A breathless hush clung to the air, thick with the sterile scent of decay. The laboratory was a ruin of its former self—cables lay coiled like dead serpents across the floor, glass canisters stood clouded with age, and rust crawled over the walls in slow, silent conquest. The overhead lights flickered, their dying hum the only companion to the man in the white lab coat.
He was old, far past the age of men who still dreamed, yet here he was, hunched over the table, his weathered fingers trembling over a tin container.
Within, something small and round, nearly translucent, pulsed with a muted glow—like a wish trapped between existence and oblivion. His darkened eyes traced its shape, and his voice broke the silence, heavy with reverence and something deeper, something close to fear.
"A wish is never granted freely."
The words stretched beyond the walls, swallowed by the vastness of the dark. Elsewhere—deep within a forest untouched by mercy—a blade cleaved through air, through bone, through flesh.
A scythe.
Blackened steel arced, severing figures from the earth like wheat before the harvest. One by one, the shadows fell, their forms collapsing without resistance.
The wielder moved without hesitation, a hand steady upon the hilt, a motion as fluid as the tide's return. Each cut was precise, an execution written long before the first swing.
The old man exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening over the tin. "To wish is to carve out fate with your own hands," he murmured. "But a wish cannot exist without its price."
The scythe sang again, its voice sharp, merciless.
A head parted from its shoulders, falling soundlessly into the undergrowth. Crimson mist bloomed, curling through the air in slow, delicate tendrils—like ink dissolving into water. The echoes of bodies meeting the soil harmonised with the old man's whisper, a requiem composed in tandem.
"The greater the wish, the greater the toll."
Another swing. Another life reduced to nothing but memory.
"And when the scales tip too far…" His breath faltered slightly. He looked down at the object in the tin, at the weightless thing that had brought ruin before. "It is not the wish granted—but the wisher taken."
A final arc of steel. A final body falling limp.
The blade gleamed with an unnatural sheen, its curve stretching like a shadow at dusk, cold and poised with a promise of finality. The handle, blackened and gnarled, pulsed with faint symbols—veins of life that didn't belong to the living.
Silent and graceful, it hovered in the air, casting a chilling darkness as if the floor itself leant towards its edge. A sense of inevitability hung around it, thick with the scent of earth and endings, for those who beheld it knew: to wield such a thing was to make a deal, to give and take, and always, always, to pay the price.
The last whisper of wind curled through the trees. The forest exhaled, its feast complete.
Back in the lab, the old man hesitated. The wish in his hands pulsed once, waiting.
"Tell me, human," it murmured. "Are you ready to pay the price?"
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The world before him was a twisted fusion of nature and technology, a stark reminder of the mess humanity had created. Towering trees, their thick trunks wrapped in metallic coils, rose from the cracked earth like sentinel guardians.
The sky above flickered with static, glitching in and out of focus as if even the heavens themselves were struggling to keep up with the mess below.
Beneath the trees, ancient ruins—once symbols of civilisation—jutted from the ground like teeth in a corpse's mouth, overrun with bioluminescent moss and forgotten machines.
The smell of damp metal mingled with the sharp tang of ionised air, clinging to the atmosphere.
Code name Grave.
He couldn't even remember the last time someone called him by his real name.
'Click, Click.'
"Gotta be kidding me." He looked down at the magazine. It was upside down and empty.
The man muttered under his breath as he brushed aside the silvery locks that obscured whatever visions he had left. "Didn't think I go senile at this age already."
He'd already forgotten how to do this. It has been almost a decade since they let him out of his cage. Even muscle memory wasn't spared.
The man with withered hair crouched high in the trees, his form hidden in the shadows, watching the multiple black dots dashing through the ruins below.
He'd been sent here, as always, to observe. Only get involved when things get out of hand.
The Azuki family, heads of the Seventh Aizkotetsu-kai.
A name that once commanded respect had become nothing more than another group of vultures in the endless fight for the Miracle.
He could hear the creaking branches under his weight as he calibrated his scope, the mix of nature and wire groaning in a way that felt wrong. The cables stretched taut between the trees, a sickening fusion of organic and synthetic. Every breath felt like a struggle, each exhale sharp in his lungs, and even the smallest twitch of his finger felt like a violation of the silence.
His finger hovered over the trigger, but he remained motionless, waiting, as he peered into the ensuing chaos.
The men in black suits moved in near-perfect synchronisation, weaving through the trees as if this were their purpose, their destiny. Their path was clear, but he knew better. The internal conflict within the Azuki family simmered beneath the surface.
One mistake, one slip—and the blood will flow.
It always does with humans.
And he had to watch them all unfold.
Grave felt the weight of his own role—an observer, a ghost, a relic.
He'd once been part of this madness, a soldier in a different war, one that had long since ended.
But now he was nothing more than a witness, forced back into action when his past had finally caught up with him. He had been dragged out of retirement for one reason only.
His orders: Find the Blessed Maiden
His mind wandered back to the reports, the whispers, and the rumours. The Blessed Maiden wasn't just a name. It was the culmination of humanity's greatest sins, a being forged through the power of the desires—and yet, Grave knew there was more. Much more.
It was strange—how many humans could reach their limit? How many could push beyond their mental barriers before breaking? There had been studies, of course. Psychological studies of people with extraordinary mental fortitude. Those born with the capacity to withstand the weight of their own desires, to hold more than any ordinary person could.
Some were born with the mental strength to endure years of emotional and psychological stress, becoming unshakable. Yet, for others, it was too much.
Once, someone had asked, "What happens when you exceed the limits?"
Grave had no answer, but he knew the truth. Pushing past the boundaries of what the mind could bear didn't make you stronger. It shattered you. Those who could endure it? They became something else. But they were a rare breed—one in a million, maybe even less.
And in the center of this chaos—The Blessed Maiden—stood as a product of that mental strength. She was not like the rest of them. No, she was different. And Grave had a feeling that understanding her was key to everything that was coming.
But he knew that wasn't their end goal. The maiden is just another piece that they need to achieve their grand scheme.
'They'll kill each other for it,' the man thought bitterly. 'All of them, just to hold that power in their hands. Same as everyone else. The Miracle, code for The World Seed—the promise of eternity, of perfection—but at what cost?'
He let out a sigh. "Let's hope the Shadow Hounds don't get involved. Those Voidrian lab dogs…"
His gaze drifted to the barrel of his gun, his fingers tightening around it as his patched eye started to itch, an old phantom sensation creeping up on him.
He remembered the encounter all too well—the night he crossed paths with them in the past. Ghosts in black, moving like shadows, their faces unreadable behind sleek masks.
The mission had gone wrong. One of them had nearly taken his head clean off. That's when he lost the eye—his own blood, the scent of metal, and the cold laughter of an assassin who didn't care for his life.
Grave gritted his teeth. "I should have given up that night. Then I wouldn't have to be forced to watch the suffering that the young mistress had to endure."
The itch deepened, but he ignored it as he continued to track the movements of his men.
No time for ghosts now.