Masterpiece In Shadow Slave

Eichiro collapsed onto his knees, his hands trembling as they slid across Ayanokouji's shirt-like a drowning man clinging to the hem of a ghost.

His breathing was uneven, chest heaving in shallow gasps, eyes glazed and red-rimmed. Blood stained the corner of his lip, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Your three years of freedom... cost me my father who nurtured me for twelve."

His voice didn't rise. It barely even sounded like a voice-more like something broken speaking through the gaps in a shattered heart.

The words hung in the room like ash, refusing to settle.

Ayanokouji said nothing for a moment. He simply stood there, unmoved, eyes steady. No twitch of discomfort. No change in breath. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat. Not cruel. Not distant. Just empty.

"What's your point in telling me all this?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Eichiro looked up in disbelief, as if he'd misheard.

His eyes searched Ayanokouji's face for something-regret, guilt, even discomfort-but found none.

There was nothing there but a wall. A presence that existed only because the world hadn't yet figured out how to erase it.

"That's all you have to say after destroying our lives?"

His voice cracked, not from anger, but from something deeper-something that had lived in his throat for years, waiting for a chance to finally be heard. But Ayanokouji remained still. And when he spoke again, it was slower, heavier.

"When I saw you, I hesitated. Not because I felt guilt. But because I was calculating. You looked familiar. It took me a moment to place you. Then I remembered the photo-sitting on his desk. You were smiling in it back then. Alive. Innocent. A child."

He crouched down slowly, eyes leveled with Eichiro's, gaze steady and unblinking.

"You want me to say I regret it. That I would've stayed if I had known. That your suffering means something to me. But let's be honest-what would that change? Would it make the fire unburn? Would it bring him back? Would your scar vanish? Would the emptiness inside you finally stop screaming?"

Eichiro didn't answer. His lips quivered, but his body remained frozen. Ayanokouji didn't wait.

"You speak like I targeted you. Like I knew what helping me would do to your life. But I never asked him to. I didn't know your name. I didn't even know you existed. All I did was escape. The rest... wasn't mine."

His voice remained calm, but there was a sharpened edge now-like a scalpel cutting with precision, not force.

"Your father made a decision. He knew the risks. He knew what the system does to those who break its rules. And still-he helped me. Not because I deserved it. Not because he expected anything in return. He chose me."

A pause followed. Not to reflect. But to let it sink in.

"And it wasn't you."

The words settled into Eichiro's chest like lead. His shoulders sagged, fingers twitching slightly against the cracked floorboards. His throat made a sound-a breath, maybe a protest-but nothing came out.

Ayanokouji stood up again, slow and deliberate.

"He knew what would happen to you. Of course he did. The system doesn't just punish rebels. It consumes their families, their pasts, their memories. He knew. And he went through with it anyway."

He stepped back once, creating distance not out of fear, but detachment.

"Have you ever wondered why?"

His voice was softer now, almost thoughtful. As though peeling apart a riddle already long solved.

"Why he chose me over you?"

He let the question sit in the room, unanswered, as Eichiro sat frozen in place. Then came the answer-quiet and precise.

"Because he already knew the truth. That your life had been marked long before I appeared." He continued.

"That no matter how hard you worked, how many jobs you took, how many nights you came home bruised and exhausted... the system would never forgive your bloodline."

He didn't stop.

"He saw that. And he gambled on the only piece he thought might survive the board."

Eichiro's body began to tremble. Not violently. Just enough that it seemed like gravity was slowly pulling him apart.

"You waited outside his door," Ayanokouji continued. "You begged him to open it. You wanted to believe he was mourning, that he was broken. But maybe he wasn't praying for forgiveness. Maybe he was just trying to die quietly."

A fresh silence followed. The kind that closes in from the edges of a room and leaves no way out.

"You keep telling yourself I ruined everything. That if I hadn't run, none of this would've happened. But I didn't pull the trigger. I didn't set the fire. He did. He set himself ablaze because he couldn't live with what he gave away. Or maybe... because he realized too late that he had nothing left to give."

Eichiro's head lowered until his chin touched his chest. The sound of his breath stuttered, uneven. His hands gripped his own sleeves now, nails digging into his arms.

"You weren't the reason he locked that door. You were the reason he couldn't open it."

Ayanokouji's voice didn't rise. If anything, it sank further. Calm. Still.

"You say I stole your life. But I never laid a hand on it. Your father gave it away. Willingly. Quietly. Without asking your permission."

He turned to leave, the conversation complete. The verdict rendered. But just before he stepped through the doorway, he stopped.

"You've been chasing justice. Screaming for someone to answer. But what you really wanted... was a reason why he didn't choose you."

He looked back one final time.

"And I'm sorry, Eichiro. But some questions aren't meant to be answered."

Behind him, Eichiro didn't move. His body was still, his hands limp. Only the sound of his breath remained-sharp, uneven, the breathing of someone who couldn't decide if they still wanted to exist.

"Life has given you a second chance, don't waste it."

Ayanokouji walked into the fading light, leaving silence behind him. Not peace. Not closure. Just silence.

The kind that doesn't heal.

The kind that lingers.

***

He didn't move.

Not even when the sound of Ayanokouji's footsteps faded completely beyond the rotting doorway, swallowed by the broken forest and the choking air outside.

The silence that remained wasn't just empty-it was heavy. Saturated. Like it had soaked into the walls, the floor, into him.

Eichiro's body felt like it didn't belong to him anymore. His knees were numb, his spine curved in defeat, and his hands-those same hands that had once washed dishes at midnight, counted coins behind a convenience store counter, cleaned his father's blanket when the old man stopped coming out-hung lifeless in the stale air.

He blinked slowly, and the tears that had dried on his cheeks cracked like old salt on flesh.

The fire was back in his mind again.

That sound.

Not of wood burning. But of him screaming. From behind a door.

His father's voice had never reached him again after that night. Just one voicemail. Just one line he'd never delete.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

But now... those words didn't sound like grief anymore.

They sounded like surrender.

Eichiro pressed a hand to his chest and waited, stupidly, for something to hurt. For something to burst. But there was no pain left.

Just that hollow ache behind the ribs-the one that came when you finally understood that the people you loved had never belonged to you the way you belonged to them.

A tremor ran through his hands, and he clutched the fabric of his ruined sleeve, rocking slightly. Not from madness. Not from fear.

From exhaustion.

He had spent every breath since that day trying to protect a legacy already set on fire. Trying to prove that love, even when it was abandoned, could be justified.

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.

***

The forest didn't make sound anymore. Not the wind, not the leaves.

It was silence in the truest sense-something heavy, stretched thin across bark and shadow like skin over bone.

Ayanokouji stepped out of the ruined structure and into that stillness, leaving behind the broken thing that used to be a boy.

Shirou waited beside a gnarled tree, crouched low, flicking specks of bark off his glove with surgical boredom.

He stood as Ayanokouji approached. His eyes didn't ask questions. They had already answered themselves.

"How long before he follows?" Shirou asked quietly.

"Soon," Ayanokouji replied without pause. "He doesn't have anything else."

Shirou exhaled faintly, as if clearing dust from his lungs. "Was Matsuo a good man?"

Ayanokouji's gaze didn't waver. "The best man I met in my entire life."

Shirou smiled, not out of joy, but something colder-acknowledgment.

"So, how much of what you told him was true?"

"Enough to keep him useful," Ayanokouji said. "The rest doesn't matter."

Only fragments of the story were real. Most of it was engineered-designed not to console, but to infect.

Doubt was a disease, and Ayanokouji had simply guided the symptoms. Somewhere inside, the boy must have questioned Matsuo. If not now, then eventually. He'd planted the idea, and whether it bloomed or rotted was irrelevant.

Matsuo would never have sacrificed his son-not for anyone. And yet, Ayanokouji had made that seem plausible.

They reached a jagged split in the terrain-no trail, just a natural rupture, as if something had clawed its way out of the earth and left behind a scar. The trees bent inward, casting skeletal shadows.

"He didn't seem stable from the start," Shirou said, tone observational. "His body's already collapsing."

"Malnourished. Sleep-deprived. The scar on his neck... deep. He already died once. The system just kept dragging his corpse forward."

"He's essential, though," Shirou replied, voice unbothered. "We'll need him to leave."

Ayanokouji didn't respond at first. His mind replayed Eichiro's trembling fingers, the scar etched in silence across his throat, and the eyes-desperate, but not broken.

"For a while," Ayanokouji said. "He's emotional. Desperate. That's a rare kind of asset. He'll go places we wouldn't. That kind of volatility opens doors."

They paused under a twisted canopy. Wind tried to return but couldn't. The air stayed suffocatingly still.

"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."

***

A few minutes remained before the village collapsed.

Ayanokouji had done everything he could to prevent betrayal-Trust wasn't part of the equation. Only control.

Eichiro didn't believe his words about matuso. He didn't say it aloud, but Ayanokouji could tell. The boy's expression was calm, but his eyes were steady with quiet resistance. He knew his father better than anyone. Still, a seed of doubt had been planted.

Right now, Shirou was walking them through the plan.

"They're intelligent. If I just run, not all of them will follow. Some will stay back here. Others will take alternate routes and try to cut us off," he said, crouched near the forest floor. He traced lines in the dirt with a stick, marking possible paths.

"I'll lead the majority past the village. But we have to assume a few dozen will stay and wait. Don't rely on full evacuation."

He stood and dusted his hands.

His voice was confident. No hesitation. Everyone, for now, accepted it.

Shirou turned slightly toward Eichiro and said something Ayanokouji couldn't hear - the system filtered the name again. A moment later, Eichiro held out both hands. Two sheets of coarse paper and pens materialized in his palms.

Ayanokouji narrowed his eyes. So that was his ability. A utility skill - likely short-range item projection. Useful for basic communication.

Eichiro handed one pen and paper to Shirou and kept the other for himself. Shirou simply gave a thumbs-up and, without another word, took off.

Leaves burst upward as Shirou sprinted into the forest. The sudden rustling that followed was overwhelming - dozens, maybe more than a hundred Vowalkers surged after him, their footsteps erratic and wild, crashing through the brush.

Some didn't follow. Ayanokouji noticed three in the clearing that stayed motionless, crouched near the base of trees. More were likely already hiding ahead.

>>>

A few minutes passed.

Eichiro stared at the page in his hands. A moment later, lines began to draw themselves across the paper - a crude map forming in real time.

He handed it silently to Ayanokouji, who took it and examined it carefully.

It was a rough but functional layout of the forest and terrain around the village. Likely a product of Shirou's movement, relayed back through Eichiro's skill. A remote feedback loop.

Ayanokouji memorized the key routes in seconds.

You may have some questions.

Why wasn't he making a move against eihciro or Perla?

The answer was simple.

Perla was cautious. She kept her distance from both him and Eichiro, always staying at least ten meters away. If Ayanokouji made even a slight move toward her, she'd flee instantly. And with her ability-she couldn't be given a head start.

Shirou, on the other hand, had not yet revealed his ability. Risking a direct confrontation with an unknown factor while surrounded by Vowalkers was foolish.

***

Eichiro was malnourished, sleep-deprived, and physically weak. But his ability was necessary for coordination. That's why Shirou didn't be discard him. Not yet.

Perla approached slowly. Her posture was defensive, shoulders slightly raised, arms loosely by her sides. She didn't speak.

She extended her hand toward Eichiro.

He hesitated. His body tensed, and his brows pulled together - conflicted. Even in a place like this, he still showed traces of embarrassment, caution, even frustration. Ayanokouji watched with quiet interest.

Perla tilted her head slightly at his hesitation. Her expression didn't change, but her hand remained steady.

Eventually, Eichiro reached out. His grip was hesitant at first - loose, cautious. Perla sighed, then firmly gripped his hand with both of hers to secure it.

Without speaking, she turned and began to climb the nearest tree, pulling Eichiro along with practiced, fluid motion. Slowly but steadily, they started moving through the canopy.

Their pace was slow. Too slow.

Compared to Ayanokouji and Perla... who could clear the forest with ease, they looked like they were crawling. Perla had to adjust her movement constantly to match Eichiro's limited strength.

Ayanokouji turned and stepped toward the forest.

He raised his foot and struck the earth once. A sharp stomp - enough to send vibration across the ground.

Immediately, several of the hidden Vowalkers twitched. Then they began to move - jerking forward in unison.

Ayanokouji adjusted his grip on the paper, took one last glance at the forest's mapped paths, and broke into a run.

He veered slightly to the left - a planned detour through denser growth. The Vowalkers behind him gave chase immediately, drawn by movement and sound.

He didn't look back.

Perla and Eichiro continued tree by tree, inching forward above the chaos.

He'd need to buy them time - outrun the Vowalkers, draw their attention, and keep them from circling back.

This was the strategy now.

Clean. Minimal. Efficient.

And still not enough to trust anyone.

***

Ayanokouji didn't look back. He didn't have to. He felt them-the tremors in the earth, the soundless weight behind every footfall, the rippling vibration of twisted limbs and dripping bodies.

They were coming. Thirty? Forty? More?

Didn't matter.

His thoughts moved faster than legs. The soaked grass slapped his knees, the misty air sliced past his face. Each breath was cold and calculated, but the world was losing logic-becoming sensation and instinct.

A claw swung from the side-hiss-snap-he leaned back mid-stride, let it carve air. Then twisted right. The Vowalker's momentum carried it into a trunk. A crunch. He didn't stop.

A broken log. He didn't hurdle it. He dived, tucked, rolled, let his back skid across moss-slick dirt, and came up running. No lost rhythm. Only precision.

Ayanokouji's mind mapped the forest in layers-branches above, roots below, damp vines, stone ridges, forgotten ruins, broken bone fragments scattered like leaves. Everything was usable. Everything was terrain.

Another Vowalker dropped from a tree. Its scream pierced the air.

He kicked off a protruding root, slammed his shoulder into the monster's side mid-leap, and used its own weight to spin himself left, weaving through two others before they even turned.

The forest howled. Leaves blurred. His legs were pistons. His eyes, scanners. Every step calculated. Every shift in the air measured.

A sharp incline. Ayanokouji bent forward, arms slicing. Roots tried to trip him. He used them-stepping between exposed veins of bark, launching forward. Two Vowalkers leapt after him.

He grabbed a hanging vine mid-run, twisted his body-snap-the vine yanked free and he landed on a sloped ridge, sliding down on boots, the vine whipping behind.

Mid-slide, a Vowalker lunged. Ayanokouji yanked the vine forward like a whip. It snapped across the creature's eyes. It reeled. He caught a branch, swung out, and landed into a sprint again.

A fallen tree formed a natural bridge. He raced across it-five meters of rotted bark-just as three more monsters leapt from below. One claw scraped his leg-just fabric. He kicked backward while in motion, struck a skull. Heard the bone crunch.

He jumped off the log bridge-landed hard, let the momentum roll into a crouch, then surged forward.

The terrain shifted. Sinking mud.

He stopped. Pivoted. Ran parallel. Eyes scanning.

There. A cluster of dead trees. Moss-covered. Rigid.

He weaved between trunks. Vowalkers followed.

He leapt onto one trunk-ran up its angle-and jumped to a horizontal branch. Hung. Waited.

Five Vowalkers stormed under. He dropped, landing behind them.

He dashed forward-and kicked

one Vowalker into the others, toppling them like rag dolls.

He didn't wait.

A narrow gorge loomed ahead-only two meters wide but ten meters deep.

He sprinted.

Didn't slow.

He jumped.

Midair, a claw grazed behind him. Another had leapt too.

He twisted mid-flight. Legs tucked. A hand grabbed its shoulder-he used the monster to flip, pushing off its torso midair.

He landed on the far edge, rolled, and came up clean.

The Vowalker landed wrong-snapped its spine on a rock.

Ayanokouji vanished into the mist.

> > >

Every breath now tasted of copper. The forest tightened.

The village had to be close. He couldn't slow. Wouldn't. This body-Not perfectly trained-felt the strain, but didn't complain.

He used a fallen tree as a ramp-launched himself ten feet over a cluster of monsters. One reached up. He stomped its skull midair. Didn't even look down.

A steep hill descended before him.

He ran down it like water-shoulders low, feet skipping off rocks and bark. Behind him, the horde surged like an avalanche.

One misstep. One branch. Death.

But he didn't misstep.

Not once.

> > >

The trees ended. Grass gave way.

He burst into an open space-a village in ruin.

Crumbling homes. Shattered walls. Fog curling around splintered rooftops.

And the Vowalkers...

They stopped. As if bound to the forest's edge.

He didn't turn back.

Ayanokouji slowed, breathing still calm.

He'd made it. Every calculation. Every movement. Perfect.

Perla landed gracefully beside him while Eichiro fell.... But the only thing common was both of them looked towards Ayanokouji with wide eyes and chill going through their spine.

But they didn't say anything and Ayanokouji walked ahead.

***

The village was exactly the same as the old one.

A field of hollow bones and husks pretending to be homes. Wooden frames bowed under invisible weight.

Half-collapsed roofs caved in like they had exhaled their last breath long ago.

Shattered windows stared back with no glass—just jagged holes that let in the wind and nothing else.

Burnt walls still held the memory of fire. Stone paths led nowhere. No birds, no insects, just the echo of something that once lived here and no longer dared to return.

Shirou stood in the corner of it, by a cracked puddle that had swallowed the grime of this dead place.

His reflection stared back—face smeared with dirt, torn clothes clinging to his skin like afterthoughts.

Blood had dried into thin rust-colored maps across his arms and neck. None of that mattered. It was his expression that broke the illusion.

He looked… sad.

The kind of sadness that didn't come from pain or fear—but from knowing. Knowing exactly how all this would end. And knowing that the ending had been written long before he ever stepped into this nightmare.

He had wanted something simple. Just a little adventure. Something far away from the sterile lights and choking silence of the White Room. He'd invited Ayanokouji to escape with him. Offered him a way out.

Ayanokouji had declined.

And now that they had both somehow found their way into this ruined freedom, the system—no, not the system. The Spell—had made sure peace remained a myth.

He sighed. A tired, hollow sound that sank into the village like another layer of dust.

Then he felt it.

That presence—quiet, calculated, almost weightless—approaching from behind.

He turned.

Ayanokouji Kiyotaka stood across the ruined street, his body swaying slightly with each breath. He didn't look much better. His shirt was nearly in ribbons, skin scraped raw, bruises blooming under the surface. Dirt clung to him like a second skin. And yet, there was something intact behind those cold eyes. Something unbroken.

"So did the trust fall strategy work?" t Shirou asked, voice sharp but quiet.

Ayanokouji replied, "I think they are more wary than trusty."

Their plan had been simple. He would draw the Vowalkers—the ones too bloodthirsty to think—and lead them away, while Ayanokouji trailed behind. The bait. Not for the monsters. But for the other two. So they'd see him in action. So they'd believe in him.

"So isn't that what trust is, after all?" Shirou said, his voice flat now. "Trust isn't friendship. It's the weak believing in the strong. Trust is nothing but convenience."

Ayanokouji nodded. Once.

But he didn't speak again.

He knew why.

He had run with over ten times the number of Vowalkers chasing him. Pushed through broken trees, shifting terrain, and the rotting breath of that many-legged hunger that never stopped coming. Yet here he was—injured. Barely standing. In nearly the same condition as Ayanokouji.

And that was the problem.

Ayanokouji noticed. He always noticed.

He was wary.

Not of him… but of his ability.

Memory.

A word censored, hidden by the Spell, swallowed in static before it could even reach the conscious mind. But Ayanokouji didn't need to hear it. He had already begun calculating the discrepancy. The delay. The precision. He always had.

Since the very moment they reunited in this warped world, Ayanokouji had been dancing to the tune laid out for him.

Or so it seemed.

That's what Shirou would have believed—if he didn't know who Ayanokouji truly was.

Because Ayanokouji Kiyotaka always looked like he was dancing to someone else's plan.

But in the end, it was always the other way around.

>>>

The next three days were surprisingly simple.

Shirou would sprint ahead into the forest at dawn, scanning terrain, mapping danger. Ayanokouji followed later, deliberately slower—exposing himself just enough. He was the bait.

The goal was clear: Let the others see him survive, let them see him fight. If they didn't trust him, they would at least fear him.

Perla assisted Eichiro, navigating through the trails the others carved. Eichiro acted as their walkie-talkie—silent, efficient. They were no longer victims of the Nightmare. They were starting to thrive in it.

Even at night, they searched. Village to village, ruin to ruin. Perla and Eichiro slept easily. They understood. If either Ayanokouji or Shirou wanted them dead, they wouldn't have made it past the first hour.

But there was no betrayal.

Not yet.

Shirou didn't sleep. He'd vanish for hours, alone in the trees, eyes always looking further. Ayanokouji didn't ask where he went. He didn't need to. Because he wasn't sleeping either.

They drank pond water when they could. Food was rarer.

Only Perla and Eichiro ate Vowalker organs—those dense, rubbery sacs that pulsed with something unnatural. Ayanokouji wouldn't touch them. Neither would Shirou.

They'd rather starve than consume that.

Now, they rested inside the largest ruined village they'd encountered so far—seventy collapsed houses forming a silent spiral.

Seventy houses.

Seven minutes each.

That gave them over eight hours.

Two of those hours had already passed in silence.

Soon, it would be time to move again.

Shirou would scout alone, as always.

Ayanokouji would go with Perla, navigating the forest edge.

Before departing, Eichiro handed them each a page of handmade paper with a charcoal stub, one for each of them—just in case. No resentment. No hesitation.

He understood. Holding grudges in the Nightmare was suicide.

Now, Ayanokouji and Perla were already running—parkouring through twisted bark and broken branches, hand in hand.

And in the stillness behind them, Shirou was already gone.

***

The forest rearranged itself when you weren't looking.

Not with noise. Not with spectacle.

Just a subtle wrongness—branches where there hadn't been, roots curved to lead rather than trip. Every path felt like it had already made a decision before they reached it.

Ayanokouji moved through the chaos like it was choreography. Soles kissed bark. Hands steady.

One hand locked in Perla's.

Not from trust.

Not from care.

It was necessity.

Her skill demanded contact—unbroken, unflinching. They'd let go once. Once was enough.

The canopy above didn't sway. It leaned. Bent slightly toward their motion. Like trees listening without ears.

He hated it.

He hated most things about this place.

They cleared a narrow trunk, landing in tandem. His knees dipped, only slightly.

Perla noticed. Said nothing.

Later, she pulled a dried organ from her pouch—Vowalker flesh, preserved and spiced to keep. She ate as she moved. Bite after bite. Controlled, mechanical. Not once breaking pace.

She didn't offer him any. Hadn't in two days.

"You didn't sleep," she said.

He didn't answer.

"You breathe shallow when your body's compensating. It's subtle. But it's there."

He kept moving.

The branch ahead cracked—not from their weight. It had been broken already.

Below, the forest floor seemed to pulse.

No Vowalkers.

None today. None yesterday.

But not empty. Displaced.

He felt it like pressure in the back of his teeth. The trees were quiet because they were watching something else.

With Shirou.

Ayanokouji pieced it together in silence.

Wherever Shirou went, the Vowalkers followed. Not attraction. Not interest. Just certainty.

Like a curse folding the world in around him.

That was the secret.

Shirou didn't draw danger.

He collected it.

The next tree curved upward like a stair. They climbed it together. Her hand never left his. He adjusted his grip slightly. She didn't move.

"You've decided something," she said.

There was no emotion in her voice. No suspicion.

Only observation.

He didn't reply.

Not with words.

He acted.

In one motion, Ayanokouji pulled her toward him.

A clean, deliberate move that shattered rhythm and balance.

But she didn't resist.

She didn't flinch.

She didn't even blink.

She let it happen.

And then—softly, almost like she was stating a fact—

"Forbidden Love."

His body reacted before his mind could protest.

His hand released hers.

Not by will. By instinct.

His posture slackened. Focus blurred.

Just for a second.

And that second was enough.

Perla's other hand moved. A shard of stone, smooth and sharp, slid from her sleeve. She moved to strike—fast and low, aiming for the throat.

But—

Ayanokouji's hand twitched.

A single, measured contraction of muscle.

She stopped mid-motion.

Pushed back. Landed on a higher branch. Regrouped.

Ayanokouji stood still.

Straight. Unshaken.

Not gasping.

Not tired.

Not faltering.

He had never been.

"You don't have only one ability," he said coldly... "Just when exactly did you notice."

Perla smiled, like the accusation amused her.

"Shirou saw through you from the very beginning."

[Rank: Dormant

Type: Memory

Name: Forbidden Love

Description:

There once was a princess veiled in stillness, unseen by sun or sin.

When the assassin reached her, blade kissed with death, she spoke but once—

and his will broke like glass.

Steel slipped from his fingers.

And the silence that followed was worship.

Seconds passed. His breath caught.

And horror bloomed—

as he realized what he had come to do.

This memory carries a single, haunting moment of reversal.

It turns killing intent into devotion for the briefest window.

A memory that can only be woven once.

It is now gone.]

Memory broke.

And so this fated reunion.

- Chapter end -

Fated Reunion (End)

Next chapter-

Death Match (1)