Yuki stayed on the floor of the living room for a long time, the cold wood seeping into his knees. The scars on his palms throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, like phantom limbs. They were beautiful in their terrible way – intricate, swirling patterns of deepest black that seemed to absorb the light. They also felt alive. A subtle, rhythmic pulse beat beneath them, synchronized with the low hum that now resonated constantly in his bones.
Kage's presence was a cold weight in his mind, not intrusive, but undeniable. A silent observer. A coiled serpent waiting.
He pushed himself up, stumbling towards the bathroom. He needed to see. Needed to understand the physical cost.
He flicked on the light, wincing at the brightness. He leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection. The same hollow-eyed boy stared back, but now there was something new in his eyes. A flicker. Not of life, but of something else. A cold, calculating light that hadn't been there before. He looked down at his hands, turning them palms up.
The black scars pulsed faintly. As he watched, they seemed to shift slightly, the intricate patterns flowing like dark water. He felt a pull, a craving emanating from them. A need to use the power they represented. To feed the fire Kage had ignited.
All great fires consume their fuel, Yuki, Kage's voice whispered inside his head, layered and cold. You are the vessel. The power is the flame. The souls are the fuel. But remember… The voice trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging, heavy with implication.
Remember what? That the fire would eventually consume the vessel? That the fuel wasn't just the monsters' souls? The question gnawed at him, a worm of doubt burrowing into the fragile foundation of his resolve. He pushed it aside. Vengeance first. Understanding the fine print could come later.
He needed to test it. To see what this power felt like. What it could do.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the scars, on the hum in his bones, on the cold presence of Kage coiled in his mind. He remembered the gym creature. Its hunger. Its maw full of screaming faces. The rage he'd felt, the spark that had exploded. He reached for that feeling, that fury, and channeled it towards the scars.
Burn, he thought.
The scars on his palms flared with sudden, intense heat. Not painful, but potent. Dark, crimson energy – visible now as writhing tendrils of shadow shot through with veins of deep red light – erupted from his hands. It coiled around his forearms like living smoke, humming with destructive potential. The air in the small bathroom crackled, smelling sharply of ozone and burnt sugar.
Yuki stared, mesmerized and horrified. This was it. Power. Real power. The power to fight back. To destroy.
He clenched his fists, willing the energy to retract. It flowed back into his palms reluctantly, the crimson light fading, leaving only the faint pulse of the black scars. The ozone smell lingered.
He felt… different. Stronger, yes. But also… thinner. As if channeling that energy had burned away a small piece of something essential. A flicker of warmth, a memory of a simpler fear, was gone. Replaced by the cold hum of power and the faint, acrid scent of burnt sugar.
He looked at his reflection again. The cold, calculating light in his eyes seemed brighter. The hollows beneath them looked deeper, darker. He looked older. Worn.
The price, Kage's whisper echoed, a dry rasp of satisfaction. A spark of your humanity, traded for a spark of mine. A small exchange. For now.
Yuki splashed cold water on his face, the shock doing little to dispel the chill that had settled deep inside him. He dried his hands, avoiding looking at the scars. He could feel them still, pulsing faintly, hungry. The power was intoxicating. The price was terrifying.
He walked out of the bathroom, the hum in his bones a constant reminder. He was no longer just a haunted boy. He was a weapon. A vessel. And the fire Kage had lit inside him was already beginning to consume its fuel.