He then turns back to face the herald. The creature's many-eyed gaze bears down on him, unrelenting and cold.

Back to Reality...

Obinai's hand...

...is still touching Nurikabe.

His body trembles violently, muscles spasming as if caught in a brutal electrical current. His breaths come in short gasps, his chest heaving as he struggles to pull air into his lungs. His eyes roll back completely, leaving only the whites visible.

A low groan escapes his lips as his body begins to shift. His locs, once black and tangled with the grime of the day, seem to grow of their own volition. The strands elongate rapidly, cascading down just below his shoulders like a flowing river of white, each strand glinting faintly in the moonlight.

At the same time, intricate patterns begin to etch themselves into his skin. The tattoos emerge as though alive, twisting and spiraling up his arms in elegant yet unnerving designs. They glow faintly as they form, their lines pulsing momentarily before stopping.

Obinai's hands darken, the skin turning an obsidian black that seems to absorb the light around it. The transformation spreads slowly, creeping up his fingers and enveloping his palms and fading into his forearms, the charcoal-black hue stark against the pale, shimmer of his hair.

The air grows heavy with a strange energy, pressing against the space. Then, with a sudden shudder, Obinai's eyes snap open—but they are no longer his.

The sclerae have turned a deep, endless black, as if the void itself has taken root in them. His irises and pupils now shine a brilliant gold, the light emanating from them pulsating softly.

Obinai's erratic convulsions cease abruptly, and his body straightens unnaturally, as though held upright by invisible strings. The tension in his frame dissolves into a chilling calm. His head tilts slightly, an unfamiliar expression settling over his features—curiosity...

...and some sense of satisfaction.

Slowly, methodically, the being that now inhabits Obinai's form raises a hand, its charcoal-black fingers flexing experimentally. It studies them briefly. A faint cold smile, plays across its lips.

Without hesitation, it extends a single finger toward its temple. The digit plunges inward with a sickening squelch. Blood dribbles down the side of its face, but the creature remains unfazed. Its golden eyes close briefly, and it tilts its head as though listening to an inaudible voice.

In a voice that is both Obinai's and something else, the being begins to speak. The tone is detached, as if reciting facts from a list.

"Obinai Nobunaga. Age: fourteen."

Its head tilts slightly in the other direction, processing the information before continuing.

"Connections: Darren. Angel. Maria. Amos. Mya."

There is a pause, the being's golden eyes snapping open. A flicker of something crosses its face—not quite recognition, not quite understanding. It speaks again, this time slower.

"Status: Blank state. No aspirations. No future."

The being withdraws its finger from its temple, dark blood dripping lazily down the side of its face. It doesn't flinch as the wound begins to knit itself together, the torn flesh moving with an unnatural precision, sealing itself as if the injury had never been. Its black hand flexes again, fingers curling and uncurling, testing the range of motion. A faint hum of satisfaction escapes its lips as it lifts its head to the night sky.

The star seem to reflect in the golden glow of its eyes. It takes a deep breath, closing its eyes briefly as if savoring the stillness of the moment. When its eyes open again, they gleam with a chilling intensity. A smile spreads slowly across its face, both serene and malevolent.

"This will do," the thing inside Obinai murmurs, flexing his stolen fingers.

The silence that follows is broken by a laugh—low at first, but growing in resonance until it vibrates through the air. The sound is medium-pitched, unnatural, and filled with an unsettling joy. The being's body shakes slightly as the laughter subsides.

"What a blessing it is to be here now," it muses. "At such a pivotal moment, to breathe this air, to walk this ground... it's exquisite."

The being glances around, its eyes flickering over the unfamiliar terrain. The city line is just up ahead, silhouetted against the night sky. The faint glow from the many light sources make the setting seem almost alive.

"My path has been set," it continues. It raises its hands, palms open, as if addressing an unseen audience.

"This world will bend," it murmurs, the words slithering from its lips. Its voice grows fervent, pupils dilating. "Oh, but not just bend—break."

A jagged crack splits the pavement beneath its foot as it steps forward, the earth itself recoiling. The creature's head tilts back, throat working around another laugh—this one wet, a sound that doesn't belong in anything with lungs.

"To watch them struggle," it hisses, fingers twitching in the air, clawing at nothing. "To see them crawl, clutching at the stumps where their limbs used to be—oh, the noises they'll make. The wet, gasping little pleas." Its tongue darts out, tracing cracked lips. "Art. Pure, exquisite art."

For a moment, its eyes roll back, gold snuffed out like a candle flame. Its chest rises—slow, deliberate—as if savoring the phantom screams in its mind. Then, with a shudder that ripples down its spine, it exhales.

"Ahhh…"

Another step. Another fracture spiderwebbing through concrete. "To see it all crumble!" it cries, voice rising. "To watch the towers fall and the streets run red—what joy! What—"

A sob catches in its throat. Or is it laughter? Tears gleam on its brown cheeks, catching the dim light. Mockery or madness? Does it even know?

The creature throws its head back and howls, the sound distorting, warping—too loud, too layered, like a chorus of voices screaming from its throat.

Then—silence.

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The creature goes still. Dead still.

Its head lowers. Golden eyes slit open, fixing on the distant city lights. So small. So fragile. So ready.

"This world will bend," it whispers again, softer now. A promise. A prayer. "And when it does?"

A grin splits its face...

"It will know it has become me...for that is my purpose."

Its voice drops further...

"To consume," it growls. "Consume all...for my hunger yearns for it."

The air around the creature seems to shift, thickening with an oppressive energy that presses against the space. The distant sounds of the world—a faint breeze, the rustling of debris—fade into silence as though nature itself holds its breath in anticipation.

The creature tilts its head slightly, the smile fading into a contemplative expression. Its golden eyes flicker, the glow pulsing in time with some unspoken rhythm. "The first six minutes," it remarks softly. "Are always the most important."

Its laughter dissipates into an eerie stillness, leaving the air heavy and charged. The creature's golden eyes shift downward. Its lips begin to move:

"[Ka'lith zenorra, thraak ulem zorrith. Ka'lith zenorra, vorath ul'marr]."

The space around the creature seems to ripple, the air growing dense, almost suffocating.

As it speaks, faint tendrils of light seep from beneath the tattered jeans clinging to its legs. The glow begins as a faint pulse, spreading downward like ink bleeding into water. Intricate spirals bloom across the cracked ground, pulsating with a rhythm that matches the cadence of the creature's words. The light deepens, darkening into a vibrant, menacing purple, its hue shifting and swirling as though alive.

Then—

BOOM

It launches upward in a burst of energy, the ground exploding beneath it. Chunks of asphalt and dirt rocket into the air, suspended for a heartbeat before crashing back down. The shockwave rips outward, toppling a rusted streetlight with a metallic shriek.

Propelled high above the city, the creature hovers effortlessly, its body silhouetted against the starry expanse of the night. From this vantage point, the sprawling urban landscape below spreads out like a living, breathing organism.

"Ah, to see it all burn away, layer by layer," it murmurs, its voice soft, almost wistful.

"And then, on to the next, and the next," it continues. "Each cycle brings renewal. Each destruction births creation. How sublime it is—the endless cycle of decay and rebirth."

The creature takes in the city below, its eyes narrowing as its smile widens. Then, with supernatural speed, it moves. Its form blurs, a streak of dark motion against the lights of the skyline. It leaps effortlessly from building to building, each landing silent despite the immense power it exerts. The chaos below—blaring sirens, distant arguments, and the crackle of nighttime club music— allow it to move unnoticed.

Within moments, the creature arrives at its destination: the apartment complex Obinai once called home. Perched on the roof for a moment, it looks down at the familiar building, the faint glow of windows framing slices of lives untouched by what is approaching. A chuckle escapes its lips...

"Oh, to have loving ties," it muses. "So fragile. So fleeting."

It descends swiftly. Its form blurs again as it lands outside the complex and strides toward the revolving doors with a familiarity.

... ...

Warm light bathes the quiet lobby. The hum of the building's old air conditioner fills the space, a steady, comforting drone. At his desk, Mr. Thompson—a man who's seen decades of tenants come and go—flips idly through a worn magazine. His reading glasses perch low on his nose.

The doors swing open.

A draft curls in first—cold—followed by the creature.

Mr. Thompson glances up, and his face splits into a grin. "Obinai?" He chuckles, squinting. "Jeez, kid, you bleach your hair? Look like one of those rock stars my grandkids yap about." He gestures at the creature's bone-white locs, still smiling, but his fingers tap uneasily against the magazine.

The creature stops. Cocks its head. Golden eyes—glowing, like banked embers—fix on him.

Mr. Thompson's chuckle dies.

Something prickles at the back of his neck. The air feels heavier. The magazine slips from his fingers, hitting the desk with a soft thwap.

"You… feelin' alright, son?" His voice is steady—has to be steady, he's dealt with drunk tenants, screaming matches, even a fire back in '09—but his pulse kicks up. His eyes dart to the creature's arms. Those tattoos weren't there before. And they're… moving.

The creature takes a step forward. Then another. Slow. The floor doesn't creak beneath its weight. It should.

"Mr. Thompson," it purrs, and the voice is wrong—Obinai's, but layered, warped, like two people speaking through the same throat. "Always so kind. Always… trusting."

A smile stretches its lips.

Mr. Thompson's fingers twitch toward the panic button—his palm slick with sweat. His thoughts race:

I've handled worse. Drunks. Junkies. That rabid pitbull in '14 that nearly bit clean through my sleeve. So why—

His pulse hammers against his ribs like a fist on a locked door.

"Obinai," he says, voice steady but his hands betraying him—trembling just slightly. "Whatever's going on, we can fix it. Just—"

The creature tilts its head, the motion too smooth, like a puppet adjusting its strings. "Fix it?" It chuckles—a sound like glass breaking underwater. "Oh, Mr. Thompson. You always did think kindness could sand down every rough edge."

A step closer.

Mr. Thompson's legs refuse to move. Move. MOVE. But his body won't listen.

The creature's grin widens, slow, savoring. "Let me show you something better than right."

It flicks its wrist.

The world distorts—

—and Mr. Thompson's head bursts.

A wet crack, like a melon dropped from a rooftop. Blood mists the air in a fine red spray. Bone fragments skitter across marble. The lobby's warm lighting turns the splatter into a macabre fresco—crimson arcs streaking the walls, dripping down the front desk in thick rivulets.

The headless body sways. Collapses. Hits the ground with a thud that shakes a framed landscape painting askew.

Silence.

Then—drip. Drip.

The creature surveys its work. It steps forward, shoes clicking through the spreading pool of blood. "Hmm," it muses, toeing the corpse's limp hand. "Not so quick with the panic button now, are we?"

Its eyes gleam with satisfaction as it crouches beside the fresh carnage. Blood spreads in a slow, glistening tide across the floor. The creature exhales—a shuddering, almost reverent sound—as it drags blackened fingers through the pooling red.

"Ahhh..." It lifts its hand, watching as thick droplets slide down its fingertips, catching the flickering lobby lights. The scent—copper and salt and fading warmth—makes its pupils dilate. It brings its fingers close, inhales deeply, and for a moment, its eyelids flutter. "Like the first rain after drought," it murmurs.

Then—

a sigh.

"Yet," it says, shaking its head. "such waste. This one cannot be consumed. A pity… a true pity." It wipes its palm across its chest, smearing a ragged crimson stripe over Obinai's faded tee. The fabric drinks it in hungrily.

Standing, it nudges the corpse with its toe. The body lolls, limp. "Pretty, though," it concedes.

The elevator beckons.

The creature strides forward, leaving bloody footprints—each one a dark, wet stamp against the tile. It jabs the call button. The metal crunches under its fingertip, the plastic casing cracking like an eggshell. The elevator dings, doors sliding open with a wheeze.

Inside, the air is stale. Obinai steps in, and the entire cab groans, the cables above creaking in protest. It selects a floor—7—pressing the button slowly. The light flickers.

"Home sweet home," it croons, leaning back against the mirrored wall. Blood smears in an arc where its shoulder touches the surface.

The elevator lurches upward.

Lights stutter. Shadows leap and twist across Obinai's features. Its smile widens as the numbers climb—2... 3... 4...

"Almost there," it whispers, tapping one fingernail against the railing. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Won't Mom be surprised?"

A chuckle. The overhead bulb pops, plunging the cab into darkness for one breathless second—

—then flickers back on.

The elevator dings.

Floor 7.

The doors slide open.

"Oh, to return home," it murmurs, its voice soft and almost nostalgic. "How quaint… and how utterly final."

Somewhere, a dog barks. A television mumbles behind a door.

Obinai tilts its head, listening.

Then it starts walking.

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