The silence after Bailed's words was suffocating.
"Change the fate of the world?!" It echoed in Zabuza's skull, mingling with the throbbing ache still pounding through his body. His breath came in ragged bursts, and every inhale tasted of copper, like blood mixed with dust.
He pressed his palms to the cold stone beneath him, forcing himself to sit up. His arms shook like those of a fevered child. Yet beneath the weakness, he felt something else — a coil of strength deep within the marrow of his bones. His body hurt, yes, but there was a newness to the pain, like muscles being reforged in fire and cooling down.
He flexed his fingers. His nails were sharper. His skin, though torn, was already stitching itself together before his eyes. He touched a cut across his forearm, and the flesh knitted closed, leaving behind only a faint scar that started fading into smooth skin.
"This… I am not human anymore," he whispered, staring at his hands as though they belonged to someone else.
"No," Bailed said, voice echoing like a drum in the cavernous dark. "You are not."
Zabuza looked up, sweat dripping down his jaw. "You said — Ogre. Ancient Ogre. What exactly have you done to me?"
Bailed tilted his head, ghostly light shimmering faintly where his eyes should have been. "I did nothing more, and nothing less, than what you wished me to do to you, Zabuza. The Ancient Ogre was the culmination. The apex of predators, worshipped as a god and feared by civilizations long lost in the annals of history. It fed on warriors, consumed their skills, their bloodlines, and absorbed their mastery. A perfect adversary, one meant to endlessly evolve. I have grafted his very essence into you."
Zabuza's breath caught. His chest tightened. "Grafted… his essence?"
"His physiology, his instincts, and fragments of his knowledge. You are no longer entirely human, Zabuza. Within your veins runs the blood of a Toshin, a god of fighting and war."
The boy's hands trembled as he stared at them. He remembered — or perhaps he felt — flashes of another life. A towering beast with flaming red hair and greenish skin, claws rending steel, wings blotting out the sky. Ogre. He could almost feel the phantom memory of talons closing around prey. The hunger. The thrill of dominance.
A shiver crawled down his spine. "I… I'm a monster."
The Failed God chuckled softly. "Perhaps. But monsters survive where men fall."
Zabuza clenched his teeth. He wanted to argue, to reject it, to scream that he wasn't some beast. Yet deep down, he knew one simple truth: this power was intoxicating. And no matter how brutal, terrifying, or foreign it felt to him, it was now his. And he wouldn't want to part with it.
Still, one question burned in his mind. "You said my purpose is to change this world's fate. What does that mean? Why bring me here at all?"
Bailed leaned closer, his voice dropping into a grave murmur. "See, this world's story is heading in a direction, but we both found that the direction it is heading to is too boring and one-dimensional, and so we decided that you shall break the plot. But even so, you decided to sell your memories because knowing the plot would make you predictable, and you wanted to be unpredictable, to be a completely new variable in the grand scheme of things."
Zabuza swallowed hard. He instinctively knew that this was how he would have operated. Somewhere, through the fog of broken memory, he recognized his own behavior and his odd sense of humor of fucking with everyone, including himself. What could be a better prank than pranking yourself?
"Yes," Bailed said, seeing the realization in his eyes. "This was all your own choice, and now you've got to see it through."
Zabuza's voice was hoarse. "So you want me to… what? Shatter destiny?"
"I don't want anything! It is you that wants to corrupt it," Bailed corrected. "To twist it until it screams. To ensure that when the world looks upon its calendar, it remembers the date of your existence, your mark upon its history."
The boy stared into the specter's hollow gaze. His head spun with the enormity of it. He had no past, no family, no identity but the one thrust upon him — Zabuza Momochi, the Demon of the Mist. And now, this being was asking him to overturn the fate of an entire world.
His fists clenched against his knees. "And if I fail?"
Bailed's expression shifted into something crueler. "Then you die. The world will continue its march toward destiny, unaltered. And I, too, will fade further into irrelevance. That is what it means to be a failure — to watch inevitability consume everything."
Bailed's words cut deep, not as a threat, but as a truth. Zabuza felt the weight of his small body, his aching bones, the burden of a beast coiled within his blood. Was he strong enough? Could he even survive in this new world, without any knowledge, let alone fight fate?
And yet… there was a spark.
Somewhere in the hollow of his chest, past the fear and doubt, a spark flickered. The part of him that had once begged for this very opportunity — that had wished for a second life, no matter how brutal — stirred excitedly.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs shook. His vision swam. But he stood, face half-lit by the sliver of moonlight above.
"I don't remember who I once was," he said quietly. "I don't even know if I can be who I want to be. But if you're right — if I really have asked you for this opportunity and this power — then I won't just survive. I'll fight. I'll tear apart this fate you hate so much, and I will leave my mark on this world."
Bailed's ghostly form regarded him for a long, silent moment. Then, with a thin smile: "Good. That is what I wished to hear."
The Failed God stepped back, his form beginning to fade into the shadows. "Remember, Zabuza Momochi, power is not just freedom; it is also an obligation. The Ogre devoured gods because he was insatiable. His instincts are within you now. Master them, or they will master you. And if you find yourself asking why you fight… remember this night. Remember that you yourself accepted choosing to defy destiny."
The room grew darker as the specter dissolved, like smoke swallowed by wind. Only his voice lingered, fading like a hymn:
"Change the fate of the world, Zabuza Momochi. Become the demon who rewrites history."
Then he was gone.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Zabuza stood trembling, sweat dripping down his chin, his breath ragged. He touched his chest where his heart hammered like a war drum. For the first time since waking, he felt the weight of solitude again — the vast, crushing silence. But he also felt something else.
A hunger.
It curled in his stomach, low and primal. A desire for strength. For battle and blood. For more. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, and whispered to the shadows:
"If I'm a monster now… then I'll be a monster on my own terms."
The moonlight caught his eyes, and for a fleeting instant, there was something in them not entirely human — a glint of predator's gold.
The boy who had woken broken and afraid was gone. What remained was something else. Something slowly beginning to awaken and adapt.
And in the silence of the night, the story of Zabuza Momochi began again.