The first one didn't scream.
His throat closed before his body struck the floor. Ribs gave. Fingers twitched—just once—before stillness claimed the rest. Blood seeped into the cracks between concrete tiles, threading through them like veins.
Kamo stepped over the body without pause.
Nagitsu followed, two steps behind. Slower. He stopped when a second guard gasped—a wet, broken sound, as if breath were trying to crawl out through splinters. The man couldn't have fought back even if he'd seen them coming.
Nagitsu looked at him. Just looked. His face shifted. There were too many things trying to settle at once. None did.
Kamo didn't look at all.
"Keep moving," he said.
Nagitsu gave the body one last glance. Not shaken. But not indifferent either. Then—eyebrows raised, head tilted—he muttered with a wry flick of the mouth:
"Anything you say, boss." Absent of genuine obedience.
The corridor ahead was long, quiet, and unlit. The torchlight had gone out, and the shadows had moved in to stay. By time they'd made it through, bodies were leaned against the walls, spilled onto the floor like the building itself had exhaled them.
Most were gone.
A few were still trying to catch their last breath. Fūregen's voice cracked through Kamo's comm. The voice was low, dry, unbothered:
"Bring back as many as possible. However you need to."
The door to the next wing had already been gently blown inward. Not a single one had been shut. Not really. These halls hadn't known closure in years. Kamo passed through the frame. The room beyond was broad and gray. Light clung high on the walls in flickering brackets, weak flames embedded in concrete, like they'd been buried alive. There were no windows. No slits. No way to see out, or in.
The walls were carved. Some markings shallow, others carved so deep they seemed to bleed shadow. Symbols. Numbers. Or maybe just the noise of desperate minds with nothing else left to cut.
Kamo didn't slow.
He didn't look long. Didn't care for the meanings. From beyond the next door came voices. Quiet. Strained. Edging toward hope without knowing how.
"We're saved!" someone said, nearly a yell.
Kamo tilted his head, just slightly. Then he moved. He crossed the room like it owed him an invitation. Boots silent against stone. Shoulders steady.
He stopped near the chairs. Rested a hand on one, light and loose. Like he was pausing for air, though he hadn't been out of breath. Nagitsu came up behind him, less emotionally moved than he had been seconds ago.
He scanned the arrangement—the chairs, the distance to the door, but more importantly what his ears could infer from the room ahead.
His fingers twitched once, reflexive. Then stilled.
"They must've heard us coming," he murmured.
Kamo stepped through first. And silence followed him in.
The kynenns were already spread out—
Some by instinct, others by the invisible order that forms when no one wants to be the odd one out. Most stood. A few crouched behind benches or bulkheads, not hiding, more like animals fighting the urge to react.
None looked afraid.
But fear didn't always wear its own face.
Some had weapons, many of them lowered. A few remained empty handed. The pulse of myaku danced just beneath the skin of most, some flickering faint and unstable, like it didn't quite belong to them yet.
One at the center—a girl—stood mid-breath.
Kamo swept the room with one glance.
Not hurried nor curious. Just… thorough.
Then he spoke.
"You aren't necessarily saved."
He intentionally let a beat pass.
The sentence landed sharp and undeniable. A single phrase lingered in the room. Chewed at the seams of their composure.
From Nagitsu's side, a voice broke the quiet.
"I told you—they're just here to wipe us out!"
The boy stepped forward as he spoke. Seventeen, maybe.
His shoulder had already been rolled in myaku. A shard of slate curved down to his hand, barely shaped.
He lunged, but he didn't finish the step.
Kamo moved once.
Flat. Forward.
An elbow caught the boy's face with the sound of bone giving up.
And a sweep took his legs.
His skull hugged concrete on the way down, the grey, earthen spike in his hand shattering into sharp, glasslike noise.
He didn't get up.
Kamo straightened. His cloak shifted with him, catching the low torchlight—briefly revealing the red beneath.
"That isn't necessarily true either," he said.
No one moved.
The room inhaled—but concurrently forgot to exhale.
From the back, someone shifted. A blade rasped against its sheath.
Multiple movements took place under the consensus of preparation.
Nagitsu raised his chin slightly. He'd flinched when the boy went down. A chuckle escaped him, a flimsy barricade that did little to soothe the tightening knot in his stomach.
"But let's not pretend it's complicated," Kamo said.
"You were previously abducted. And now that can be behind you."
He began to walk closer to the middle.
Slowly. Calmly. His steps carved a line through the room, and no one crossed it.
He moved like fire in a dry field—slow and in control until it wasn't.
"I can't tell you much," he said. "But understand this— you can come with me… or die with all of them."
The pause that followed wasn't for drama.
It was space. A space for decisions to be born.
A girl near the right wall stepped forward.
Half a step. Hands open. No weapon.
"I'll go," she said.
A few heads turned. Fast. Sharp.
"Coward," someone hissed.
She didn't flinch.
Her eyes never left Kamo.
"I'd rather be alive," she said.
"It's not like The Foundation has my loyalty."
Behind her, two more shifted. Watching him now. Like he'd already decided their future and they were trying to catch up.
That was enough.
Someone snapped.
"Traitors."
Another girl stepped forward from the back. Taller.
She held twin staves, both ends already glowing—
raw heat coiled at her wrists like it had been waiting to be used.
"You think they're here to save you?" she barked.
"They probably already killed our teachers."
Kamo stopped pacing.
Turned to her like she'd called his name, though she hadn't.
"They weren't even teachers," the girl said. "At best they were handlers."
Then, calmly Kamo chimed in, "If you'd like to die in their place, I'm sure there is room."
Another girl's staff spun once—fast.
Too fast for most eyes.
She lunged.
Kamo moved without tension.
No rush. No flourish.
Her staff came down in a clean arc, searing hot at the edge.
He stepped just left of center, letting it pass close enough to feel the heat on his cheek.
His left hand caught the second swing mid-motion, redirecting it downward, and in the same instant, his right came up—short elbow to the chin.
She stumbled.
Only then did her face show surprise.
Not pain.
Just the flicker of understanding—that this wouldn't go how she imagined.
Kamo pressed in. Not aggressive.
A quiet suffocation of her stance.
One hand gripped the center of the staff.
He twisted.
It tore from her grip with enough force to dislocate a finger or two.
The heat died with the weapon, both ends flickering out as it clattered across the floor.
She threw a punch out of instinct.
He let it connect.
Didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Then, flat-palmed, he struck her throat.
A clean hit.
Not theatrical—precise.
Her posture was gone. Air gone with it. She dropped to her knees, retching dryly. Her fingers scraped at the floor— not for balance, but for meaning.
She didn't find it.
Kamo leaned in slightly.
Closer than needed.
His voice was quieter now—almost distant.
"If you're all this weak, then honestly… we have no use for you."
He wasn't taunting her. He genuinely meant all that he'd said.
Nagitsu straightened in the back.
Half-expecting someone else to step in.
Unsurprised no one had.
The girl's face, even from her knees, still held the ghost of pride. Not strength. Just… unfinished collapse. Ego breaking apart by inches, held together by a refusal to fold in front of the others.
No one moved.
No one helped.
They weren't comrades.
Just a room full of competitors sharing the same cage.
And she knew it. They all watched. Everyone. Not even horrified—just taking stock. She was supposed to be one of the stronger kynenns in Sector 5. She hadn't lasted three seconds. She'd hardly got to exercise the full extent of her power. Rage reeled in her mind. But it didn't matter. Five more seconds passed. It felt like a lifetime, stretched thin by humiliation and shallow breath. So she did the only thing left to her.
She spat.
Blood and saliva hit Kamo's cheek—dark, bitter, wet. A silence cracked through the room like glass underfoot. Kamo straightened. He didn't look down. He didn't react. His gaze swept the room like it had already forgotten her.
Then, quiet as breath:
"Those who test boundaries," he said,
"find cliffs."
And with that,
His fist slammed into her nose, almost in the same motion, he gripped her shirt, the impact barely preceding the next, rendering her semiconscious. Kamo then tossed her aside—limp, paralyzed, breath barely holding.
The girl hit the floor with a dull thud.
Her body folded awkwardly.
The sound wasn't loud.
It was just final.
The silence didn't break.
It deepened.
Kamo wiped his face with the corner of his sleeve, then flicked the cloth off to the side.
He began walking across the room.
Like he was giving them time to make a decision they'd already made.
Some had.
A few stepped back.
Lowered their weapons.
Moved to stand behind him—quietly, without eye contact.
Like gravity had decided for them.
But not all were convinced.
"You talk like you're giving us a choice," a voice said.
It wasn't shouted.
Wasn't charged.
Just… present. Like a post standing in the wind, refusing to lean.
Kamo stopped.
The speaker stepped forward—older than the rest, maybe eighteen.
Broad shoulders. Scar down one arm.
Myaku pulsing faintly at his back, like it had surfaced but not yet shaped.
He didn't draw a weapon.
He kept walking, steady and slow.
Every step announced its own weight.
"I'm not even against what you're offering," he said.
"But as a man, I refuse to be a slave to anyone."
He stopped a few meters from Kamo. Just far enough to act.
"I won't serve The Foundation. I won't serve you."
A pause.
"That doesn't mean I'm weak."
A few in the crowd looked at him—not admiring, not inspired.
Kamo studied him silently, still though.
"Fair," Kamo said. "But you know what that means, don't you?"
He stepped once, just within reach of a fast move. Just outside the reach of a mistake.
"Not all of us are that weak."
Kamo said nothing else.
Just rolled his neck. A quiet pop in the joint.
Then:
"Name?"
The boy blinked once. "Koshira."
Kamo nodded—almost with respect.
Then he moved.
Koshira moved too—but not backward.
Twisting his heel against the floor, dragging a wall through the air.
Kamo's approach halted from contact alone.
His footing slipped half an inch— enough to stop clean momentum, but not enough to fall.
Koshira rotated into a rising palm and sent another wall, the knockback force came from maybe from three paces out.
Kamo's coat flared, but his core held.
He didn't move.
Koshira's eyes narrowed.
That would've knocked back most men. Especially the instructors.
Kamo blinked. Slowly. One brow lifted.
Then he closed the gap again.
Koshira snapped another wall, creating unexpected leverage beneath Kamo's foot—trying to shift his center off-axis.
Kamo's leg slid, unprepared for the upward step he'd been forced into.
But he didn't stumble.
He rotated into the loss. Flowed with it.
Let Koshira think he'd made space.
Then Kamo's hand was on his shoulder. The weight of his arm clothesline Koshira, they both met the ground, and both escaped from that spot immediately.
Koshira didn't freeze. But Kamo followed through.
He let the escape happen, flowed with it and used the motion to pivot behind him.
A short strike slammed into Koshira's ribs. No wind-up. Just contact.
Koshira grunted, stepped through it. Kamo then spun backward, lifting his trail leg and kicking Koshira in the chest
Koshira braced—halted the air behind him, created a wall of resistance.
It dulled the blow's follow-through.
His own elbow snapped back—sharp, fast, aimed at Kamo's temple.
Kamo ducked it clean.
Knees bent. Eyes level.
Koshira jumped back. Two paces. Resetting.
Still breathing steady.
Still sharp.
He hadn't expected to be so reactive, to miss as much as he did. But he still missed. Kamo knew the rhythm of this fight. Koshira would be the aggressor, Kamo would counter until he'd gained an upper hand. Then Koshira would reset before he could capitalize. That pattern is tiring on its own.
So Kamo broke it.
He didn't wait.
He ran into him—shoulder low, center of gravity tucked, crowd forgotten.
Koshira reached to create another force point—
Kamo stepped inside the arc.
Twisted the boy's forearm down—
and popped the elbow with a brutal snap of pressure.
Koshira didn't scream.
Didn't fall.
Koshira used the torque.
Flipped with it—twisting, redirecting.
He spun the momentum, just enough to stay on his feet, nearly ripping his own arm out of the socket.
He ignored the pain, Koshira wasn't thinking beyond this fight. He twisted his trunk even more, but by then Kamo had released the disgruntled limb, Koshira carried that moment into a sideways strike with his good arm.
The edge of his hand caught Kamo's temple. Hard. It split skin.
Kamo's head turned.
Then he looked back.
Calm. Breathing even.
He didn't even blink.
Koshira hesitated.
Just for half a breath.
That was enough.
Kamo stepped in, caught him around the neck, coiled Koshira by his bicep— He twisted the body across his leg and slammed him back-first into the ground.
The floor cracked. Koshira's body bounced once. He exhaled—sharp. Frustrated, not broken. Rolled to one side. One arm hung limp. The other pushed slowly against the ground.
He wasn't done.
Kamo watched him climb to a knee.
"You get back up," Kamo said.
Koshira spat blood.
"Of course I do."
Kamo nodded once.
"Pride will be your downfall."
Koshira reached out, stepping out of range, and then twisted his wrist akwardly.A flick of the fingers—click. The air snapped outward. Not just pushed—torn.
A thick line cracked through the room in a hard spiral, carving through the space like a pulse meant to disorient, the force was blunt, though it moved with the speed of a blade.
It missed Kamo by inches.
But only barely.
It caught the girl from earlier instead—slamming her against the wall with enough force to knock breath out before pain could catch up.
Koshira was already moving.
He swept low with his good arm, dragging the current behind him like a short leash. His own body became an anchor, the room felt like it spun in its wake— centered just beneath Kamo's core. The room felt it.
Everyone did. A sudden vacuum. Then a pull. The air itself tilted, rotated against them. Much like the projectile that'd struck the girl against the wall. Floor and breath and focus all shifted—subtle, disorienting.
A makeshift fulcrum.
Clever.
Kamo's footing slipped again—but this time, he didn't resist it. He fell with it. Dropped into the collapse.
And vanished.
The shadow beneath one of the Koshira warped—twisted in a way that didn't match his own movements. Kamo stepped out of it a breath later, calm as sleep.
Behind Koshira.
He froze.
Not from fear— from dissonance.
His eyes widened, scanning the angles. His mouth parted. He'd seen something that didn't make sense. Didn't fit his understanding of the world. One of the boys in the back—arms once crossed, face rigid—let his hands drift apart.
His gaze tracked from where Kamo had been to where Kamo now stood.
And found nothing in between. Just a gap where logic should've lived.
The others didn't gasp.
They didn't panic.
They didn't even speak.
They stood caught in the middle of a collective thought they couldn't complete.
But Kamo was already inside the guard. Already driving a hook into Koshira's liver— already following with a knee to the stomach that lifted him from the ground.
Then he caught him by the jaw. Gently. Almost tender. And brought him down—headfirst—into the concrete.
Silence.
Everyone had seen it. And everyone knew:
Kamo could've gone further.
He just didn't need to. He stood over Koshira's body, blood dried on his brow, hand at his side.
"Ready?" he said to Nagitsu.
Nagitsu stepped forward at last.
His boots echoed sharper now.
The kind of sharpness that came from knowing no one would interrupt him.
He didn't speak right away. He looked at the kynenns who hadn't moved. The ones who hadn't spoken. The ones whose choices had been made for them by the silence they'd clung to. Then he reached for the canvas pouch at his hip. Pulled out folded masks—deep gray, soft-edged, all the same.
"Put these on," he said.
His voice was tired. Certain.
Like a man laying bricks on a path he's walked too many times. A few hesitated. Kamo didn't speak. He didn't need to. One by one, they took the masks. Covered their faces. The fabric was rough, but clean. Breathable. Not meant to suffocate. Just enough to strip identity. Anonymous in their obedience.
Nagitsu crossed the room again, knelt, and unfastened another pouch. He tossed a coil of rope onto the floor. It landed heavy.
"Hands in front," he said.
"One loop between each."
He paused.
"If anyone fakes it—don't."
He didn't elaborate.
They began.
Quietly. Mechanically.
Wrists crossed. Rope passed.
Muscle memory kicked in faster than courage ever could.
No one resisted.
Kamo watched.
"You'll get your answers," he said. "Later."
Then he turned—completely—and walked toward the exit.
Nagitsu followed.
Then the rest.
Bound together by rope, but held in place by something quieter.
The ride back was quiet.
The truck hummed low beneath them.
Every jolt in the road made the ropes shift—rough against wrists, friction blooming in small aches.
No one spoke.
No one removed their mask.
Kamo sat at the front, boot up on the seat beside him.
Eyes half-lidded.
Just waiting.
Like time would come faster if he didn't look directly at it.
Nagitsu sat beside the driver.
Hands still. Mouth closed.
He didn't look back.
They arrived just after sunrise.
Fūre was already waiting.
He stood at the far end of the room.
Tall. Composed. Hands behind his back.
Like he'd been carved out of stillness and left there to age.
The walls behind him were pinned with maps.
Notes written in loops too small to read.
Too exact to question.
He turned as the group entered.
Kamo stepped forward.
His brow still streaked with dried blood. He didn't wipe it.
Fūre's eyes moved from Kamo, to Nagitsu, to the masked line behind them.
Measured.
Not interested—just confirming.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
It wasn't a smile. But it was the outline of one.
"How many?" he asked.
"Nineteen," Kamo said.
Fūre nodded once.
Then stepped forward.
He placed a hand on Kamo's shoulder.
Kamo took it as praise.
Though it wasn't. Not really. It was just confirmation that the weight of responsibility passed back into its original shape.
Kamo's face shifted.
A small smirk.
Almost giddy at the touch.
Like the simplicity of acknowledgment made the blood worth it.
Fūre turned to the recruits.
"Take the masks off."
They obeyed.
And for a moment— the room was full of faces again.
Young. Sharp.
Exhausted. Changed.
Fūre's smile widened.
But his eyes stayed hard.
"Welcome," he said.
"To your new home."