The fragment no longer resisted him.
That was the first thing Kaito noticed.
It sat beneath the scanner, inert and cooperative, its previously unstable readings now flowing in smooth, readable lines across the display. Whatever barrier had existed before was gone—not broken, but allowed.
As if it had decided he was permitted to look.
Kaito adjusted the analyzer, narrowing the scan to substructural layers. "Let's see what you were hiding," he murmured.
The screen flickered.
Then stabilized.
A shape began to form.
At first it looked like noise—overlapping curves, angular breaks, symmetry that refused to align. But as Kaito slowed the read and reversed the projection, the pattern snapped into place.
His breath caught.
"…No," he whispered.
Aria leaned closer. "What is it?"
Kaito didn't answer right away.
Because he knew that symbol.
A segmented spiral, intersected by three hooked lines—like mandibles closing around a core. Not decorative. Not functional.
Reverent.
The mark pulsed faintly on the screen.
The Insect God's sigil.
He remembered it etched into chitin banners. Burned into the stone of conquered shrines. Whispered in prayer by those who believed survival justified anything.
Aria felt the shift in the room. "Kaito… you recognize that."
"Yes," he said quietly. "And I shouldn't."
Mira frowned. "It's not in any known archive. We ran full symbol databases after the attack."
"That's because it's not from here," Kaito replied.
The fragment hummed, almost approving.
He reached out, fingers hovering just above the surface. The moment he got close, the sigil flared—clearer now, sharper.
The memory stirred.
Not a full vision this time.
Just a feeling.
Approval.Expectation.Alignment.
The Insect God had loved that symbol because it meant order through consumption. Survival through sacrifice—of others.
"They used this," Aria said slowly, piecing it together. "Didn't they?"
Kaito nodded. "As a seal. A signature. A way to say, 'This was necessary.'"
Ryo's jaw tightened. "And it's on the fragment because…?"
"Because Veyl didn't just want to shift blame," Kaito said. "They wanted to echo something older. Something that already tried to justify what they're doing."
The screen zoomed in further.
The sigil wasn't etched onto the fragment.
It was embedded between layers.
Hidden.
Protected.
Kaito leaned back, a cold understanding settling in.
"This fragment wasn't just designed to redirect perception," he said. "It was designed to resonate with a specific ideology."
Mira swallowed. "The Insect God's."
"Yes."
The room felt heavier.
Aria broke the silence. "Does that mean—"
"No," Kaito said immediately. "Veyl isn't following him."
He stared at the symbol, eyes hard.
"They're borrowing his logic."
He powered down the scanner.
The sigil vanished, but its impression lingered behind his eyes.
"That mark," Kaito said quietly, "is what betrayal looks like when it convinces itself it's right."
He sealed the fragment back into containment, hands steady.
But inside, something old stirred—not fire, not rage.
Recognition.
And that was worse.
Because if Veyl had found that symbol…
Then this wasn't just about Kaito anymore.
It was about reviving a way of thinking that should have died with a god.
Kaito turned away from the lab table.
"We need to move," he said. "Before that idea spreads."
Behind him, the fragment hummed once.
As if remembering who had loved the mark first.