[March 6, 2005 — 1:28 A.M. | 19th Ward, Tokyo]
The alley smelled of rot and rain. Broken neon from a dying sign flickered against wet brick.
Hayato crouched low, shards quivering along his back, uneven wings glowing faintly crimson. His chest heaved with the effort of keeping them steady. Across from him, his father stood silent, arms loose at his sides.
Then his father called it.
The air cracked with the sound of flesh tearing. From his shoulders, heavy slabs of crystal erupted, thick and jagged, layering over his torso, arms, and thighs until he stood encased in armor. The glow was deeper, darker, each plate gleaming like red-black iron. His face remained uncovered, but the rest of him looked like a walking fortress.
Hayato swallowed. Every time I see it… it feels less like a kagune and more like the city itself put on a body.
"Attack," his father said simply.
Hayato braced himself, sprinted forward, shards flashing. He swung wide, jagged crystal slicing through the air — only to rebound against the thick plate of his father's arm with a harsh screech. Sparks lit the alley. The impact rattled up his arm, nearly knocking him off balance.
"Too shallow," his father said. His own arm swung once, slow but devastating. The plated forearm slammed into Hayato's chest, hurling him back into a wall.
Pain blossomed in his ribs. He gasped, sliding down the brick.
But his father didn't advance. He only stood, waiting.
Hayato grit his teeth, dragging himself up. If I stop, I'll always be weak.
He screamed, shards tearing wider, glowing brighter. He dashed forward again, this time firing a spray of small shards from his left wing. They pinged harmlessly off the dense armor, but it bought him half a second. He swung low, aiming for his father's knee joint.
The strike glanced, leaving a shallow groove in the plating. His father's eyes flicked down — a spark of acknowledgment.
"Better," he muttered.
Then his other arm came down like a hammer. Hayato barely raised his shard-arm in time. The impact jolted his entire body, the crystalline gauntlet cracking from the force. His knees buckled.
But he didn't fall.
His father's mouth twitched in something that was almost pride. "Hold it. Don't just strike — endure."
Hayato's body shook, blood dripping down his side. His thoughts screamed with pain, but another voice inside cut through, sharp and clear: If I can't even stand here, how will I ever stand against them?
He screamed, forcing his kagune to flare again, jagged edges reforging along his cracked arm. He shoved back against his father's weight, forcing a half-step of ground.
For a moment, they locked there: a boy trembling under strain, and a man rooted in iron.
Finally, his father eased the pressure, retracting the heavy plates. "Enough for tonight."
Hayato collapsed, kagune retracting with a wet hiss, chest heaving. His father crouched beside him, a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You're learning," he said simply. "Your kagune is wild. Too wild. But paired with mine, it can cut what armor cannot."
Hayato coughed, spitting blood onto the wet pavement. "…Together?"
His father nodded once. "When we hunt, I shield. You strike."
Hayato's chest burned with pride and pain alike. A team. Not just his son. His partner.
[March 14, 2005 — 3:09 A.M. | Rooftops of the 19th Ward]
They hunted together.
The prey was a gang of low-level criminals who had taken to extorting families in the ward. Humans — armed, cruel, no one the CCG would miss.
His father dropped into the alley first, kagune erupting in a heavy cascade of plates, glowing faint red. Bullets rang out — pointless, pinging harmlessly off the dense armor. His father advanced like a tank, unhurried, each step rattling the ground.
The gang screamed, firing wildly, until panic broke them.
That's when Hayato struck.
From the rooftop, his jagged wings flared, shards firing like crimson glass. They rained down, slicing into limbs, cutting deep but not killing outright. He leapt, shards whipping around his arm into a jagged gauntlet-blade, and slammed into one of them. Blood sprayed the brick.
The man's scream cut short.
Another lunged with a knife, but Hayato's father moved first — his plated arm backhanded the human into the wall, bones snapping like twigs.
It was over quickly. Too quickly.
Hayato stood in the alley, chest heaving, blood dripping from his shard-arm. The hunger roared in his belly. He looked down at the broken bodies. His mouth watered.
His father's voice was calm, but firm. "Choose one. Leave the rest."
Hayato hesitated. His stomach clenched, his head swam. He crouched beside the man he'd struck down first. His hands trembled as he leaned down, tearing into flesh.
Warmth. Iron. Life. The hunger quieted, just enough.
When he rose, blood painted his lips and chin. His father's armored hand rested on his shoulder. "You learn to control the hunt. Never let it control you."
Hayato nodded, though inside, the hunger still whispered. I want more. I could take more. I could eat them all.
But he swallowed it down. For now.
That night, as they returned across the rooftops, Hayato looked at his father's broad armored back, glowing faint red under the moonlight.
He's a fortress. And me… I'm the blade. Together, maybe we can stand against anyone. Even them.
But another thought followed, sharp and bitter.
What happens the day I'm strong enough to stand alone?
His shards shimmered faintly behind him, jagged glass catching the moonlight.