Their teeth parted, gasping for air, laughter erupting with each breath. They inhaled life, exhaled carbon dioxide—but the air was tinged with blood and violence.
Their gums contracted with every cackle, their tongues lolling out as if mocking life itself. Each smile and laugh felt like a taunt, a signal, an acceptance of what they'd become.
Ryuji stared at them, gripping his sheathed katana so tightly his knuckles turned purple.
Their laughter echoed—raw, unrelenting—as they bragged about their conquests, their victories over innocent farmers and families who had only tried to survive. His stomach churned. Nausea rose. How could they be so unaffected, so numb to their cruelty?
What am I doing here? he thought bitterly. Why did I join this expedition? To prove myself? To become one of them?
The thought stung as he took in the sight of his companions—men he'd fought alongside, now reduced to monsters. He felt himself slipping, his resolve cracking under the weight of their laughter, the sickening joy they took in bloodshed.
His body tensed. His mouth was dry, his spirit draining as if leaving him hollow.
He unsheathed the blade. It didn't hum with metal—but with memory. A whisper passed through his grip. A name? A plea?
No. A warning.
They're laughing again, it seemed to say. Don't let them.
Unsteady, he raised the yellow-tinged katana. For a moment, a thought flickered:
I don't want to do this. I shouldn't do this. But I did that.
It was the last shred of his humanity fighting the beast within—the creature of anger and vengeance that craved blood.
If I give in… Father will be disappointed. He will lose.
One of the men noticed Ryuji's unease and chuckled, clapping his hands. "Time for prayer, boy!" he called cheerfully, as if they hadn't just been reveling in death. Another nodded, closing his eyes. The laughter faded into eerie silence.
"Yes," Ryuji murmured, stepping forward, katana still clenched. His feet were heavy, but he moved closer. All three bowed their heads in mock reverence.
He raised the sword above them, hands trembling—disgust and resolve flowing through him. His heart pounded. The metallic taste of fear and fury filled his mouth.
One breath. Two.
Then, he swung.
A scream split the air. The blade struck, slicing through flesh and bone. The first man fell instantly, his head rolling. Ryuji moved to the next—his body now a machine of rage.
Blood sprayed his face. His eyes stung from the heat of it. His breaths were heavy, each one laced with grim satisfaction he didn't want to admit.
The last man opened his eyes just in time to see the katana descend. Their gazes met—his horrified, Ryuji's hollow, empty, as if he too were praying.
The katana struck, severing flesh, and with it, Ryuji's final bit of innocence vanished.
He dropped the blade. It clattered to the ground, its once-yellow glow now soaked in red. He looked to the cliffside. The weight of what he'd done pressed onto his shoulders. The air hung thick with iron and death.
"A title," he whispered, voice nearly lost to the wind. "Not noticeable for most." He looked down at the stained blade.
A shimmer of gold formed letters in the air. They hovered, flickering in the mist.
"Ryuji Takashiro, heir of the Takashiro family. Current location: outskirts of the 23rd city." The text shifted.
"Title skill—Three Man Slayer."
The words hung like a curse.
"Higher advantage against three people, specifically."
The letters vanished like smoke, leaving only blood pooling at his feet.
His forearm throbbed. Then his thigh. Wounds he hadn't received—cuts, burns, bruises—flared across his body, as if the sword had returned the pain it borrowed.
Ryuji's chest heaved. His gaze drifted into the fog. His blade gleamed faintly, ghostlike.
He walked forward, swallowed by the mist, muttering a broken chant.
"This… will prove it. To greater lengths, Father will be known. Not those pesky offshoots."
A year in the future of the past, after his fight by the river with Marquis.
"Wait!" Marquis called, his voice echoing down the corridor as he approached. "Ryuji, let's talk." There was concern in his tone as he caught Ryuji's cold, distant gaze.
Ryuji already had his sword drawn. Marquis instinctively fell into a defensive stance.
"I'm not here to fight, but—" he began.
"I hope you haven't forgotten our last fight," Marquis added, calm but sharp.
Ryuji's eyes narrowed. "No one won that fight. Want to try again?"
They stood beneath the harsh light spilling through tall school windows, tension crackling between them. Marquis's hair caught the light, golden and sharp. He eyed the katana—still glowing faintly yellow.
He sighed and turned away. "Come on. Let's talk in private." He led the way to the boys' bathroom. Ryuji followed, footsteps echoing.
Inside, Marquis spun around, fists clenched. "You killed people the first time you left. Came back late. Now you've gone again—and you're worse."
Ryuji opened his mouth. Words stumbled out—then turned into a scream. He charged.
Marquis blocked the strike, catching Ryuji's wrist, but the blow knocked him back. Ryuji's knee drove into his gut, stealing his breath.
"You study too much," Ryuji muttered coldly. He pivoted and kicked Marquis into the mirror.
Glass shattered. Marquis caught himself, staring wide-eyed at the boy he once called friend.
"Damn it, Ryuji!" he shouted, reaching for the sink. Water surged, twisting into a spear he hurled at Ryuji.
Ryuji sliced through it. Water exploded across the floor. He pressed forward.
Marquis countered, landing an uppercut to Ryuji's chin, sending him reeling.
He dropped into a boxer's stance. "I didn't forget how to fight."
Ryuji lunged. His movements were mechanical, his sword flashing.
Marquis barely raised a watery barrier around his neck before the blade cut through. Blood welled. He stumbled, hand on the wound.
"Itto-ryu," Ryuji said, calm and cold.
Marquis froze. He recognized the stance—the killing art Ryuji once spoke of.
"No way…" he muttered, trembling. "Fine. You got me this time."
He backed toward the door, pressing his bleeding neck. "That guy loves aiming for the neck," he muttered bitterly.
Ryuji stood alone, staring into the cracked mirror. His breath slowed. Something monstrous stared back.
Not just fur—his face had split in three.
One screamed.
One sobbed.
One smiled.
He laughed. Hollow. Echoing.
"I'm definitely corrupted now," he whispered.
He smiled slightly. Fingers brushed the bloodied blade.
He left the bathroom. Students passing by gave nervous glances. Some shivered. He sheathed the sword and walked on, purposeful.
Ahead, Marquis clutched his neck, blood seeping through his fingers. His face was twisted in pain, but his eyes burned with purpose.
"Damn, what happened to your neck?" Kai asked, stepping in. He frowned at the wound. "Ryuji again?"
Marquis exhaled sharply. "I tried to strike first. Thought I had him. He didn't even flinch." His pride was wounded. His lips trembled.
Kai gave him a sympathetic look.
"How long until the finals?" Marquis asked, voice strained but determined.
Kai crossed his arms. "Still got time. A while yet."
"A year? Two? With breaks?" Marquis pressed.
Kai shrugged. "Yeah, something like that."
Marquis's lips curled into a small smile. "Good."
As they turned the corner, Anna barreled down the hallway, too caught up in her conversation to notice them. She collided with Marquis. He hissed in pain, hand flying to his neck.
"Ow!" Anna exclaimed, rubbing her head. "Watch where you're going!"
"Anna—" Marquis began.
"We're all just trying to get to history class," she snapped. "Time periods today." She strode off.
Elara gave an apologetic smile, hurrying after her.
Marquis watched them go, frustration fading. "Didn't we already cover time periods last week?" he muttered.
Kai rolled his eyes. "We did."
"It's only for the five of us. Sin-iddin-apli included," Anna's voice called back.
She vanished around the corner. Elara followed.
Marquis let out a long breath, his gaze drifting back to Ryuji's silhouette.
This wasn't over.
He laughed—and for a moment, it didn't sound like Marquis.
It sounded like Ryuji.