There is no warmth.
No cold.
No light.
No shadow.
Only the hush.
That thick, endless hush between the moment a blade draws blood—and the body drops.
I don't know how long I've been here.
I don't even know if I'm here at all.
But I awaken—somehow.
Not in flesh. Not in pain.
Just… awareness.
---
I open my eyes, or maybe I never closed them.
All around me is a wide, pale void. Not white. Not gray. Just absence. The color of exhaustion. Of forgetfulness. Of being erased slowly, stroke by stroke.
The sky, if there is one, is low and blank. The ground beneath my bare feet feels like nothing at all—no stone, no dirt, no texture. Just pressure. Presence.
In the distance, a line of people snakes toward a point I cannot see. They walk silently, heads bowed, robes fluttering like shadows made of smoke.
Their features blur the longer I look at them. Some are men. Some women. Some… children.
Each one radiates death.
Souls.
I'm one of them.
Or—I should be.
But I'm not moving.
---
I step toward the line, but my legs won't obey.
Something holds me in place. Like the world itself has forgotten to allow me motion.
I raise my voice. "Hello?"
No one responds.
The line continues forward, endless. New figures appear at the end. None ever return. They march into some veil of light or shadow—I can't tell which. The gate they approach flickers like a mirage, always distant no matter how far they walk.
Time passes.
I think.
Or maybe I pass time.
It stretches. Warps.
Seconds feel like hours. Minutes like days.
And still, I cannot move.
---
"Why?!"
My voice cracks the stillness like lightning. The word flies outward—and then vanishes.
Nothing echoes here.
"Why am I the only one stuck?!"
No answer.
I clench my fists. Or try to. Even that is difficult.
Amaterasu.
You took everything from me.
You left me in ruin.
Now you would leave me here too?
Even in death?
I laugh. Or sob. I can't tell which anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. The emotion bubbles inside like rot—acidic and old. The kind of thing that poisons memory.
I scream again. Louder.
"LOOK AT ME, YOU WRETCHED GODS!"
Still nothing.
Only silence.
Only stillness.
Only the line, moving on without me.
---
Time becomes meaningless.
I don't sleep. I don't eat. I don't breathe.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until…
Until even rage becomes hollow.
Until I stop asking why.
Until I start whispering to myself just to hear a sound.
Then—
Suddenly—
Everything changes.
---
The air breaks.
Not with sound.
Not with wind.
Just—pressure.
A terrible, crushing pressure, like the breath of some forgotten thing finally exhaling.
My vision goes dark—not black, but wrong. A distortion. A rip in the nothing.
And I fall.
No wind. No gravity. No end.
Just a single instant where the world vanishes like flame snuffed by rain—
And I land.
---
Pain does not greet me.
Nor warmth.
Just stillness again.
But not the same.
I open my eyes. Or maybe they've been open this whole time.
And what I see is…
Nothing.
True nothing.
No ground.
No sky.
No horizon.
I float—or stand—or kneel—on a plane of absolute emptiness. Not black. Not void. Not death.
Just…
Absence.
Not the absence of things.
The absence of possibility.
---
And yet—I am here.
Whole. Not ghost. Not shade.
My body feels weightless but defined.
There is no heartbeat, but there is awareness. A strange awareness. As if the skin of reality is thinner here. As if something watches from just beneath it.
I whisper, "Where am I?"
No reply.
Of course.
But this time, it's different.
This place doesn't ignore me.
It waits.
That's what makes my blood crawl.
I know now—I'm not alone.
Something is here.
Or maybe, everything is.
And it's waiting.
For me.
---
I try to walk.
There's no direction to go. No up, down, or forward. But when I will myself to move—I move.
And each step is weightless, effortless, yet horrifying.
It feels like walking on the edge of something that should not exist.
My mind begins to buzz. Not with pain. With… input. Information that isn't mine. Shapes that try to form. Languages I've never heard but somehow know. Images that pulse like forgotten memories.
I see flashes.
A sword buried in obsidian stone.
A crown made of flame.
A great beast with eyes like moons—watching me from behind a veil.
And one voice. Just one.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Just present.
It speaks a single word.
My name.
"…Akatsuki."
---
I freeze.
The void hums.
Not with sound. With intent.
Like something old and forgotten just turned its gaze to me for the first time in millennia.
"…Akatsuki."
The second whisper is stronger. It vibrates my bones. My blood. The parts of me I don't even understand.
And it's not Amaterasu.
This voice is not divine in the way the sun goddess ever was.
It is deeper.
Older.
Darker.
More true.
It is not light.
It is not fire.
It is the space before fire.
The stillness before sound.
The moment before breath.
And it speaks again.
This time, in a language I shouldn't know—but do.
> "Child of Betrayal. Forsaken by Flame. Cast aside by the False Light."
> "You do not belong among the dead."
> "Nor among the living."
> "But you are ours now."
---
I try to speak.
My throat works. My mouth opens.
But no sound escapes.
I am not afraid.
I am not brave.
I am nothing.
Just a name.
Just regret wrapped in memory.
The void continues.
> "You died in truth. But truth is not the end."
> "You sought judgment. But gods do not judge."
> "They consume."
A pulse.
The void shakes. A low tremor, like the heartbeat of a sleeping colossus.
Then something appears.
Floating.
Spinning.
Bleeding light and shadow from its edges.
A single symbol.
One I saw as I died. Etched into the sword that rose from my blood.
My second soul.
The Blade Between Realms.
---
It speaks too.
Not in words.
In feeling.
And I understand.
I know.
The martial soul I was given—the cursed one, the violet one—it is not bound by heaven or earth. Not sun or spirit.
It is forged from betrayal, tempered in death, and awakened by rage.
It is not fire.
It is not light.
It is the sword I once raised in Amaterasu's name.
Now returned to me by something older than gods.
And it whispers…
> "Take me."
> "Rise."
> "And remember."
---
My hand moves on its own.
Fingers wrap around the hilt.
There is no weight, but there is gravity. A pull.
The moment I touch it—
The void shatters.
Like glass.
Everything breaks.
Everything screams.
Everything comes back.
The blood.
The shrine.
The betrayal.
The curse.
The sun.
And then—
I breathe.
---
A gasp.
Not metaphor.
Not memory.
Breath.
Real.
Torn from lungs that remember how to ache.
Air burns my throat. My chest arches.
I am lying flat. Naked. Cold. Alive.
Eyes wide.
Hands trembling.
Blood smeared across my lips.
But alive.
And in my palm…
Is the sword.
Twisted.
Violet.
Real.
And watching.