[Eight years ago, Recess]

  All the kids were playing together with games of tag, soccer, or random activities whose rules changed every five minutes based on whoever was winning.

  Takeda stood alone by the fence, watching the chaos unfold before him. He was bigger than everyone else, taller by half a head and broader across the shoulders. His hands looked adult-sized compared to the other children's, with thick fingers and wide palms that seemed designed for holding tools or weapons rather than toys.

  "Can I play?" he asked quietly.

  Three kids turned and looked him up and down with the casual cruelty children perfected before they learned to hide it.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  The tallest kid, a boy named Hiroshi who thought being class representative made him important, crossed his arms with authority.

  "You're too big. You'll hurt someone."

  "I won't—"

  "My mom said I can't play with you." Another kid backed away, putting distance between them like Takeda was contagious. "She said you're dangerous."

  "I'm not dangerous—"

  "You're dumb too," a third voice added. This one belonged to a girl who always got perfect scores, and she said it matter-of-factly, stating what she considered an observable truth. "You failed the reading test twice."

  Laughter erupted around him—not mean laughter exactly, just the reflexive sound children made when someone confirmed what they'd all been thinking.

  Takeda walked away before the tears started, making it to the bathroom where he locked himself in a stall. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal door and let the tears come silently while his shoulders shook and his fists clenched so hard his nails cut crescents into his palms.

  ***

  [Same day, evening]

  His mother was in the kitchen making dinner when he arrived. The apartment was small, with one bedroom they shared, a living space barely large enough for a couch and TV, and a kitchen where you couldn't open the refrigerator if someone was standing at the stove.

  His father had left before Takeda could remember him. There were no photos, no stories, just an empty space where other kids had "dad."

  "Hi, sweetie." His mother smiled when she heard the door. She always smiled when she saw him. "How was school?"

  "Good."

  The lie came automatically now.

  "Make any friends?"

  "Yeah," Takeda said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. "Lots."

  The lie tasted like ash in his mouth, but his mother hugged him anyway. She was the only person who didn't flinch when he got close, the only person who looked at him and saw a child instead of something wrong, something dangerous, something to be avoided.

  Her arms were thin from working double shifts and skipping meals to make sure he ate, but they felt safe around him.

  "I'm proud of you," she said into his hair.

  Then he went to their shared bedroom, where his futon was already laid beside hers, closed the door quietly, and lay face-down on the mattress.

  And cried.

  Why can't I make friends? Why was I born dumb?

  No answer came, just the sound of his mother cooking dinner in the next room, humming to herself, unaware that her son was drowning five feet away.

  ***

  [The night before the Harvesting Game, Arata's apartment]

  2:47 AM

  Arata sat at his desk with his laptop glowing in the darkness, his eyes burning from staring at the screen for six hours straight. The cursor blinked, waiting.

  The chat window was still open.

  Anonymous_Piggy_991: that's all i got

  Anonymous_Piggy_991: payment first

  Arata looked at his bank account, and the number stared back at him: ￥3,847 remaining until the end of the month.

  He transferred ￥3,000.

  Fuck.

  The number dropped to ￥847, leaving him with enough for rice and maybe some eggs if he stretched it carefully, buying the cheapest ones from the discount bin at the convenience store. No meat, no vegetables, no protein beyond whatever he could scrounge—just carbs and hoping his body didn't give out before month's end.

  But the information was worth it. It had to be.

  Anonymous_Piggy_991 claimed to be a spectator who'd survived the Harvesting Game twice. The claim felt impossible. Why would someone return knowingly to such a place? What kind of desperation or stupidity drove a person back into proven hell?

  But Arata had nothing else—no other leads, no other sources, no family connections or inherited knowledge or anything except scattered rumors and this one anonymous contact selling information for cash.

  The guy's details had checked out so far, with dates aligning with news reports and descriptions matching eyewitness accounts. Small details that you couldn't fake unless you'd really been there.

  And one particular piece of information had captured all of Arata's attention, making him forget about the money entirely: Third edition had a sacrifice game. You had to choose someone on your team to die. Solo players got eliminated quickly.

  Five words that changed everything—this he couldn't do alone.

  Arata stared at the screen for a long time as the cursor blinked once per second, marking time he didn't have. Then he opened his contacts and scrolled past empty spaces where family should have been, past classmates he'd never spoken to, past teachers who'd written him off.

  He found Takeda's number.

  His finger hovered over the message button for thirty seconds without moving.

  It's just strategy, he told himself. Insurance. A contingency plan that probably won't even be needed.

  He pressed the button and started typing.

  ***

  [Next morning, Text message]

  Arata: hey bro, bet you don't have enough balls to skip school tomorrow.

  The message sat there for three minutes before the reply came.

  Takeda: what? do you know who I am? big takeda ain't scared to skip school. what did u plan to do?

  Arata smiled despite himself. Takeda was so predictable. Challenge his courage and he'd follow you anywhere.

  Arata: tell you tomorrow. meet me at the corner of the old warehouse at 12

  Takeda: ??

  Arata stared at the thumbs-up emoji for a long time. Such a simple gesture, cheerful and trusting, the kind of response you gave to friends when they asked for help with no questions needed.

  Friends.

  He set his phone down and went back to planning. Everything had to go smoothly. Every variable accounted for, every contingency mapped. He'd spent six hours building a decision tree in his head—if X happens, do Y; if Y fails, switch to Z; if Z proves impossible, abandon and extract.

  It was clean, logical, and efficient, including the branch where Takeda didn't make it out.

  It's necessary, Arata told himself as he pulled up a map of the warehouse district and marked potential entry points. If there's a sacrifice game, I need someone expendable. Someone who won't be missed.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Someone whose disappearance wouldn't trigger investigations or questions or uncomfortable attention.

  Takeda was the perfect target. He was lonely, irrelevant, and invisible despite trying so hard to be noticed. No one would miss him or ask questions if he disappeared, and his academic failures meant even teachers had given up on him. In Arata's calculations, Takeda was exactly what he needed—someone expendable with no one who cared enough to investigate.

  The logic was perfect and airtight, and the guilt was manageable.

  He'd deal with it later, after Mika was safe, after he'd won, after he'd proven that his planning and preparation and willingness to make hard choices had been worth it.

  It's just strategy, he told himself.

  ***

  [Present, The warehouse]

  "You're lucky."

  The Reaper's voice cut through Arata's shock, cold and clinical like someone stating facts rather than expressing emotions.

  "You know, I feel bad." He stepped over Takeda's body without looking down. "I was like him before."

  Blood pooled around his boots as Takeda's life spread across the concrete, following microscopic cracks in the floor.

  "BEFORE I REALIZED PIECES OF SHIT LIKE YOU EXIST."

  The Reaper dashed forward as white energy exploded from his body. The distance vanished. His scythe spun so fast it screamed, the sound doppler-shifting as it cut through air.

  Arata released the two scythes crushing his hands, and they collided with each other in a deafening clang of metal shrieking. They shattered into fragments that sprayed across the warehouse floor in a cascade of broken steel.

  He dodged right as the Reaper's scythe missed by inches.

  He's right.

  The thought cut deeper than any blade. The Reaper's words had truly hit their mark.

  He knew, and he was absolutely right.

  Arata had used Takeda, brought him here as insurance, as a spare part to be sacrificed if the game demanded it. A tool, an expendable piece to be moved and discarded when convenient.

  Just like the Reaper had been used by his sister's husband, just like Genda had been used by the Harbor Group, just like every person in this warehouse had been used by someone with more power and less conscience.

  The cycle perpetuated itself with victims becoming victimizers, the used becoming users, prey learning to hunt.

  And Arata had told himself he was different, had convinced himself that his cold logic and careful planning made him better, smarter, more worthy of survival than people like Takeda who trusted too easily and cared too much.

  Pieces of shit like you.

  Yeah.

  The Reaper advanced while spinning his chained scythe in perfect circles, building momentum and preparing for the kill.

  At this moment, Arata expected the Reaper to close distance and engage in melee combat—standard tactic, logical progression from the pattern they'd established.

  He couldn't be more wrong.

  As the Reaper entered what Arata considered the close combat zone—the three-meter bubble where fists and blades were more effective than ranged weapons—he threw his scythe at full speed.

  Point-blank range with no warning, no telegraph, just instant acceleration from zero to lethal velocity in the space where Arata's guard was optimized for blocking strikes, not catching projectiles.

  Arata had miscalculated.

  The throw shouldn't have been possible.

  A scythe of that size and weight, accelerated to lethal velocity from a standing position without any wind-up or rotation—it defied biomechanics. Even masters with a century of training couldn't generate that kind of instantaneous force through pure physical motion.

  But the Reaper wasn't relying on muscles or technique. His metal manipulation had done the work, launching the blade with the same force as a coilgun and bypassing every physical limitation that constrained normal fighters. The weapon had gone from zero to lethal in the time it took neurons to fire.

  Arata's brain screamed warnings, but his body was already committed to the wrong defense. All he could do was bring his arms up and reinforce desperately.

  SHHHHRRRIIIIIKKK

  The sound was horrific as metal carved through reinforced flesh like an industrial saw through wood. The spinning scythe bit deep into both forearms, the blade's rotation working against his reinforcement.

  Blood exploded—not sprayed but exploded as pressure from severed arteries sent it outward in patterns that painted the ground.

  The force drove Arata backward and lifted his feet off the ground again. The scythe kept spinning and cutting, sliding him across the warehouse floor like he was on rails while friction between blade and bone sent up sparks.

  Fifteen feet, twenty, thirty—finally it stopped.

  Arata collapsed with his arms hanging useless, both forearms carved open to the bone. White fragments were visible through the red while blood poured onto the concrete in pulsing rivers that followed his heartbeat.

  Fuck... I'm bleeding hard.

  The Reaper withdrew his scythe, and the blade came free with a wet sound. It glowed pale blue now—Kikyōtetsu metal, the cursed iron that fed on blood, satisfied and hungry for more.

  No hesitation, no pause, no dramatic monologue—he threw again.

  The scythe spun through the air and built speed, its horrible whistle growing louder as it carved spiral patterns through the atmosphere.

  "See you."

  Two words—dismissive and final.

  ***

  Arata didn't move as the blade approached, death coming in a spinning arc of cursed metal that had tasted his blood and wanted more. He just stopped—not physically because his body was still there, still bleeding, still technically alive, but something inside had stopped.

  I don't deserve to live.

  The thought was quiet, certain, and strangely peaceful.

  At first, the only thing I had in mind was using him for a sacrifice game. Then I decided to eliminate him after the game—along with all the spectators—because he'd learned my status as a Candidate. I never saw him as a friend, just another piece on the board, another tool to be used and discarded.

  The scythe screamed closer, rotating so fast it warped the air around it.

  Just like the Reaper said. Pieces of shit like me.

  The blade reached him and flew over his head, missing completely.

  The Reaper had failed again.

  Arata stared at the ground as blood dripped from his ruined arms, pooling around his knees. Each drop hit the concrete with a sound like a ticking clock, marking the seconds he had left.

  A single thought cut through the guilt and resignation:

  Fuck. I hate weak people.

  His fists clenched, and pain screamed through his shredded forearms—white-hot agony as torn muscles contracted and exposed nerves fired protests his brain couldn't ignore.

  He didn't care.

  Energy exploded from his body—not white like the Reaper's Aura of accumulated souls and stolen power, but black.

  Thick and viscous like ink bleeding through reality itself, seeping from his pores in ribbons that coiled and condensed. It flowed around Arata's body in patterns that defied physics, moving against gravity and creating shapes that hurt to look at directly.

  The Reaper withdrew his scythe instinctively as every combat instinct he'd honed over ten years screamed warnings.

  Kuroda Shigure felt true hostility—not anger or rage, but something colder and more absolute. The kind of killing intent that came from someone who'd stopped caring about consequences.

  "What—What is that?"

  The black energy concentrated around Arata's right fist, swirling and compressing, becoming something tangible that existed in the space between energy and matter.

  The air around his hand warped.

  Arata's voice came out flat, dead, and certain.

  "Kokujutsu · Dai-ichi : Chokugeki (Black Art 1: Straight)"

  "What is this black energy??"

  Arata moved with one step, then two. The world seemed to slow, or maybe he was moving too fast for normal perception to track. His right fist cocked back with black energy swirling around knuckles that shouldn't be able to punch anything in his condition.

  The Reaper raised his guard with both arms crossed and scythe held horizontal, every defense he possessed activated simultaneously. His metal manipulation flooded the weapon, reinforcing it beyond normal limits.

  It didn't matter.

  Arata's fist went through his guard and connected with his stomach.

  BAM

  The shockwave rippled outward in visible rings as concrete cracked in spiderwebs spreading from the impact point. The air itself distorted while pressure waves made the warehouse's metal walls groan.

  The Reaper's body launched backward like a missile, crashing through a support pillar as metal shrieked and bent, the structural integrity compromised in an instant. He embedded himself in the far wall.

  Silence fell as dust settled in slow-motion patterns illuminated by the warehouse's failing lights.

  The Reaper hung in the crater with blood pouring from his mouth in a steady stream. His jaw was broken with bone visible through torn cheek, and his abdomen showed a massive bruise that was already turning black, spreading outward from the impact point like spilled ink.

  Something inside him was broken badly—organs ruptured, internal bleeding, damage that couldn't be fixed with reinforcement or willpower.

  Arata stood in the center of the warehouse with his right fist still overflowing with black energy that swirled around his knuckles like living shadow. The ruined state of his forearms didn't matter anymore. Pain didn't matter, blood loss didn't matter.

  Only the power mattered.

  Black Art—an advanced martial technique transmitted through the Kuroryu Clan across generations. It wasn't simple energy manipulation. Any Candidate with enough votes could reinforce their body and channel power through their limbs.

  This was different.

  This was manifestation—the highest level of mastery, the final evolution where internal energy became external reality and the boundary between self and power dissolved completely.

  Only three people in the last century had mastered it.

  Arata was the fourth and the youngest by decades.

  ***

  The Reaper coughed as blood splattered across his chest, adding new stains to the ones already there. His vision swam with edges darkening as his body struggled to keep vital systems functioning despite catastrophic damage.

  How... he's as strong as a five-thousand-vote Candidate...

  The math didn't work. One thousand votes couldn't produce this level of power. It violated every rule the Reaper had learned in ten years of harvesting, every principle he'd observed about how votes translated to strength.

  Unless votes weren't the only variable.

  "Before you kill me..." Blood spurted from his mouth with each word, making speech difficult. "Just tell me..."

  He forced his eyes to focus despite the agony, to really look at the boy standing before him and radiating power that defied everything he understood about how the world worked.

  "Who are you?"

  Arata stood motionless as black energy still flowed around his fist—not flames, not quite liquid, not solid, but something in between that existed in the gaps between states of matter and followed rules that had nothing to do with physics.

  His eyes met the Reaper's—empty, cold, absolute.

  No words came, no explanation, no boasting, no mercy.

  Just silence.

  The Reaper understood that Arata didn't owe him anything—not even an answer, not even acknowledgment that he existed.

  Kuroda Shigure closed his eyes and thought of his sister, of Genda, of all the people he'd harvested over ten years while feeding an entity he'd never truly understood.

  He exhaled one last time.

  And let go.

  The warehouse fell silent except for the sound of blood dripping and the distant screams of spectators still dying to scythes.

  Arata stood alone in the center of it all as black energy slowly faded from his fist.

  And felt nothing.