Prison of Red Threads
"In a purgatory of threads and shadow, sins bind tighter than steel—and the gaze of a fallen master tears the soul of a broken warrior."
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Darkness was absolute—an empty void that devoured light and sound, leaving only the echo of a dying heartbeat.
Ayanato Ashida opened his eyes, coughing black blood that slid down his chin and dripped onto an unseen floor that seemed to pulse beneath him. His hands were chained by thick metallic red threads—veins made of wire—cutting into his skin with every movement, black blood blooming in fine lines that vanished into the gloom.
The air was glacial, cold that stabbed the bones like needles, and the stench of rust and rotting flesh filled his lungs.
In front of him, a hooded figure crawled out of the shadows, white hair falling like a cascade of broken bone. Her nails—long, sharp, blade-like—glinted under an invisible sheen. Her eyes were hidden beneath the hood, yet they judged him with a silence heavier than any chain.
When she spoke, her voice was that of an old woman on the edge of death—yet sharpened into something surgical.
"Ayanato Ashida, second Avatar of the Evil of Alicetroemeria," she hissed, the words echoing in the void. "Welcome to purgatory."
She moved toward him on all fours—unnatural, like a broken insect.
With a swift motion, her claw sliced Ayanato's arm. Black blood splashed the darkness.
Behind her, a colossal shadow rose: Alicetroemeria Ashida, an entity of eyes and crimson jaws that seemed to chew the darkness itself.
The old woman smiled, teeth shining like fragments of bone.
"Am I dead?" Ayanato asked, voice dim—a whisper that barely cracked the silence.
The old woman shook her head. Her laughter was dry, like branches snapping.
"You wish you were," she spat. "Death is mercy compared to breaking your Kokuseigu. A spider's needle is everything… especially for someone without a kagune like you."
Ayanato lowered his head. Black hair fell like a funeral veil. Blood dripped from his wounds and threaded into the bindings that held him.
"What do you want me to do, seer?" he asked, voice trembling with frustration and defeat. "I fought with everything I had… but that nameless beast… I couldn't kill it."
The old woman laughed again—more lament than mockery.
Her body creaked, bones sounding as if they were cracking beneath her skin. She lifted her face.
The hood shattered into scraps, revealing milky eyes—blind, yet piercing—like they could see through his soul.
Her Rinkaku burst out with visceral force: eight colossal legs plated in black, stabbing into the purgatory-floor, making the void tremble as hundreds of giant Needles rained down from the infinite dark.
The legs glowed sickly red from within, sharp as guillotines, rising over Ayanato until their shadow swallowed him whole.
"Stand like a warrior—NOT like a miserable fly caught in a web!" she thundered, each word a whip that cut deeper than the threads. "Alicetroemeria would be ashamed to see you like this—whimpering wreckage inside your own prison."
One of her legs lifted, its razor tip grazing Ayanato's neck. A thin line of black blood slid down his skin.
A black widow crawled out from the blade's edge and climbed Ayanato's face, its red eyes shining like his.
Hundreds of spiders rose from the floor, a swarm covering purgatory itself, their legs whispering like a chorus of accusations.
Thousands of eyes watched him—judging him.
Ayanato's chest tightened as the weight of his failure crushed him harder than the chains.
"I—the Black Widow Ashida," she hissed, blind eyes boring into him like they could read every fracture in his spirit, "first daughter of Alicetroemeria… first Avatar of evil… your master… am more than disappointed."
Her voice sharpened, turning crueler, colder.
"My prodigy… reduced to a pathetic insect by a nameless beast. This place is not your end, Ayanato. But if you do not rise—then it will be your grave."
And then she vanished, her Rinkaku dissolving into the dark, leaving only the echo of her voice and the low hum of spiders.
Ayanato shut his eyes, breathing broken—trapped in an hallucination so dense that death felt like comfort.
The red threads tightened, slicing deeper.
Purgatory pulsed around him, a living heart beating in rhythm with his defeat.
But inside his mind, something flickered—
a red spark.
The memory of the shattered Needle.
A call from the past that waited to show him exactly how he had fallen into this abyss.
Beloved Sister
"In a garden where petals sing and love blooms, a brother's heart beats for a sister who lights even the darkest shadow."
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Purgatory dissolved like a broken echo, and impossible warmth wrapped around Ayanato Ashida—warmth he hadn't felt in years, as if the world itself was holding him.
A soft voice—honey-sweet, innocent enough to melt the ice in his soul—rang in his ear.
"Big brother, wake up! Let's go play in the garden!" she chimed, vibrant and alive.
Ayanato opened his eyes.
Himari Ashida was right in front of him.
Her eyes shone—one red like a burning ruby, the other blue like a cloudless sky. White hair fell in gentle cascades that seemed to trap light. She leaned over him, shaking him softly, her smile a lantern that chased away every shadow.
The room was dim, polished stone walls reflecting a faint glow, but the three beds beside his were an anchor of familiarity: Shinigami Ashida's on the left, Mutsuki Ashida's in the center, and his on the right—where Himari, unable to sleep alone because of her nightmares, had insisted on a double bed they now shared.
Ayanato lifted a hand and brushed her hair, soft as a petal.
What a horrible nightmare, he thought, mind fogged with fragments—Tokyo, Kaneki, Rize, blood, broken threads. Was all of it just a bad dream? Was any of it real?
Himari laughed—pure light—and threw herself into his arms.
Ayanato held her, his heart tightening with warmth so full it almost hurt.
He sat up and looked at his hands: young, unscarred, unburdened by the blood he'd felt moments ago.
Himari tugged his arm with tiny fingers full of river-force joy.
"Let's go to the garden, Ayanato-kun!" she said, glowing with excitement. "I want to play with Kamakiri!"
He followed her through the corridors of the Temperance Sector, where black roses bloomed beneath a red halo, petals shining as if woven with blood. The air carried sweet perfume, and the stone walls felt like they pulsed with Ashida royalty.
They crossed into the sector of Amaranthia Ashida, the Virtue of Love, where a pink mist floated over the floor and sakura petals fell in a gentle rain, painting the air with a dreamlike glow.
A slender red-haired ghoul with perfect features greeted them with a smile as bright as her ruby eyes.
"How are you, Ayanato-kun? Himari-kun? Did you sleep well?" asked Kira Aishi, twirling a lock of her fiery hair, voice warm like a lullaby.
Himari nodded eagerly. "Super well, Kira-san! Is Kamakiri in her greenhouse, taking care of her orchids?"
Kira gestured elegantly toward the greenhouse, where massive flowers pressed against reddish glass, petals pulsing like they were breathing.
Ayanato and Himari walked hand in hand through Amaranthia's garden, the ground carpeted in pink petals that crunched softly beneath their steps. Laughter and distant singing drifted through the mist—ghouls dancing between sakura trees, their movements a symphony of life.
The sweet haze wrapped around everything, and Ayanato felt his chest fill with a peace he couldn't remember ever having.
Inside the greenhouse, a girl their age—Kamakiri Aishi—trimmed bushes with a calm that seemed to stop time. Her pink eyes lit up when she saw them, and she rushed in to hug Ayanato so hard she nearly knocked herself over, then hugged Himari too, her laughter ringing like bells.
"Himari-chan, you came early!" Kamakiri said with relieved delight. "Amaranthia is thrilled you love her garden so much!"
The three headed toward Amaranthia's palace, where roses altered by the Virtue's hemogen bloomed in impossible pinks, their petals glittering as if alive.
Himari sat on a carpet woven from petals, her white hair spilling like a river of light.
Ayanato knelt behind her and combed her hair with a tenderness that made his chest ache, every stroke a desperate attempt to anchor the moment.
Beside them, Kamakiri offered Himari tiny pieces of meat, her delicate fingers careful, as if ensuring her friend stayed bright with the vitality only love could feed.
"It was just a bad dream," Ayanato whispered to himself, barely audible, eyes locked on Himari. "She's alive. That's what matters."
The garden seemed to sing around them, petals falling like a rain that promised eternity.
But deep in his mind, something red flickered—
an echo of broken threads and black blood that threatened to split the illusion.
Ayanato squeezed Himari's hand, heart beating with love…
…and a fear he couldn't name, as if the garden itself knew this moment was too fragile to last.
Black Widow
"In a garden where love blooms, a shadow of threads and fangs enters uninvited—and its presence turns warmth into a cold that paralyzes the soul."
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Amaranthia Ashida's garden was a sanctuary of life—pink petals dancing in sweet mist, the air singing with sakura perfume and distant laughter.
Ayanato Ashida rested beside Himari and Kamakiri, their small figures wrapped in warmth. Himari giggled softly, sticking petals into her white hair, while Kamakiri pruned an orchid with delicate fingers.
Artificial sunlight filtered through the palace's reddish glass, painting their faces in dreamlight—like the entire world was made of gentle lies.
Then the air grew heavy.
The sweetness turned bitter, as if the garden itself rejected an invisible toxin.
The palace doors slammed open with a crack like thunder that silenced every laugh.
An elderly, hunched woman entered—black cloak billowing like a shroud. On her chest, the crest of Alicetroemeria Ashida's personal guard gleamed like an accusing eye.
Her milky eyes—blind, yet piercing—swept the room.
Her presence seemed to drink the light, leaving only a cold that sank into bone.
The Black Widow, Alicetroemeria's first daughter, advanced slowly. Her body creaked like broken branches, each movement a reminder of unshakable power.
"Prince Ayanato Ashida," she said, voice fragile as an old woman's—yet edged sharp enough to cut the air. "You have turned six. Mother wishes you to come with me for an educational lesson."
The garden held its breath.
Petals stopped mid-dance.
Pink mist froze in the air.
Ayanato—sitting beside Himari—felt a chill crawl up his spine. His red eyes fixed on the old woman.
Himari squeezed his hand, tiny fingers trembling.
Kamakiri stood, pink eyes burning with fear and defiance.
Before Ayanato could answer, Kira Aishi burst into the room—red hair flaring like fire.
Her Rinkaku erupted behind her: five scarlet tentacles armored with scales, vibrating with fury.
"You are not welcome in Amaranthia's garden, Black Widow!" Kira roared. "Your presence stains this sanctuary of love!"
The Black Widow did not answer.
Her blind eyes turned to Kira.
A faint smile curved her lips—not mockery.
Threat.
Kira launched her tentacles fast enough to split air, spear-tips cutting toward the old woman.
But the Black Widow moved.
Her hunched body slipped through every strike with impossible grace—like time itself bent around her.
Not a single tentacle touched her.
In all her years, she had never been struck in combat.
This would not be the day.
"Oh, young Aishi," the Black Widow hissed, voice a whisper that echoed through the garden. "You have far to go before you match my name. If I wished it, you would be dead—but your mother would weep without end."
Her smile soured, disgust curling through her tone.
"And I want no more of this… filth they call joy in Mother's nest."
Kira clenched her teeth. Her tentacles trembled with rage—yet she did not attack again.
Impotence burned in her eyes as Amaranthia's domain was profaned by the old woman's mere existence.
Ayanato swallowed, body rigid, and nodded slowly—standing with a calm that hid the fear crushing his chest.
He stepped toward the Black Widow.
Her blind eyes seemed to pierce him, seeing past flesh.
Suddenly, the old woman's Rinkaku partially emerged: a single massive black leg, sharp as a guillotine, glowing sickly red from within.
It moved with surgical precision, weaving red threads that wrapped Ayanato into a cocoon of silk—tight, controlling—without cutting him.
A hug that was both protection and prison.
"Come, little prince," she whispered, voice a funeral lullaby.
In a red flash, they vanished—so fast the air seemed to collapse in their absence.
Kira couldn't react in time. Her tentacles fell limp.
"Onii-chan!" Himari cried, voice breaking as she tried to run after them, feet slipping on petals.
Kira caught her, lifting her gently but firmly, ruby eyes burning with contained fury.
"No, Himari," Kira said, voice trembling with rage and resignation. "Ayanato will be fine. We only have to wait… for his sake."
Kamakiri clenched her fists, pink eyes flashing with helpless anger.
Himari kicked and sobbed in Kira's arms, tears falling like withered petals.
The garden—once a refuge of love—now felt soaked in a cold it couldn't explain.
Pink petals hung still in the air, as if time itself mourned Ayanato's departure.
The Black Widow's presence left an invisible scar—
a lingering echo of power—
a reminder that even in love's heart…
shadows could claim whatever they wanted.
Place of Birth
"In the depths of an abyss where threads bleed and spiders judge, a child faces a trial that is both cradle and grave."
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The Black Widow Ashida led Ayanato Ashida into Eden's guts—beneath the Ashida forest's heart—where air turned dense and the ground throbbed like living flesh.
Deepnest, the burrow of the genocidal goddess Alicetroemeria, was a place even Ashidas feared to step into.
Silence crushed everything, broken only by the creak of red threads vibrating like veins in the dark.
The old woman, cloak flowing like a shroud, placed Ayanato before a colossal hole at the chamber's center—an abyss that seemed to swallow light and exhale a cold that froze the lungs.
"Today you will learn your first lesson, little prince," she hissed, frail voice sharpened like a guillotine. "You will climb to me from the depths of Deepnest."
Ayanato stared at the hole—its jagged edge like a beast's mouth, the darkness so thick it seemed to swallow his very existence.
Before he could protest, the old woman shoved him with inhuman force.
He fell.
Air screamed past his ears until he slammed into a net of red threads that caught him. Filaments sliced his skin, black blood rising in thin lines, but they softened the fall—leaving him dangling inside a nest of pulsing flesh that smelled like rot and metal.
The ground below—viscous and alive—beat beneath his feet, every pulse a reminder this wasn't an abyss.
It was an organism watching him.
"How am I supposed to get out of here?!" Ayanato shouted into the void.
The Black Widow did not answer.
Only his own panic echoed back—alongside a low hum vibrating through the threads.
A Kokuseigu fell from above and stabbed into the fleshy floor with a wet crunch—an old, unpolished Needle, glowing with sick red, its hilt vibrating like it was alive.
Ayanato grabbed it with trembling hands and looked around.
Tunnels and galleries stretched in all directions—sealed with layered red silk that seemed to pulse.
No exits.
Only the abyss above.
An impossible climb up living walls that twisted under his touch.
He tried to use the Needle for support, driving it into the wall—
but the fleshy surface gave way, sliding him down.
He crashed onto a bed of broken bones and shattered needles—remains of others who had failed before him.
Panic squeezed his chest—
until the image of Himari—her bright smile—anchored him.
I'll hug her again. I'll get out of here.
"Why is it so cold…?" he whispered as the air thickened, rot stench flooding his lungs.
A mutated black widow the size of a fist crawled up his back, sharp legs grazing his neck with terrifying precision.
Its red eyes stared.
Then it bit his hand.
Pain struck like lightning—fire ripping a scream out of him.
His black blood neutralized the venom, but the bite itself was torment—like a red-hot nail hammered into flesh.
He hurled the spider to the ground—breathing ragged—
but the movement drew more.
Hundreds of black widows descended, some as big as cats, legs clicking on silk, eyes glowing like a swarm of embers.
Ayanato swung the Kokuseigu wildly, trying to drive them back, but every strike only enraged them.
One spider leapt and bit his arm—pain exploding.
Another sank fangs into his leg with a wet crunch.
He screamed, voice shaking the abyss, but they didn't retreat.
They circled him like judges.
A ghoul corpse wrapped in red silk fell from above, landing beside him with a dry thud.
Empty eyes stared.
Deepnest did not forgive.
Time dissolved.
Minutes became eternity.
Bites covered his body—each one a lash trying to break him.
Black blood dripped into the living floor.
But his mind clung to Himari—her laughter, her hair, her light.
He tightened his grip on the worn Needle and released a primal scream that echoed through the abyss—
and for a heartbeat, the spiders flinched.
He threw the Kokuseigu into the wall. The hilt-thread vibrated like an extension of his will.
He yanked hard—launching himself like a projectile—bouncing wall to wall, body screaming with every impact.
Red threads cut his skin.
Black blood spattered the abyss.
Ayanato didn't stop.
Every leap was an insult to fate.
Every pull a refusal.
With one final effort, he launched the Needle into the ceiling. Metal bit in with a crack that reverberated through silence.
He pulled with everything he had.
His body shot upward—
and he slammed onto solid black rock, breath knocked out of him.
He rolled, gasping, blood dripping from a body covered in bites, vision blurred by pain.
The Black Widow Ashida watched him, milky eyes shining with cold approval.
She took the Needle from his hand, bony fingers brushing it like she was evaluating his soul.
"You survived your first lesson," she hissed, dry laugh cutting sharper than threads. "And it only took you five days, little prince. Climbing part of the abyss is only the beginning."
With a flick of her Rinkaku, she sealed the training chamber's walls, red threads weaving an impenetrable cocoon around them.
Air grew heavier.
Cold sharpened.
Ayanato—still trembling—understood Deepnest wouldn't let him go until the Black Widow was satisfied.
But in his mind, Himari's image burned—
a lantern keeping him alive in this hell of thread and pain.
Weaver
"In an abyss where threads bleed and patience is a blade, a child weaves his destiny beneath the gaze of a master who forgives no mistakes."
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Deepnest was a living hell: pulsing flesh, red threads beating like veins in darkness. The air was thick with rot and metal, clinging to lungs like poison.
Ayanato Ashida sat on the viscous floor, hands trembling as he wove a net with a worn, battered Kokuseigu.
Razor threads clung to his skin, leaving stripes of black blood dripping down.
He'd lost count of how many times he'd repeated this task under the Black Widow's orders, mind fogged with exhaustion—spinning between despair and rage.
How long have I been here?
He tied the final line, breath ragged in oppressive silence.
The ground trembled.
The Black Widow rose from the abyss, her Rinkaku unfolding like colossal blades glowing sickly red inside. Huge black legs stabbed into the fleshy ground, lifting her aged body like a throne of death.
Her blind eyes scanned the net—stopping at each knot with precision that froze the blood.
"Error," she hissed, frail voice sharp as a scalpel, pointing at a flawed knot. "Try again."
Before Ayanato could speak, she vanished in a red flash, leaving behind her presence and a crushing emptiness.
Rage burst inside him—an inferno.
He screamed and hurled the Kokuseigu at the silk wall blocking the exit.
He struck again and again, metal ringing with desperate clangs.
The threads trembled—
but didn't yield.
His laughter turned manic—madness bouncing off flesh-walls.
He collapsed, panting, body shaking—
and the Black Widow reappeared, so fast the air seemed to split.
One of her legs pinned his torso to the ground with force that stole his breath.
Black blood spilled.
But the pain wasn't only physical.
It was failure's weight.
"Patience is a virtue few possess," the Black Widow said calmly—yet with contempt that cut deeper than her Rinkaku. "It overflows in you… but without control, it is only a spark that dies."
She withdrew her leg, allowing him to rise.
Ayanato clenched his teeth, fury burning in his red eyes—
until Himari's image flashed in his mind.
The Black Widow circled him, legs anchoring into the floor, weaving an invisible cage of red threads that seemed to pulse with her presence.
"You want to return to Himari, don't you?" she hissed, voice a whisper that pierced the soul. "That desire consumes you. But you haven't earned it."
Her words turned colder, sharper.
"Himari is fragile—a petal in Eden that will wither without someone to protect her. So tell me, Ayanato… what will you do when you stop being a child? When you must fight for her?"
Her blind eyes bored into him.
"Will you scream like a wounded animal… or raise a Needle with temperance?"
Each sentence was a lash. Each breath, a test.
Threads vibrated. The fleshy ground pulsed, as if the abyss itself judged him.
Ayanato inhaled deeply, chest shaking, then took the Kokuseigu with a gentleness that contradicted his rage.
He closed his eyes and imagined Himari laughing in Amaranthia's garden.
When he opened them, his gaze was steady.
He wove again—hands moving with painful precision—each thread placed carefully, each knot an act of will.
Time blurred.
Pain dulled.
Cold faded.
Only Himari's light remained in his head.
He finished.
The Black Widow approached, legs clicking softly. Blind eyes scanned every knot with intensity that made the air tremble.
"Perfect," she said—quiet, absolute.
She took the Needle from his hands, bony fingers brushing it as if weighing his soul.
With a sweep of her Rinkaku, she sliced open the silk wall blocking the exit. Threads fell like dried blood.
Eden's darkness spilled in, pointing toward the distant way out.
"Come back tomorrow on your own feet," she ordered, voice cold as the abyss. "I will not bring you again. It is your choice: remain a weak child waiting for a kagune… or become strong enough not to need one."
The Black Widow descended into the abyss, her legs echoing like judgment.
Ayanato stood alone, body trembling with exhaustion—
but heart beating with something new.
Determination.
He looked toward the exit, Amaranthia's glow calling.
Yet Deepnest's weight still sat on his shoulders—
a reminder that the Black Widow would not truly release him…
until his soul was woven with the same strength as his threads.
Void
"In a wasteland where the sky fractures and memories bleed, a warrior wakes inside a cocoon of threads, searching for those he can no longer reach."
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Ayanato Ashida slept in the Palace of Temperance, wrapped in dream-warmth that smelled like roses and laughter.
Then a cold breeze—alien to Eden—brushed his skin and tore the dream's veil apart.
He opened his eyes, heart throbbing with a pain he couldn't name.
The palace was gone.
In its place: a field of black roses, wilted petals crunching beneath a broken sky—shattered like a soul going out. The air was heavy, silence crushing, and the stench of dried blood mixed with the bitter scent of loss.
His hands—rough from countless kills—trembled. Black hair fell across his face like a funeral veil.
"I should've known…" he whispered, voice cracked by truth. "It wasn't real."
A specter emerged from the mist—
Himari Ashida.
His beloved sister.
The brutal wound that ended her life bled endlessly, blood dripping onto black roses and staining them with a carmine shine. Her eyes—once bright—were empty now, two wells staring through him.
"Big brother… let's play," she said, voice soft like an echo that cut deeper than any kagune.
Ayanato reached out, desperate to comfort her eternal grief—
but Himari dissolved into dust, mixing with withered petals.
He dropped to his knees, claws scraping the ground. Black roses sliced his skin. Black blood fell like tears.
"What a miserable day to exist…" he murmured, voice shaking with the weight of his mistakes, lying back to stare at the broken sky. "I just want to disappear."
A warm voice—soft as a lost memory—spoke beside him.
"I don't want you to die, Ayanato-kun."
He turned.
And his heart stopped.
Rize Kamishiro lay in front of him, purple hair spread like a veil over black roses. Her amethyst eyes held a tenderness he'd never seen—stripped of the arrogance that always defined her.
Her white dress fluttered in the cold breeze.
When she gently bumped her forehead against his, the contact anchored him in the void.
"Why are you so quiet?" she whispered, voice wrapping him like a hug. "Are you still mad at me?"
Ayanato exhaled, gaze fixed on the fractured sky, fragments falling like pieces of his soul.
"I told you not to do it, Rize," he said, voice heavy with pain he couldn't hide. "But you never listen. You killed him, didn't you?"
Rize laughed softly—almost melancholic.
"Wake up, Ayanato-kun," she whispered, fingers brushing his with a delicacy that hurt. "Wake up and you'll see it for yourself. I don't want to ruin the secret."
She rose and circled him slowly, her white dress shining like a lantern in the dimness.
She extended a hand, smile warm—yet threaded with a sadness Ayanato couldn't decipher.
"I guess I can't stay angry forever," he murmured, taking her hand, a shiver running through him. "I hope Kaneki is alive… and that you finally listen to me."
Rize laughed again and tugged him up, purple hair flowing like a river in wind.
"Find me, Ayanato-kun," she said, voice turning into a fading song. "Like you always have."
The world cracked—
and Ayanato woke with a gasp, kakugan eclipse blazing: black sclera pierced by red veins around the iris, pulsing like a broken sun.
He was inside his red silk cocoon in the warehouse, threads vibrating around him, air thick with blood and rust.
His heart hammered.
His body burned.
But the wounds T-001 had inflicted were closed—covered by layers of silk clinging to him like second skin.
"How did I get here…?" he whispered, voice muffled by silk.
He activated his hemogenic vision, searching for Rize's RC trail—
but found nothing.
Only emptiness that tightened his chest.
"Rize? Why can't I see you? Where did you go…?"
He exhaled, frustrated—
until a flare of RC saturated his sight and blinded him.
He snarled, deactivating his kakugan, and looked up.
From the cocoon's ceiling hung the broken tip of his Kokuseigu, glowing sick red from within.
He grabbed it, cutting threads with trembling movements, and Tokyo sunlight spilled through holes—burning his face with brightness.
"How long was I asleep…?"
He climbed down from the cocoon. His feet crunched over floors coated in silk.
He consumed a ghoul corpse trapped in the web—bitter flesh filling him with fragile strength.
A crash echoed from the human corpse storage room—sound punching into his chest.
"Rize? Is that you?" he called, voice shaking with hope and fear.
Rize's whisper echoed inside his mind—soft but insistent:
"Find me."
The warehouse remained silent.
Red threads vibrated like the building itself was holding its breath.
Ayanato moved forward, broken Kokuseigu tip in hand, each step an echo of his determination to find answers in a world that still bled.
Bargaining Chip
"In a laboratory where ambition cuts deeper than steel, the living blood of a devourer becomes the currency scavenger gods crave to possess."
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The laboratory was a mausoleum of steel and glass, fluorescent lights flickering with a constant buzz like a sick heart's rhythm. The air smelled of antiseptic mixed with metallic ghoul blood—an omen of horrors growing behind sterile walls.
At the room's center, a regeneration-solution tank bubbled, holding the unconscious body of Rize Kamishiro, tubes feeding and draining her like artificial veins.
Her face—pale, serene—floated in green liquid, but beneath the surface her Rinkaku pulsed faintly, an unstable echo of power.
Kanou Akihiro stood before the tank, eyes shining with feverish fascination, a twisted smile on his lips.
"You see, young Genya?" he murmured, greed wrapped in clinical calm. "Patience always bears fruit. The Binge Eater is our treasure—her kagune so vigorous it overflows with future kakuhou to create perfect hybrids… like that young man, Ken Kaneki."
Itsuki Genya, standing beside him, barely looked up from his tablet—face a mask of indifference. His fingers scrolled through recordings of the night: black blood splashed on asphalt, puddles that seemed to move under headlight glare.
In his other hand, a vial of black blood pulsed. The liquid struck the glass with irrational fury, as if it were searching for its owner.
"We lost the Ghoul Devourer," Itsuki said, voice cold as the lab's steel. "I see it as collecting crumbs."
Kanou chuckled low, but never looked away from the tank.
"Patience, young Genya. We'll find a way to capture him. For now… let's prepare production to replicate our Binge Eater's kagune."
Itsuki exhaled, eyes still on the tablet, then pulled from his coat the broken hilt of Ayanato's Kokuseigu.
The seal on its handle—a pentagram ringed by stingers and crossed scythes—gleamed under cold light, a riddle mocking them.
"We should wait," Itsuki said, tone precise. "The Binge Eater's RC is unstable. From ten thousand ppm, we only have seven thousand."
He lifted the vial slightly, watching the black blood throb.
"If we combine the Devourer's black RC with Rize's, we could create hybrids beyond perfect. An unstable Binge Eater isn't the same as a ghoul who wounded the White Reaper. His exclusive ghoul diet suggests extreme RC. Contaminating Rize with impurities would ruin everything—like the failure of T-001 Empress, lost who knows where."
Kanou's pupils dilated. His breathing stopped for a heartbeat before he inhaled sharply, fascination almost spilling over.
"I suppose you're right," he admitted, voice trembling faintly. "A hybrid with that black blood… its miraculous properties could be something never seen."
Itsuki picked up a syringe, connected it to Rize's tank, and drew a single drop of blood.
The crimson bead bubbled.
Rize twitched weakly in the tank, a soundless groan escaping her unconscious body.
Itsuki dropped the crimson into the vial of black blood.
The glass shuddered.
The black blood devoured the sample with such hunger the vial creaked.
The mixture reacted violently—splitting the container in a silent burst.
The black mass spilled onto the floor, becoming an amorphous writhing thing like a parasite, slithering toward the shadows as if seeking its owner.
Kanou stumbled back, face frozen between horror and worship.
"Impossible…" he whispered. "This breaks every law of ghoul biology. The Devourer's blood… is still alive. Even outside his body."
Itsuki's brow lifted. A thin, sadistic smile cracked his cold facade.
He trapped the writhing mass inside a reinforced glass jar, watching it slam against the walls with primitive fury—each impact spiderwebbing cracks across the glass.
"Ghoul biology was left behind a long time ago," Itsuki said, voice low with ambition sharp enough to cut. "Whatever this secret is… I want it. Now."
His gaze drifted to Rize's tank, smile widening as if he were already weaving a plan.
The Devourer wants you, doesn't he, Rize? he thought. Then you'll bring him to me.
"I'll resume the Empress Project with the leftover samples," Itsuki declared, not looking away from the tablet as he walked out, footsteps echoing in sterile halls. "I won't repeat your mistakes, Kanou."
Kanou remained alone, eyes fixed on the jar as the black blood fought—cracking glass with every strike.
The fluorescent buzz filled the silence, but the laboratory felt like it was holding its breath, tension stretching toward a snap.
The black mass finally collapsed, RC draining… yet the echo of its struggle remained like an omen:
the Devourer—absent—was still a threat capable of changing everything…
if they offered the right currency.