Pain no longer killed Ajin.
Pain awakened him.
He did not know how long he had been unconscious.
Minutes.
Hours.
A night.
A lifetime.
Time didn't matter.
Time had burned with the children.
Ajin awoke not because of rest—
but because agony dragged him back into the world.
His first breath was a knife.
His second was fire.
His third was a scream muffled behind cracked lips.
His entire body felt as if it had been crushed by a boulder then thrown into a pit of salt.
Every joint throbbed.
Every muscle trembled.
Every inch of his skin stung like it had been flayed.
He opened his eyes.
The night was still dark, but the moon had shifted. Hours had passed.
Ajin tried to push himself up—
"GHH—!"
A sharp pain shot up from his broken ankle, stabbing into his spine. His fractured ribs grated against each other. His fingers—swollen, purple—dug into the soot just to keep him from collapsing.
He should not have been conscious.
He should not have been breathing.
He should not have been alive.
And yet—he was.
Ajin stared at his own hand.
Bloated.
Dark.
Purple and red.
He tried to curl his fingers.
KREK… KRENG…
Ajin froze.
That sound—
it wasn't bone.
It wasn't muscle.
It was something harder.
Like thin plates of metal rubbing together.
Slowly, he clenched again.
KRENG… KRENG…
A shiver ran through him.
His other hand trembled as he lifted it—fingers trembling, nails broken and bleeding.
He pinched the bruised skin on the back of his hand.
It was firm.
Too firm.
Not soft and fragile like before—
but leathery, dense… almost like the first layer of hardened hide.
"What… is this…?"
He pressed against the cracked ribs on his left side.
Pain shot through him—
but it was different.
No longer a stabbing agony.
It was dull.
Heavy.
Contained.
As if the bone beneath his skin had become thicker—
denser—
less fragile.
Ajin's gaze drifted toward the Forbidden Scroll lying open on the ground.
New words glowed faintly on the parchment—fresh blood forming symbols on its surface.
Ajin blinked, breath uneven.
He could feel the scroll.
As if its pulse echoed in his bones.
He crawled closer.
And read.
"Stage Two: Angkara Batin."
"Your body is the furnace."
"Pain is the hammer."
"Rage is the fire that tempers steel."
Ajin's chest rose and fell.
Slowly.
Steadily.
He understood.
The breaking he endured last night—
the torment—
the madness—
had been the first step.
The pain did not end him.
It reshaped him.
He forced himself to stand—
legs trembling, vision swimming, one ankle snapping loudly.
"AAA—ARGH!"
He screamed, clutching the tree trunk.
But he didn't fall.
He remained standing.
Barely.
"Emotions…" he whispered hoarsely.
"…as fuel."
He remembered Loka's laugh.
Bodin's mischievous grin.
The quiet girl tugging his sleeve.
The elder's tired eyes filled with grief.
All burned.
All gone.
Ajin bared his teeth—
a snarl more than a smile.
"Burn."
His voice cracked—uncertain whether it was rage or despair.
"Burn EVERYTHING!"
He staggered toward the boulder near the courtyard.
A massive stone—larger than a water buffalo's skull.
A stone that junior disciples would take turns striking during training.
Ajin, limping, broken, and barely alive—
walked to it.
He lifted his hand.
The hand of a man who once held bamboo swords gently for children.
Now shaking.
Now ruined.
Now hungry.
"Use your rage…"
His voice trembled.
"…as fire."
He struck.
BAM!!
A sickening crack tore through the air.
Ajin's knuckles shattered.
Blood splattered.
The boulder did not move.
Ajin gasped—
and then laughed.
It was not the laugh of a sane man.
He looked down.
His hand was mangled.
Twisted.
Dripping.
But inside that pain—
something else moved.
A hot surge—
boiling, burning—
as if molten metal was being poured through the cracks of his fractured hand.
Ajin trembled.
He stared at the shaking, bloody limb.
And then—
He smiled.
A slow, terrifying smile.
Because beneath the agony—
there was pleasure.
Not joy.
Not happiness.
A twisted exhilaration.
Pain was no longer his enemy.
Pain was his blueprint.
His proof he was transforming.
"This pain…" he whispered, voice trembling with feverish excitement,
"…means I am still alive."
He lifted the ruined hand again.
"This pain…"
The image of Loka's charred bracelet flashed in his mind.
"…is my reminder."
The image of Bodin—his ashes mixed in the debris—stabbed his heart.
"This pain…"
He closed his eyes.
"…is their legacy."
His hatred flared.
This fist… is for you.
BAM!!
He struck again.
His skin tore.
Bone fragments pierced outward.
Blood sprayed against the stone.
He felt the pain—
but it no longer controlled him.
His breathing turned unstable.
Wilder.
More feral.
He hit the stone again.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!!
He struck until his arm bent the wrong way.
Until the skin on his knuckles peeled off.
Until his wrist cracked.
But he did not stop.
He struck until his breath turned ragged—
until his voice broke—
until his laughter turned into hysterical sobbing.
Blood dripped from his arm, forming red puddles around his feet.
Still—
he struck.
Until—
KRAK!
KRAK!
KRAK!
Not from his bones this time.
From the boulder.
Small cracks spread across its surface under the weak moonlight.
Ajin's eyes widened.
Not with pride—
but hunger.
He cocked his arm back—
BAM!!!
The boulder split slightly—
just a fracture—
but real.
Ajin panted.
Sweat and blood poured down his face.
He stared at the stone—
then at his broken, trembling hands.
"I can break…"
His voice quivered.
"…everything."
His smile twisted further.
He reared back to hit it again—
But then—
He froze.
KRAK… KRAK… KRAK…
Not stone.
Not bone.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Measured.
Marching.
Growing louder.
From far beyond the gate.
From the direction of the forest path.
Ajin's eyes narrowed.
Smoke drifted past him, swirling around his silhouette.
He straightened—
as much as a broken man could.
The footsteps grew louder.
Many footsteps.
Metal boots.
Armor plates clinking.
Dozens—no—hundreds of soldiers.
Returning.
Ajin's breathing slowed.
His heart calmed.
His fingers tightened slightly despite the fractures.
He felt something simmering in his body.
Not rage.
Not grief.
Not yet strength.
But potential.
A horrible, simmering potential.
He glared toward the main gate—
toward the approaching soldiers.
"Come…"
Ajin whispered, voice low and dangerous.
"…let me see who else wants to take something from me."
The moonlight broke through the clouds—
illuminating the ruins of Rogo Pavilion.
And Ajin, broken and blood-soaked, stood amid the ashes—
smiling.
Waiting.
Becoming.