Oyama walked forward, the soles of his worn shoes scuffing against the damp stone. The tunnel stretched long before him, its uneven walls swallowing the weak glow of distant lights. Far ahead, the silhouettes of his comrades flickered, waiting. Trusting.
His stomach churned. The weight of his task sat heavy on his chest, like a stone pressed into his ribs. Amatsu had given him this order—to lead them to the ambush, to their deaths.
He moved slowly, each step measured, each breath shallow. The thoughts came in waves, relentless, inescapable.
Never once did I think I would betray my own. The idea should have been unthinkable, but now, faced with it, he found nothing. No true grief. No rage. Just a dull ache where his certainty used to be.
But then... do I even matter to them?
The truth festered in his mind, creeping that took root and would not let go. Amatsu had spoken plainly, dissecting the fragile illusion of loyalty with a scalpel's precision. Oyama was none. He was not special. He was not irreplaceable. He was a body, a weapon to be discarded when the time came. And the time would always come.
He had fought beside them. He had bled beside them. He had endured the orders of their superiors, knowing that those same superiors would not hesitate to devour him should the need arise. The Vultures survived by consuming the weak.
There is no use in hesitating. He told himself this, again and again, as though repetition would make it true. But the truth did not settle. His hands still trembled. Sweat slicked his palms, cold and clammy. His body refused the command his mind had issued.
So he grasped at something else.
Amatsu. The boy who had done this to him.
A child, a mere child, had unraveled everything Oyama thought he understood about strength. That was the worst part. The humiliation curdled his insides. He had lived sixteen years, clawed his way through blood and suffering, only to be bested by a boy too young to even be called a man.
No, no, I should not lose to a kid. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. The logic of it was unbearable. How could Amatsu, small and unassuming, be so much more ruthless, so much more complete? How could his mind be so sharp, his will so absolute? It was as if Amatsu moved through the world with certainty while the rest of them fumbled in the dark.
Oyama's gaze caught his own reflection in a stagnant puddle.
The face that stared back was not one of a boy. He looked older—older than sixteen, older than he had any right to be. Eto had mocked him for it once, laughing as she poked at the lines on his brow, the shadow beneath his eyes. "Flesh still young, but your face is a tragedy."
He had no response then. He had no response now.
If Amatsu could silence his fear, could reduce the world to cold calculations and hunger, then so could he.
So he forced himself still. The tremor in his fingers dulled. The erratic rhythm of his breath evened. It wasn't real calm, not truly—inside, his mind thrashed, his instincts screamed. But outwardly? He was composed. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
He was already a pawn in Amatsu's hands, but if it meant living—if it meant surviving—then let it be so.
He stepped forward. The figures on front did not yet know they were dead.
Oyama staggered forward, breath ragged, feet barely finding their purchase against the uneven ground. He forced desperation into every fiber of his being, into the erratic rise and fall of his chest, into the wild darting of his eyes. His body spoke the language of fear even as his mind remained sharp, calculating.
"Help! Help! Help!" He let his voice crack, just enough to sell the illusion. He could hear the quiver in his own throat, the way it frayed at the edges, perfect in its imperfection.
Ahead, the five green-robed ghouls snapped their heads toward him, their conversation halting. Their postures shifted, easy camaraderie dissolving into wary alertness. The gate loomed behind them, a heavy barricade of metal and reinforced stone, a threshold they were sworn to protect.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, their instincts took hold.
Four of them sprang into motion, kagune blooming from their backs, shoulders, spines—a grotesque display of shifting flesh and hardened Rc. The air grew thick with aggression, the scent of blood-laced cells unfurling like an unspoken challenge.
Oyama staggered to a stop, throwing up both hands in frantic defense. "Wait—WAIT! It's me! It's Oyama!"
Still, they advanced. A single misstep, a wrong breath, and they would tear him apart.
With shaking fingers, he reached into his tattered coat and pulled free a stone tablet—a sigil, its surface rough against his palm. The engraved kanji gleamed faintly under the dim tunnel light. His name. His rank. Proof of his belonging.
They stopped.
The tension hung, unbroken, until one of them—his eyes sharp, calculating—took a cautious step closer. The others hesitated, their bloodlust wavering, caught in the uncertainty of the moment.
The silent ghoul at the back, the one who had yet to react, tilted his head slightly, his nostrils flaring. He sniffed the air once. Then again. His expression darkened. "It's real," he murmured. "The scent's there. Leader's blood is on it."
The others glanced at each other. The one closest to Oyama narrowed his eyes. "What the hell happened?"
Oyama let out a strangled breath, bending forward, hands bracing his knees as though his body was barely holding itself together. He was panting, his shoulders shaking—not from exertion, but from the careful illusion of barely-contained panic.
"Something… something happened," he gasped. "It's bad—too bad to explain here!"
The second ghoul, his frame broader than the rest, crossed his arms. "Tch. Be specific, dumbass. You come running up here screaming like you've seen a ghost, and you want us to just follow you?"
Oyama's eyes darted between them, his pulse a frantic staccato against his ribs. He let the hesitation sink in, let the desperation coil tighter, like an animal backed into a corner.
"I—I don't know!" He shook his head violently, strands of sweat-drenched hair clinging to his forehead. "I swear, I just—bodies, there were bodies, and—shit—just come see for yourselves!"
Another ghoul, younger, but no less cruel, scoffed. "What, some bottom-feeders got picked off? That's not worth abandoning our post."
The silent one finally spoke again. "If something serious happened in our area…" His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it, something cold and sharp. He didn't need to finish. They all understood.
"Hawk-sama will kill us."
A moment of stillness. Then a decision was made.
One of them—a wiry ghoul with jagged scars across his cheek—rolled his shoulders, glancing at the others. "I'll stay. If it's nothing, you four owe me." His tone was casual, but his stance was firm. He would guard the gate, no matter what.
The others turned back to Oyama.
"Fine," the broad one muttered. "Lead the way."
The deeper they went, the darker it became. The tunnel walls narrowed, the distant sounds of the hideout fading into silence. The only noise was the steady drip of water from unseen cracks in the stone, the muted shuffling of boots against damp ground.
Oyama kept his breathing heavy, his shoulders tense, his body still playing the role of the frantic informant. But his mind was a blade, sharp and glinting. Every step forward was another coil tightening around their throats, another inch closer to the kill.
Far from the gate. Far from anyone who could hear them scream.
Then—he stopped.
His body froze mid-step, his breath hitching in his throat.
Something was wrong.
The four ghouls behind him reacted instantly, their instincts flaring. Kagune shifted, tensing in anticipation.
Before them, sprawled in the center of the tunnel, were two bodies.
The stench of fresh blood clogged the air, thick and metallic.
The first body—close enough that Oyama could see the way his fingers curled, rigid in death—had been mutilated. His lower half was a ruin, his manhood obliterated. The terror on his face was still fresh, eyes wide, mouth frozen mid-scream.
The second was worse.
He had been torn apart. Not just killed—desecrated. Limbs severed, flesh carved away with brutal precision. His face was twisted into something horrific, something mocking. As if, in his final moments, he had become the punchline to some grotesque joke.
A sickening chill coiled in Oyama's gut.
This… this wasn't part of the plan.
His lips parted, a whisper barely escaping. "What… what happened?"
Behind him, the ghouls tensed. Suspicion flared in the air like static before a storm.
The trap was set. But now, even Oyama wasn't sure who was hunting who.
The tunnel exploded into chaos.
The four ghouls behind Oyama recoiled, their bodies rigid with fury, their kagune snapping into place like unsheathed blades. Their voices rose, raw with accusation.
"Who the fuck did this?!"
"Someone betrayed us!"
"This isn't just some attack—this is an inside job!"
Their rage funneled forward, drawn to the four figures standing at the other end of the tunnel—green-robed, just like them, faces twisted in the same mixture of shock and hostility.
A tense silence hung, thick as tar. Then—
"You bastards!" one of the ghouls behind Oyama snarled, his voice cracking with fury. "What the fuck did you do?! These are our own!"
The four ghouls on the other side of the tunnel bristled, their own kagune unfurling like lethal tendrils. One of them stepped forward, baring his teeth in a snarl.
"You think we did this?" he spat. "You brought us here! What the fuck is this?! A setup?!"
"You fucking scum, you killed them!"
"Oh yeah? Then why the fuck are we standing here while you're the ones crawling out of the dark like rats?!"
The tunnel pulsed with tension, their shouts echoing like war drums against the stone. Neither side hesitated—neither could afford to.
They lunged.
The world became a blur of blood and fury. Kagune slammed into kagune, sickening cracks and wet rips filling the air. Flesh tore. Bone shattered.
A ghoul from the first group swung a jagged, bladed kagune at the nearest enemy—only to be impaled through the gut by a giant sword-like ukaku shot from the other side. He choked, crimson spilling from his lips, before his attacker wrenched the weapon free, sending him crumpling to the floor.
Another ghoul tackled his opponent, sending them both crashing against the tunnel wall. Clawed fists tore at throats, eyes, torsos. Blood spattered the damp stone, steaming in the underground chill.
They weren't just fighting. They were ripping each other apart.
There were no words anymore. No accusations.
Just pure, unfiltered rage.
Oyama stood frozen. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his pulse hammering against his skull. His mind was struggling to process, to rationalize—but deep inside, something cold and undeniable was taking shape.
The bodies. The brutal mockery of their deaths.
The way the flesh had been ruined, left obscene and broken in a way meant to provoke.
The mutilated corpse—its lower half obliterated.
The limbless one, carved like a plaything.
He knew those methods.
Amatsu.
Eto.
A tremor ran through his body. He was never meant to be anything more than a piece on their board.
His hands clenched into fists.
"Fuck."
"I was nothing but a hand pulling the trigger."