Masterpiece In Shadow Slave

But what if there was no meaning? No redemption? What if Ayanokouji was right?

What if his father hadn't died for him?

What if he had died despite him?

Eichiro stared at the ground.

He couldn't remember what it felt like to breathe without guilt.

He opened his mouth once, to speak his father's name. Maybe to curse it. Maybe to beg it.

But no sound came.

The room was still again. The shadows hadn't moved. The boards hadn't groaned.

Even the wind outside had stopped.

Everything waited.

And Eichiro-he simply sat there, broken into silence, waiting for a god that would never come.

>>>

As Eichiro kept his gaze fixed on the ground, unmoving, something beneath the folds of his ragged clothing began to tremble.

A faint, irregular vibration—so subtle it could've been mistaken for his breath catching.

With slow, lifeless fingers, he reached inside, the movement barely more than a twitch. His hand emerged, pale and stiff, holding a folded scrap of paper and a short, worn-down pencil.

The pencil wasn't touching the page.

But it was writing.

Without any guidance, no hand directing it, the tip dragged itself across the surface with unnatural grace—gliding, carving out strokes that were clean, perfect, almost surgical.

A line curved. A hook formed.

Letters took shape—steady, fluid, intentional.

It read:

"How long are you going to keep hiding like that?"

The pencil paused at the line break, still hovering.

The word hadn't even finished.

But the silence that followed was louder than anything complete.

***

"You didn't feel anything?" Shirou asked. No judgment. Just curiosity.

Ayanokouji stopped.

"You left the White Room early," he said, turning just slightly. "But I didn't. I was there from the start. My first memory is of surviving."

His voice was flat. Empty.

"I don't expect it to come back," he added. "But sometimes I check if it's still dead."

Then he walked on.

Behind them, leaves began to drift across the dirt like whispers trying to catch up.

"How long before he comes out?" Shirou asked again, this time softer.

"Soon."

***

As Ayanokouji walked away into the fog-thick silence of the village's edge, Shirou lingered behind for a moment, his eyes trailing across the rotting wood and collapsed roofs.

Then, without a word, he turned toward the forest and began walking.

The undergrowth swallowed him like mist—quiet at first, until the sounds began.

A rustling. Faint, then louder. It came in waves. Grass brushing, footsteps—no, limbs dragging. Many of them.

Shirou didn't stop. He kept moving, calm, patient, until the forest thickened around him. Then, without warning, he jumped, grabbing a thick tree trunk and pulling himself onto a low branch. He settled there, one leg bent up, his back relaxed against the bark.

Below him, the Vowalkers emerged.

Dozens. Then more.

They didn't come closer.

Not a single one made a move. They stood there, crowded and twitching like broken marionettes—but none dared reach the tree.

Shirou raised a single finger, and from the tip, a thin vine extended, slithering downward like a whip. He pointed it lazily at one of the creatures, letting it trail until it hooked onto a pulsing organ inside its face open through silt. He gave a small tug.

The Vowalker collapsed instantly.

A ripple of fear surged through the others. They backed away, stiff and wide-eyed, their dried joints creaking with hesitation.

It was clear now. They weren't avoiding him out of instinct. They remembered him. They were afraid.

Shirou pulled a paper from his clothing, along with a short pencil sharpened to a stub. Resting the paper on his knee, he began to write in slow, precise strokes.

"How long are you going to keep hiding like that?"

Some might question, Isn't shirou moving too fast? He confronted both Perla and Eichiro on the same day...

Answer is simple.

No.

Their feeling was still raw, He could only shape them according to his will when they are still forming...

In this case, Eichiro was still under his self reflection of past, It was the perfect timing for Shirou to influnce his past and future, Perfect timing because Eichiro isn't on his right mind.

He held the paper out for a moment. No response.

Unbothered, Shirou wrote again.

"I'm the only one who can hold a candle to Kiyotaka in this nightmare."

There was silence. Just the whisper of wind through leaves and the occasional twitch from below. Then, after nearly a full minute, a faint scraping sound echoed back through the woods.

A reply.

The handwriting was messy. The letters leaned and scratched into the paper unevenly, like they were carved by a hand that no longer knew how to hold a pencil steady.

"What do you want?"

Shirou smiled faintly. He recognized the exhaustion in the script, the hesitation in each line. Eichiro writing was still breaking—caught in that long, drawn-out moment between pain and collapse.

The Vowalkers, sensing his expression, retreated a few more steps.

Shirou didn't pay them any mind.

He wrote again.

"Do you really believe everything Kiyotaka said?"

No response came.

Shirou tapped the paper gently, then scribbled something new.

"Don't explain. Just answer yes or no."

He gave a second, then began.

"At any point… did you wonder if your father was wrong?"

It is human nature to think negatively at bad times, What Ayanokouji had done was just use Eichiro's own consciousness against him.

Everyone thinks badly once in a while, Ayanokouji just used that.

The question lingered in the air like smoke.

A few seconds passed.

Then came the answer, shaky and faint:

"Yes."

Shirou's hand moved without pause.

"Did you ever think—if only for a second—that your father chose Kiyotaka instead of you?"

Eichiro questioning Matsuo in mind must have raised this question.

Why would my own father choose Ayanokouji instead of me?

Again, Might be repeating but it's the truth, It is nothing but human nature.

Which unknowingly is guiding eichiro to another death.

There was a longer pause this time.

The answer still came:

"Yes."

His next message came slower.

"Did you really die?"

A heartbeat.

Then:

"Yes."

Shirou exhaled through his nose, his smile fading.

In truth, both he and Ayanokouji doubted that last part.

They had reason to believe Eichiro, like them, was still alive somewhere—he might be in a coma, maybe. But the boy didn't know that.

He believed he had died. Believed it so deeply it was woven into the shape of his words.

Shirou looked down at the final "Yes" for a moment, then wrote his next sentence.

"None of that is real. Kiyotaka lied to you."

He let the page hang there for a while before continuing.

Over the next several exchanges:

Shirou began carefully explaining.

He didn't rush. Each line was built with slow, heavy truth.

He told Eichiro how Ayanokouji had used his own self-doubt as a weapon.

How his uncertainty about his father was turned against him.

How his emotional wounds were calculated and prodded.

The words grew sharper as they filled the notebook, building layer by layer.

Then Shirou's gaze narrowed. His pencil paused over the paper, then moved deliberately.

"Do you want to see him fall?"

No response.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

A full minute.

Then two.

Finally, a short reply came back:

"No."

Shirou read it once, then twice. But he already understood. That pause said more than the answer itself.

Eichiro was still uncertain, Somwhere he wanted revenge but in some parts he did not... That was the only explaination for taking two minutes just to answer.

He leaned forward, his expression unreadable.

"Even if he's planning to kill you with his own hands?"

That time, the reply broke the pattern. It came not as a Yes or No, but a full word.

"What?"

>>>

Next few minutes, Shirou explained everything to Eichiro, the same way he had done with Perla.

Shirou knew Eichiro's condition wasn't good—his thoughts were fractured, his grip on reason unsteady. That's why he had stuck to simple yes-or-no questions until now. But this needed more.

And that's also why this was the perfect timing, If eichiro was to come to answer by himself... Shirou wouldn't have such a perfect time to pull his hatred of Ayanokouji out and use it.

Shirou first explained how Ayanokouji manipulated him about his father... To bring out that raw anger... And now he is using that anger to light a fire and aim it towards Ayanokouji.

So he began writing again, slowly, steadily.

"Let me be honest with you."

He wrote.

"You're not strong enough to make it. You're malnourished. Sleep deprived. You're barely holding yourself together."

Another line.

"There's only going to be one survivor. That's how the Nightmare works."

He paused, watching for movement. When none came, he wrote the final lines, sharp and clear:

"In the end, it will be me or him. That's the final battle."

Shirou continued.

"And you… you've already experienced death once, haven't you?"

He held the page steady in the air.

"So tell me: would you die again—just to give me the chance to end him?"

Finale nail in the coffin.

"I will only ask you to sacrifice yourself if Ayanokouji kills perla."

***

The sun had begun its slow descent, bleeding rust-orange across the torn sky as Ayanokouji stepped over the splintered remains of a shattered gate and into the ruined village.

Huff.

The place felt even more lifeless than before. Houses stood half-collapsed like forgotten memories, and the well in the center cast a long shadow across the cracked earth. That was where Eichiro was supposed to be.

Huff.

Ayanokouji ran. His footsteps echoed off walls that didn't answer back.

But Eichiro was nowhere.

He weaved through narrow alleys of leaning homes, overgrown gardens, and broken fences. There was no trace of a body. No silhouette. Just a path of fresh, single-footed imprints in the dirt—leading away.

Leading toward the forest.

Ayanokouji was tired too, He had pushed this body too much by doing such acrobatic.

Ayanokouji halted by the well. A piece of paper sat weighted beneath a smooth stone. Its edges curled from age or intent, and the writing was sharp—clear.

A conversation. Not to him. Between Eichiro and Shirou.

"It's been two hours. Have Ayanokouji and perla returned?"

A reply just beneath it, the penmanship slightly messier.

"No."

Then, a command written with intent.

"Leave the note. Run as fast as you can."

***

But Shirou had written more.

This time, the message was meant for him.

"So... how did you do it, Kiyotaka? How did you kill Perla?"

The words weren't just ink. They were a whisper of accusation, cold and waiting.

Below, the tone shifted.

***

"They really are cruel, aren't they? We were trapped inside a cage, the White Room, and now they've thrown us into another one—with death instead of walls. A stage where only one gets to live."

Shirou was using pronunciation they/them for the spell... As Ayanokouji won't be able to understand the latter.

There was no signature, but Ayanokouji didn't need one.

"Even now, part of me wants to believe it won't come to that—that maybe both of us can make it through. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a friend, Kiyotaka. The only person who ever understood without words being exchanged."

A pause. A new section. More jagged.

***

"But this system—they don't care. To them, we're just characters in a story. They watch us fight, hurt, tear each other apart for the sake of spectacle. And we keep dancing, because what else is there?"

He... Was talking about spell.

The next words felt personal. Too personal.

"They could've chosen differently. Dropped us in separate nightmares, let us live out different ends. But maybe they wanted this. You and me. Blood bath."

And then, a truth that couldn't be unsaid:

***

"Kiyotaka… to them, you're the final boss. That's why they gave you this nightmare. That's why they gave me this role."

A final sentence sat alone at the bottom, written with painful care.

***

"But what if I beat you… what if I break that perfect mask of yours—maybe for once, they'll feel something too."

He.... Was... It.. spell.

***

It wasn't like Shirou to write so much. It wasn't like him to talk about emotions, or fate, or being a character. But Ayanokouji could tell—Shirou knew something. Not about the world, but about himself.

He could have chased after the footprints without pausing.

But he didn't.

Instead, he had chosen to read. To hear what Shirou needed him to hear.

Now, he was moving again, following the faint trail toward the forest. Each step heavier than the last.

His voice escaped, just barely above a breath.

"Yeah… we really are just characters in a story for them."

There was so much he had wanted to say to Shirou. About what happened after the White Room. Shirou was the one who accompanied him the furthest.

But the Spell had written another story.

And this time, it was a tragedy.

***

The forest didn't breathe.

It hung in a hush that felt unnatural—like the trees themselves were holding back, watching, unwilling to interrupt what was coming.

Ayanokouji walked beneath their gaze.

The trail wound through thin branches and roots that twisted like grasping fingers. The footprints were shallow now, almost lost beneath the moss and leaves, but still there.

And then they stopped.

A figure sat slumped beneath a leaning pine, legs stretched out, arms limp at his sides like he hadn't moved in hours.

Eichiro.

His clothes hung off his frame, loose and dirt-streaked. His skin was pale—starved, like he hadn't eaten properly in days. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes, rimmed dark from sleepless nights, were still open.

Not wide with fear.

Not darting.

Just open.

Ayanokouji stopped several meters behind him. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

Eichiro already knew.

He shifted slightly, not to stand, but to straighten his back against the bark. His head leaned a little to the side, as though acknowledging the presence without turning to see it.

"I thought I had a little more time," Eichiro murmured. His voice was dry, cracking, yet steady. "But death is always faster."

A faint cough slipped past his lips, followed by a thin stream of blood that he wiped carelessly against his sleeve.

He didn't look surprised. He didn't even look angry.

He just looked… tired.

"I've been wondering how this would feel again" he said after a moment. "Knowing it was coming again. Knowing it was because of you again."

Still, Ayanokouji said nothing.

A bird screeched far in the distance—then nothing again. Just silence and wind threading through needles above.

Eichiro closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again to the horizon. "I used to dream about this place. Not the Nightmare. The real world. A field, some sky, a quiet morning with my father. But now I wonder if those dreams were mine or just planted there like everything else."

His voice softened.

"I'm not scared, Kiyotaka."

That name landed like a knife unsheathed.

"I just wish… I'd gotten to see the look in your eyes before you killed me."

For the first time, Eichiro tilted his head.

Not enough to see Ayanokouji's face—but enough to let him be seen.

And then came the line, almost whispered.

"You're here to kill me, right?"

The words weren't an accusation.

They were a fact. Spoken like gravity. Like rain. Inevitable.

Ayanokouji stood in silence, shadow cast long across the forest floor.

A few more steps.

That was all it would take.

But he didn't move.

Not yet.

And neither did Eichiro.

They remained like that—two broken pieces waiting for the system to press them together one last time.

The forest exhaled.

Somewhere behind the stillness, the Nightmare stirred.

Ayanokouji stepped forward.

The sound of his foot pressing into the cracked soil felt louder than it should have, like the world had gone quiet to witness what was coming.

Eichiro didn't move. He didn't even raise his head.

His legs trembled where he sat against the tree, spine pressed to rough bark, one shoulder sunken slightly from exhaustion.

The boy looked brittle. Like if you breathed on him too hard, he'd fall apart.

Ayanokouji crouched, silent.

No warnings. No farewells.

His fingers reached out, pressing lightly against Eichiro's neck as if checking for a pulse—but they lingered too long. There was no hesitation in his grip. Only familiarity.

Then—

A sudden twist.

A sickening crack—not loud, but sharp enough to echo through the bones.

Eichiro's body jerked once. His eyes widened, not in fear, but from the sheer involuntary betrayal of his own nerves misfiring.

His hands spasmed in his lap, fingers curling inwards like dying petals. His mouth opened—but no scream came. Only a gurgled gasp, wet and broken.

His throat flexed, trying to swallow. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips.

Ayanokouji slowly let go, allowing Eichiro's body to slump sideways against the tree. His neck bent at a wrong angle, like a doll dropped carelessly.

The air around them didn't move. Even the trees stood still.

Then—barely audible—a whisper scraped its way out of Eichiro's bleeding throat.

"…Shirou will get you."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a promise.

It was a truth. Dying and sure.

Then Eichiro was still.

And the ground beneath them began to stir.

They came not with roars, but with silence.

From the edges of the clearing, through moss-draped roots and hollow stumps, Vowalkers began to emerge. Their movements were slow and uncoordinated at first—like puppets waking from sleep.

Dozens. Then more.

Their joints clicked unnaturally. Limbs bent wrong.

They surrounded the tree.

Encircling him.

But Ayanokouji didn't move.

He just stood there, staring down at what remained of Eichiro. Blood seeped into the soil around the boy's shoulders, thick and dark, soaking the roots that would remember his final warmth.

Ayanokouji's eyes flickered.

"So… Eichiro" he murmured. "He gave you his ability."

A pause.

"I didn't know abilities could be transferred."

He glanced at his own fingers. Flexed them slightly. There was a faint residual pulse there—like something foreign now nestled inside his system, waiting.

"But then again…"

His voice faded to a tired whisper.

"…I don't know anything."

The Vowalkers were inches away now.

Waiting.

Watching.

Ready to drag him into whatever grave the Nightmare had prepared.

Still, Ayanokouji didn't lift a stone. Didn't reach for his belt. Didn't even glance toward escape.

He kept looking at the body.

The forest swallowed them all in silence.

And then—

The village behind them collapsed

All of it. At once.

The soil cracked inward, houses crumbled into themselves like paper soaked in acid, rooftops folded, doors bent backward, and the stone streets dissolved into dust under his feet. It wasn't decay—it was erasure. The entire village atomized in one sweeping breath as if it had never existed.

And that was when the Vowalkers screamed.

A grotesque wail tore from every direction—dozens of throats howling with rage, not in pain but betrayal.

Their safe point was gone. Whatever system inside them that obeyed the presence of a village—had been stripped.

The howl turned into movement.

They rushed him.

All at once.

The first claw came from behind.

Ayanokouji turned just enough to let it miss—leaning with a surgeon's precision, the tips of the creature's nails whispering past his throat.

Before it could reset, he stepped inside its guard, grabbed the thing's forearm, and twisted it hard enough to make the bone snap beneath his palm.

The Vowalker shrieked but didn't fall.

He kicked off its chest, launching himself into a sprint.

They followed.

Through the ruins.

Over cracked walls.

Past shattered windows.

The forest opened ahead—and he dove into it without hesitation.

He didn't stumble. He didn't slow. His body responded without thought—sliding beneath hanging branches, leaping across fallen logs, tapping the edge of a protruding root to push himself forward.

Behind him, they were getting faster.

No longer crawling like stitched corpses—no.

They were running now.

Their limbs convulsing in unnatural speed, arms tearing bark from trees as they surged after him like a tidal wave of rot and hunger.

Another village came into view—tucked between a ring of blackened trees.

He crossed the boundary.

And for a second—

A single heartbeat—

The Vowalkers stopped.

He turned on his heel, preparing to strike if they tried again—but they didn't move. Their heads twitched. Their shoulders rose and fell. They paced the edge of the village. But they did not enter.

He caught his breath, the first real exhale in minutes. His cloth clung to his back. His foot throbbed—probably twisted on one of the loose stones—but it wasn't bad.

He stared at them. Then down at his foot.

A crunch.

He looked back—

The house behind him folded.

The entire street cracked and bled dust.

The village began to collapse.

Another one.

And just like before—they screamed.

Their restraint snapped, and the world chased him again.

He didn't wait.

He was already running.

This time they were angrier.

They hit trees as they moved, shattering each other. One leapt at him from the left—he flipped forward, barely brushing its scalp. Another climbed over him from above, falling with full weight.

He turned mid-dive, grabbed its jaw, and jammed his thumb into the slit on his face.

The body went limp mid-air.

He used it to cushion the landing.

Rolled.

Kept going.

The forest kept thinning. The soil here was looser—every step kicked up ash. Every breath drew in something that scratched the back of his throat.

And behind him, the howl didn't stop.

They were enraged beyond reason.

Because the system they relied on—the rule that the villages were sacred—was being weaponized against them.

And Ayanokouji knew who was doing it.

This wasn't random.

This was a funnel.

A trap.

He kept moving—climbing now. The forest pitched upward into a slope, the elevation working against him. Still, his stride didn't break.

Until he landed wrong.

A Vowalker burst from the soil beside a twisted root—claws extended, slit wide and glowing. Ayanokouji pivoted just fast enough to avoid the full strike—but one claw raked across his side.

Blood bloomed instantly.

He flinched—not from the pain, but from the realization.

A second lunged for his neck.

He turned sharply, grabbed a branch, swung himself around, and drove both knees into its chest—heard the ribs break—but didn't stop.

He was already gone.

>>>

But the Nightmare didn't care how fast he ran.

It followed.

The sound of pursuit had changed now—not just rage but hunger. The collapse of the villages had done something deeper. The Vowalkers were faster, yes, but also smarter. They weren't just chasing. They were coordinating.

One came from the front—not random.

He dropped low and slid beneath its open arms.

Two more angled left.

He adjusted trajectory without pause—planting a heel on the trunk of a half-fallen tree and launching himself sideways, using its rot-soft bark like a springboard. His foot bent with the impact, but it didn't give way.

He landed clean.

Didn't even stagger.

Don't stop.

Another came from above—this one bigger. It fell with the full weight of its deformed body, mouth wide like a spliced net.

Ayanokouji didn't duck.

He leaned into the fall and spun, letting the creature's weight pull him mid-turn—then redirected it into the ground using the motion.

Its spine cracked against a buried stone. Limbs spasmed.

He didn't stay to watch it die.

The slope began to rise again. His muscles strained. His breath started to tighten—not from fatigue, but from the air.

It was thinning.

No sound except the crushing, crashing rhythm of monsters behind him. Their growls now a single voice, one unbroken wrath vibrating through the forest floor.

He kept climbing.

And at the edge of the slope—

Another village appeared.

No gate.

No banner.

No shimmer.

Just shattered huts. Cracked stone. Rotting beams. A dead tree hanging like a noose above the center.

And silence.

Ayanokouji didn't stop.

He stepped into the ruins like a man returning to his own grave.

The Vowalkers halted behind him.

This time it wasn't a system rule. It was hesitation.

Fear.

Their rage had a limit.

And that limit was him.

They watched.

They paced.

But they didn't follow.

He walked forward. Step by step. Past the broken windows. Past the corpses of houses. Past the well-worn signs of something that had once lived here.

Until he reached the center.

And there—just as expected—was Shirou.

Sitting on the stone rim of a shattered well. fingers laced together, head tilted slightly—not quite a smile, not quite emotionless.

Ayanokouji came to a stop a few meters away. The smell of ash coated the air between them.

***

"First time seeing you like that, Kiyotaka."

Ayanokouji exhaled sharply, catching his breath. He said nothing.

Shirou, calm and amused on the surface, continued speaking as if he didn't notice—or maybe just didn't care.

"Isn't this the part where we explain our brilliant little plan so the others can enjoy the show?"

But something about him felt off. Not just the humor in his tone, but the hollow beneath it. He had found out something. Something big. Something that broke him in a way even he didn't fully understand.

He tilted his head slightly, wearing a smile that didn't belong on his face.

"Oh? You want me to explain it while you catch your breath?" He gave a dry chuckle. "Alright, alright. Let's talk."

There was a pause, long enough for his expression to lose that smile. His eyes lowered, voice quieter now.

"The moment I grabbed your hand… I knew. That body—it's not really yours. Just a projection. A decaying shell carrying what little remains of you."

His voice lingered in the air like fog.

"I knew you were the only one left that was real. But I didn't want to face that. So I didn't."

Shirou started to pace slowly, his movements almost robotic.

"I began moving at night. Activating villages one by one. Each time I triggered one, the countdown would start. Once it ran out, the village would vanish. Erased—just like the rest."

He looked toward the trees surrounding the village now, still pacing.

"But not these. These villages… I left untouched. Let them sit. Wait. I needed them. I needed them to lead you here."

He bit his lip hard, breaking the skin.

"I assigned Perla to you so she'd slow you down, buy me time to do the rest manually. And Eichiro… I sent him in second because I knew the Vowalkers would come for him. My ability made sure of that. They'd follow his scent. His presence. Which meant they'd follow you.... And that means you won't be able to rest but escape and exhaust yourself further."

He turned back to Ayanokouji.

"I forced you through every broken place, every dying fragment, every memory… until you reached me."

Shirou stood up straighter now, voice quiet but certain.

"I did all of that against you. Someone who can't even access —pell. Someone without a real body. Someone whose thoughts are being twisted and warped by the flesh he's trapped in."

He looked down at his own hands, trembling.

"And still… I'm the one who's scared."

Ayanokouji's eyes shifted. Around them, dozens—maybe hundreds—of Vowalkers stood in a wide circle, watching silently. But none dared to move toward Shirou.

Not one.

Shirou noticed.

"Oh, these things?" he muttered, almost casually. "They're intelligent, Kiyotaka. I just had to make them remember who I was. I slaughtered them. Tortured their kind in front of their legions. Burned their families while they watched."

He clenched his fists.

"I made them fear me. Made sure that the very sight of me would be enough to make them shake. Just so I could feel like I was even remotely close to standing where you stand."

He raised his hand as if to clap—then paused.

His voice softened, cracking slightly.

"You want to know the worst part?"

Shirou's voice came low, almost hollow — not broken, but stripped bare.

He looked down, watching a thin trail of blood drip from his lip, smeared by his own teeth.

"That claw… when it hit me… I felt pain."

His eyes lifted, locking onto Ayanokouji. And this time, something flickered behind them — not just pain, but confusion. Fragile. Real.

"When I ran for days without proper rest, my legs screamed. My chest burned. I couldn't breathe."

His words slowed, as if he was measuring each one carefully.

"When I went without food, without water for days… I got weak. Dizzy. Thirsty."

A pause.

Then softer:

"And when I thought you might be here… I felt something happiness."

His brows drew together slightly — like the thought itself hurt more than the wounds.

Then, quietly, almost like he was asking himself:

"So if I can feel pain… and joy… and fear…"

...

..

.

"Why am I just an illusion?"

He raised his hand.

And when the single clap echoed—

The village vanished.