Masterpiece In Shadow Slave

An - Cringe alert!!!

It felt like the world itself had twisted just to witness this moment.

Two subject carved from the same darkness stood across from each other.

Once bound by brutal design, now separated by years, blood, and memory.

Beneath a decaying sky that bled a pale, sickly light, time seemed to stall—staring with them, holding its breath.

Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.

Shirou.

Products of the White Room's cruelest genration. They weren't students, or warriors, or even people in the conventional sense. They were sharpened To be perfect—whose edges had once cut side by side until one grew too precise, too silent, too unstoppable.

Back in the White Room's Fourth Generation, they had stood alone at the end.

Everyone else had broken or disappeared. But even that wasn't enough. Shirou had been the last to fall behind.

He hadn't collapsed under pressure or lost to weakness—he had simply left, unable to overtake the boy beside him.

Ayanokouji hadn't stopped him. He hadn't said a word.

But those parting words lingered.

"I want to be free. I want to have friends. Isn't it normal for you to feel this way?"

Even now, they echoed in Ayanokouji's mind like distant thunder—words spoken with a softness he hadn't understood then. Words that planted something in him. Something dangerous.

Now, in the rotted belly of a world shaped by nightmares, those same two subject faced each other again.

Their eyes locked—not in recognition, but in calculation. Not a flicker of relief, not even a twitch of warmth.

They had spent their lives studying body language, patterns of breath, micro-reactions. And now, they used it against each other like they had been trained to do.

Ayanokouji couldn't recall Shirou's name.

Something—maybe the system, maybe the nightmare itself—had pruned that from his memory. He remembered the shape of him. The stance. The eyes. But not the name.

***

Ayanokouji spoke.

"Long time no see,"

It wasn't a greeting. It was a probe.

He had planned something different. Initially, he had meant to discard the hostage girl—Perla(he donno her name)—and detonate a fallback strategy if the situation turned hostile.

But the moment his eyes met Shirou's, something shifted. A slight ripple in his calculation. He adjusted. Reclaimed the girl as a hostage. No tricks would work here. Not with someone like him.

Because Shirou wasn't like the others.

He wouldn't falter at the sight of a knife to the throat. Wouldn't blink under pressure. He'd been raised with Ayanokouji in a cage where blinking meant failure.

The third member of their group—whose name Ayanokouji didn't know and didn't care to currently—was circling behind him. Light footsteps. Intent clear. Perhaps he thought he was closing in. Perhaps he believed he had an angle.

But then, Shirou spoke. Calmly. Casually.

"______ Don't go closer to him, you are just playing into his hand," he said.

His tone was far too light for the situation—almost playful. But behind those words was the same ruthless awareness as Ayanokouji, It seems like Shirou isn't holding anything back in this nightmare.

Ayanokouji had let the third draw near on purpose. He'd mapped it all out. He was moments away from taking two hostages instead of one. But Shirou had seen through it effortlessly.

The third figure paused. Let out a small, frustrated sound. the way he looked at Ayanokouji—bitter and personal. But he didn't step forward. He was cautious now.

So the standoff remained. Ayanokouji with a hostage. Shirou ahead of him. Another threat behind.

Then what he feared the most happened.

Shirou lifted his hand.

He made a gesture—a finger-gun. Index & middle extended, thumb cocked, pointed straight at Ayanokouji's chest.

The stance was casual. The meaning wasn't.

"I started with "Kiyotaka" yet you didn't call me by my name, You are the one being more suspicious right now," Shirou said.

They both were suspecting each other to be a monster, one that can shapeshift.

His words were a bullet of their own. They landed.

Ayanokouji remained still, but inside, the machine of his mind spun faster. There were too many variables, too many unknowns.

Why the finger-gun? Was it symbolic?

Why couldn't he remember the name?

A lock in the system? An ability? A curse?

And more importantly— If shiro had ability that means he can access the system....

The thing he feared at the starting of nightmare came true.

The girl—Perla—was shivering now. She had seen horror in this nightmare.... But shirou could be called those monsters's nightmare... The things he had done to them just to survive can make anyone uneasy.

But that same shirou was acting so cautiously against Ayanokouji.

Her gaze shifted to Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.

His expression held nothing. No tension. No violence. Just that blank, cutting neutrality that made you feel like you'd already died and he was just waiting for your body to accept it.

He spoke again, this time quieter.

"i can't remember certain words, nightmare has probably done something to my mind."

Flat. Honest enough to be dangerous.

Shirou didn't flinch.

His eyes were nearly identical in emptiness—but all the emotions could be seen, the Happiness he felt after leaving white room included.

His eyes were still alive. Still human. Far more than Ayanokouji's could ever be.. They were so human that it was enough to make you question which one of them had truly won in the end.

***

His voice grew colder, heavier with familiarity.

"I don't like this..... Kiyotaka, do you like it?"

The question wasn't about now. It was old. Too old for anyone else to understand.

Ayanokouji didn't answer. Because he hadn't answered back then either.

Shirou's next words pulled them both further back into the void.

"Do you like carrots, or do you dislike them?"

He was cosplaying yuki.

Perla blinked, confused. A stupid question. But the silence that followed wasn't stupid at all. It was sacred. It was memory.

Ayanokouji answered, cosplaying as shiro.

"I don't like them either."

The same thing shirou had said years ago—across a table, in a place where warmth didn't exist and silence meant survival. It had been their first conversation. Their first shared rebellion.

Their eyes grew colder. Not with exhaustion, but with descent. Like they were both falling into something black and bottomless.

***

Ayanokouji began now.

"You were always aggressive and used to take the initiative in fights... Except our third one... That time you waited both of us were waiting for counter-attack."

His voice was emotionless, but underneath it was pressure—memory stacking atop memory.

"During that time my record was 127 victories and 17 defeats... With 64 winning streak.

While you had 135 victories with 9 defeats, our score was 1-1 and you only defeated me once after that in judo."

***

Shirou didn't blink. His finger-gun remained raised.

Then he said softly:

"Got a moment?"

Ayanokouji didn't respond. He was reenacting the same silence from years ago. It was all repeating.

"It's been a lot of years since I beat you in judo, right?" Shirou asked.

Now Ayanokouji replied.

"That's right."

Perla could barely keep herself from trembling. She could hear them. She could understand the words. But she couldn't grasp what they meant. Who had that many recorded victories? What kind of life did that require?

The third member remained where he was. Still bitter. Still watching. But something inside him had shifted too.

Shirou continued.

"Boxing, karate, jeet kune do, it's all the same. Even if I win the first or second round, after it turns around once, I can't do anything any more. You really are incredible."

Ayanokouji didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Shirou said next:

"There is one thing I want to say to you."

Now Ayanokouji said, starting with same silence.

".....What?"

"I decided to leave this facility."

Ayanokouji answered him.

"The only ones who can leave this place are the ones who drop out."

>>>

Over the next few minutes....

They were back there again—in the sterile white cage that had taught them how to win, and forget what winning meant.

Both of them wasn't seeing each other, in their eyes they were kids again... Small in height but more ruthless than now.

"I was convinced when Yuki dropped out. Looking at her, I was even jealous."

The kid Ayanokouji in 17 yo Shiro's eyes without any social ability replied.

"Right."

Kid shirou in Ayanokouji' eyes continued.

"I thought you were the same as me. I thought you would want to enter the outside world one day."

Kid Ayanokouji replied.

"Sorry, but I never thought like that."

Kid shiro continued.

".... I see. I wanted to invite you to leave with me, but..."

Ayanokouji Kiyotaka said nothing.

"I will go ahead.... Let's meet again some day, Kiyotaka."

They came back to reality, no longer kids.

>>>

It was already proved way back that both of them are real, but they both wanted to finish it.

Finish it until the end.

Next few minutes later...

Their voices were colder now than when they were children.

Like steel left in frost. White and polished, but lifeless.

"Goodbye," Ayanokouji said.

Ayanokouji Kiyotaka hesitated. Still couldn't remember the name. That crucial missing piece.

Shirou understanding finished it.

"Goodbye, Kiyotaka."

Shiro stopped with the gun gesture.

Ayanokouji slowly released Perla.

She backed away, staggering, heart hammering against her chest. The air around them felt thinner now—less like oxygen, more like static.

In a swift motiom, Shiro made the gun again.

Shiro Pulled the imaginary trigger.

A click.

...

..

.

-

Ayanokouji didn't flinch.

Nothing came out, turns out shiro was just trying to play with Ayanokouji's mind.

He had no Gun ability.

Shiro gestured the other 2 to walk away in this ruined village.

They both went away leaving Ayanokouji and shirou behind.

𓁹𓁹

Now I was alone with him.

Even after everything—after reliving memories only the two of us could remember—we still stood on opposite sides of a fragile, unspoken question: Are you really you?

He was cautious. So was I.

He took the initiative first.

"Let's change locations."

I gave a silent nod, and we started walking through the overgrown village, weaving between ruined walls and splintered huts. The ground was uneven, soft with rot. Our movements were silent—not just from practice, but design.

Yet after a few steps, his voice cut through the quiet.

"What did you do to your feet?"

I glanced at him, then bent slightly to show the wrapped soles of my boots. Improvised padding—worn cloth and tight binding with wet dirt. Crude, but effective.

"For less vibration and noise cancellation, right?" he said, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," I replied. "Had to be sure."

The fact that he noticed so quickly—how little I'd given away yet how much he'd seen—confirmed it again. This wasn't a copy. This was him.

But it also told me something else: he hadn't seen what I had on the other side of the river.

He didn't know about the Vowalkers hiding in the ground, the submerged forest, or the silence that followed the wave. Which meant…

There's no magnification ability on his side. At least, not one that transmitted full data across zones.

That narrowed some theories. Strengthened others.

Why was I so focused on abilities?

Because the girl—the one I'd taken as a hostage—left behind no trail. No scent. No reaction from the terrain. It wasn't stealth; it was as if the world refused to register her presence. Before and after I grabbed her.

An ability? Possibly. Or something deeper.

We stopped at a ruined house. No door. Just two walls still standing, a half-collapsed roof, and a gaping hole where a window once was. It reeked of mold and decay, but the interior was still—dead in the way only forgotten places are.

We entered cautiously, each of us taking a different corner. A signal. We weren't here to ambush each other. Not yet.

I spoke first.

"What kind of abilities do the other two have?"

The question wasn't friendly. It was essential.

He didn't answer immediately. Then he opened his mouth—and I lost the words.

It wasn't static. It wasn't muffled. It was simply gone. The names, the terms—erased from my auditory perception entirely. Like hearing silence stitched between syllables.

Even when I tried to read his lips, it was as if those words did not exist, I couldn't make any sense.

"I caught none of that," I admitted.

He tilted his head, eyebrows slightly furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't hear the names. Or the abilities. It's like… the Nightmare won't let me."

A pause.

"You were serious?" he asked.

Seems like he thought I was acting during that time.

I nodded once.

He stared at me. Long enough that I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. "So it's targeting you."

"I think so," I said. "Selective censorship. Only I'm affected. You can hear everything clearly?"

"Every word," he said slowly. "That's... not just censorship. That's isolation."

Exactly.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. My mind ticked through the implications.

He continued. "I'll show you their abilities in action later. If this place won't let you hear them, maybe you'll see something it can't block."

I nodded again. It was the logical next step. And whether or not I trusted him, I needed him.

He shifted his weight slightly. "I was almost certain you'd be the sixth aspirant. If you weren't, everything I'd worked out would've collapsed."

Sixth.

That meant two people were gone. Missing or dead. That girl's breakdown earlier—the one I'd held hostage—it made sense now. Maybe she'd seen them die. Or maybe she lost them before arriving here.

"Why were you so sure it was me?" I asked.

He gave that same lopsided smile. The kind only he could give—one part exhaustion, two parts amusement.

"The girl—" He said a name, but again, I heard nothing. Just a blank space.

"—was with her friends Luna and Luzi. Here's the strange part: she knew Luna, deeply. But Luzi? Luzi knew only her name and bits of her background."

Again, the girl's name vanished from my ears. I could hear Luna and Luzi just fine, but her?

Gone.

Every time.

The censorship was specific. Persistent. Evolving.

And if it was limited to me, that wasn't a coincidence.

"The names I can still hear," I muttered aloud, more to myself than him, "are of people who've already died. Luna. Luzi. They must've…"

"Exactly," he said.

I turned to him. "So the system only censors the living?"

"Nah," he said, thoughtful. "It most probably censors the important. The active. If someone's dead, they become static. Unchanging. The system no longer considers them a threat."

A theory I'd already begun circling. He just verbalized it first.

"Doesn't that mean," I said, voice low, "that the third guy you mentioned… knows me, but has never met me?"

"That's right," he said. "He knows your name. He knows your past. But not your face."

That wasn't just dangerous—it was an ambush waiting to happen. And I wouldn't even know what hit me. I'd be stuck trying to remember a censored name while he held a loaded gun of history in his hands.

He hesitated for the first time.

"Before you meet him… remember—you did something."

His voice was calm, but not cold.

"Something really bad. He might lash out. He is—"

And again, the name dropped. A clean cut.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

"You really didn't hear that either?"

"Not a syllable."

"Then we've got a problem."

He didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear.

Whoever this person is, the Nightmare has redacted them from me. As if it's afraid of what I'd do if I remembered them.

I didn't like that.

I didn't like not knowing who I'd wronged.

Wait.... This might be a checkpoint.

It's risky but plausible.

"Look over me for a second."

My voice was cold, it told him that it was serious.

I remembered the very first message again.

[Aspirant. Welcome to the Nightmare ???ll. Prepare for your First Trial…]