An underground facility in under Ryūketsu, is as cold as it is silent—an oppressive, suffocating darkness that clings to the walls like a living thing. The only sound is the echo of boots against stone as two armored Hunters drag Kairos down into the depths, his chains rattling with every step.
He doesn't resist. Doesn't even glare (not anymore). His expression is eerily blank—detached, like he's already accepted his fate. Or perhaps something far worse has settled in his mind instead...
One of the Hunters shoves him forward as they reach Level 1—the highest security block reserved for those deemed less dangerous than lower level criminals. The reinforced cell door groans open before slamming shut behind him with a finality that would make lesser men flinch. But Kairos? He just… sits. Silent in the dark.
(And then—he smiles.) It's not angry, not desperate like before. Just... cold. Different somehow (changed). His fingers tap idly against his knee, counting seconds that don't matter anymore because time means nothing here anyway… until suddenly—his voice cuts through shadows without warning:
"...She should've killed me." (A statement more than regret.)
"But she didn't." (And now?)
"I'll return the favor."
A shiver goes down the Hunters' spine as Kairos speaks. His voice is calm, almost pleasant—like he's discussing the weather, not plotting murder. He just... sits there. Grinning.
One of the Hunters shifts, clearing his throat. "You've become a bit unhinged."
Kairos' smile widens, teeth gleaming white in the dark. "Unhinged? Is that what you call it?"
The Hunter scoffs, shaking his head. "This is exactly why Captain Gentoki turned you in." His voice drips with disdain. "You lost sight of what it means to be a Hunter—obsessed over some girl like she was the only thing that mattered."
Kairos doesn't react at first. His grin stays frozen in place (too sharp, too empty). Then—slowly—his fingers curl against his knee again, knuckles whitening under the pressure.
"...Did I?" (A whisper more than a question.)
"...Or did he just not understand?" (And then—)
"Doesn't matter now."
Because now? Now he knows better than anyone: love and hate are two sides of the same blade. And he's ready to wield both.
The Hunter bristles at the criticism, but Kairos' voice stays cool. "I respect Gentoki and his ideals," he admits—almost grudgingly. "The whole 'protect the weak, honor till the end' thing." He scoffs. It's not quite mockery, but it's pretty damn close. "But to be honest?"
He stares at the Hunter, eyes almost glowing. "I think he's soft."
The Hunter's grip tightens on his blade, but he doesn't draw it—just levels Kairos with a look of disgust. "Soft? Maybe that's why he actually deserves to be Captain," he snaps back. "Unlike you—throwing everything away for some vendetta."
Kairos just hums, tilting his head like the insult barely grazed him (but the way his jaw ticks says otherwise). Then, with deliberate slowness:
"Funny how morals sound so hollow when you're locked in here too."
"...Or did Gentoki forget to tell you?" (A smirk.)
"...This prison runs on more than just duty."
The Hunter stiffens (because what the hell does that mean?) before turning sharply and walking away—leaving Kairos alone with his thoughts (and whatever quiet violence is brewing behind those calm eyes).
The cell's silence wraps around Kairos like a second skin as memories flicker behind his eyes—sharp, unwanted.
Yua's laughter, bright and unguarded in those early days.
The way she'd scold him for reckless moves during training, only to smile when he finally got it right.
Kiyara watching from the sidelines—always judging but never interfering (until she had to).
A muscle flexes in his jaw (because it hurts, even now). He hates that he remembers. Hates that part of him still clings to those moments like they weren't already dead and buried (like he wasn't already dead inside).
His fingers dig into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
"...Pathetic." (To himself.)
The footsteps echo down the corridor with a purpose. Kairos hesitates, his hands unclenching in the shadows. His expression doesn't change, but there's a faint flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
When they stop outside his cell, the lock on the door creaks. Then the door groans open.
A figure steps inside. Kairos doesn't look up—not yet.
The figure stands just inside the cell door, cloaked in shadow. Kairos raises his head, gaze sharpening as he studies the darkness. His voice is flat, almost bored.
"Come to finish the job?""
The figure doesn't answer right away. Instead, the door creaks slowly shut behind them.
Finally, a single question—low and cold.
"Tell me..." (Like a command, not a request).
"...What do you want most?"
Kairos sits a beat too long, watching the figure through the shadows. His eyes narrow—searching for even a glimpse of a face. But all he sees is darkness.
Then, finally, his voice slices through silence.
"It doesn't matter what I want," he grinds out (still not quite sure if this is an ally or enemy) "because it's impossible now."
The figure tilts its hidden head, as if considering.
"Is it?"
Kairos scoffs. "You think you can change fate?"
The figure takes another step forward, closing the distance between them.
"Fate is not as fixed as you think." (Unflinching. Confident. Knowing).
"...And nothing is impossible if you wish for it hard enough." (A pause.)
"Everything is merely a matter of negotiation and opportunity.".
Kairos goes still, eyes wide behind a carefully controlled mask.
Kairos' hands curl into fists against his knees. His voice is rough—almost hoarse.
"And if I told you..." he whispers, finally looking up to meet the figure's shadowed gaze.
"What if I told you I want her dead?"
The figure stands very still. There is a long moment of silence before it speaks.
"...Then I would say it can be arranged."
The words hang in the air like a poisoned promise. Kairos stares at the figure, heart pounding under his ribs.
"At what cost?" he asks, voice a harsh whisper.
"What would I have to give in return to make it real?"
The figure doesn't move, but Kairos can feel the weight of their gaze. The silence stretches—taut, dangerous—before they finally speak.
"Everything." (A simple word with infinite consequences.)
"Your freedom. Your loyalty." (Each demand delivered like a hammer strike.)
"...And your soul."
Kairos exhales sharply—half a laugh, half disbelief (but not refusal—not yet). His fingers twitch at his sides before curling into fists again. He looks down at them, considering. Then:
"...Fine."
The figure turns without another word—expecting Kairos to follow. And, after the briefest hesitation… he does.
His cell door swings open unnaturally, as though the lock itself bowed to some unseen force. No alarms sound. No guards stir in the corridors (as if they've all been conveniently distracted). The prison remains eerily silent as Kairos steps out—barefoot, unshackled for the first time in days—and follows his enigmatic "savior."
The figure doesn't look back (already certain of his compliance). Their voice is low, almost amused:
"Welcome to your new beginning."
They reach a hidden room filled with screens showing everything. This prison is well equipped for surveillance—and this room seems to be a command center for it.
There are screens showing the training grounds, dining halls, hallways…
There are also images of the other regions—the Sword Born, the Captains, the Lieutenants, the locations… The entire world is under constant observation.
Kairos stops in the doorway. "Who are you?" he asks quietly.
Kairos turns to the figure, frustration edging into his voice.
"What do you mean, it's not perfected?"
The figure glances at him—unperturbed.
"Artifacts of that power take time to forge." Their tone is almost apologetic (though Kairos suspects that's not the word for it). "It's the price for power on that scale."
Kairos freezes, his blood running cold.
"Wait..."
"You... mean they aren't all collected yet?"
The question hangs in the air—loaded with possibilities. The figure looks up at him, tilting their head.
"Not yet."
"However, we know where they all are."
Kairos stares at the figure—and he knows. Their goal is similar—even if their means are different.
"You want something from her, too."
The figure doesn't deny it.
"That's why you need me." He pushes his luck—confident in his guess. "You can't get to her yourself."
Kairos doesn't blink. He doesn't waver. His fingers clench at his sides—not in hesitation, but anticipation.
"I need it."
"And you need me."
"So we have an understanding."
The figure tilts their head slightly, amusement radiating from the shadows. Then—slowly—they nod.
The figure reaches into their cloak and pulls forth an object that makes the air itself warp around it—like reality recoils from its existence.
Shape: A jagged, asymmetrical core of obsidian black, pulsing with veins of crimson energy like lightning trapped within. It's encased in a floating, fragmented shell—a shattered polyhedron of glasslike material that constantly shifts and reforms as if alive.
Effect: Even being near it makes Kairos' vision blur at the edges (as if time and space are bending just by proximity). His breath catches involuntarily—because this thing is wrong, but in a way that whispers promises too sweet to ignore.
Kairos stares at the artifact, the shadows of the room suddenly seeming darker.
"What is this?" He can barely manage a whisper.
The figure studies the stone for a moment before answering, almost thoughtfully.
'...It's both a curse and a miracle.
A crystal forged from shattered dimensions and forbidden energy.'
Kairos reaches out and closes his hand around the artifact, fingers closing slowly on the shattered crystal core. His eyes are dark—not with fear, but with hunger. Like a wolf circling its prey.
"I'll take it."
His smirk sharpens as he turns to the figure.
"...And I'll use it to bring that Kitsune to ruin. Personally." (A promise he intends to keep.)
🌀End Of Chapter Thirty Six