[Seno Estate — Training Yard | Midnight]
The torches painted the training yard in orange stripes, shadows clawing against stone walls. The ground was packed hard from years of drills, the smell of sweat, blood, and ash clinging to the air.
Hayato stood in the center, ribs still aching from the rogue fight, wrists raw from shackles. His stomach was a hollow pit. The one bite he'd taken days ago from the rogue ghoul hadn't filled him — it had poisoned him with fire. Hunger fever churned under his skin, making his limbs shake even when he stood still. His kagune flickered involuntarily, shards twitching from his back like sparks from a dying flame.
Eleven masks stared at him. Different shapes — bone, lacquer, iron, cracked porcelain — but every pair of eyes behind them cold, measuring.
The gate closed with a heavy clang.
A Jack with a broad frame and iron plates riveted into his mask tilted his head. "The head calls us fangs." His voice was low, gravel grinding in his throat. "Do you believe that?"
A thinner Jack, mask painted black with white streaks like tears, laughed dryly. "Fangs? We're teeth pulled from mouths and left in the dirt. Don't get it twisted, Twelve."
The name stung more than the hunger. Twelve. Not Hayato. Not son. Not nephew. Just a number to plug a hole.
The broad one jerked his chin at the open ground. "We test first. Kagune."
The Jacks spread out, giving space. One stepped forward, lean, quick on his feet. His rinkaku coiled out behind him in four tendrils, glowing faintly in the torchlight.
Hayato's plating crawled down his arm, jagged and uneven from the fever. His shards sputtered weakly behind him, three forming, two breaking apart. He steadied his breath.
The rinkaku lashed. Hayato blocked with his plated arm — the impact jarred his ribs, knocked air from his chest. He staggered, caught himself, pushed forward with a counter swing. His shards spat wild, clipping the tendril and carving a shallow line across the Jack's shoulder.
The rinkaku user grinned behind his mask. "Messy. Starved. But you bite."
The next came in — a koukaku user with a shield blooming from his arm, thick and heavy. He drove at Hayato like a wall. Hayato slid aside, too slow, caught a glancing blow to his thigh. His leg buckled. He roared, drove his plated fist into the shield, sparks screaming. His shards fired wild, shallow cuts spraying against the koukaku's mask.
The laughter of the others rang sharp.
"Sloppy."
"Too weak to hold form."
"Even his kagune shakes."
Hayato spat blood into the dirt and forced himself upright. His vision blurred at the edges. Inside his skull, Bastion's voice growled.
Again. Don't stop. You don't get to stop.
Hayato snarled and raised his arm again.
They made him spar every type. Bikaku, rinkaku, koukaku. Some came one by one. Others came two at a time. Every impact made his bruises scream, every dodge drained him more, every strike cost him a little more breath. His kagune flickered, unstable, but he refused to retract it.
By the end, his plated arm shook visibly, shards pulsing like dying embers across his back. He was half-bent, sweat dripping from his jaw.
The bone-mask Jack stepped forward. His mask was split down the cheek, a long scar visible beneath it. He carried no weapon, his koukaku folded sharp and mean around his hand. He stared at Hayato for a long moment.
"Control test," he said flatly.
Another Jack brought forward a clay bowl of water, set it on the ground. Clear, thin.
"You want this?" bone-mask asked.
Hayato's throat convulsed. He hadn't had more than a trickle in days. The water shimmered, mocking him.
"Two hundred counts," bone-mask said. "Keep your kagune in. Not a flicker. Fail, and the water spills."
The Jacks circled tighter, eager for a show.
Hayato dropped to his knees, breathing ragged. He forced his kagune to retract. His back screamed. His muscles twitched. The shards hissed, pushing against his will.
"One," bone-mask began. "Two. Three."
At thirty, a stick jabbed his spine. His kagune twitched; he bit his tongue until blood filled his mouth, forcing it down. At sixty, someone hissed "Drink yet?" right against his ear. He swallowed dry air. At ninety, a boot nudged the bowl, water rippling. His vision tunneled red.
Hold it, Bastion's voice rumbled. Starve it, but don't break.
One hundred. One hundred and twenty. His chest locked. At one hundred and forty, a shard almost fired — he clenched so hard his nails cut his palms. By one hundred and eighty, he shook like a fevered animal, sweat streaming into his eyes.
When the count hit two hundred, bone-mask kicked the dirt beside the bowl. Not the bowl. Just close enough for dust to sting Hayato's nose.
"Take it," he said.
Hayato seized the bowl with both hands and drank like drowning. The water hit his throat like flame, running raw through him. He coughed, spat, then drank again, licking the rim for the last drop.
The Jacks watched in silence. No laughter this time. Just that cold, measuring quiet.
"Rooftops," the iron-mask ordered.
The gate opened to the estate walls, the night air rushing in. The Jacks sprinted, boots whispering on clay, kagune trailing faint glows. Hayato followed, chest burning, legs numb.
They vaulted eaves, cleared alleys in a single leap. He almost fell on the second lap, vision blurring, but caught himself on a gutter and hauled up. On the silent lap, his heart screamed in his ears, but he kept running.
The others moved like wolves. He stumbled like prey, but prey that refused to die.
When they returned, the iron-mask said simply, "Not fast. Not clean. But you didn't fall."
The Jacks filed out, masks vanishing into the halls. Their footsteps faded, leaving only the torch crackle.
Hayato stayed kneeling in the dirt, fists pressed into earth. His ribs burned, his arms shook, his stomach clawed itself raw. But his eyes stayed open.
His mother's voice didn't come. She was gone now, silence in his skull.
Only Bastion's growl lingered. You didn't break. Do it again tomorrow.
Hayato lifted his head, blood dripping from his lip, sweat stinging his eyes.
I will. I'll survive Twelve. And I'll make them choke on it.
The torches guttered, shadows shifting like chains rattling in the wind.