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Chapter 4 - Tool of Oblivion

Two voices carried in the dimness before Clay stirred.

"Maybe we should let the elders see it first," a girl murmured. Her tone was unsure, almost pleading. "They might know how to pull it out without harming him."

A boy's reply came steady, dismissive. "Naira, we both know that's very unlike them."

The girl huffed. "Then what about Sensei? He can talk to them. He always does."

The boy shifted in his chair, the sound of fabric brushing against wood. In the faint light, his dark attire caught the eye—black, form-fitting, with a torn gap across his chest. The wound had long since scarred, pale tissue sealed over what must once have been a fatal hole.

"That would be our best bet," he admitted, rubbing at his temple. "But until then… we exhaust every option we have to get the tool out ourselves."

Naira exhaled, reluctant but yielding, and nodded.

That was when Clay's eyelids fluttered. A sting jabbed his head, sharp enough to draw a wince. He blinked hard, the blurred world around him resolving into two shapes leaning close.

"He's waking up," Naira whispered. She slid a chair closer, her braid slipping over her shoulder as she sat down, eyes fixed on him. Her voice softened. "Good morning… sorry about earlier."

Clay's throat was dry, his words rough. "What… happened?"

"You hit your head," the boy answered. His gaze was steady, but his tone careful, like someone easing into bad news. "My sister tried to pull that sword out of your chest."

The words hit like cold water. Clay's hand shot to his sternum. There it was—jagged metal, protruding clean through him, impossibly without blood.

His confusion spiked into panic. "Why do I even have a sword in my chest to begin with—?"

But before the sentence could finish, his mind convulsed. Memories crashed back—the faceless thing, its gnashing spiral of mouths, the horrible pull as if his soul had been unraveled. His chest constricted. He was there again, screaming silently while that emptiness hollowed him out.

Clay jolted back to reality, breath ragged, sweat beading on his forehead. "The monster…" His eyes darted around the strange, starless space. "I remember it… and then—nothing. I feel so empty." He faced the pair, desperation sharp in his voice. "Someone please—tell me what's going on."

Brother and sister traded a glance. Naira nudged her head toward her brother. "You explain."

The boy sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "We've met before. You probably don't remember—grocery boy."

Clay squinted, trying to place him. Then it clicked. "The cemetery. You two…"

The boy nodded. "That's right. But last time was business. Let's introduce ourselves properly. I'm Shoto." He gestured to his side. "This is my sister, Naira."

She raised a hand with a small smile.

Shoto's voice grew heavier. "We're reapers."

Clay blinked. "You're… what now?"

"Basically," Naira jumped in, "we hunt monsters like the one you saw."

The words made Clay shiver, but he kept listening, feeling something more was buried beneath their calmness. His eyes flicked to the blade jutting from his chest. "And what does that have to do with this?"

Shoto's mouth curved grimly. "We'll get there."

He straightened in his seat, tone sharpening. "Our work isn't just killing creatures. We deal with things that upset the balance—the supernatural. Objects, curses, tools that tear holes in people's lives." His gaze held Clay's. "Just like your situation."

He paused, nodding toward his sister. "Except yours… is different. Naira can explain better."

Naira stood slowly, her hand settling on the hilt of the sword lodged in Clay's chest. The contact made him flinch.

"This isn't just any sword," she said softly. "It's one of the Seven Forbidden Tools. Legend says if all seven are ever brought together, the Gates of Hades will bare their fangs to our world."

Her eyes darkened. "Our society's mission is to make sure that never happens. That's why you're bound here. That's why you may never return to your normal life."

Clay swallowed hard, staring at the black steel impaling him. "Can't you just… pull it out?"

Naira's lips pressed thin. She shook her head. "We tried. The tool has claimed you. It's chosen you as its carrier. And the only way to separate you from it…"

"…is to kill you," Shoto finished flatly.

The weight of those words crushed the air from Clay's chest. His eyes dropped, shadows swimming under his lashes.

Shoto leaned back, trying to temper the sharpness. "This place is a pocket dimension. No one outside even knows what's happening here—not even our higher-ups. That buys us time. Time to look for another way, to save you from getting dragged into this world."

Naira added gently, "We'll try our best. Your family must be worried sick already—"

But Clay cut her off, the words catching. "…I don't have anyone anymore."

The silence was colder than the void surrounding them. For a moment, the siblings said nothing.

Clay stared at the floor, voice breaking low. "Why am I so scared of dying, then? Why should you waste your effort? I don't have a life to go back to."

His words hung, bitter and heavy.

Shoto's expression softened, a trace of pity breaking his composure. Naira looked away with a quiet sigh.

"So you're just… fine with it?" she asked, voice thin. "With being killed, just like that?"

Clay glanced at the sword in his chest. His answer came faint, but steady.

"It's not the dying part I'm okay with." He swallowed, eyes clouded as if staring past them. "It's more about who I'll be with afterwards."

************

Report Log: 16 September, 11:47 PM]

Unidentified anomaly recorded in Gravesville, Nevada

Manifestation labeled as "Tool of Oblivion." Current stability: compromised. Civilian interference: confirmed.

---

"Well done, Shoto and Naira Kuronami."

The voice of the Council was like many mouths speaking as one, resonating from the vaulted chamber. "The Council will reward you handsomely."

The siblings stood at the center of the grand hall, heads bowed, the light of the tribunal flames casting them into long shadows. At their backs, Clay sat chained to a stone chair, his face downcast, the black blade protruding obscenely from his chest like a brand of damnation.

Eight elevated judge tables circled them, each occupied by a robed figure, faceless behind veils of shadow. Their gavels rested on carved pedestals of bone and iron.

"Shoto. Naira. You may take your leave," one of the voices intoned.

The siblings exchanged a glance, bowed low, and walked out in silence, their footsteps vanishing into the vast chamber.

Clay lifted his head just as light poured down upon him from above, isolating him in a pillar of white. The chains rattled as they held him upright.

"Child," a feminine voice rang, sharp and cutting, "state your name."

Clay's throat was dry, but he forced it out. "…Clay."

Another voice rolled in like thunder. "Clay. Do you know the reason for your situation?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

A third judge leaned forward, voice colder still. "Then there is no need to explain your fate."

Silence pressed heavy.

"Do you have kin, boy? Family? Anyone who would speak for you?" asked another.

Clay hesitated. "…No."

The hall murmured, voices overlapping in hushed agreement.

"Then so it is decided," one declared. "The Tool of Oblivion—Blade Black Skull—has been claimed by this vessel. To preserve balance, the vessel must be destroyed."

"Though the means are immoral, the ends justify the weight of the world," another finished.

In perfect unison, the eight judges raised their hammers, ivory gleaming in the firelight.

"May mercy cover what we must do."

The gavels struck in thunderous finality.

The world cracked. The floor beneath Clay split, vomiting a storm of light that shot into the abyssal vault above. His body convulsed, wracked with agony as fire consumed him from within. He screamed, voice shredded as though torn into a thousand pieces. Flesh burned, nerves seared—he was unmade.

But then—

Black smoke burst from his wounds, spiraling, cocooning. The chains shattered, the chair splintered. Clay collapsed to all fours, writhing as the smoke rebuilt him, pulling sinew and bone back into place.

The chamber was suffocating with silence, save for Clay's ragged breathing. His body smoked, steaming from the regeneration, until at last he collapsed—bare, trembling, spent of all strength. The broken chair lay splintered around him, chains reduced to molten fragments that hissed against the marble floor.

The judges murmured among themselves, voices weaving into a chorus of disbelief.

"So it is true…" one whispered.

"The vessel cannot be slain."

"Not even the Council's light will consume him."

Clay stirred, his eyes unfocused, his breath hitching with the pain of rebirth. The chamber should have ended in finality, but instead, it cracked open into uncertainty.

Then came a sound, sharp and mocking—slow, deliberate applause.

From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged, his steps unhurried. He floated rather than walked, the hems of his robe dragging like smoke. In one hand, a porcelain cup of tea, steam still curling from its rim. In the other, nothing but a lazy flick of his wrist. His voice was smooth, tinged with sardonic delight.

"Bravo, Council. Truly spectacular. All that pomp, all that fire—only to prove what I had already said. The child cannot be killed."

The judges stiffened, some recoiling at his intrusion.

"Dorri," one snapped, her voice heavy with disdain. "You were not summoned."

"Your presence is… irregular," another muttered.

"Irregular?" Dorri tilted his head, sipping his tea. "Please. I came only to observe what manner of judgment you would reach, knowing full well it was bound to fail. And, if need be, to object."

A ripple of chatter passed between the judges. Their gavel-heads twitched in their grasp, irritation thickening the chamber.

"Object? Then you admit no verdict would have pleased you," a judge accused.

"Correct," Dorri replied without hesitation.

"But since you ask, why don't I offer something far more constructive than your hammer-waving displays?"

The judges fell silent, all eyes narrowing toward him.

"Very well," one of the elder judges said coldly. "What do you propose?"

Dorri's smile thinned, his eyes glinting above the rim of his cup.

"Simple. The boy lives. And he lives under my watch."

The words barely finished before one of the judges slammed his gavel against the block.

"Denied!"

The sound echoed, hard enough to sting the ears. Dorri merely rolled his eyes and drew another sip.

"Interruptions. Always interruptions. Hear me out before you start barking."

He floated a step forward, his gaze sweeping over Clay's collapsed body.

"That child is no ordinary vessel. He carries the Tool of Oblivion. You know as well as I that among the Seven, this one is the most destructive, the most feared. And yet you would probably think of chaining him in eternal prison, burying both vessel and tool away. Tell me, esteemed Council—what good does wasting such a weapon serve?"

"Used correctly, the Black Skull could counterbalance the other Tools. Perhaps even… annihilate them. You dream of balance? I offer you possibility."

His words slithered into the chamber.

One judge slammed his fist against the table. The chamber grew tense again, whispers scattering like sparks.

"What then do you suggest?" one finally asked.

Dorri spread his hands, his tea cup still impossibly steady.

"Train him. Shape him. Make him a guardian of the Tool instead of its prisoner. If he is bound to it, then let him wield it—not against you, but for you. With him outside, fighting at the edges, we might finally cleanse the world of the hellspawn that plague it. That is my proposal."

The judges conferred among themselves, voices overlapping, arguments clashing. Then, one by one, they raised their gavels to vote.

Three fell against.

Three rose in favor.

Two remained still, uncertain.

The chamber turned to them. The balance hung by their silence.

Dorri let the moment breathe, then spoke again

"If danger arises from this vessel, I will yield myself. My privileges, my standing, my freedom. I will be at the mercy of the Council."

The words struck like thunder. Even the silence seemed startled.

The two hesitant judges exchanged glances, then slowly raised their gavels in favor.

The decision was made.

All eight gavels struck down as one, sealing the verdict. The sound was like the tolling of a vast bell.

Dorri exhaled softly, satisfaction tugging his lips into a crooked smile.

"Wise. Very wise."

With a flick of his hand, a portal spiraled open beneath Clay's unconscious body, swallowing him in a whirl of dark light.

Dorri turned, his own portal blooming at his side. He raised his cup one last time in mocking salute.

"You will thank me later."

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