His voice hardened.
"What are these artifacts…
Why are people dying…
And…"
He paused for a second.
"…what have I become."
He cast one last glance at Seirito.
"…Sorry…"
And quietly added—
"…if you even wanted this."
After that, Shizo turned away.
And took a step toward the bathroom, needing to wash the blood off his body.
He entered slowly.
As if he was afraid to see what he already felt inside.
His hands trembled.
The light felt too bright.
He поднял взгляд.
The mirror.
Not him.
His face was covered in blood—not just stains. It looked as if it had seeped into his skin.
His eyes…
Wrong.
Deep. Heavy. Filled with something dark.
"…what am I…?" he whispered hoarsely.
His gaze dropped.
His hand.
Where there should have been an ordinary palm—
he remembered.
The blade.
He created it.
From his own body.
"…what is this… power…?"
He turned away from the mirror abruptly, as if it could answer him—and he wasn't ready to hear it.
Water.
That was the first thing.
He turned on the shower.
Cold streams hit his skin, washing away the blood—but not the thoughts.
He scrubbed his face.
His arms.
His shoulders.
Again.
And again.
As if he could erase not the blood—
but the memory.
But inside…
nothing disappeared.
15 minutes later.
Shizo stepped out of the bathroom.
Clean.
But it meant nothing.
He walked slowly to the couch and dropped onto it, exhaling heavily.
Silence filled the room.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Thoughts began to surface.
I'm not human…
I can create things…
I crave… flesh… blood…
I… killed someone…
He clutched his head.
"No… no…" he whispered.
The words felt empty.
The silence only grew louder.
And then—
something clicked.
A bounty is on my head…
Everyone wants me dead…
Then—
to survive—
he needed power.
For defense.
He straightened abruptly.
"Avada Kedavra!" he shouted, thrusting his hand forward like a desperate magician.
Nothing.
Silence.
"SHOW YOURSELF! POWER!"
Nothing.
His hand slowly dropped.
"…damn it…"
He ran a hand across his face—
—and suddenly felt a sting.
He looked.
A small cut.
Blood.
A drop slid down his skin.
And in that instant—
his eyes widened.
The blade… appeared where there was blood…
His heart began to race.
"…no way…"
He jumped up and rushed into the kitchen.
His breathing was uneven.
He grabbed a knife.
Paused.
"If this is real…"
He clenched his teeth—
—and dragged the blade across his palm.
Blood.
Warm.
Alive.
He shut his eyes tightly, forcing himself not to focus on the pain.
Imagine it…
A glove… on your hand…
He focused.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
He slowly opened his eyes.
…and froze.
A glove.
Dark red.
As if made from blood itself.
It wrapped tightly around his hand, like it was part of him.
"…it worked…" he whispered.
His voice trembled.
He raised his hand, staring at it in disbelief.
"I… really can…"
He took a deep breath.
"Then…"
He closed his eyes again.
Knife.
Opened them.
A knife.
Blade.
Opened.
A sword.
Real.
Heavy.
His.
Shizo's expression slowly changed.
Shock…
turned into something else.
Joy.
Raw.
Uncontrolled.
"Ha… ha…"
It started quietly.
Then louder.
"I can do it… I CAN DO IT!"
He laughed—almost hysterically—watching the weapon appear from nothing.
From himself.
But the laughter quickly died.
Silence returned.
He lowered his gaze.
No one.
No one saw.
No one would understand.
He clenched his hand.
The weapon disappeared.
"…there's no one to tell…"
His voice fell quiet.
Empty.
He sat back down on the couch, staring at the floor.
He had power.
But he was alone.
And that loneliness felt heavier than fear.
And then—
an explosion thundered outside.
So powerful that the walls trembled—
and the glass in the window rattled violently.