Masterpiece In Shadow Slave

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

After the dead of Luna and Luzi "ll" had appeared in the system... It was really easy for Ayanokouji to know where this all was going.

Disappointment.

If there was anything that could define everything Ayanokouji felt in that moment, it would be disappointment.

No rage. No frustration. Just a quiet, settled clarity that things hadn't gone the way they should have.

For all his abilities, all his instinctual skill for survival, things would have been far easier with a teammate like Shirou.

He waited for the pain to surge, but this time, it was less. A manageable sting instead of a wave.

He let out a slow breath and looked at Shirou.

But then his eyes narrowed.

There was a look in Shirou's face. Not one of defiance or calculation. It was pain. Deep, sorrowful, and recent. A truth he had uncovered… or something he hadn't yet said.

Ayanokouji's own gaze remained cold, blank, devoid of all visible emotion. If there was a path forward, it lay downward for them—where he now had to make three dissapear. If survival meant stepping over Shirou's corpse to get there, so be it.

He asked quietly.

"When did Luna and Luzi die?"

Shirou responded after a beat.

"It was when we were trying to come here. We ran through the forest… Luna and Luzi were parkouring through the trees. That's when Luna slipped, and Luzi went to help her."

He went quiet.

What came next was obvious.

This wasn't the time to mourn. Not when something worse could be approaching at any moment.

Ayanokouji continued.

"Why were you making your way here?"

"This isn't the only safe spot," Shirou said. "There are ruined villages all across the forest. We're going through every one of them, trying to find clues."

Logical.

If the Vowalkers couldn't enter, then there had to be something hidden deep within these structures.

Ayanokouji asked another question, voice flat.

"So how long are we going to stay here?"

Shirou gave a weak smile, though his eyes still showed pain.

"There's a pattern. Depends on the number of houses. If it's a small village, like ten houses, the time limit is seventy minutes. When that time passes, the entire village crumbles into dust. The Vowalkers… they go into a frenzy."

If ten houses equaled seventy minutes, then each house granted roughly seven minutes.

Ayanokouji processed it instantly.

"So the village collapses all at once?"

Shirou nodded.

"We're hopping from village to village, hoping one of them leads somewhere."

How many had Shirou already passed through?

How much more did he know?

Ayanokouji couldn't help but ask.

"Your Nightmare began in this forest?"

Shirou nodded again.

That changed things.

Ayanokouji's gaze hardened. If Shirou had survived from the start here, he knew the terrain and rules far better than Ayanokouji did. That made him dangerous.

Before either of them could say more, someone approached.

Perla.

She stepped into the doorway, eyes dull, her voice heavy with grief.

She glanced between them. One in each corner of the ruined room. Shirou looked cautious.

But Ayanokouji… there was something about him that unsettled her deeply. He wasn't angry. Wasn't grieving. Just… still. The air around him felt wrong.

"There are thirty houses in this village," she said.

Then she turned and left without waiting for a response.

Shirou and Ayanokouji looked at each other.

They didn't speak.

Three and a half hours. That was all the time they had left before this place collapsed.

Then Shirou asked something direct.

"How many Vowalkers have you killed, Ayanokouji? And how much information do you have about them?"

There was a pause before he replied.

"Two. That I killed, few wore killed indirectly I have some proven theories, and some still being tested."

It was the truth.

Most of the Vowalkers he had faced were outmaneuvered. Only two had fallen by his own hands.

Shirou waited for more.

Ayanokouji continued.

"I don't need to explain their abilities. You've probably figured it out from the name. Vowalker. Beings bound by vows. The more water they absorb, the slower they get—but they become tougher too. That's the most relevant information for surviving in this forest."

He had given away the basics. Nothing more.

Now it was Shirou's turn.

>>>

The theories matched. Almost too neatly. It was obvious that Shirou was holding some truths back as well.

Ayanokouji took a few steps toward the door. Just before leaving, he said,

"Let me talk to the others. Try to fix things between us. Malice in a team only lowers our chances of survival."

He turned and started walking out.

But his face had changed.

His eyes were darker now, filled with quiet disappointment.

Shirou stayed behind, face unchanged—but something in him had shifted too.

There was pain in his eyes.

And knowledge.

He knew something.

Something no one else had ever discovered. A secret that shouldn't be known. The kind of truth that warps everything it touches.

Shirou grabbed Ayanokouji's hand... And soon left it.

Shirou sighed painfully.

Ayanokouji looked back once, and left.

***

The air outside was thicker now. Not with heat or moisture—but with the creeping pressure of time. The village was quiet, as if holding its breath.

Ayanokouji stepped out of the decaying house, his eyes scanning the broken horizon.

The warped skeletons of huts slouched under a cloud-choked sky. Vines spilled over rooftops like strangled veins, and moss pulsed faintly across cracked stone, soft as rot, yet stubborn.

Perla stood by a moss-cloaked well, both hands resting against its rim, staring down into the inky black. Her posture was still—too still. Not tension, not fear. Something quieter. Resignation.

He approached silently.

She didn't turn. But her fingers curled against the stone, blanching white.

"I'm sorry," Ayanokouji said. "For choking you. For using you as a hostage."

Her eyes remained downcast.

"We're in a nightmare," she replied quietly. "What you did… it was the logical choice."

He looked down at her feet. Still no imprint. The mud didn't recognize her. Her presence didn't ripple in the world.

"I heard about your friends."

Her breath hitched, just slightly.

"They mistook the Nightmare for a dream," she murmured. "It was coming."

Ayanokouji's gaze sharpened.

Dream?

"I can't see your footsteps."

She said something—he couldn't hear it. Not muffled. Not distorted. Just... missing.

"I heard none of that," he said flatly.

She frowned, but didn't argue. Instead, she stepped away from the well and turned toward the edge of the village.

Then, without warning, she crouched low and sprang up onto the nearest tree branch. Her feet landed with perfect traction—soles sticking to the bark like an extension of the wood itself.

Ayanokouji said.

"You might attract Vowalkers if you keep standing there,"

She extended her hand.

"I'm showing you my ability.'

Ayanokouji paused. Her hand was steady. No fear in her expression. Just determination. If her ability required touch, then this could be a trap. Still—if he wanted to understand her, if he wanted this team to function—he had no choice but to take the risk.

He stepped forward and took her hand.

Her grip was cool and dry. No jolt, no burning sensation. Just... an immediate shift.

The air felt different.

Ayanokouji paid attention to her face, looking for any micro-reactions. They were around same age and Most girls would give a reaction when holding hands with a stranger... She gave none of them.

She wasn't naive. It was gonna be a tough nightmare then.

"You'll understand when we run," she said. "Focus on your footing."

And then she moved.

Fast.

She yanked him off the ground and launched herself from one branch to the next with graceful brutality. And with his hand in hers, Ayanokouji felt it—the forest didn't resist him. The bark beneath his feet gave grip where it shouldn't have. The branches curved in rhythm with his steps.

Only while holding her.

To test... Ayanokouji loosened his grip even slightly, gravity returned. The bark became slick. The wind fought him. The world rejected his presence.

Perla's ability wasn't manipulation. It was acceptance. The forest allowed her—embraced her. She had synced with its cadence, and through contact, Ayanokouji had been given a temporary passport.

But that passport came with a countdown.

They moved through the trees like shadows split in two. Perla's shoulders leaned forward with each leap, her spine arched low to absorb impact. She never flailed. Every limb was tucked in tight, a compact machine of motion.

Her knees bent just enough to bounce; her hands clutched bark like an animal born for this.

Ayanokouji matched her, step for step.

Despite using an unfamiliar ability, his posture remained composed. No wasted motion. His knees lifted precisely, Cloth and dirt grazing bark before pushing off into another arc. He learned her rhythm within seconds.

When she twisted mid-air to redirect their momentum off a sideways trunk, he adjusted a breath ahead of her.

She noticed.

"You're adapting fast," she muttered, breathless.

He didn't reply. He was calculating.

That was when the forest screamed.

A snapping branch. A low, crackling hiss. Then dozens of wet footfalls echoing behind them.

Vowalkers.

A blur of pale limbs burst through the canopy like spiders with broken joints. Their gait was unnatural—dragging, then leaping. They ran low, their arms skimming the forest floor. Their eyes were empty, but locked on.

Perla had a cold smile on her face.

"Take the lead."

Ayanokouji understanding what she meant.

"Of course," Answered coldly.

They adjusted course immediately.

Perla pulled left toward a high arching root, but Ayanokouji's grip redirected her—up, not sideways. He'd spotted a lattice of vines forming a pseudo-bridge overhead, invisible from below. They vaulted toward it, landing low and scrambling up.

Below them, the Vowalkers scrambled after, feet slamming into roots and tearing bark apart. One of them leapt—and struck the tree they'd just left.

A dull crack shook the canopy. The trunk bent unnaturally, bark splintering. But they kept running.

Ayanokouji angled right. "Switch lanes."

Perla obeyed without hesitation, springing diagonally to a hanging branch three meters away.

Ayanokouji followed close, releasing her hand for just a moment mid-air—and nearly missed his grip.

The forest hated him again.

He caught her wrist at the last second. Instant stability. Bark gripped his soles again.

Perla almost laughed. "Stop expirementing."

Ayanokouji glanced at her, She had good deductive ability... And manipulation too.

They surged forward.

More Vowalkers began scaling trees behind them. The forest groaned under their collective weight. Branches cracked. Leaves exploded in bursts of decaying scent. One creature lunged overhead—but Ayanokouji ducked, dragging Perla low in a twisting arc that dodged the blow by centimeters.

Another Vowalker followed from the right, running sideways along a curving branch, its fingers clinging to the wood like knives.

Ayanokouji's eyes flicked to the base of the branch.

"Now."

They launched upward—and the Vowalker fell, the limb snapping under its own weight.

Every lane they crossed was disintegrating. The Nightmare's forest wasn't passive. It responded to pursuit. The deeper they ran, the more the terrain betrayed its age. Bark peeled in wet ribbons, vines recoiled from weight, branches shuddered.

Perla's breath was becoming uneven now.

Her legs pumped with restraint now, not being able to keep up with Ayanokouji. Her shoulders trembled each time she landed. Still she didn't stop. Didn't slow.

Ayanokouji was eerily still.

Even mid-leap, his body stayed relaxed—eyes scanning, mind calculating.

They cleared one last ridge—leapt across a muddy ravine—and broke free of the tree line.

The village loomed ahead. Crumbling rooftops. Tilted walls. Safety, for now.

Perla landed on the ground gracefully, but her entire face was sweating... Ayanokouji could even feel it in his hand.

Ayanokouji landed beside her like a shadow falling into place.

No sweat. No disruption in his breathing.

He straightened, released her hand, it was sweaty... Wasn't his.

Perla looked at him— A cold precision in her eyes.

"No wonder shirou was so cautious."

𓁹𓁹

I had to play into her hands.

She wasn't standing by that well by accident. She had predicted my next move—understood that after what I'd done, I would try to re-establish trust. That I'd attempt to stabilize the group, become a team member.

So she made sure I found her first.

It was a calculated trap. And it worked.

She'd seen Shirou act with caution. That alone must have shocked her. Someone like him—showing hesitation only around me? That seeded doubt. And doubt turned to curiosity.

Even after I held her hostage… even after she watched her friends die… she didn't break.

That told me more than words ever could. Her reform wasn't emotional—it was structural. She rebuilt her logic. Recalibrated her direction. Her words at the well weren't born from fear. They were cool, methodical. Strategic.

When she realized I couldn't hear the names or abilities, she shifted.

She wanted to test me. Not with questions.

Physically.

She jumped up a tree and extended her hand. That wasn't a request—it was coercion dressed in civility. "Grab my hand if you want to win my trust." That's what her body language said.

It was a dare. A command wrapped in fragile politeness.

And I took it.

She could have used the ruined houses for the test—safer, confined. But she didn't.

She chose the forest.

She knew the risks. The Vowalkers. The unstable terrain. But she did it anyway. Not to escape. To gamble with her life and see how I responded.

She led. Took deliberately wrong turns. Changed elevation erratically. Purposefully created gaps where she thought I'd have to improvise.

She was studying my stride. My breathing. How I measured distance. When I broke pace. If I hesitated.

She was testing me.

She read how i loosened the girls at time... Trying to study her ability.

She wasn't just testing my reflexes. She was trying to understand why Shirou was cautious.

To see what I looked like in motion. In pressure.

To see the machine under the mask.

That makes her dangerous.

She isn't naive. She isn't weak. She uses logic like a scalpel.

And worse?

She knows how to make you hold the blade yourself.

But..

"No wonder you are the only one alive."

We basically traded understanding of each other just now.

She didn't respond with words. Not immediately.

Just a flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes—cool, narrowed, probing. Like she was still running calculations in her head, waiting to see if I'd contradict myself. Waiting to find weakness.

There was none.

She tilted her head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"You don't waste time with flattery," she finally said. "That helps."

I didn't bother replying.

Words weren't going to change anything now. Not between us. Not after what we'd just traded.

I looked out over the silent village, letting the quiet settle.

Then I asked what mattered.

"Where's the third?"

Her eyes moved, not her body. A slow glance toward a partially collapsed storage shed near the edge of the village—its walls leaning inward, one corner eaten away by mold and time.

The structure sat slightly lower than the other houses—tucked beside a run-off ditch where the earth had eroded into a shallow basin. The water there had long since dried, but the mud hadn't forgotten it.

"There," she said simply.

Still no name. Still no tone.

I nodded once.

"Still angry?" I asked.

She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze stayed on the shed, her voice muted when it finally came.

"He hasn't said much since you arrived. But I don't think that means peace."

I already knew that.

"You'll need to approach carefully," she added.

I shifted—weight distributed, shoulder slackened, heartbeat stable. The rhythm of dialogue shed like loose cloth. The kind of silence I walked into now wasn't the forest's—it was human.

She didn't stop me.

She didn't need to.

She had taken my measure already.

Now she wanted to see what I'd do with it.

Just before I turned, she gave me one last reminder.

"You passed my test. That doesn't mean he'll let you take his."

I didn't look back.

Didn't need to.

The air thickened as I crossed the overgrown path. The ground sloped slightly, becoming soft underfoot—packed with decomposing leaves, bent nails, splinters, and broken roof tile. The bent tin door of the shed swayed faintly on a single hinge. No breeze. Just motion.

I stepped closer, careful not to press too fast.

This wasn't just some ruined storage space anymore.

Not to him.

I was walking into his corner of the world.

And he might try to break mine—

—before I even stepped through the threshold.

***

The bent door creaked faintly as I neared it—more from strain than wind. It sounded like a bone too old to hold weight.

I didn't reach for it.

Didn't knock.

Just stopped, letting the silence do what silence always did best—fill the gaps between us with pressure.

Inside, I could feel him. Not hear, not see—feel.

That kind of quiet didn't come from calm. It came from rage starved of oxygen. Compressed over time.

My breath was slow, shallow. Not from fear. From calibration.

The shed was small. One entrance. No visible windows. But I'd already marked the weak points in the walls—one behind the shelf, one through the rotted floorboards on the far left. If he tried to trap me, I had three options for escape. If he tried to run, two directions would funnel him back toward me.

But something told me he wouldn't run.

There was no sound.

Not even the shifting of weight or a breath being drawn.

Still, I knew he was inside.

Watching. Waiting.

His presence felt… heavy. Not in power. In intention.

Like a knife turned inward for years. Buried so deep it grew roots.

He hadn't moved. Not once. But everything around him—splintered crates, rust-eaten frames, twisted tools—felt like they belonged to that stillness.

His silence wasn't blank. It was deliberate.

It was a verdict.

A layer of old sawdust coated the floor just beyond the doorframe. Untouched.

He hadn't paced. Hadn't walked in circles. He had simply… sat there.

That told me everything I needed.

He wasn't planning.

He was waiting.

Waiting for me.

𓁹𓁹

Ayanokouji stepped inside.

The moment his foot touched the loose plank, it creaked—too loud for a structure so dead. The sound didn't just echo—it cut. The kind of sound that doesn't just break silence but wounds it, like the building itself had been holding its breath... waiting for him.

The air inside was heavier than outside. Like walking into grief made solid. Dust hovered midair, untouched by breeze, as though even time refused to pass here.

Across the room, seated in a hunched sprawl within a blotch of shadow that seemed immune to light, was the boy.

A lanky frame. Spine curved unnaturally inward, as if life had been pressing down on it since birth. His limbs drooped like marionette strings cut halfway—long, underfed, tired of carrying him.

His face was lowered.

His hair, brown and matted, clung to the sides of his cheek like soaked threads. Not messy from rebellion. Not greasy from laziness.

Just... forgotten.

Forgotten the way people forget their names when no one calls them anymore.

He didn't stir.

Didn't even shift when Ayanokouji stepped closer.

Only when Ayanokouji stopped walking did the boy's lips move. The voice that came out was more breath than tone.

"You took your time."

After hearing Shirou and Perla speak of him, Ayanokouji had expected fury.

But what he found instead was worse than rage.

It was detachment.

That voice—it didn't carry pain. It didn't even carry bitterness. It was hollow, crumbling at the edges like a temple long abandoned by its god.

"You wanted to fix it all," the boy muttered, tone flat, "So we don't backstab you... Right?"

No sarcasm.

No malice.

No emotion.

Just… an echo. A sentence that had been whispered in empty rooms a thousand times, now finally reaching the one person it was meant for.

Ayanokouji remained still. Waiting for more. that the boy would speak and finish, and then everything could move forward.

But he knew better.

This wasn't something that could be spoken through.

The boy's head finally lifted—and Ayanokouji froze.... It wasn't because of the eyes.

The eyes that stared back at him weren't just dull.

They were voids.

Not black from color, but from the absence of everything. Not cold—cold was something. This was... nothing. The kind of nothing you only find in things that have already been buried.

There was no light in them.

No sadness.

No hate.

No memory of ever being alive.

Ayanokouji missed a beat. Something twisted in his stomach. His breath faltered. Sweat pricked the back of his neck like invisible needles.

Because now he knew who the boy was.

He had seen this boy before.

A photo. On a desk.

In that photograph, there had been life.

Now—there was just the outline of what was left.

"You think the system only wronged you?" the boy whispered.

"My entire life has been destroyed by it."

And Ayanokouji—he knew where this was going.

He could already feel the weight of it building in the boy's chest, and worse—he knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.

Some part of him didn't even want to.

"I used to think effort mattered," the boy continued. "That if you tried hard enough, things might balance out. That maybe... people would be okay if you were just good enough at surviving."

His lips twitched, just barely.

It could've become a smile.

But it died before it ever lived.

"Turns out surviving just means you have to carry more."

The boy exhaled, shoulders trembling just slightly—not from weakness, but from the crushing fatigue of holding himself up too long.

Ayanokouji could feel the change in the room. The walls felt closer now. Not physically—but emotionally. Like the building was leaning in to hear this confession.

There were no names.

No need.

The weight in the boy's voice didn't belong to a stranger.

It belonged to a life—disassembled piece by piece, until only breath remained.

Now his voice grew staggered—like even vocal cords had given up.

"Y-You kne-w what would happen if you le-ave."

Ayanokouji stood there letting him take it all out.

The boy's hand reached for his own throat, clutching it—not in pain, but in memory. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and Ayanokouji saw clearly: they weren't born of weakness.

They were born of experience.

"I waited. I hoped. I prayed."

His voice broke again.

"You knew that if you leave... we'll be crushed."

Ayanokouji didn't argue.

Didn't defend.

Didn't deny.

Because beneath all logic, buried under the calculations, he knew that something will happen to Matsuo.

He had known even then.

The boy leaned forward. Fingers clenched into tight fists, his knuckles pale and shaking with pressure.

"It's strange," he whispered. "People warn you about monsters. Ghosts. Demons in forests."

He looked down at his own hands. Thin. Calloused. Scarred.

"But no one tells you that monsters can sit in silence. That they live in rooms like this. Inside memories. Inside waiting."

His voice trembled.

"Inside you."

He sucked in a breath. One that didn't seem to reach his lungs.

"I kept thinking... maybe it was my fault. Maybe if I worked harder... I could've saved him."

His voice didn't rise.

It collapsed.

"But then I realized—"

He looked up. And for the first time, something flickered.

Not rage.

Not hate.

Something worse.

A kind of grief that had loved something… and then watched it die.

"Sometimes someone else makes the decision for you."

His voice cracked like a branch splitting.

"And you're left to live with it.... White they enjoy."

He didn't stop there.

His gaze softened—horrifyingly so.

"After rigorous studying. Hours every day. I was finally accepted into a prestigious school."

A pause.

A smile—broken, agonizing, and laced with the taste of dreams.

"I had plans, you know."

He laughed.

Painfully.

"I just wanted to give him rest. A small house. A quiet garden. Maybe... maybe he wouldn't have to serve anyone anymore."

Then his mouth opened—trying to say more—but nothing came out.

Just a breath. Just... air.

"And one day, he came home. And wouldn't open the door."

The light in the room dimmed.

Or maybe it was just Ayanokouji's heart slowing down.

"I stood outside, knocking. I begged. I cried. Please open the door. For hours."

The boy covered his face, trembling.

"Then I found out... he was fired. That should've been it. Right?"

His hands dropped. His eyes locked onto Ayanokouji.

"Say something."

A whisper.

A beg.

"Ayanokouji..."

He exhaled, shakily.

"He had me late in life. By the time I was twelve, he was already old. I went to school. I now started workinv cafe shifts in the evening. Convenience store at night. I came home with bruises, just to feed him. Just to make sure he was okay."

His smile returned.

Twisted.

Empty.

"But I was expelled. No reason. Just gone."

He covered his ears—tightly—as if trying to muffle memory itself.

"I didn't give up. I didn't."

He screamed now.

"I enrolled in local schools. One after another. Each time, expelled."

He clawed at his hair—ripping it out, strands falling to the floor like dying petals.

"The only way to give him peace was gone. But I kept going. I worked three part-time jobs. Every. Day."

He laughed—loud, sharp, painful. Blood came out from his mouth, staining his teeth red.

"I used to check at night. If he ate. If he moved. All I ever heard was him begging for forgiveness from behind that locked door."

The boy froze.

Everything in his body went still—except the mouth.

And the tears.

"Then one day... he b-b-b-bu-u—"

He couldn't finish it.

He couldn't.

His mouth opened again. Trembling. The breath caught halfway.

What had happened is that Matsuo had burned himself alive to get Professor Ayanokouji forgive his son... Eichiro and don't ruin his life further.

"I found his phone..."

His voice shrank into itself.

"He was in a l-l—"

Silence.

Ayanokouji knew.

Everyone knew.

The boy's mouth closed, then opened again.

"My neighbors told me... he had been screaming."

"'Forgive my son! Forgive my son!'"

He fell forward, hands curled inwards.

"I called the police. The ambulance. Everyone. I told them what happened. They beat me. They said shut your mouth if you want to live."

He staggered upright now.

Like a puppet dragged by invisible strings.

Step by step, he stumbled toward Ayanokouji.

Then—

He grabbed him.

Gripped his shoulders.

Shaking.

"I didn't stop there. I told the media. Same thing. More beatings. Threats."

Then, slowly, he lifted his chin.

Revealing his neck.

Ayanokouji's eyes narrowed, he expected it.

There—etched deep—was the rope scar.

The mark of someone who had died.

"I couldn't live in a world without my father. I couldn't give him justice. So I..."

A pause.

Soft.

Terrifying.

"So I ended my own life."

Ayanokouji just looked at him.

The boy looked up.

There was blood on his chin now, but he didn't care.

"I thought I'd meet him. I thought I'd see him again.... That even if it's hell or heaven we will be together."

Then—

His face twisted.

"But the afterlife didn't exist for me."

"I was thrown here. To be another page in your story."

He screamed now—blood erupting from his mouth.

"WE SUFFERED BECAUSE YOU WANTED FRIENDSHIP. BECAUSE YOU WANTED TO PLAY HUMAN. TO FEEL. FOR THREE YEARS."

He dropped to his knees.

"Your three years of freedom... Cost me my father who nurtured me for 12 years."