The floor trembled.
Shadows bled outward from Ren's feet like ink seeping through cracked stone. The air thickened — heavy, suffocating — as though the world itself had stopped to watch. The mask crawled across Ren's face, forming along his cheekbone, jaw, and brow like bone growing too fast.
Not a jackal.
Not a demon.
An Oni.
A grotesque half-face of pale bone and dark, jagged markings, curved horns piercing upward like something born to defy heaven.
His right eye glowed molten gold, burning with something ancient and furious.
The left remained human — wide, afraid, trembling.
Two selves in one skull.
Genrou's expression changed. The playfulness drained. For the first time, he looked older — not weak, but like a man who had lived through something he wished he could forget.
"…So it's that mask," he murmured.
A shadow passed behind his eyes — a memory.
Rei.
The other grandson.
The one who wore a mask of red and white, a smile shaped like cruelty itself.
A mask very much like this one.
Genrou's jaw tightened.
"Ren," he said quietly, "Take that thing off. Now."
Ren didn't respond.
The shadows answered for him.
Spikes of black matter shot from the ground like spears — fast, precise, controlled.
Genrou moved to evade, but Ren was already shifting stance, already shaping the next attack.
The Shadow Katana melted — dissolving into darkness.
And reformed into a scythe.
Long. Heavy. Designed not to cut clean — but to drag the soul out of flesh.
Ren's voice was layered — his and someone else's speaking at once.
"Don't run."
Genrou's heartbeat spiked — but his stance didn't break.
"Your voice… so it begins."
The scythe came down.
Genrou caught the blade with his bare palm — skin burning, bones tightening — his teeth clenched.
"You think you're the first Soji to lose himself?"
Ren's golden eye narrowed—
The ground split.
Not cracked.
Transformed.
Swords burst from the concrete like tombstones — thousands — each different, each scarred, each shaped by a memory Ren did not consciously recognize. Spear heads formed like teeth. Chains coiled like snakes, tightening around Genrou's arms and legs.
The Grave of Blades.
A battlefield born not from magic — but from neural overflow.
A mutation forcing imagination into matter.
Genrou finally looked angry.
"Rei…" he whispered — barely a breath.
Then louder, sharper, breaking:
"You look just like him!"
His body surged — muscle and will pushing against the chains.
Ren swung the scythe again, silent, relentless, movements precise — no wasted motion, no hesitation.
This was not instinct.
This was domination.
Genrou blocked the strike, but his wrist trembled.
Even he could feel it now.
Ren was becoming something the Soji bloodline was never meant to produce.
Rain finally moved.
He drew Cadris — the sword of condensed conductive alloy, its core battery thrumming low like a heartbeat. Electrical arcs flickered across its length, lighting the room in silver flashes.
"Genrou. Ren."
His voice cracked under strain.
"This ends now."
Ren's scythe stopped mid-swing — his control flickering.
The chains loosened.
His breathing was ragged now — shoulders shaking.
The mask's horn cracked, fragments splintering.
Genrou exhaled slowly.
"You held onto yourself… even in that state," he said.
"Good. Remember that. Because the next time… your enemy will not be me."
Ren's legs gave out — he caught himself, barely, one knee to the ground.
The Grave of Blades slowly melted back into shadow — evaporating like smoke.
Rain placed a hand on Ren's shoulder — not to restrain him.
To steady him.
Genrou watched the two of them — his eyes no longer mocking.
But behind his gaze, something lingered—
A memory of another grandson, standing in that same field of blades, mask fully formed, laughing through blood.
Rei.
The first monster born from the Soji name.
And somewhere, far from this place —
A figure with a red-white Oni mask paused…
as if sensing his name whispered.