses twitched violently and turned. The ones with eyes and ears followed soon after, drifting toward the edge like moths to a pulse.
That was when Shirou moved.
His chest tensed. And for the first time in his life, his voice cracked the forest.
"DON'T GO NEAR!"
It wasn't loud. It was louder than loud. It split the clearing. It shook the silence.
Every Vowalker froze.
The air hung still. Even the wind recoiled.
Something in his voiceârage, sharp as broken metal; sorrow, buried and clawing; and beneath it all, fear. The kind that strips calculation down to instinct.
The Vowalkers backed away, some clawing at the mud, others snarling low.
But one didn't.
It was slow. Confused. It had no earsâonly a tongue that twitched as it tasted the wet air. Its foot reached the green-tinted water, and it leaned in.
Shirou's hand shot out.
Finger raised. Thumb flicked.
A vine exploded from his knuckle, snapping forward like a whip, aiming straight for the slow Vowalker's backâ
And the lake rippled.
Just once.
A perfect, widening circle, the kind that doesn't come from rain or windâbut from beneath.
Shirou's eyes narrowed, but it was already too late.
Ayanokouji emerged.
No sound. No warning. Just a blur of soaked hair and pale skin breaking the surface like a ghost waking from stillness.
His hand snapped out, latching onto the Vowalker's leg.
The vine missed by inches.
Shirou's eyes widened, but all he could do was watch.
Ayanokouji pulled the Vowalker downward.
His other hand locked onto its shoulder. Then its wrist. He drew it close, like reeling in a rope. Water churned faintly around them, surface tension breaking into long, slow ripples.
Thenâhe moved his thumb.
The sound was quietâbut wet. Like tearing apart a damp fruit.
From the slit, Ayanokouji reached in.
Pulled.
The organ came free with a twist, red and pulsing, and the water around him bloomed immediately. Blood burst like ink in clear glass, curling into petals. The lake turned cloudyâscarlet drifting in green light.
Then, the body in his grip changed.
The Vowalker froze.
Its limbs stiffened. Flesh cracked. With every second underwater, its skin dulled and hardened, becoming jaggedâcrystalline. As if absorbing minerals directly from the lake.
Ayanokouji didn't wait.
He locked his legs around the frozen corpse, coiling downward like a spiral of weight and intent.
His mouth openedânot wide in panic, but deep and measured. He drank in air, every molecule of it. Filling himself for what came next.
Then he began to sink.
Eyes opened. Locked.
Shirou met them across the water.
And in that instant, no words passedâbut a chill surged down Shirou's back. Because what looked back from that lake wasn't a man running.
Shirou finally realized, That even if you know that... Ayanokouji is capable of making his plan seem like yours, Even if you are aware of everything...
You still won't be able to do anything but play in his hand thinking it's your doing.
Then he was gone.
The Vowalker's body shattered slightly as it sank, dragging Ayanokouji deeper with it, and the water's surface slowly healedâripples fading back into stillness.
Only a faint red cloud remained beneath the green, drifting like a fading wound.
And silence returned.