Hayato awoke in the early hours before dawn, his breath shallow, his body drenched in sweat. The dream had returned—no, not just a dream. A vision. More vivid than ever. In it, he stood in the heart of a burning village, ash falling around him like black snow, his hands stained with a blood he could not recognize. Screams echoed from the void, but no matter how far he ran, he could never find the source. Only the flames. Only the darkness.
He sat up beneath the twisted limbs of a sleeping tree, the forest around him still and cold. Even the wind seemed to avoid the clearing now. His pulse was still racing. The sensation lingered—the acrid scent of smoke, the feel of soot on his skin, the crushing sense of guilt in his chest.
He was changing. That much was undeniable. Since the confrontation with the cursed spirit, his powers had grown sharper, deeper, but also more unpredictable. There were moments he felt as though something else stirred within him—something old, buried, and watching.
During his training, he'd begun to notice odd fluctuations. His Nen would sometimes flare without command, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, responding to thoughts he hadn't consciously voiced. On one occasion, he had tried to manipulate his aura through concealment, only to have it explode outward in a burst of black energy that wilted the plants around him. Whatever strength he had gained, it came at a cost.
Hayato returned to the rituals his grandfather had once taught him—chanting, meditation, long walks in silence beneath moonlight. But the peace he sought remained elusive. The forest had changed.
Or maybe he had.
The trees whispered now. When he walked the paths he'd once known by heart, they seemed to shift subtly beneath his steps. New paths revealed themselves only to vanish upon return. He found old symbols carved into stones—sigils from forgotten traditions that pulsed faintly when touched. And always, just beyond sight, shadows moved.
One night, he stood before a small pond, its surface glassy and still. He stared at his reflection, half-expecting to see someone else. And for a heartbeat, he did. The figure in the water had his eyes, his shape, but the aura surrounding it shimmered in sickly tones of violet and green. The eyes that stared back were hollow, unblinking.
A fragment of a future? A part of himself he refused to acknowledge?
He stepped away, but the image stayed with him.
Determined to understand, Hayato pushed further into the heart of the forest, to a place spoken of only in whispers—The Hollow Glen. It was said to be where old spirits lingered, where the veil between realms wore thin, where time and memory bled into one another.
He arrived at twilight.
The Hollow Glen was unlike the rest of the forest. The trees were older, gnarled and blackened by time. Their roots formed natural arches over the mossy ground, and the air held a weight that pressed against his lungs. He could feel it instantly—this place was alive, and it was watching him.
Hayato knelt in the center of the glen and began to meditate. The usual resistance from his thoughts came quicker this time. The darkness, once a whisper at the edge of his mind, surged forward like a tide.
Visions struck him like lightning:
Toshiaki screaming his name before falling into shadow. His mother standing in a doorway, blood dripping from her fingertips. A distant city burning, and himself atop the ruin, crowned in fire and grief.
And then, silence.
He stood in a void, surrounded by shifting black mist. From the mist emerged a figure cloaked in darkness, face obscured, voice echoing like thunder from the depths.
"You see it now, don't you?"
"Who are you?" Hayato asked.
"You," the figure replied. "The you that waits at the end. The you that breaks what remains."
Hayato clenched his fists. "That's not who I am."
"Not yet. But all paths converge, Hayato. Light casts shadow. Power invites ruin. You are your own harbinger."
The mist began to pull at him, like tendrils dragging him down.
But he resisted. Not with strength—but with memory. With the voice of his grandfather. The laughter of Toshiaki before the fall. The warmth of a mother's touch. The dream of becoming something more.
The shadows screamed.
And then, they vanished.
Hayato awoke lying in the glen, heart pounding, eyes wide.
The forest was silent again.
But this silence felt different—less like a warning, more like acknowledgment.
He had seen a glimpse of the darkness waiting for him.
It had not won.
But it hadn't retreated either.
It waited.
Watching.
Hayato stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees. He was still afraid. But fear no longer dictated his steps. He had glimpsed the worst of himself—and turned away. That was power. That was control.
The journey ahead was far from over.
But for the first time, he understood that the darkness within him was not a curse.
It was a choice.
And Hayato had chosen to keep walking.
Even if the path led through shadow.