The world was quiet.
Not the silence of peace, but of endings. Of death.
Yamino's breath was thin, shallow, barely there. His chest barely moved. Blood had long dried around the blackened spears that pinned his body to the earth like a broken star. His arms hung limply, his lips parted but unmoving. He didn't blink. He couldn't. His vision was blurred and fading—darkness inching in from the edges like a tide.
And then, something warm touched him.
A presence. Familiar. Gentle. Like a memory cradling his soul.
It wasn't a hand in the physical sense—it was deeper. Something reached into his dying core and wrapped around it. He could feel it, even as his body stopped feeling anything at all.
His father.
The moment the connection was made, Yamino's soul let go of his body. There was no flash of light. No scream. No sound at all.
Only… nothingness.
---
The next thing he knew, Yamino was standing—alive, breathing, uninjured—in a room made of pure white. Not marble. Not light. Just endless white. Like he stood in the middle of a forgotten plane between the worlds.
He looked down. His body was whole. His hands no longer bound. The holes from the spears were gone. But the pain—the memory of pain—remained like an echo inside him.
And then… he saw him.
A tall man stepped forward from the infinite blankness. His eyes were stern, yet soft. His black hair moved without wind. His clothes were nothing like the torn garments of battle; instead, they were clean, shining faintly with traces of golden embroidery. Regal. Otherworldly. Familiar.
"...Father?" Yamino's voice cracked.
His father stood still, arms at his sides, a serious calm on his face. The weight of a thousand unsaid things hung between them.
Then, he spoke.
Just one word.
"Survive."
Yamino's breath caught.
But his father wasn't done.
His lips moved once more—this time slower, more deliberate. "Until I come."
And then—
Nothing.
The room shattered like glass. Light burst in all directions. And Yamino was falling—down, through colors, through voices, through pain, through memory.
Through death.
And into something more.
.
.
Yamino floated.
There was no wind. No sound. No sky. Just the dull ache of existing without weight.
His arms dangled beside him, motionless. His body glowed faintly, translucent like mist under moonlight. He blinked once, twice, trying to understand where he was—or what he was.
And then gravity remembered him.
Without warning, his body dropped—fast. The whiteness above vanished, replaced by falling wind and violent blur. His heart screamed, but there was no beat. His mouth opened, but there was no voice.
Then—impact.
He hit the ground hard… but felt nothing.
Not the stone. Not the dirt. Not even the pain.
Yamino slowly pushed himself up. His surroundings blurred and cleared like a fogged mirror. What he saw froze his blood, even though it no longer ran through his veins.
There—just feet away—lay his own corpse.
Pale. Bloody. Eyes open and glassy. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The jagged remnants of the spears still pinned through the body into the ground like cruel decorations in a morbid shrine.
Yamino stumbled backward. His breath caught, but didn't warm the air. His voice trembled, but made no sound.
"No… no, no, no…" he whispered.
He turned. All around him, the battlefield remained as it had been: ruined, scorched, soaked in blood and grief. Bodies of fallen servants. The broken remnants of weapons. The splatter of red that stained grass and stone alike.
And there—across the field—stood Kairon.
He was laughing again, face twisted in that same arrogant sneer, one arm bandaged where it had been cut, the other gesturing mockingly toward something in the sky.
Aiyana.
She still floated. But now, her expression was distant—like a doll awaiting her next command. No struggling. No resistance. Her hair swayed softly as if underwater.
Yamino took a step forward—instinctively—but stopped when he realized no one saw him.
Not even the servants. Not even Kairon. His footsteps made no sound. His shadow didn't fall on the grass. He waved a hand in front of Kairon's face—nothing.
He was invisible.
He was… not part of the living world anymore.
A ghost.
The realization crashed over him like cold water.
"I'm dead," he whispered. "But… I'm still here."
He looked down again at his lifeless body, then clenched his fist. There was still warmth in his soul. There was still a pulse—not of blood, but of something. Purpose. Rage. Unfinished fate.
His father had said one thing.
"Survive until I come."
Yamino didn't know how. Or why. Or even what this limbo-state was. But something inside him—the same stubborn spirit that refused to kneel in battle, that endured pain beyond reason—whispered one thing:
It's not over.
Not yet.
.
.
Kairon's lips pressed against Aiyana's, forceful and claiming.
At first, she didn't move. But then, slowly—almost like a switch had flipped—she responded. Her arms wrapped around him, and she kissed him back with a passion that felt too rehearsed.
Yamino watched, frozen in place. His body may have been dead, but whatever remained of his soul burned hotter than any wound he'd suffered.
The girl who once blushed when their hands accidentally brushed… now kissed his enemy with longing?
She pulled away just slightly, and her voice came out with an edge of cruelty. "It worked. Everything… went just like we planned."
Kairon grinned, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Tell me again. I want to hear it from your lips, Aiyana."
She smiled back—sweet and venomous.
"They tried to chain me to a villager. My parents, of all people. Just because of some ancient pact or promise, they wanted me to waste my life in that tiny village, married off to a nobody with a nice smile and quiet hands."
Her eyes sharpened. "I didn't want safety. I didn't want love. I wanted power. I wanted a future where I could rule beside someone who knew what ambition felt like. You, Kairon. You gave me that chance."
Yamino's fingers twitched. His chest tightened as though his ghostly body could still feel betrayal.
So it was all a lie.
All the shy glances. All the late-night talks. That accidental touch at the river. Her soft smile when he gave her that bracelet made of iron and warmth.
All of it—fake?
A dagger of disbelief twisted in his heart.
He sank to his knees beside his own corpse, staring at the lifeless eyes that once looked at her like she was the only light in the world.
A whisper left his lips.
"…Was any of it real?"
He wanted to scream. He wanted to believe she'd been controlled. Threatened. That Kairon had twisted her mind or cursed her. Anything but this.
But then the truth cracked through the pain.
Why did I think she ever loved me?
The thought struck hard.
What had she ever really said? What proof had she given him? Had he confused kindness for care? Her warmth for love?
Maybe… maybe it was only ever his heart involved.
He laughed bitterly—quietly, a ghost's laugh, unheard by the world.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt. But it was clarity. Brutal and clear.
As Kairon and Aiyana stood in the wreckage of death and betrayal, reveling in their false victory, Yamino stood too—his ghostly form straightening.
They didn't know it yet.
But he was still here.
And he had nothing left to lose.