[Seno Estate — Courtyard | March 2008]
The estate's doors groaned shut behind him, cutting off the rain-soaked ward. Hayato stepped into the stone courtyard, mask dangling from his hand, crimson still drying across the cracks. He didn't slouch. He didn't limp. His gait was steady, every step placed as if the eyes already watching from the shadows could measure him by it.
Vernon stood in the corridor's shade, arms crossed, pale eyes giving nothing away. For a heartbeat, their gazes touched. Vernon's chin tilted faintly toward the inner hall where the elders waited. A silent order: go explain yourself.
Hayato didn't break stride.
Inside the council chamber, the torches guttered, smoke tracing up banners. The elders sat in their semicircle, masks gleaming faintly, eyes sharp behind the slits. The clan head leaned forward, hands resting on the carved arms of his chair.
"You return with no proof." His voice cut flat across the stone.
Hayato dropped the mask onto the tiles with a crack. "The Bikaku won't live. His arm is gone. He won't see another sunrise."
"Speculation," an elder hissed.
"Fact," Hayato shot back, his voice harsher than he meant. "I tore it from him myself. He fled bleeding like a gutted animal. Even if he crawled out of the ward, he'll die before the week ends."
The chamber rippled with whispers. One elder's masked chin tilted, amusement lacing his tone. "So he escaped you."
Hayato's teeth ground. "The Dove interrupted. A patrol. More were coming. Staying would have meant a net."
"Excuses," another snapped. "You were sent to deliver a corpse, not excuses."
The clan head's hand rose, silencing the chamber. His voice lowered. "You stand here breathing, but with no proof. Proof makes strength. Words make weakness. You will be corrected."
The torches guttered again, the smoke curling like a smirk.
[Punishment Hall — Below the Estate]
They stripped him of his shirt, his mask, his pride. Stone walls sweated damp, the air sharp with mildew. Shackles rattled as they locked his wrists high above his head, forcing him to stand on aching calves.
It wasn't about pain. It was about breaking.
The elders stood behind the bars, their masks impassive. One spoke, voice smooth as oil. "You were born from weakness. Bastion's blood stains you. Your mother's shame clings to you. But steel is beaten in fire. If you are steel, you will survive this. If you are clay, you will crack."
They left him in darkness. No food. No water. No warmth.
Hours blurred. Or days. He couldn't count. His shoulders screamed from the weight, wrists rubbed raw. His throat burned from thirst. Hunger twisted, but not the simple hunger of an empty stomach—the fever-hunger that clawed along his veins, whispering in pulses.
That was when the visions began.
First came his father. Bastion's armor shimmered in the dark, the jagged shield plating that had once covered his body. His father's eyes glowed faint green, but they weren't calm; they were wild, furious.
"You ran when I told you," the vision growled. "And you run still. You feed like a beast and call it strength. But strength is not hunger. Strength is control. You will fail me if you can't learn the difference."
Hayato jerked against his chains, teeth grit. "You failed yourself. You lost to them. You told me to run because you couldn't win."
The armored phantom stepped closer, voice shaking the stone. "I lost because I was alone. You think you'll do better? You think cannibalism makes you different? You're walking my path into the grave."
Hayato's chest heaved, but the vision melted into the dark before he could snarl back.
When the torches sputtered again hours later, it wasn't Bastion that appeared—it was his mother.
Her face was soft in memory, eyes hollow with grief, lips trembling. She reached for him through the dark, whispering his name.
"Hayato… why are you still here? You should have run. You should have come with me."
His throat tightened. "I can't. If I leave, I'm nothing. They'll hunt me like they hunted him."
Her hand brushed his cheek. Warm. Too warm. He leaned into it, and her eyes hollowed further. "Every bite takes you further from me. From who you were. Stop before you forget me."
He swallowed hard. "I… can't."
Her face crumbled into ash. He gagged, choking on air that wasn't clean.
[Later — Outside the Hall]
The elders stood together, speaking low where Hayato couldn't hear. Vernon leaned against the wall further down, silent, his jaw tight. He could hear every chain rattle below, every cough, every scrape of his nephew's hoarse voice.
An elder scoffed. "He will break."
Another: "Then he was nothing, as his father was nothing."
The clan head: "If he breaks, we lose nothing. If he endures, we gain more than Bastion ever was."
Vernon's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
[Punishment Hall — The Breaking Hours]
Hayato's vision swam red. His wrists burned. His mouth was dry enough that his tongue stuck to his teeth. The hunger sharpened into knives. He gagged bile and nothing came.
The voice came again. His father's this time, rougher.
"Do you feel it? The claws under your skin? That's not me. That's you. That's the rot you keep feeding."
Hayato's head sagged forward, eyes burning. "Shut up."
"You think you'll escape the net by rotting yourself faster? You think cannibalism will keep you alive? It will only make them chase you harder. I know. I lived it."
"You died it," Hayato hissed.
The armor glowed faintly in the dark. Bastion's silhouette leaned close, teeth bared. "And so will you."
Hayato jerked, chains rattling, teeth grinding until blood ran in his mouth. He shut his eyes, but when he opened them again, his mother was there—eyes soft, lips trembling, voice breaking.
"Stop, Hayato. Please. Don't let them turn you into him."
He let out a ragged sound—half laugh, half sob. "It's too late. I'm already there."
Her eyes glistened. "Then I've lost both of you."
The shackles cut deeper into his wrists as he sagged, the hunger gnawing louder than the echoes.