The forest was silent except for the crunch of leaves beneath Sachu's boots. His breath fogged faintly in the cold night air. Shadows trailed at his feet like restless serpents, slithering toward the trees.
"Over there," Mia whispered, pointing. Her flashlight beam cut across the underbrush, catching the glint of eyes.
A wild stag froze, muscles coiled to flee.
Sachu didn't hesitate. The cursed blade was already in his hand, obsidian edge pulsing with hunger. He dashed forward, his body moving with practiced rhythm.
Three years ago, he would have faltered. Hesitated. But now…
He sliced forward, sending shadow slashes streaking viciously toward the beast.
The stag let out a strangled cry before collapsing. Shadows writhed, curling into its form, consuming it from within.
Warmth surged through Sachu's veins. His chest loosened, the faint ache of decay fading. His skin, pale and fragile only hours ago, steadied under the stolen vitality.
Exhaling, Sachu wiped the blade on the grass. "…It's enough for this month."
Mia crouched beside the fading carcass. "Three years. We're kind of pros now, huh?"
Sachu sheathed the sword. "…Doesn't feel like it."
She smirked. "You're just mad because I spotted it first."
"…Maybe."
Her laughter rang through the night, bright against the forest's silence.
For three years, this was their ritual. The hunt. The shadows. The cycle. Sachu still hated the whispers. Still hated the hunger of the blade. But he had learned how to live with it.
And with Mia beside him… the darkness wasn't unbearable.
That night, something was different.
Sachu lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the cursed sword leaning against his desk. A low, sharp pain throbbed inside his skull, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Then—
CRACK.
It felt like his head was splitting open. His vision flared white. His body arched off the mattress, every nerve screaming.
And the void swallowed him whole.
He was suspended in endless black. But this time, it wasn't silent.
Screams tore through the void. Human screams—raw, agonized.
Ahead of him stood twenty-eight figures. Each clutched a weapon like his own: twisted, cursed things that pulsed with unnatural hunger. Blades, chains, spears, axes. All dripping with different aura's of shadows, flame, lighting, light.....
And behind them, towering like a nightmare, was the being. The one who had cursed him three years ago. Its eyes burned like collapsing stars, its voice thunderous.
"Three years. Your trial of survival ends."
Sachu's chest tightened. "…Trial…?"
The being's laughter shook the void.
"The game begins now. Twenty-nine chosen. Twenty-nine blades. Only one shall remain. Feed. Kill. Devour. Those who fall will rot, their stolen years collapsing into ash."
The twenty-eight turned toward him. Their faces were shadows—
except one.
Viran.
A boy with pale eyes and a sharp, jagged smile. His gaze locked with Sachu's, and something inside Sachu twisted with sick recognition.
"You…" Sachu whispered.
Viran's grin widened.
The void shifted. Images flared before Sachu's eyes—
A quiet house. A family of four asleep. Viran's pale silhouette standing in the doorway.
The first swing carved through silence. Blood splattered the walls.
Screams erupted.
His father lunged forward—cut down instantly. His mother tried to shield her daughter—both were torn apart, their voices silenced in a single blur of steel.
Flames roared from his blade and set the house ablaze, his pale eyes glowing through the inferno. He stood smiling amid the burning corpses, as flames devoured the last of their lifespans.
The stench of blood and smoke burned into Sachu's lungs.
He wanted to look away.
But the void forced him to watch.
Viran turned, his blade dripping. His gaze pierced straight through the fire, through the void—
straight into Sachu.
The being's voice thundered over the screams and crackling flames:
"Fight. Kill. Survive. Let the game of blades… begin."
Sachu jolted awake.
Sweat soaked his shirt. His breath came in ragged gasps. His skull still throbbed with phantom pain.
"…Just… a nightmare," he whispered, clutching his chest.
But deep down—
he knew better.
The confirmation came the next morning.
Students whispered in the halls. Teachers huddled in corners. Phone screens lit the classrooms with one headline:
HOUSE BURNS DOWN – FAMILY OF FOUR DEAD.
Only one survivor.
A boy with pale eyes.
Sachu's blood ran cold.
"Viran…"
That evening, he told Mia everything.
The dream.
The being.
The twenty-eight.
Viran.
She sat cross-legged on his bed, arms folded tight. Her usual brightness was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused stare. "…So Viran's like you. A blade user."
"Yes."
"And this 'game' means you're supposed to fight until only one's left."
Sachu nodded reluctantly.
Mia bit her lip, then forced a weak laugh. "Screw that. The cops can handle it. If Viran's killing people, they'll catch him."
Sachu wanted to believe it.
But the whisper coiled in his skull, sharp and venomous.
"No law can touch them. Only a blade can kill another blade. Only stolen lifespans can devour stolen lifespans."
Sachu staggered, clutching his head. The voice was too clear.
Mia leaned closer. "Sachu…?"
His voice cracked. "…The whisper says—only a sword user can kill another. The police… can't stop them."
Silence.
Mia's fists clenched. Her usual grin was gone, but her eyes burned. "…Then if Viran's out there, killing… it's on us."
Sachu lowered his gaze. His stomach churned. He didn't want this. He never wanted this.
But the nightmare had already begun.
That night, they packed.
Mia stuffed snacks, maps, and a flashlight into her backpack.
Sachu slid the cursed blade into its sheath, its weight heavy as a verdict.
Neither spoke much.
When they finally stepped into the night, the city lights stretched before them, endless and cold.
"…Sachu," Mia said softly.
"…What?"
Her grin was faint, but steady. "Whatever happens, we stick together. Sidekick rules."
He almost smiled. "…Yeah."
The cursed sword pulsed faintly, mocking his fragile hope.
And together, they set off toward Viran's city.
Toward the first clash of blades.
Toward the game of death.