[Kuroda Shigure's POV — 10 years ago]

  Takahashi moved first, his aura exploding outward and filling the circus tent with pressure that made the air itself feel heavy. The spectators behind him screamed and scattered, scrambling toward the tent's far corners while Genda shifted his stance with his knife held low and ready.

  I stepped back to give them space, and the other players did the same, forming a loose circle around the two men like spectators at a gladiator match they hadn't paid to see.

  Takahashi's hand moved to his waist, pulling free a katana that gleamed under the tent's dim lighting.

  "I won't let you hurt them," he said quietly.

  Genda didn’t answer. He moved with clear military precision, every step controlled. In seconds, he closed the gap, his knife cutting upward in a sharp arc meant to force Takahashi’s guard high.

  Takahashi blocked easily, blade meeting blade with a sharp ring of metal on metal. They separated and circled while Genda feinted left, then drove forward with a straight thrust aimed at Takahashi's ribs.

  Takahashi deflected the strike with barely any movement, his own blade snapping forward in a sharp counter that forced Genda back.

  Steel clashed against steel as they traded slashes for five brutal seconds—blade striking blade in a blur of sparks and sharp impacts.

  When they finally broke apart, Genda was breathing hard while Takahashi looked completely calm.

  "You're skilled," Takahashi acknowledged. "But you're not a Candidate."

  He moved again, faster this time with his aura flaring brighter. Genda blocked the first strike, then the second, but the third drove him back a step and the fourth sent his knife spinning from his hand, clattering across the ground.

  Takahashi's blade stopped an inch from Genda's throat.

  "Stand down," he said.

  Genda stared at him, chest heaving and weaponless.

  ***

  One of the other players shouted, "Fuck this!" and I turned to see the man with the metal pipe charging toward the huddled spectators with his weapon raised and his face twisted with desperation.

  "I need points!" he screamed.

  Two others followed him, then three more, then the rest as the dam broke. Players flooded toward the spectators like water finding cracks in a wall while the spectators scattered, running and screaming, climbing over tent supports and ducking behind bleachers.

  Chaos erupted, and Kuroda moved.

  ***

  He watched himself move, detached, as though observing someone else wearing his skin. His body knew what to do and had always known—it just needed permission. He stopped suppressing the strength he'd been holding back since awakening as a Candidate, the power he'd kept restrained to avoid drawing attention, and it flooded through his limbs like a dam breaking.

  It felt terrifying and liberating at the same time.

  The first player reached a fallen woman with his pipe raised high, but Kuroda's hand caught the pipe mid-swing. The metal crumpled in his grip like paper, twisted, and bone cracked as the player screamed. An elbow to the temple dropped him unconscious before he hit the ground.

  "That’s one," Kuroda whispered.

  The second player turned with eyes wide and his weapon half-raised, but he was too slow. Kuroda's fist connected with his jaw and the sound of breaking bone echoed through the tent as his head snapped back at an unnatural angle. A knee to the stomach folded him like a puppet with cut strings, and another knee drove upward into his face as he bent forward.

  Blood sprayed everywhere as he collapsed. "Two."

  Three players charged together with weapons raised, trying to overwhelm through numbers. "Get him!" one shouted.

  Kuroda moved between them like smoke, delivering a palm strike to the first one's throat that crushed his windpipe. He went down choking and clawing at his neck while Kuroda caught the second one's wrist, twisted until something snapped, then drove the man's own knife into the third player's chest. He released, spun, and delivered an elbow to the temple of the second player.

  Both dropped immediately. "Five."

  "What the hell?!" someone screamed from across the tent. "How is he so strong?!"

  "You said he was a Candidate!" another voice shouted in panic. "You should have killed him."

  Five more came at once, surrounding him and coordinating their attacks from all sides, but it didn't matter. Kuroda flowed through their strikes like water finding gaps in stone with every movement precise and calculated. He broke an arm here—the crack audible even over the screaming—shattered a knee there with a single kick, drove a stolen weapon into a stomach, and grabbed another player by the throat, squeezing until something gave way with a wet crunch.

  They fell around him. "Ten."

  Two more rushed him together with desperation overriding survival instinct. Kuroda caught the first one's head between his hands and twisted sharply, the neck breaking with a sound like snapping wood.

  The second player skidded to a halt with eyes wide with recognition and horror—it was the man with the dreads.

  "Wait, wait, bro—" he stammered, hands raised, backing away. "We're cool, right? I saved you, remember? Didn't let them throw you off—"

  Kuroda walked toward him slowly.

  "Bro, come on!" The man's voice cracked. "It's me! I kept you alive! We were on the same team!"

  Kuroda's expression didn't change—cold and empty. "Same team?" he repeated quietly.

  The man nodded frantically. "Yeah, yeah! Same team, bro! We survived together, right?"

  "You knocked me out," Kuroda said, still walking forward. "Threw an innocent man off the platform while I couldn't stop you."

  "That—that was different, man! That was the game! We had to—"

  The man's back hit the tent wall with nowhere left to run.

  "Please, bro, I was just trying to survive, same as you—"

  Kuroda's hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground effortlessly. The man's feet kicked uselessly while his hands clawed at Kuroda's arm.

  "You made a choice," Kuroda said, voice completely flat. "Now I'm making mine."

  "Ple—please—" the man choked out, tears streaming down his face. "I'm—I'm sorry—"

  Kuroda's grip tightened as the man's eyes bulged and his face turned purple, his struggles becoming weaker. Kuroda watched him die with the same detached interest someone might show watching paint dry.

  When the body finally went limp, Kuroda dropped it. "Twelve."

  When Kuroda finally stopped, the tent floor was covered in bodies with twelve players scattered across the ground, some groaning weakly, most completely still. The spectators stared from their corners, trembling, not understanding what they'd just witnessed but relieved that someone had protected them.

  The boy looked up at the screen:

  Kuroda Shigure — -60

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  He stared at the number for a long moment.

  "Minus sixty, huh."

  Then his gaze shifted to the spectators who were huddled together in small groups—families clutching each other, strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder for comfort. They looked at him with wide eyes, grateful but uncertain.

  The boy studied them the way a wolf studies sheep, and something changed in his expression, something cold and empty that made every person in that tent take an unconscious step backward. The air itself seemed to chill.

  One man—younger, braver or more desperate than the rest—shouted suddenly, "Fuck this! He's going to kill us anyway! He's just like the others—he wants the points for himself!"

  He grabbed a metal bat from the ground and lunged at the boy with his weapon raised high. Kuroda didn't move until the last second, then his fist shot forward and pierced through the man's stomach, punching clean through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed as the man's eyes went wide and his mouth opened in a silent scream.

  The boy pulled his fist back slowly, letting the body drop, and he didn't even look at it. His eyes stayed fixed on the spectators, cold and unblinking.

  They stared back at him, and despite everything he'd just done to save them, despite the players he'd eliminated to protect them, they looked at him like he was the worst scum who'd ever lived. Like he was a monster.

  The look in their eyes triggered something—a memory of his classmates and their faces when he'd asked for votes, the way they'd turned away, avoiding his gaze, whispering to each other when they thought he couldn't hear.

  He'd always told himself they were just cautious and practical, that they didn't know him well enough yet. But his brain had been lying to protect him from unnecessary suffering because deep down, he'd always known the truth.

  Nobody liked him. They were jealous, full of hatred, resentful of what he could become.

  Kuroda understood it now with perfect clarity—that's how things needed to be. Predator and prey, winners and the jealous.

  Without realizing it, he started moving toward them.

  "Get back!" one man shouted, pulling his family behind him with his voice cracking with terror. "Don't approach us!"

  Another pointed a shaking finger at Kuroda, who was approaching him slowly. "It—it's the Reaper! We're all going to die!"

  The name echoed through the tent.

  The Reaper.

  The spectators scattered, running in all directions, scrambling over bleachers and tent supports, desperate to put distance between themselves and the boy who'd saved them.

  Annoying, Kuroda thought as he dashed forward.

  ***

  Genda's blade clashed against Takahashi's katana with the metallic ring echoing through the circus tent. They separated, both breathing hard as blood dripped from Genda's arm—a deep cut from Takahashi's earlier strike—while Takahashi's cheek bore a superficial scratch, barely more than a line of red against his skin.

  They circled each other with weapons raised when suddenly both men froze as a chill ran down their spines simultaneously—primal and instinctive. Something was wrong.

  They turned their heads toward the chaos behind them, toward the screaming that had suddenly stopped, and their eyes met. A silent agreement passed between them as they lowered their weapons and ran.

  What they found made them both stop dead. Bodies everywhere—players scattered across the tent floor like broken dolls with limbs bent at unnatural angles and blood pooling beneath them. And among them, the spectators, families, children. All dead.

  The boy was nowhere to be seen.

  "Even the kids..." Genda whispered, his voice hollow.

  He turned to Takahashi, his earlier resolve crumbling. "We don't have to fight anymore, do we?"

  Takahashi stared at the carnage with his blade hanging loose in his grip. "I agree."

  Genda was quiet for a moment, then something shifted in his expression. "You know what? I'm dead anyway. I'd rather die fighting than executed by those fucking blades."

  Takahashi didn't respond immediately because he understood what Genda was asking for—what he needed. An honorable death.

  Takahashi raised his blade, eyes meeting Genda's with respect, then dashed forward with his katana ready to cut him down.

  Genda smiled despite the pain radiating through his body. "Let's do this, old man."

  ***

  Kuroda walked through the empty carnival grounds, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Blood covered his clothes, his hands, his face. He moved with purpose, searching.

  The screen above flickered:

  Kuroda Shigure — 38

  Even with the negative sixty points penalty from killing players, he'd still accumulated nearly four times the amount needed to pass.

  "Well, well, WELL!"

  The presenter emerged from the shadows with that same malicious grin plastered across his face, hopping from foot to foot in his grotesque little dance.

  "What a PERFORMANCE!" he shouted, clapping. "Thirty-eight points! Magnificent!"

  He walked closer, studying Kuroda with gleaming eyes. "Though I must say, it's such a shame you didn't leave enough survivors for your friend." His grin widened. "You got greedy, didn't you? Took a taste of real pleasure and couldn't stop yourself. That beautiful, selfish hunger."

  He gestured dramatically. "Now poor Genda is going to die because of you, you little greedy boy."

  Kuroda stared at him—calm and cold. He wasn't there to argue, he was there to end things.

  Kuroda moved fast, and the presenter's smile turned vicious as his hand dove into his suit, pulling out five small spheres. Bombs. He threw them directly at Kuroda.

  The explosions hit in rapid succession with fire, smoke, and concussive force throwing debris everywhere. When the smoke cleared, Kuroda stood in the center of the blast radius—burned, bloodied, but standing.

  Something had changed in him during the massacre, something fundamental had broken and reformed into something else entirely. He'd watched himself kill from a distance, as though his body belonged to someone else, operated by instincts he didn't recognize as his own.

  The detachment remained even now as he observed his own actions with clinical precision, noting how his muscles moved, how his breathing stayed controlled despite the pain. It was as though the boy named Kuroda Shigure had stepped outside himself and couldn't find the way back in, or perhaps didn't want to.

  His hair—once black—had begun to change during the fight, the white spreading through like winter frost, stained red at the tips with blood that wouldn't wash out no matter how hard he tried later. A physical manifestation of what he'd become: The Reaper.

  The presenter's smile finally died when he saw Kuroda still standing. "Impossible—"

  Kuroda crossed the distance in an instant.

  ***

  The presenter was pinned to the wall with limbs crushed at unnatural angles and eyes staring sightlessly at nothing. Dead.

  Kuroda walked past the corpse without looking at it, moving toward the center of the room where a thick metallic chain hung from the ceiling—older and heavier than the others, half-hidden in shadow.

  He grabbed it and pulled, and something clanged overhead. A metal box descended on secondary cables, swinging slightly as it lowered, and hit the ground with a heavy thud.

  Kuroda knelt beside it, found the latch, and pulled it open. Inside was a briefcase—black leather, classy, with the combination lock already open.

  He lifted the lid to reveal stacks of glowing cards filling the interior, each one pulsing with faint light. Vote cards. Hundreds of them. One thousand votes. The prize.

  Kuroda closed the briefcase and stood, carrying it with him as he walked back toward the circus tent.

  ***

  When he arrived, he found Genda slumped against the wall, barely conscious with blood soaking through his clothes from multiple wounds. His breathing was shallow and ragged while Takahashi stood over him with his blade raised for a finishing blow.

  Even with all his combat experience, Genda had been no match since a weak Candidate still remained stronger than a simple voter. The gap in power was insurmountable.

  Takahashi began his downward swing, but Kuroda moved and his hand shot out to catch Takahashi's wrist mid-strike, stopping the blade inches from Genda's throat.

  "Drop it," Kuroda said coldly.

  Takahashi's head snapped toward him with eyes wide with shock. How did this boy become so strong? What happened during his fight with Genda?

  Then understanding dawned. The winner of the game was supposed to receive one thousand votes, but the game wasn't supposed to be over yet, was it? Unless the boy had somehow ended it himself.

  How?

  Genda spoke then, voice weak and rasping. "One thousand and sixty-one votes, huh?" He coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. "You already had a nice amount at the beginning of the game. Heh."

  They could see the new number displayed on Kuroda's back now, glowing faintly in the dim light.

  1061 votes.

  Kuroda tightened his grip, crushing Takahashi's wrist as bone cracked and the blade fell from nerveless fingers.

  He released him.

  Takahashi stumbled backward, cradling his broken wrist and staring at Kuroda like he was looking at something inhuman.

  "What will you do now?" Takahashi asked quietly. "You've already killed all those innocents."

  He paused. "They trusted me with their lives… I failed in my duty."

  He moved suddenly, snatching up his blade with his other hand, and Kuroda didn't react. He simply watched, understanding what was coming through the look in Takahashi's eyes.

  Seppuku.

  Takahashi turned the blade inward and drove it into his stomach in one smooth motion, falling forward dead before he hit the ground.

  Kuroda turned back to Genda, who was barely conscious now with his breathing shallow.

  "Take care of my son," he whispered.

  Kuroda didn't respond and just knelt down, slipped his arms under Genda, and lifted him carefully onto his back.

  They began walking toward the exit.

  "Since when..." Genda murmured against Kuroda's shoulder. "Since when did your hair turn white?"

  Kuroda didn't answer.

  "You should wash it," Genda continued weakly. "The blood at the tips. Makes it look dirty."

  They moved slowly through the wreckage and the bodies with the exit just ahead, the night air visible through the tent flaps. Finally, the nightmare would end.

  Then the pressure hit—massive, overwhelming, crushing. Kuroda's knees buckled and he dropped to one knee, struggling to keep Genda from falling as every muscle in his body screamed. The air itself felt solid, pressing down with impossible weight that made his bones creak.

  Footsteps echoed through the tent—slow, measured, unhurried.

  Someone was coming.