The sun barely rose that morning.
It hung low behind thick, unmoving clouds, casting a pale gray light across the forest floor. Everything looked faded—like someone had drained the color from the world. The trees stood still and quiet, their bare branches like brittle bones reaching for a sky that didn't care. No birds sang. No leaves rustled. Even the wind seemed unsure if it should move.
But there was one sound.
The sound of footsteps—slow, heavy, dragging. Hitachi walked without knowing why. Or where. Or how long he'd been going. He just walked. One step after another, as if his legs had a mind of their own and his heart had given up trying to guide them.
His shirt was torn down the side, one sleeve hanging by threads. Blood—some of it dry, some of it not—clung to the fabric like a second skin. The cuts on his arms stung in the cold, but he didn't flinch. His hands were shaking, not from pain but from something deeper. Something rooted in his chest, spreading like frost.
He wasn't sure what hurt more: his body or his soul.
His breathing was shallow. His lips were cracked. His eyes—once full of quiet wonder—were now sunken, dull, barely open. Every part of him screamed for rest, for stillness. But he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not after what he'd done.
Not after what he'd become.
The memories came in flashes. Blood spraying across walls. The screams of the agents. His own hands moving like they weren't his. The way his grandfather looked at him.
That was the worst part.
It wasn't hate. It wasn't sadness.
It was fear.
Gideon—the only person who had stayed by his side all these years—had looked at him like he was a monster. Like he didn't recognize him anymore.
And maybe… he didn't.
Maybe neither of them did.
Eventually, he stumbled into a shallow creek. The water barely moved, just a thin ribbon weaving through moss-covered stones. He dropped to his knees in the cold mud. The chill bit into his skin, but he welcomed it. It made him feel real. Alive.
He scooped a handful of water and splashed it on his face. Again. And again. He scrubbed at the dried blood on his skin, even though it was already fading. He couldn't get it off. Not really. Not the blood. Not the memory.
He leaned forward, staring into the water's surface.
His reflection stared back, and it didn't look like him.
His eyes were darker. His skin pale. The expression—blank, distant—looked like something out of a nightmare.
"I don't know who I am anymore," he muttered, barely loud enough for even himself to hear.
From deep within, a voice rumbled in response.
"You are what they made you."
Hitachi froze. He didn't even need to ask. He knew that voice now. It was always there, under the surface, like a second heartbeat.
Malakar.
The ancient demon who lived inside him.
"No," Hitachi whispered. "I made this choice. I said yes."
There was a pause, like Malakar was weighing something.
"You chose to live," he finally said. "You didn't choose to become this."
Hitachi looked up, toward the treetops. The clouds above seemed endless, stretching over him like a lid over a box. A cage. That's what this felt like. A slow suffocation.
He stood and started walking again.
The forest grew darker as he moved deeper in. The trees were thicker here, older, their trunks covered in moss and scars. The light barely reached the ground. Everything felt colder, quieter.
It wasn't long before his strength gave out. He collapsed under a twisted tree with a hollow trunk. It looked like it had been struck by lightning long ago—burnt on one side, still standing out of spite.
Hitachi curled up beneath it, resting his head against the bark. His breathing was ragged. His chest felt tight. He didn't fight the tears this time.
They came in slow, bitter drops.
He didn't cry for the agents. Or for the blood. Or even for himself.
He cried for his grandfather.
For the way Gideon stepped back from him. For the way he looked like he'd seen a ghost—no, worse, a monster.
Hitachi wrapped his arms around his legs and pressed his forehead to his knees.
"I didn't ask for this," he said, voice cracking.
"No," Malakar said, his voice oddly soft. "But you're surviving it."
The wind stirred, whispering through the branches like voices too faint to hear clearly. Something about the air changed. It carried a scent he didn't recognize—old stone, dust, something… sacred.
Hitachi sat up slowly. He sniffed the air. He couldn't explain why, but something pulled at him. Like a thread tied around his chest, tugging gently, urging him forward.
He stood and followed the scent.
Eventually, he reached a hill. Climbing it took everything he had left. But when he reached the top, he froze.
There it was.
A ruined temple.
It rose from the ground like a ghost of some forgotten age. Its pillars were cracked and broken, its roof half-collapsed. Ivy strangled the walls, creeping over the stone like veins. A thick mist poured from the entrance, rolling across the ground in tendrils.
His heart pounded.
"This is it," he said quietly.
"A crack between realms," Malakar confirmed. "The boundary is thin here."
Hitachi stepped closer. With every footfall, the air grew colder. He could see his breath now, puffing in front of him like smoke. And the whispers… they returned.
But this time, they weren't just voices.
They were memories. Echoes. Screams of the dying. Cries of the lost. Laughter of madmen. All of them layered on top of each other until his head felt like it was going to split.
He stopped at the entrance.
"Do I have to go in?"
"Yes," Malakar said. "If you want control—true control—you must face this trial."
Hitachi swallowed hard.
Then he stepped into the mist.
And the world turned upside down.
The walls of the temple pulsed like a living thing. The floor twisted beneath his feet. He stumbled forward, arms out for balance, but nothing felt solid. The air pressed down on him like water, thick and heavy.
And then came the shadows.
They slithered from the cracks in the wall—shapes made of smoke and ash. They took form around him, circling, silent. One after another. Dozens. Hundreds.
Each one carried a weapon: daggers, swords, hammers. Some held their own heads. Others wore masks made of bone.
One stepped forward.
It looked like him.
Only… different. Its eyes glowed red. A cruel smile curved its lips. A jagged scar crossed its face. And it wore a crown made of barbed thorns.
More stepped forward.
One with bloodied fists.
One kneeling before a throne of corpses.
One laughing as fire rained from the sky.
All of them… twisted versions of him.
"Who are they?" Hitachi whispered.
"Your futures," Malakar said. "Every path you could take. Every choice. Every fall."
He staggered backward. "I don't want this…"
"Then they will decide who you become."
One of the shadows raised a blade—and offered it to him. Not to fight. To join.
The others followed. Swords. Daggers. Staffs. All held out to him in silence.
His breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded.
"I'm not a monster," he whispered.
"Then prove it."
The shadows didn't move.
"I won't be like you," he said, louder. "Even if I carry this burden. Even if I lose everything. I'm still human!"
A wind howled through the temple.
The shadows screamed as they broke apart, shattering like glass into dust. The mist was pulled inward, spinning into a vortex that vanished into the floor.
Silence.
Then Malakar's voice—soft, like a whisper in his ear.
"Then we begin."