"...It's you."
Amatsu stared at him, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
What is power without knowledge?
A blade without a hand to wield it. A beast led by the leash of a clever master. Strength alone was nothing. It could be devoured, broken, leashed. He had seen it happen—watched the strong crumble because they lacked the mind to wield their strength properly.
If I gain power, do I gain everything?
No. The answer depended.
A fool with overwhelming strength could still be undone by a weaker opponent—one who was patient, who knew where to strike. A slightly sharper mind could dismantle brute force, piece by piece, until nothing remained but a body with nowhere to direct its power.
The lower the knowledge, the easier the mind breaks.
If his mind were weak, then his strength would be nothing more than a waiting downfall. That much was obvious.
Amatsu thought back. Before all of this. Before the hunger, before the whispers of the Kagune curling around his spine like a second consciousness.
He had been quiet. Small. A boy who endured. Bullies, pain, humiliation—he had taken it all, swallowed it, let it fester in the deep places no one could reach.
But what was inside him back then?
Not weakness. Not really.
Control.
Control over his rage. His emotions. A mastery that most never achieved, because they never needed to. To cage one's own emotions so completely—to never act out, never break, never give them the reaction they wanted—was a skill. A strength.
And now?
Now he no longer needed the cage. He had let it crack open, let his emotions flow in controlled streams, directed only where they served him. Humanity—those lingering hesitations, those pointless tethers—had already been discarded.
Eto was a manipulator, playful, disarming. But Amatsu had been the prey all his life. He had lived in the mind of the victim, understood their fears, their tells, their limits.
And now, at this moment, he would use it.
Everything he had hidden. Everything that had been forced into him.
A predator needed to know the prey better than the prey knew itself.
In this world.
This cruel, rotting world.
Amatsu blinked once, slow, calculating. His gaze on Oyama was not the gaze of a child—it was the gaze of something watching, waiting, uncoiling in the depths.
Oyamashifted under the weight of it, unaware of the leash being slipped around his throat.
"You trust them? Do you
trust Vultures?" Amatsu asked, voice light, conversational. The kind of question that seemed harmless, yet carried hooks just beneath the surface.
Oyama scoffed. "What kind of question is that?"
Amatsu tilted his head slightly, the faintest shadow of amusement playing at his lips. "A simple one."
Oyama frowned. "Of course I do. We've fought together. Survived together."
"Ah." Amatsu nodded, as if accepting that. As if it made sense.
And then he said nothing.
The silence stretched. Became a weight. Oyama shifted again, brows pulling together. "What? You don't believe me?"
Amatsu lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. "Belief isn't necessary."
A seed, small and unobtrusive, planted beneath the skin.
"You've fought together," Amatsu murmured, gaze lowering as if thinking deeply. "So you must know their limits. Their strengths." He met Oyama's eyes. "And their weaknesses."
Oyama didn't respond right away. But Amatsu saw it—the flicker of thought, the way his mind turned inward.
Weakness.
Of course Oyama knew. He had to. The Vultures weren't built on kindness. They were built on survival. And to survive, one had to assess their allies just as much as their enemies.
"You know what's interesting?" Amatsu continued, his voice slipping into something quieter, more thoughtful. "I've been watching them." He exhaled, as if hesitant. As if debating whether to continue.
Oyama leaned in before he could stop himself. "What?"
"They don't watch you the same way. You've noticed it, haven't you? How they glance at each other when you speak. How they never choose you for the important tasks."
A simple statement. True or false—it didn't matter. What mattered was the suggestion, the crack in the foundation.
Amatsu let the words settle. Let Oyama recall moments on his own. The glances. The whispered words. The decisions made without him. Every group had them—small shifts in power, minor slights that meant nothing until they did.
"That's ridiculous," Oyama muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Amatsu said nothing. He only watched. Listened. Allowed Oyama to battle his own thoughts, to find his own evidence. Because once a seed was planted, the mind would water it all on its own.
"They wouldn't," Oyama said after a long moment, but he was talking to himself more than Amatsu.
Amatsu let his gaze drift, his expression unreadable. "I wonder," he murmured.
A pause. A hesitation.
And then he moved on.
Let the thought fester. Let Oyama think it was his own realization, his own doubt creeping in. Let him watch his comrades more carefully, listen with a different ear. Let paranoia take root.
Because once it did, Oyama would pull himself away from them, inch by inch.
And when that happened—when he found himself alone, adrift, grasping for something solid—Amatsu would be waiting.
It wouldn't be immediate. But Amatsu was patient. He would feed Oyama whispers when needed, withhold words when silence was more effective.
Then, with the same detached certainty one might state the color of the sky, he said:
"You know you're going to die."
Oyama flinched, barely. A twitch of his fingers, a shallow inhale. He wanted to protest, but something in Amatsu's tone stopped him. Like a fact had been placed in front of him, irrefutable.
"I know it," Amatsu continued. "Sooner or later, the Vultures will kill you." He tilted his head, voice quiet, indifferent. " Vultures hunt the weak and eat the weak.' If that's true, what does that mean for you?"
Silence. The words slithered into Oyama's head like oil through cracks.
"They don't care how long you've been with them. If you become weak, you're just food. That's how they survive."
Oyama swallowed hard. "I'm not—"
"You are." Amatsu's voice was soft, but firm. "Or you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be talking to me."
A breath. Oyama clenched his jaw, looking away, but the seed had been planted. He was thinking. Doubting. Good.
"They'll kill you. Eventually. The only difference is when." Amatsu let the words settle before adding, almost as an afterthought, "Unless…"
Oyama stiffened. His eyes flickered toward Amatsu, uncertain, desperate.
"If you can give me enough information," Amatsu murmured, "maybe you don't have to die."
A choice. Not really. Just an illusion of one. Because Oyama already knew the truth. If he stayed with the Vultures, he would be discarded, devoured. If he refused Amatsu, Amatsu would kill him himself.
One way or another, he was dead.
Unless he chose the path with the smallest chance of survival.
"I…" Oyama exhaled, something cracking in his resolve. "What do you want to know?"
A small, satisfied curve touched Amatsu's lips. Effortless. The moment the seed of doubt took root, the rest was inevitable.
Now, he just had to collect what he needed.
Amatsu smiled. It was not a gesture of amusement, nor was it meant to reassure. It was simply an acknowledgment of inevitability.
He knew. Even if he tortured Oyama, the man would still lie. Not out of defiance, but because he understood the truth—no matter what he said, he would die. The difference was now, he would tell a truth.
Amatsu leaned forward slightly, the weight of his presence pressing down. "So," he murmured, voice light, conversational. "Do the Vultures already know where I am?"
Oyama's breath shuddered. "Yes."
No hesitation. His survival instinct had already decided honesty was his best chance.
"They've been using watchers," Oyama continued, words tumbling out in a near-whisper. "They knew you were here. They've been tracking you."
Amatsu said nothing. He only watched, waited. Silence forced more from him.
"You—" Oyama exhaled sharply, jaw tight. "You killed one of their leader's younger brothers."
Ah. There it was. A piece of truth pulled free. Something personal.
"They're preparing to hunt you."
A slow blink. A pause just long enough to let Oyama hear the echo of his own words. The weight of them settling in.
Amatsu tilted his head. "How many bases do the Vultures have?"
Oyama swallowed. "In this hunting area? Just one." A breath. "Forty people. One leader."
"And beyond this?"
"The Vultures have many bases, but the main one is in the south."
Amatsu considered. Noted the way Oyama's gaze flickered, how his breathing remained controlled but shallow. He was breaking, but not yet shattered. The information was valuable, but it had to be pried out in layers.
"Who else should I be aware of?" Amatsu's voice was almost gentle.
"I—I don't know," Oyama stammered. "I just follow orders."
Amatsu's gaze darkened, his smile fading into something unreadable. A shift in the air, a quiet tightening. Oyama flinched.
"That's all I know," Oyama added quickly, almost desperate now. "I swear."
Amatsu held his gaze for a long, silent moment. Let the weight of that statement settle. Then, finally, he leaned back, exhaling as if mildly satisfied.
Amatsu studied Oyama for a moment longer. The man's breath still carried the aftershocks of his unraveling, his pulse erratic beneath the skin. But his mind—his mind was where the real wounds had been carved. Not just doubt. Not just fear.
Loyalty, severed at the root.
Amatsu had seen it before. When a person lost faith in their foundation, they didn't stand taller—they collapsed. And Oyama was collapsing. Not all at once, but in increments, fractures splitting outward. A few more well-placed cracks, and he would crumble entirely.
Not yet, though. Patience.
A desperate man was useful, but a man who believed himself clever was even more useful. If Oyama thought he was outsmarting Amatsu by "selling" information to him, he'd cling to the illusion of control. That illusion was key. A man who thought himself powerless was useless; a man who thought he was manipulating his own survival would willingly step deeper into the noose.
Amatsu leaned back slightly, loosening his posture. Not enough to be careless—just enough to invite complacency. He let the tension seep from his body, as if satisfied. As if the moment had passed.
Oyama's eyes flickered with something fragile. A mistake, already. He thought the worst was over.
Amatsu would let him believe that.
Let him breathe. Let the leash slacken. Let him think he had a choice.
Then, when the time was right, he'd pull.
"You'll come with me," Amatsu said, his tone light, almost indifferent. "I'll need more details. Exact locations, routes, how they communicate. You understand."
Oyama hesitated. A flicker of resistance, but the damage had already been done.
"I—shouldn't be seen with you," he murmured, voice strained. "If they find out—"
"They won't." Amatsu's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty, as if reality would bend to his will. "We'll move carefully. You'll do as I say, when I say it. And in return—"
A pause.
He let Oyama fill the silence himself. People feared emptiness. They rushed to fill it with rationalizations, justifications.
Oyama swallowed. "In return, I don't die."
Amatsu smiled. "Something like that."
A lie. But a convincing one.
He stood, and Oyama followed, but something had already shifted. He didn't walk like a man anymore. He moved like something with a hook in its throat, too afraid to tear free.
Behind them, footsteps. Light, almost playful. Eto dragged something behind her, the wet scrape of flesh against stone. Oyama turned, and his breath hitched.
His friends. Both of them. No legs, no hands. Just torsos, still breathing, eyes wide with something beyond horror.
Eto tilted her head, her grin all teeth. "They wanted to come along."
Oyama made a sound—small, brittle.
Amatsu didn't need to kill him now. That part had already begun. The moment Oyama listened. The moment he doubted.
The death was just waiting to catch up.