Blood.
Red, thick, swirling blood.
My body… it's drenched in it. Completely soaked. Why can't I feel my hands? Oh—right… because one of them is gone, torn clean off and lying somewhere far from me, and the other is mangled beyond recognition, a twisted lump of flesh and shattered bone.
I can't even speak. Every attempt to move my lips sends a fresh spike of agony shooting through my throat.
All I can tell is that my voice is gone, replaced by the horrible sensation of my throat gurgling on my own blood. The coppery taste overwhelms my senses, thick and suffocating, drowning out the words I'm desperately trying to force out.
His body shook violently—trembling, convulsing, twitching in ways he couldn't control. His eyes could only make out a blurred red haze and the massive, looming shadow of the thing responsible for this nightmare.
This… this was his reality. His current, horrifying predicament. Dismembered, broken, ruined—not by a beast, not by any wild animal, but by a Shintou spirit.
Decades ago, spirits began manifesting physically due to some unexplained phenomenon unknown even to the highest authorities. And once they manifested… they roamed freely throughout the physical world, wreaking havoc.
During those early years, humanity felt the world was collapsing—falling apart under unstoppable chaos—until humans discovered a way to bond with spirits, to tame them, and bend their powers to their will. It was the only thing that gave humanity even the smallest fighting chance.
But none of that mattered now.
That calamity, the very thing humanity fought so hard to suppress, had now fallen upon this young lad lying helplessly on the floor, awaiting his death.
How painfully ironic.
'After everything I survived… is this how I die? Why? I don't want to die. I don't want it to end like this—'
'I'm a loner, a weirdo, yes I know… maybe I don't deserve much out of life… but does that also mean I deserve to die like this? Isn't there supposed to be more? Even if I'm just some insignificant speck in this vast, terrifying world… I still want more. Isn't that what it means to be human? To want, even when you have nothing?'
A hideous, gurgling snarl—an otherworldly, guttural sound—echoed through the bloodstained vicinity, causing him to choke on fear all over again.
Then the creature stepped forward—a towering, grotesque abomination. A twisted thing of malice and hunger. Six arms, each ending in jagged, uneven claws that dripped with a dark, viscous substance thicker than regular blood. Its back was hunched unnaturally, covered with bony protrusions jutting out like malformed spikes. Those protrusions pulsed faintly beneath a revolting layer of black rot that emitted a smell of death so strong it stung the air.
It moved like a predator—lithe, calculated, yet brutally powerful. Its face—if one could even call that horrifying shape a face—was blank. No eyes. No nose. No ears. Only a massive, gaping maw occupying half its head, packed with rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth angled inwards, designed for tearing and never releasing.
It lumbered closer, claws clicking against the ruined floor as it dragged streaks of blood and viscera behind it.
In response, the boy's body gave a weak, involuntary twitch, as if some buried instinct still begged him to escape—though there was no strength left. No fight. No hope.
'Why am I still trying? What's the point? I'm going to die here… torn apart like some worthless animal. This is the end. I can feel it.'
The Shintou spirit didn't hesitate. It seized the opportunity with monstrous speed, swinging two of its massive claws downward. They pierced effortlessly into what remained of the boy's broken torso.
He tried to scream—he truly did—but only a pitiful, distorted wail escaped his blood-filled throat. His body shuddered once… and then fell still.
This was it. Death.
A small, bitter part of him found it almost humorous. His life had always been one long, painful joke. Why not end it with the ultimate punchline? But even that dark humor required strength he no longer had.
His body gave one final twitch… and then nothing.
He was dead. And he felt it. Felt his life, his humanity, the very essence of existence seeping out of him, leaking away with the last drops of his blood.
How would the afterlife be?
[Not quite.]
A voice—cold, flat, emotionless—cut through the suffocating darkness. It sliced straight through the fog clouding my mind.
[System activated.]
[You are a bloodline candidate. You must become a dragon.]
What… what is this? Who are you? Why am I still thinking? Why am I still here? Isn't this supposed to be death?
[Thank you for your agreement.]
Wait—what? No. I didn't agree to anything!
[Do you think I gave you a choice?]
The voice let out a dark, unsettling chuckle, and I felt something shift within me. Something pulling. Dragging. Gripping my very soul and tethering it tightly to the mangled corpse I had just escaped.
[Returning soul to corpse… activated.]
---
Hours earlier
The classroom buzzed with life, noisy as always. Laughter, chatter, and the chaotic background hum unique to teenagers filled the air. But he didn't care. He never cared. He just watched them all quietly, as he always did—silent, distant, unseen.
He was sixteen, red-haired, and awkward. Cute, in a strangely understated way, but still invisible to most. 'My favorite color? Red. But I hate blood. I wear sneakers, but I hate washing them. I have a crush on the most popular girl in school, but let's be honest—I don't stand a chance. I'm a nobody. A loser.'
"Yuka, what's up?" a voice suddenly cut through my drifting thoughts.
He didn't even bother to look. "The sky."
"Really funny," Armin muttered, slumping into the seat beside me. He was fifteen, round-faced, overweight, and always covered in bandages from whatever beating the school bullies blessed him with that week. A walking, breathing punching bag with too much kindness for his own good.
"There was a Shintou sighting yesterday," Armin whispered, voice low and shaky. "Military got involved, but… I heard they all got wiped out."
Yuka didn't respond. There was nothing to say. This was the world they lived in. Shintou spirits were a constant, a living nightmare that refused to fade.
And they weren't even the worst thing out there.
People didn't like talking about it, but Yuka knew more than most. There was something far more dangerous than Shintou—something the military kept under tight wraps.
The Ryoka.
People who harnessed Shintou power.
"The Ryoka are doing their best," Armin continued nervously. "But the state's getting too dangerous… too unpredictable."
Yuka barely registered the words. He had his own problems—problems that lingered like a shadow at the edge of his vision.
'The Ryoka? Sure, it'd be nice to be one. A Ryoka is someone who survived the Shadow Stain—a disease only affecting those born capable of channeling Shintou energy. The sickness practically forces you to awaken, one way or another.'
The stages of the Shadow Stain were infamous. Stage one: cold-hot syndrome—the body freezing inside while burning violently outside. Stage two: the last life stage, where everything slowed down—thoughts, heartbeat, reflexes—like dying in slow motion. Then came the final stage… transformation.
Into a Shintou spirit.
"Yuka, are you okay? You've been looking pale," Armin asked softly, concern replacing his usual nervousness.
Yuka turned to him, eyes cold and sharp. "Just get me a yogurt from the cafeteria, will you? I can't stand up right now."
Armin hesitated, worried… but nodded and began waddling off to carry out Yuka's surprisingly rude demand, despite everything.
The moment he was gone, Yuka bent forward and coughed violently, clutching his chest. His breathing turned ragged, uneven.
"Shit… this isn't normal…" he muttered. Memories—fearful, buried memories—rushed back like icy water flooding a sinking ship.
"I'm a stage two candidate for the Shadow Stain."
The realization hit him like a cold blade to the stomach. If he survived… he'd become a Ryoka. If he didn't…
He'd transform into a Shintou spirit.
And time—his time, was rapidly running out.