Silence.

  Not the silence of absence.

  The silence of suspension.

  Akitsu Shouga lay motionless on the little red island within the Ethereal Realm.

  Black water stretched endlessly in every direction, smooth as polished obsidian. Upon its surface floated exactly ninety-five red cherry blossom petals, spaced irregularly but undisturbed, as if placed by a careful hand.

  No wind moved them.

  No ripple disturbed them.

  There were no red doors drifting above the water.

  No humanoid demon watching from afar.

  Only stillness.

  Akitsu did not hear the silence.

  He did not see the petals.

  He did not feel the ground beneath him.

  He was unconscious.

  Footsteps echoed softly across the surface of the black water.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Many.

  They approached without splashing, without disturbing the petals.

  They stopped around him.

  When they spoke, their voices overlapped yet remained distinct.

  “…So this is where he falls.”

  “…Again.”

  “…Not again.”

  Akitsu did not open his eyes.

  But he heard them.

  Though unconscious, he heard them.

  He lay still as figures formed around him.

  Each was Akitsu Shouga.

  Different ages.

  Different scars.

  Different eyes.

  One wore no mask.

  One bore a long scar across his jaw.

  One stood older, quieter, almost serene.

  Another younger, reckless.

  They looked down at him—the unconscious version.

  The youngest knelt first.

  “You look pathetic,” he muttered. “Dying on a forest road?”

  The older one crossed his arms. “He didn’t die.”

  “He almost did.”

  “Almost is not enough.”

  A version with silver threading his hair crouched beside the body. His voice was gentle.

  “You’ve fallen before.”

  Another version stepped forward, eyes blazing. “And you got up.”

  The Akitsus formed a circle.

  Ninety-five petals drifted closer, slowly orbiting the island.

  “You cannot stay here,” said the scarred one.

  “Your friends need you,” said the older one.

  “Rhen needs you,” said another.

  “Lemon is terrified.”

  “You don’t get to rest.”

  Akitsu’s body twitched faintly.

  The youngest version leaned close to his ear.

  “Wake up.”

  No response.

  The silver-haired one placed a hand over Akitsu’s chest.

  “You are not finished.”

  A chorus rose.

  “Wake up.”

  “Wake up now.”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “You are not done.”

  “You are needed.”

  The petals trembled.

  The black water quivered.

  The Akitsus spoke together.

  “Wake up, Shouga.”

  And within the darkness of unconsciousness—

  He heard them clearly.

  A pull.

  A snap.

  His eyes opened.

  Forest canopy.

  Horseback rhythm.

  Wind brushing against his face.

  Akitsu inhaled sharply.

  Rhen Calder glanced sideways from his own horse.

  “Well,” Rhen said casually, “did you have a good nap?”

  Akitsu blinked.

  The forest path.

  The Fiester road.

  Sunlight through branches.

  “…How long?” Akitsu asked.

  Lemon popped his wooden head over the saddle horn. “Four hours! Four entire hours! You were snoring.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “You absolutely do.”

  Rhen smirked faintly. “You nearly slid off the saddle.”

  Akitsu steadied himself, gripping the reins. His heart still felt like it was beating in two realities.

  “…Four hours,” he repeated quietly.

  He scanned the trees ahead.

  Left.

  Right.

  Branches.

  Shadows.

  Looking.

  Searching.

  Rhen noticed.

  “What are you doing?”

  Akitsu’s gaze sharpened. “Looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “…Shinji Irotori.”

  Rhen frowned. “Who is that?”

  Akitsu’s fingers tightened on the reins.

  “A wanderer.”

  “That’s vague.”

  “He has no home.”

  Lemon tilted his head. “So… homeless?”

  Rhen nodded. “Sounds like a homeless fellow.”

  Akitsu didn’t smile.

  “He has limitless freedom,” Akitsu added quietly.

  Lemon blinked. “That’s dramatic.”

  Rhen shrugged. “Everyone says that about themselves.”

  Akitsu kept scanning the forest.

  The memory felt real.

  The fight.

  The death.

  Masamune piercing through flesh.

  Joyeuse clashing against adaptive armor.

  He looked down at his hands.

  Alive.

  Rhen was breathing.

  Lemon was chattering.

  Was it a dream?

  Or something else?

  Rhen nudged his horse closer. “You look unsettled.”

  “I saw something.”

  “What?”

  “A future.”

  Lemon’s wooden ears twitched. “Did we win?”

  Akitsu did not answer.

  Rhen studied him.

  “Whatever you saw,” Rhen said calmly, “we handle it when it comes.”

  Akitsu nodded faintly.

  But his eyes never stopped searching the forest.

  Somewhere in the silence between hoofbeats, he could almost hear—

  “Wake up.”

  Millions of years ago—

  High in the Andean mountains stood a village carved into stone and sky.

  Its name was Yaracuna.

  The air was thin.

  The sun harsh.

  The nights mercilessly cold.

  Terraces carved into the mountainside held small crops of hardy tubers. Llamas grazed on sparse grasses. Smoke curled upward from low stone dwellings.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Three children stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the white world below.

  A boy.

  Two girls.

  They were dressed in ceremonial garments woven from fine fibers dyed in reds and golds.

  The wind bit at their cheeks.

  “Are we going to the sky?” one girl whispered.

  “Yes,” said the elder priest softly behind them.

  “The mountain chooses you.”

  The boy stared at the horizon.

  He did not understand.

  But he felt something.

  Fear.

  Confusion.

  A strange pride.

  The younger girl held his hand.

  “Will it hurt?” she asked.

  The priest smiled gently. “You will sleep.”

  They were led higher.

  Higher still.

  Snow thickened.

  Breathing grew harder.

  The village disappeared beneath clouds.

  They reached the summit shrine.

  Stone platforms.

  Offerings.

  Frozen silence.

  The priest knelt before the boy.

  “You are chosen,” he said.

  The boy’s voice trembled. “Why?”

  “So the mountain remains kind.”

  The girls were given warm chicha to drink.

  The boy too.

  He felt warmth spread through him.

  Sleepiness.

  He lay down between the two girls.

  The wind howled.

  Snow began to fall.

  The priest stepped back.

  “We honor you,” he whispered.

  Darkness came.

  Cold came.

  Time stopped.

  Thousands of years passed.

  Ice preserved.

  Wind eroded.

  Empires rose and fell.

  The mountain remained.

  Then—

  Heat.

  A tremor.

  Something shifted beneath the ice.

  The boy’s eyes opened.

  He gasped violently.

  Air burned his lungs.

  Snow had melted.

  The shrine was fractured.

  The world below was no longer the same.

  He looked beside him.

  The two girls remained still.

  Frozen.

  Unmoving.

  He crawled toward them.

  “Wake up,” he whispered weakly.

  No answer.

  His stomach twisted violently.

  Hunger.

  Unbearable hunger.

  Days passed.

  He tried to descend the mountain.

  He collapsed.

  Too weak.

  Too alone.

  He returned to the shrine.

  Sat beside the bodies.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  His voice cracked.

  “I don’t want to.”

  Hunger gnawed deeper.

  His hands trembled.

  Tears froze on his cheeks.

  “I don’t want to,” he repeated.

  But survival screamed louder than sorrow.

  He closed his eyes.

  And did what he had to do.

  When it was over—

  He sat alone in the snow.

  Blood stained the white ground.

  He trembled uncontrollably.

  “I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Guilt flooded him.

  Not mild.

  Not passing.

  Overwhelming.

  Crushing.

  His chest tightened.

  His heart felt like it would break.

  And in that moment—

  Within a 100-foot radius—

  The mountain changed.

  The wind shifted.

  Birds overhead faltered mid-flight.

  Animals froze in place.

  The emotion inside him—

  Guilt.

  Despair.

  Sorrow.

  It spread.

  Not outward.

  But inward.

  Into everything within reach.

  Creatures nearby felt crushing grief as if it were their own.

  A fox whimpered and lay down.

  Birds fell silent.

  Even the wind seemed to mourn.

  The boy gasped.

  “What…?”

  He stood.

  Stumbled backward.

  As he did, panic flickered inside him.

  The grief intensified around him instantly.

  The air felt heavy.

  Oppressive.

  He clutched his head.

  “Stop!”

  The emotion did not stop.

  Because it was not projected.

  It was reflected.

  His emotion became the emotional standard.

  The mountain mourned because he mourned.

  Within 100 feet—

  No being could escape it.

  They felt what he felt.

  As if it had always been theirs.

  He fell to his knees.

  “I didn’t mean to…”

  The grief intensified.

  Rocks trembled slightly.

  Snow slid down slopes in quiet avalanches.

  Patient 0 had awakened.

  Not from malice.

  From guilt.

  The boy realized slowly—

  It wasn’t controlling minds.

  It wasn’t forcing action.

  It was rewriting emotional foundations.

  He stood shakily.

  If he calmed—

  The world calmed.

  If he panicked—

  The world panicked.

  If he felt despair—

  Everything surrendered.

  He wiped his tears.

  Forced himself to breathe slowly.

  The mountain air steadied.

  Animals cautiously lifted their heads.

  He took a trembling step forward.

  “I have to live,” he whispered.

  And within 100 feet—

  The will to survive rose gently in every creature.

  Not commanded.

  Not ordered.

  Just felt.

  As if it were their own.

  The boy looked down the mountain.

  The world had changed.

  And so had he.

  Somewhere far in the present—

  Akitsu Shouga rode toward Fiester.

  Unaware.

  That another existence—

  Older than empires—

  Was walking the world again.

  Carrying grief powerful enough to reshape the hearts of everything near him.

  Patient 0 had awakened.

  And the mountain no longer slept.