The morning came without ceremony.
Gray light filtered through the broken roof of the rest stop, painting everything in shades of exhaustion. The fire had died hours ago, leaving only cold ash and the ghost of warmth. Nagisa woke to find Hakumura already awake, sitting in the same position as the night before, staring at the remnants of the fire as if the embers might still hold answers.
Neither spoke at first. The silence carried the weight of last night's confessions, heavy and patient, waiting to be acknowledged.
Nagisa rebuilt the fire slowly, methodically, giving Hakumura time to gather himself. The wood caught reluctantly, smoke rising in thin columns before flames finally took hold. By the time the fire was burning steadily, the sun had risen higher, though the light remained muted, filtered through clouds that looked like old bruises.
"You ready?" Nagisa asked quietly, settling across from Hakumura with two cups of instant coffee made from their dwindling supplies.
Hakumura took the offered cup, wrapping his hands around it like it was something precious. His eyes were hollow from lack of sleep, ringed with shadows that spoke of a night spent reliving memories rather than resting from them.
"No," he said honestly. "But it needs to be said anyway." Nagisa nodded, sipping his coffee, waiting.
Hakumura stared into his cup for a long moment, watching steam rise and dissipate. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the flat affect of someone who'd rehearsed the words a thousand times in his head, trying to find a way to say them that wouldn't break him.
"They separated us for three days. Seventy-two hours. In that place, with what they were doing to us, seventy-two hours felt like years. Each hour stretched out until time stopped meaning anything. Just an endless present of fear and isolation."
He took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitterness.
"I was kept in a holding cell. Not a room—a cell. Concrete walls. Reinforced door with a window too small to see through. A bed. And nothing else. They fed me through a slot in the door. No human contact. No explanation. Just waiting."
"Sensory deprivation," Nagisa said quietly. "Breaking down psychological resistance before the real conditioning begins."
"Yeah." Hakumura's laugh was bitter. "I figured that out later. At the time, I was seven years old and terrified. I spent the first day crying. The second day trying to be brave. The third day... the third day, I just went numb. Accepted that this was my life now. That I'd never see Daiki or Kurasaki again. That I'd die in that cell and no one would know or care."
He set down his cup, hands trembling slightly. "And then, on the third day, they came for me."
DAIKI'S FINAL HOURS
"Two orderlies. Didn't speak. Just opened the door and grabbed me. I tried to fight—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood. It didn't matter. They were adults, trained, and I was a malnourished seven-year-old who'd spent three days without real food. They carried me like I weighed nothing."
Hakumura's voice had become mechanical, reciting facts to create distance from feeling.
"They brought me to a room I'd never seen before. Observation theater. Medical equipment, but wrong—too advanced, too precise. Machines that hummed with energy that made my teeth ache. Glass walls on three sides. Recording equipment. Rows of empty seats behind the glass, like an amphitheater for watching... something."
He paused, swallowing hard. "And in the center of the room, strapped to a chair, was Daiki." Nagisa felt his stomach drop.
"He was restrained—not with rope or leather, but with metal clamps that looked like they belonged in an industrial facility. Arms, legs, torso, head—all immobilized. He was conscious. Aware. And when he saw me, his eyes..." Hakumura's voice broke. "His eyes said everything. Fear. Love. Apology. Goodbye."
"I pressed against the glass, screaming his name. Pounding on it until my hands bled. But the glass was thick. Soundproof. He couldn't hear me. Could only see me, watch me break down, and couldn't do anything about it."
Hakumura's breathing had become shallow, rapid.
"Mother Yuriko was in the room with him. White coat pristine. Hair pulled back. Expression clinical. She looked at me through the glass—looked at her son screaming for his brother—and her face didn't change. Not pity. Not guilt. Not even satisfaction. Just... nothing. Like she was observing a natural phenomenon. Like we were weather patterns instead of her sons."
"Her voice came through an intercom," Hakumura continued. "'Subject 04, your presence is required for Phase One implementation. You will observe the procedure and then participate in Phase Two. This is not optional.'"
"I begged her. Pleaded. Told her we were her sons, that she was our mother, that she couldn't do this. And she said—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "She said, 'Genetically, yes. Emotionally, that relationship has been terminated. You are subjects. He is Subject 02. You are Subject 04. Family is a weakness that compromises scientific objectivity.'"
Nagisa felt rage and horror warring in his heart. He'd dealt with institutional cruelty before, but this was different. This was a parent systematically erasing her own capacity for love, transforming her instincts into research protocol.
"She held up a syringe. Clear liquid with a faint silver luminescence. And she explained, in perfect clinical detail." Hakumura's hands clenched into fists.
"She said Daiki's consciousness would be preserved. That his body would be 'rendered non-viable'—that's the term she used, like he was a product that failed quality control—but his mind would continue. That it was an acceptable trade-off for scientific progress."
"And then she injected him."
THE PROCEDURE
"I can't describe what it looked like. I've tried. For fifteen years, I've tried to find words that capture what I watched happen to my brother. But language fails. Language wasn't built for that kind of horror."
Hakumura's voice had become distant, hollow, as if he was watching the memory from far away.
"Daiki started seizing immediately. His whole body convulsing against the restraints. But his eyes stayed open. Aware. Conscious through all of it. And his veins—they started glowing. Faint at first, then brighter. Silver light running through his body like liquid metal replacing blood."
"The machines around him activated. Humming became screaming, this high-pitched whine that made my ears ring. Containment fields formed—I could see them, distortions in the air, like heat shimmer but cold, so cold I could feel it through the glass. And Daiki... Daiki was screaming. Not with his voice—the drug had paralyzed his vocal cords—but I could see it. Every muscle straining. Every nerve firing. His consciousness being torn out of his body like roots being ripped from earth."
Nagisa had seen death before. Had caused death. But this was something else—something that transcended the simple ending of life and became violation at a fundamental level.
"The extraction took seventeen minutes," Hakumura said flatly. "I know because there was a timer on one of the machines. Seventeen minutes of watching my brother die in the slowest, most agonizing way possible while his consciousness was harvested like a crop."
"And I couldn't look away. I tried. Wow, I tried. But every time I closed my eyes, an orderly would slap the glass beside my head. Force me to watch. Because this was part of my conditioning too. Teaching me that resistance was futile. That the people I loved could be taken apart in front of me and I couldn't do anything about it."
Hakumura's voice broke completely.
"When it was over, Daiki's body just... slumped. The light in his veins faded. The machines went quiet. And Mother Yuriko checked monitors, noted results on her tablet, and said with perfect calm: 'Extraction complete. Consciousness integrity at 47%. Insufficient for full transfer but suitable for encoding. Proceed to Phase Two.'"
"She didn't mourn. Didn't hesitate. Just moved to the next step like she'd completed a successful experiment. Which, to her, she had."
THE ENCODING
"Guards entered my observation room. I fought them. Fought harder than I'd ever fought anything. I was seven years old and feral with grief and terror. I bit. I scratched. I kicked. I would have killed them if I could."
Hakumura's voice carried something almost like pride beneath the pain.
"It didn't matter. They sedated me. Not fully—they needed me conscious for the procedure. Just enough to stop me fighting. Enough to make my body move like it was underwater, slow and heavy and useless."
"They carried me into the room where Daiki's body was. Strapped me to a table beside him. And I could see him—could see my brother's corpse, still warm, still looking like he might wake up if I called his name loud enough. But he wouldn't. He was gone. And I was about to become his grave."
The fire crackled, sending sparks upward. Neither of them moved.
"Dr. Erabus entered. That was the first time I really saw him up close. And he was... wrong. Not disfigured. Not obviously inhuman. Just wrong in subtle ways that made my brain scream. His skin too pale. His movements too precise. His smile too symmetrical. Like someone had built a human from blueprints but gotten the look slightly off."
"He spoke to me like we were having a normal conversation. Explained the procedure in detail. Said Daiki's fragmented consciousness had been encoded into stabilized Erabus Energy matrices. That he would implant those matrices into my body—specifically my muscles themselfs. That Daiki's tactical thinking, his protective instincts, his combat capabilities would all become part of my overall self"
Hakumura's hands moved to his head, fingers pressing against his temples as if trying to feel the scars left by the procedure.
"I asked him—I was seven and drugged and in shock, but I asked him—why. Why do this to us. And he said something I've never forgotten. He said, 'Because consciousness is just data. And data can be copied, moved, rewritten. Your brother is alive, Subject 04. Just in a different condition. You'll carry him forever. Isn't that a kind of immortality for him?'"
"Then he began the implantation."
THE PROCEDURE
"The procedure lasted six hours. I know because I was conscious for all of it. They kept me awake on purpose—neural integration works better when the host consciousness is active, apparently. Better uptake. Better encoding. Better procedure."
Hakumura's voice had gone completely flat, affect stripped away, leaving only words.
"They planted my head. Marked it with grid patterns, precise to the millimeter. Then they attached nodes—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, I couldn't count. Each one pulsing with that same silver light that had killed Daiki. Each one containing fragments of my brother, ready to be written into my brain like installing software."
"Erabus worked with surgical precision. Each implant placed exactly where it needed to be. Each matrix carefully integrated with my existing neural pathways. And I felt it. Every. Single. One."
Nagisa realized he'd stopped breathing. He forced himself to inhale.
"It wasn't pain. Not exactly. Pain is simple—your body knows how to process it, has mechanisms for dealing with it. This was... intrusion. Like feeling someone else's thoughts being pushed into your mind. Like your own consciousness was being pushed aside to make room for someone else's. Like drowning from the inside."
"And I felt him," Hakumura whispered. "Daiki. Pieces of him flooding into my mind. His memories mixing with mine. His fear during the extraction. His love for me. His final moment of consciousness when he knew what was happening and tried to reach out to me one last time. And I couldn't save him. I could only become his grave."
Tears were streaming down Hakumura's face now, though his voice remained steady.
"The integration wasn't clean. Consciousness encoding wasn't meant to be implanted into living subjects—Erabus was pioneering the technique. I was the first successful test. But success is relative."
"For weeks after, I couldn't tell which thoughts were mine and which were Daiki's. I'd reach for something and use his movements instead of my own. I'd speak and hear his words in my voice. I'd dream and couldn't tell whose dreams they were."
"And the memories..." Hakumura's voice dropped to barely audible. "I had his memories of dying. From his perspective. I lived through his death over and over because it was encoded into the consciousness fragments they put in me. Every night, I died. And every morning, I woke up and had to keep living with that death inside me."
KURASAKI'S PARALLEL NIGHTMARE
"While they were doing that to me, Kurasaki was in another laboratory. I didn't know what was happening to him at the time. I learned later, from files I found. From notes Erabus left behind."
Hakumura's expression hardened.
"They put him in a vertical chamber. Restraints that held him upright but clear enough to be seen. And they filled it with liquid Erabus Energy. Pure, concentrated, raw. Like drowning in silver light."
"Erabus had a theory. If consciousness could be encoded forward—imprinted onto living subjects—could age development be encoded backward? Could they regress a subject to an earlier developmental stage while preserving consciousness? Make them younger but keep their mind intact?"
Nagisa felt horror crystallizing in his heart.
"Kurasaki was the test subject. Eight years old. Terrified. And they activated the chamber. Trying to force his body to de-age while his mind stayed aware."
"The logs said most subjects died within minutes. The contradiction—age and de-age simultaneously—was too much for body systems to process. The body would tear itself apart trying to follow impossible instructions."
"But Kurasaki's neural structure was unique. Remember—he'd already shown resistance to consciousness manipulation. His brain had adapted, rewritten itself to resist external influence. That same adaptation let him survive what should have killed him."
Hakumura's voice carried a mixture of awe and horror.
"He regressed. From eight years old to approximately seven. And then his aging just... stopped. Completely. Biological processes frozen. He'd achieved a sort of immortality. A child forever, consciousness trapped in a body that would never age, never get older, never die."
"But there were side effects. The logs said he started hearing voices. Fragments of memory encoded in the Erabus Energy. Echoes of everyone who'd died during experiments using that energy. And deeper—quantum echoes from the moon's destruction. Pieces of Koro-sensei's final moments, preserved in the matter that killed him."
"Kurasaki became a living archive. Every death, every trauma, every moment of suffering encoded in Erabus Energy—he could hear them all. Whispering. Screaming. Never stopping."
THE ORPHANAGE'S END
"Three months after the failed escape, everything changed. An audit revealed inconsistencies in Mother Yuriko's operations." Hakumura's voice gained strength, anger replacing grief.
"UMA 8907's leadership made a decision. Yuriko was too reckless. Too visible. The orphanage had to be shut down. But not through proper channels—that would invite investigation, exposure, consequences."
"So they ordered a controlled elimination. Burn the facility. Burn the evidence. Burn the children who couldn't be used for experiements anymore." "And Mother Yuriko complied."
Nagisa felt sick. "She killed them herself."
"Personally. Methodically. She moved through the dormitories with sedatives, putting children to sleep so they'd never wake up. Sealed fire doors. Activated incendiary charges hidden in the building's foundation. Forty-one children died in their sleep, never knowing why."
"The news called it a tragic accident. Faulty wiring. Inadequate fire suppression. A beloved director who died trying to save her charges. They held a memorial service. Politicians gave speeches about improving orphanage safety standards. And everyone moved on."
Hakumura's hands clenched.
"But Yuriko didn't die. She took herself and two 'valuable specimens'—me and Kurasaki. She was given a new identity: Dr. Mirai Shizuka. New assignment: Project Erabus, Lead Consciousness Transfer Researcher. Unlimited funding. Zero oversight."
"And we were separated. I was placed in foster care with false memories implanted. Made to believe the fire was an accident. Made to forget Kurasaki existed. Made to forget what they'd done to Daiki, to me, to all of us. But as you know I remembered everything again recently."
"Kurasaki was kept in Erabus's research facility. Trained as an assistant. Indoctrinated. Gradually convinced that the experiments were necessary, that suffering served purpose, that progress justified cost."
Hakumura looked directly at Nagisa, eyes burning.
"For fifteen years, I lived a lie. Thinking I was normal. Thinking my brother died in a fire. Thinking the nightmares were just nightmares. And Kurasaki... Kurasaki spent fifteen years trapped as a child, working for the doctor who'd trained him, gradually forgetting what it felt like to be human."
"And now we're going to face him. In Division Zero. Where he's been waiting. Where he's become something neither of us will recognize."
THE WEIGHT OF CONFESSION
The fire had burned low again. The sun had climbed higher, though the day remained gray and cold.
Nagisa sat in silence, processing everything. The systematic destruction of childhood. The transformation of love into data. The corruption of Koro-sensei's legacy into a tool for creating monsters.
"Thank you," he finally said. "For trusting me with this."
Hakumura laughed bitterly. "Trust. Yeah. Because you needed to know what we're walking into. Kurasaki isn't a victim waiting to be saved. He's had fifteen years to rationalize what happened to him. Fifteen years to convince himself it was necessary. Fifteen years to become the thing that hurt him."
"He's still your friend," Nagisa said quietly.
"He was my friend. Past tense. The Kurasaki I knew died in that laboratory when they made him immortal. What's waiting for us in Division Zero is something else. Something that remembers being my friend but has forgotten why that mattered."
Hakumura stood, stretching muscles cramped from being still for to long.
"We should move. We're still two days from Division Zero. And I need to prepare you for what we're going to face. Because this isn't going to end with us saving anyone. It's going to end with us burning down the last piece of my childhood and hoping something better can grow from the ash."
Nagisa stood as well, kicking dirt over the fire's remains. "Then let's finish this. For Daiki. For all the children who died. And for Kurasaki—whoever he is now."
They packed their camp in silence, shouldering their supplies, preparing for the final journey. Behind them, smoke from the dead fire rose into the gray sky, disappearing into clouds that looked like old scars.
And ahead of them, somewhere in Tokyo's buried heart, Division Zero waited—along with a kid who'd been tortured into immortality and spent fifteen years learning to call it freedom.
The final lesson was coming. And no one would graduate unchanged.
To Be Continued...