[Punishment Hall — Day 5]
The air pressed heavy, damp with mildew and iron. Hayato hung from the chains, wrists raw where the shackles bit. His legs trembled, muscles spasming from standing so long on half-bent knees. The elders hadn't starved him completely—he knew that would have killed him too quickly—but they had given just enough to keep him teetering on the edge.
A cup of water dripped through the bars once every day. Nothing more.
For a ghoul, it was survivable. But survival wasn't comfort. It was gnawing emptiness, RC cells burning through his body, hunger scraping the inside of his veins like sandpaper.
By the fifth day, the hunger no longer felt like his own.
His kagune twitched out of him without command, shards half-forming from his back only to scatter into nothing. His plated arm tried to crawl its way down his ribs when he dreamed. His body wasn't asking anymore—it was demanding.
And in the dark, the voices grew.
Bastion stepped from the shadows, armor clattering, the jagged plating almost scraping the ceiling. His eyes glowed faint green. At first, it was like seeing him alive again—towering, unbreakable.
But the longer Hayato stared, the more monstrous he became. The armor warped, plates stretching until they looked like jaws. His teeth lengthened, his kakuja silhouette trembling on the walls.
"You're wasting away," Bastion's voice boomed, distorted like it came through broken metal. "You think hunger will kill you? Hunger is the weapon. Take it. Use it."
Hayato's throat cracked. "You lost to them. You burned yourself out until they finished you."
The armored phantom's grin widened, jagged. "And I was feared. For every wound I took, a Dove remembered my name. You want them to fear you? Feed until they can't look at you without shaking."
Hayato jerked at the chains, wrists bleeding fresh. His heart hammered, chest fever-hot.
"Strength isn't fear," he rasped.
The phantom leaned close, kakuja jaws clattering in the torchlight. "Strength is survival. Nothing else matters."
And then it melted into shadow.
The next time, it was his mother.
She didn't come armored. She came tired. Her eyes looked sunken, her lips pale. She reached for him through the dark, her hands trembling as if the weight of the chains were on her instead.
"Hayato," she whispered. "You're slipping. Every time you feed, I lose you a little more. Don't let them take everything from you."
He closed his eyes, teeth clenched until his jaw ached. "I didn't choose this. They made me stay. They want me to rot into their weapon."
Her hand brushed his cheek—warm, almost too warm. "Then fight them. Fight the hunger. Don't become what your father was."
He flinched. The memory of Bastion's last roar, his kakuja spiraling out of control, crashed against him. He had run. He had obeyed. And he had watched his father fall anyway.
"He wanted me to live," Hayato said hoarsely. "But living isn't enough. Not here. Not with them."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Then you'll die with them instead."
And she vanished too, leaving the dark even heavier.
[Day 6]
The hunger clawed sharper. His chest felt full of fire. His stomach gnawed at itself, twisting in empty knots. His vision swam when he blinked.
The chains rattled as he sagged, but when he closed his eyes, Bastion was there again.
This time his father didn't speak. He just watched, breathing slow through the jagged slits of armor, waiting for Hayato to look up. The silence was worse than the words.
When Hayato finally rasped, "What do you want from me?" the figure only tilted its head, like it was measuring whether his son would break now or later.
"Say something," Hayato croaked, throat raw.
The phantom's teeth parted. "Feed."
Hayato snapped his eyes shut.
But when he opened them again, his mother stood there instead, hollow-eyed, tears cutting clean tracks down her cheeks.
"No," she whispered. "Don't listen. Don't let him drag you down. You're stronger than this."
He shook his head, chest burning. "I don't know if I am."
"Then I've already lost you," she said, and dissolved into the dark.
[Day 7 — Trial of Endurance]
The door scraped open. Light stabbed into the hall.
The elders stepped inside, masks gleaming. Behind them, younger clan members jeered, carrying buckets. They sloshed the contents onto the floor in front of him—scraps of rotten flesh, stinking and buzzing with flies.
"Eat," one elder commanded.
Hayato's stomach turned. The hunger screamed. His kagune twitched, shards sparking and fading.
He clenched his jaw until it hurt. "No."
The elders murmured, their voices like snakes. "He refuses. He still clings to pride."
"Or weakness."
"Break him deeper."
One elder snapped his fingers. The clan youth moved forward, fists slamming into his ribs, into his stomach. His chains rattled, his body rocked, but he didn't fall. He gritted his teeth and took every blow, every bruise. His vision swam red.
Through the haze, his father appeared again—this time with his kakuja fully unfurled, jaws gnashing, claws scraping the stone. "Strike them back. Tear them apart. Show them you're not weak."
And then his mother, voice breaking, pleading: "Don't. If you give in, you're theirs forever."
Hayato's chest heaved. His kagune flared, shards crackling against the walls, forcing the youth to stumble back. For a moment, silence filled the chamber. The elders leaned forward.
"He endures," one whispered.
"Not broken yet," another said.
"Perhaps not Bastion's son after all."
Hayato slumped against the chains, sweat dripping, blood pooling from his wrists. His vision swam with shadows that looked like jaws and hands both.
Strength is survival. Strength is control.
The voices overlapped until he couldn't tell which belonged to his parents and which belonged to himself.
And somewhere in the dark, Hayato felt the hunger smile.