Blood spattered against the stone as Masaki staggered back, choking on his own breath. Amatsu's bikaku had torn through his ribs, a vicious wound that made him shudder violently.
"Masakiii—!"
Oyama barely twisted out of the way as Amatsu's tail lashed toward him, the air splitting with a sharp crack. He landed hard, skidding backward, his hands scraping against the rough ground.
Tada wasn't as lucky. Eto's foot slammed into his knee with a wet, ugly crunch. He screamed as his leg bent the wrong way, bone jutting under torn flesh.
Amatsu didn't watch them. His gaze never lingered, never betrayed awareness. His mind was elsewhere, dissecting—analyzing.
The one he impaled was still alive—good. That meant stamina and durability. His tail had punctured the lung but not crushed the heart. A weak ghoul would be writhing, too shocked to function.
These three were vultures.
Scavengers, circling the underground for weakness to exploit. He could smell it in them—the way they flinched, the way their bodies moved. The tension in their muscles, the hesitation in their strikes.
But among them, there had to be a hierarchy.
Who was the strongest?
The smartest?
The leader of the groups?
Higher rank meant more knowledge.
Hunting grounds. Territory disputes. How deep their network went. Who they feared. Who they answered to. If he killed them too efficiently, they might not speak. If he prolonged it, made them feel death creeping inch by inch, their instincts might betray secrets in their desperation to survive.
He flexed his kagune, but it remained its fixed form—two bikaku tails and the grotesque, intestine-like tendril that ended in a gnashing, fanged maw.
It could not shift into something new yet. Could not spawn additional limbs. Could not adjust its range.
That was a limitation.
But limitations existed only for those who failed to exploit them.
His mind moved three steps ahead.
He didn't need to change his shape—he only needed them to believe he could.
A slow shift in posture. A controlled flex of his kagune. The subtle tension in his stance.
Not aggression—potential.
Every flick of his tail, every small step forward, was designed to create uncertainty.
Fear made the weak second-guess.
And second-guessing got you killed.
The silence stretched, thick with tension. The scent of blood filled the cavern, mingling with the damp air.
Masaki was barely clinging on, his body trembling. Tada writhed on the ground, sobbing through gritted teeth, his leg bent at a grotesque angle.
And Oyama… Oyama was still standing.
His Rinkaku pulsed behind him, two serrated whips coiling like vipers, ready to strike. His expression was cold, his stance controlled.
"He's strong."
His instincts were sharp.
A fighter, not a scavenger.
A wolf among the two.
Eto moved first.
A flicker of motion, her form blurring as she lunged low, her foot snapping up toward Oyama's ribs.
He reacted instantly. One Rinkaku shot out, blocking her kick just before impact. The force still sent a tremor through his stance, forcing him back a step.
The other Rinkaku whipped toward her head.
Too fast.
Too direct.
"Predictable."
Eto twisted mid-air, bending like a ragdoll, letting the strike sail past her face by a hair's breadth. She landed smoothly, grinning, her hands raised in mock surrender.
"Ooooh, nice one~" she purred, tilting her head. "But you're gonna have to do better than that."
Oyama didn't answer. He wasn't wasting words.
Good.
Amatsu was already moving.
While Eto kept him engaged, Amatsu closed the gap.
A tail lashed out—not for a direct hit.
For control.
The serrated tip hooked around Oyama's Rinkaku, yanking sideways.
A momentary loss of balance—but that was all he needed.
His second bikaku struck.
Oyama barely managed to twist away, the blade grazing his ribs instead of impaling him outright.
Blood sprayed.
Not deep. But a wound nonetheless.
A wound meant Rc loss.
A wound meant weakening.
Oyama gritted his teeth, exhaling through his nose. His gaze flickered—calculating.
He couldn't afford a drawn-out fight. Not against two opponents.
So he would try to finish this.
His stance shifted. His fingers curled slightly—a tell.
A final, full-power attack.
All or nothing.
He lunged.
Both Rinkaku lashed out—one for Amatsu, one for Eto.
It was fast. His fastest.
A strike meant to kill.
But—
Amatsu had been waiting.
He didn't dodge.
He stepped in.
Oyama's eyes widened—too late.
Amatsu's tendril-mouth snapped open.
Bite. Tear. Rip.
One of Oyama's Rinkaku—gone.
A brutal, wet crunch as Amatsu devoured the severed limb in one motion.
Rc cells flooded his system. Heat spread through his veins.
The momentary surge of power—a rush.
Oyama staggered back, panting.
His regeneration kicked in.
But that was the trap.
Regenerating cost Rc cells.
And he was already bleeding.
Amatsu exhaled.
The scales had tipped.
Oyama knew it.
Eto struck next.
A feint to his right. A pivot. A brutal heel drop to his collarbone.
A crack.
Oyama hit the ground.
His breath came ragged now, his body trembling. His Rc reserves were dipping.
Amatsu stepped forward.
Slow. Measured.
Oyama's hands twitched. He was still trying to think, still trying to find a way out.
Amatsu crouched beside him, his tendril twitching, still slick with blood.
"Time to gain information."
Eto wiped the blood off her hands, looking at the three broken bodies before her. Tada and Masaki lay beside Oyama now, arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles, their breathing ragged. They weren't going anywhere.
She turned to Amatsu, grinning. "Alright, Number. All lined up. Now what?"
Amatsu stepped forward, his voice calm. "Extract information. Gain insight."
Eto's eyes flickered with interest. "Ooooh. About Rc cell counts, huh? Or other things?"
Amatsu nodded once.
She hummed, tapping her chin. "Well, the classics work. Pull their nails out one by one. Maybe beat them until they're half-dead—let their own survival instinct do the talking."
A small smile curled at Amatsu's lips. Not mockery. Not amusement. A quiet, knowing thing.
"You're right," he said. "But also wrong."
Eto blinked. "Huh?"
He didn't explain.
Instead, he took a step forward.
Amatsu shifted his weight slightly. The movement was slow, measured.
Then—
He stomped down.
A brutal, wet rupture.
Tada's dick and balls exploded beneath his heel. Flesh, cartilage, and ruptured testicles burst apart in a sickening spray of blood and crushed tissue. A thick, viscous splatter of gore shot outward, staining the stone beneath him, speckling the place in a mist of red.
Tada's scream wasn't human.
It came out as a garbled, choking shriek—his entire body convulsing violently as raw, nerve-shredding agony tore through him. His spine arched back so hard it looked like it might snap.
"P-PLEASE—!!"
His voice shredded itself, breaking into high-pitched, breathless sobs. He wasn't even screaming anymore. Just a sound—wet, raw, ruined.
Blood had hit them.
Masaki's stomach lurched. His whole body spasmed, a violent, gagging retch that sent bile spilling past his lips. He doubled over, clutching his gut, shaking.
Oyama stood frozen.
Not blank. Not numb.
He was there. Hyper-aware.
The blood was warm where it dotted his face, his arms. Sticky against his lips, the faintest taste of iron on his tongue. The scent of ruptured insides filled his nostrils—thick, organic, suffocating.
His fingers twitched. Every beat of his heart drummed in his ears, in his throat, in the raw spaces between his bones.
Tada's eyes rolled back.
Not dead.
Still there.
His chest still rose, his breath still came, though it was thin, reedy, a wet hitching sound trapped between a gasp and a death rattle. His pupils flickered, spasming in the whites of his eyes, lips trembling with something—pain, horror, the body trying to make sense of its own unmaking.
He convulsed. A full-body twitch. His legs kicked weakly, or at least, the one that could still move. The nerves weren't catching up. He wasn't even aware of where his limbs began and ended anymore.
And through it all—
Amatsu just watched.
Eto stared.
Wide-eyed.
For once, she didn't blink. Didn't smile. Didn't immediately quip back with something teasing or playful.
Her gaze flicked to Tada—the mess that remained of him.
Then back to Amatsu.
Then down at his foot, still planted in what was left of Tada's manhood. Blood pooled around his ankle, steaming slightly in the cold underground air.
A beat of silence.
Then—
A slow, sharp inhale.
Followed by a low whistle.
"Woooooow." Eto dragged out the word, tilting her head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I was thinking, y'know… break their fingers, pull their nails, smash their kneecaps—classic stuff."
She grinned, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Didn't think you'd go straight for the 'obliterate their dicks' route."
She crouched beside the quivering husk of Tada, tapping a finger against her chin. "Man… I almost feel bad for him."
She wasn't looking at Amatsu anymore.
She was studying him.
"How'd that feel?" she asked, voice light. "I mean, not for him—obviously he's having the worst day of his life." She laughed. "But for you? That kinda power in your hands… the way he screamed… was it nice?"
Her tone was playful.
But her eyes were sharp.
Testing. Measuring.
Wanting to see if he'd smile.
Amatsu lifted his foot off the ruined pulp of Tada's crotch.
A wet, sickening schlck as it peeled away from flesh and bone.
Tada's breath came in choked, broken sobs. His eyes had rolled back, body twitching uncontrollably. Shock was setting in. He wouldn't last much longer.
Amatsu ignored him.
His gaze settled on Oyama.
Calm. Empty. The kind of look that made the remaining scraps of fight in Oyama shrivel inside him.
"So," Amatsu said, his voice level, "first question."
A slight shift of his weight. His foot hovered just near Oyama's crotch.
"How strong are you? If we were talking in terms of hierarchy… where do you stand in the Vultures?"
A simple question.
But Oyama stiffened.
His mouth opened, then closed. His lips trembled. The gears in his mind turned furiously, searching for an answer that wouldn't get him killed.
Then, at last, he exhaled.
And laughed.
A breathless, hopeless little chuckle.
"We—" His voice broke. He swallowed hard and tried again. "We don't have ranks."
Amatsu tilted his head.
"Not in Vultures," Oyama clarified, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't even count in Vultures."
He wasn't lying.
Amatsu could smell it—the raw, naked truth leaking from him.
Oyama's shoulders trembled. Not from pain. Not from rage.
From knowing.
From understanding something worse than what was happening here.
"There are many stronger than us," he admitted, his voice hollow. "We're just—" His breath hitched. "Just pawns."
Amatsu said nothing.
A pawn.
Disposable.
A body before a name.
Amatsu exhaled, slow and measured.
His gaze bore into Oyama—flat, expectant. Waiting.
"You don't count in Vultures." His voice carried no emotion, just acknowledgment. "That means you don't know much."
Oyama flinched, but didn't argue.
"But you still hear things," Amatsu continued, tilting his head slightly. His kagune twitched—subtle, deliberate. A reminder.
Oyama swallowed. "Y-Yes."
"Then let's see if you've heard this."
His foot shifted slightly—barely an inch closer.
Oyama's whole body tensed.
"Do the Vultures know about me?"
Silence.
Oyama's breathing hitched.
Sweat dripped down his temple. His gaze flickered—left, right, as if searching for something that wasn't there.
"I—"
He hesitated. Too long.
Amatsu's expression didn't change.
His foot hovered.
"I don't know," Oyama blurted out. "I swear, I don't—"
The foot lowered, just a fraction.
A breath away.
Oyama twitched like a dying insect.
Then his words spilled.
"I don't know if they know about you specifically!" His voice was rising now, cracking. "I haven't heard a name—I haven't heard anything about you—"
Amatsu's eyes narrowed slightly.
Not good enough.
"But—" Oyama's voice trembled. He was grasping at something, anything. "But I did hear something."
He licked his lips. His hands twitched, fingers curling weakly.
"One of the higher ranks…" His breath shuddered. "They were hunting a kid."
Amatsu stilled.
Oyama saw it—the realization sinking in.
His lips parted, horror creeping into his gaze.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"...It's you."