People always mask their insecurities behind something—something they can cling to, something they can believe in, something they can hold onto forever.
So what happens when that mask is torn away by the cruelty of reality? Their entire world comes crashing down.
For Ryuji, his mask wasn't abruptly torn off—it was slowly peeled away by years of suffering, and now it had come off completely.
All his brothers were dead. The one person who treated him as an equal had been stolen by the very talent he despised. Nothing felt right anymore.
He stopped in his tracks, not caring whether he would be struck down.
"Why am I even here?" he mumbled as he stared off into the distance.
Ichiro, too, came to a halt, breathing erratically as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
A single tear caught his attention. That wasn't the look of someone grieving—it was twisted, angry, lost, spiteful.
A single step from Ichiro set him off immediately.
He squared his stance, his arms shaking. Then he heard a bird chirp—and that was it.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "Just shut up! I'm tired of you nagging me. I'm tired of you forcing me to be weak!"
"What did I ever do for you to hate me the way you do?!" he continued.
Then a branch snapped at Ichiro's feet, and he immediately turned to him.
"You!" he yelled. "You think I'm weak too, don't you?! Just like everyone else! Just like him!"
"Despite what I said, I tried," he continued. "So why?! Why am I so empty?!"
"I'll kill you!" he yelled as he rose. "I swear, if you look at me like that again, I'll kill you!!"
Ichiro's intense expression softened—for some reason, as if he could tell he wasn't the one Ryuji truly hated.
"Don't look at me like that!" he yelled again, his voice shrill.
An image of Asahi flashed through his mind.
"I'll prove it to you! I'll prove that I'm not weak! That I also have talent!"
Ichiro fixed his posture and eased into a stance.
Ryuji's expression grew firm as he said, "You—why don't you just die already!"
"Has depravity driven you to senility," Ichiro said as he pointed his sword at him, "or do you really think you're strong enough!"
Suddenly, the blood running through Ryuji grew cold and his breath steadied. He didn't think, didn't speak, didn't shake—he just charged, every step driven by his own malice.
Ichiro stood still even as Ryuji rushed at him. Ryuji didn't stop to think—he thrust his claws forward, but they drifted past him.
"One more strike," he thought, "and it won't matter what binding spells he uses."
His ears twitched at a shift in the wind and he turned—but not in time. Ichiro had already drawn blood from the same hands he used to attack.
Ryuji didn't stop. Instead, with his bare hands, he grabbed the blade and, as if rabid, lunged to bite Ichiro's right shoulder.
Ichiro pushed him back with a kick to the gut, then immediately leapt away.
With every passing second, Ryuji sank deeper and deeper into the abyss.
Now he was hunched on all fours, grunting at Ichiro, his mouth foaming.
He charged again, running on all fours—his mannerisms throwing Ichiro off just enough to make him hesitate. Despite that, Ichiro still swung his sword straight at his face.
The blade slashed across Ryuji's nose, but he didn't stop. With his next thrust, he scratched Ichiro's face, missing his shoulder.
Ichiro immediately adjusted his grip and, with the blade angled downward, swung upward—slashing him vertically across the chest. Still, Ryuji showed no sign of pain.
Ichiro gritted his teeth and drove a kick into his gut—right where all his wounds converged.
Ryuji vomited blood as his body was hurled backward from the impact.
Ichiro took a deep breath, wiping the blood off his cheek as he watched him lying on the ground.
Ryuji sat up, his right hand pressed against his gut. As he stood and let go, he caught sight of the blood coating his palms—and he chuckled.
"This goes beyond pain dilation," Ichiro thought. "Does he really not care anymore?"
The chuckle grew into full-blown laughter.
"That's it!" he yelled. "That's what I've been missing this entire time."
He pressed his bloody palm over his face as he said, "Yes… that's what I need."
"The blood of the djinn has the power to transform," he said. "It's this blood that is the key to my strength."
He turned to Ichiro, his face smeared with blood.
"All it takes is the risk to accept transformation."
Ichiro's expression immediately grew pale.
"My new form is calling," Ryuji said, looking up at the cloudy orange sky, "from beyond the metamorphosis."
"You wouldn't dare!" Ichiro yelled. "It's suicide!"
"Why would you care?" he asked, "unless you fear the strength that I am yet to gain."
"Now I'm sure of it," he continued, his hands rising wide, "that I am not weak—I'm just not complete."
The image of her walking away flashed through his mind.
"The disparity doesn't exist," he said, "not anymore."
Ichiro didn't wait for him to move. Instead, he charged. Ryuji stood still, his arms still spread wide.
He took a deep breath, as if shedding a burden that had plagued him his entire life.
There was no attempt to defend against Ichiro's charge—nor to evade it. The sword pierced through his chest cleanly, without resistance.
A stream of blood ran down his lips. His arms fell limp—but he still stood.
Then the air around him began to spark, and the blood from his wounds started to rise, pulsing in midair.
Ichiro drove the blade deeper, but it made no difference—Ryuji remained standing. There was nothing more he could do.
He pulled the sword free and leapt back.
Ryuji slipped, falling onto his back.
Blood pooled beneath him—but instead of spreading, it began to lift, forming more and more energized strands.
It gave off an eerie red glow as it wrapped around his body. He remained still, a smile stretched across his face from ear to ear.
He closed his eyes and took a breath—
—and then the red light consumed him completely.
The ground trembled as a pillar of crimson light shot into the sky, tearing the earth apart beneath it.
The brightness was blinding—so intense that Ichiro had to avert his gaze.
Slowly, the light began to fade.
When he looked again, the flash had vanished, leaving behind a massive crater where trees once stood.
Dust filled the air, thick and shifting—and within it, Ichiro could make out a towering silhouette.
He didn't move. His eyes remained locked on it.
Then, from within the dust, another pulse of that blood-red light erupted.