He should have been dead.
Kaito knew this the moment his eyes flickered open.
Pain was the first thing he felt—a deep, consuming ache that stretched from the roots of his teeth to the marrow of his bones. His skin burned, each breath searing his throat. Every nerve in his body sang with a dull, unnatural heat.
Alive. Somehow.
Blinking against the darkness, he shifted.
It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. The shaft above remained blocked. The faint glow of moss painted everything in muted green. Cold water still dripped from the stones, but the air around him felt strangely warm—as though he had become a small sun in the darkness.
A bitter laugh caught in his throat.
He remembered the stone—the insane, fever-driven act of biting into it, of swallowing something no man should. He should have died writhing in agony. The fever should have consumed him whole.
And yet, here he was.
Breathing. Barely.
Kaito sat up, each motion slow and stiff. His limbs felt heavier, denser somehow. Every beat of his heart sent a wave of heat through his veins.
His mouth was dry. He coughed—a burst of steam curling from his lips into the damp air.
He stared.
Again, a slow breath. The air shimmered faintly before him, thin wisps of steam drifting upward.
What… the hell?
He raised a trembling hand. His skin was pale beneath the dirt and blood, but a faint glow pulsed beneath it—subtle, like the memory of fire. His palm radiated a low, constant heat.
Kaito's pulse quickened.
This isn't normal.
Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but he forced it down. He couldn't afford panic—not now. Not here.
Focus. Survive.
Survive. The word felt hollow after everything he'd lost.
Images flashed unbidden: the burning village, lightning spears, flames devouring homes. Screams that still echoed in his ears.
Uncle Hajime. His voice—his command—Run.
Kaito swallowed hard, throat tight.
He couldn't stay here. Whatever had changed inside him, whatever this… thing was, he had to live long enough to understand it.
He stood slowly, legs shaking. His muscles burned with unnatural heat, but they obeyed.
One step. Another.
Near the edge of the shaft, where part of the wall had collapsed, he found a narrow crevice—a way out. With grim determination, he began to climb.
The forest greeted him with gray dawn.
Ash drifted through the air like snow. Smoke curled among the trees.
Kaito pulled himself from the shaft and collapsed against a mossy boulder, lungs heaving. The morning was cold and wet, but the air around him remained unnaturally warm.
He glanced down. Steam rose from his damp clothes.
I'm not normal anymore, he thought, heart pounding.
The hunger returned with a vengeance—raw, gnawing. He scavenged what he could: bitter berries, a handful of roots. It barely eased the ache.
But food could wait.
He had to find the others. There had to be survivors—someone from Kurokawa who had escaped the slaughter.
Clenching his teeth, Kaito pushed onward.
The forest paths were eerily silent.
Charred branches hung like skeletal arms. Blackened footprints marked the mud—bootprints of Raijin-ke warriors, deep and purposeful.
Kaito moved with care, keeping low. His heart raced with every distant sound.
By midday, he reached the outskirts of the village.
Or what remained of it.
Kurokawa was ashes.
The homes had been torched to their foundations. Blackened beams jutted from smoking ruins. The shrine was little more than a broken pillar. Bodies lay where they had fallen—cut down by blade and lightning alike.
Kaito's stomach twisted.
He stumbled through the wreckage, eyes scanning for any sign of life. Every familiar corner was now a grave.
No sign of his uncle. No sign of anyone.
Gone. All gone.
A wave of grief crashed over him, stealing his breath.
He knelt in the mud beside a collapsed home and let it come—silent tears tracing lines through the soot on his face.
But grief could not linger. Not here.
A low voice snapped him alert.
Kaito froze, heart hammering.
Voices—nearby, beyond the scorched shrine.
Moving silently, he crept toward the sound.
Hidden behind a collapsed wall, Kaito peered out.
A group of figures stood in the clearing. Unlike the Raijin-ke, they wore black armor and masks, their movements sharp and deliberate. Shadows clung to them unnaturally.
Kagegumi. Clanless ninja—spies, assassins, scavengers of the battlefield.
They circled a single wounded warrior—one of the Kagutsuchi-ke envoys. His flame-scorched armor lay in pieces around him. Blood soaked the earth beneath him.
One of the masked ninja crouched beside him.
"Who ingested the stone?" the man asked, voice cold and calm.
The Kagutsuchi warrior coughed weakly. "No one… It wasn't meant for that…"
A sharp crack echoed—a boot against broken ribs.
"You're lying," the ninja said. "We traced the resonance. Someone bonded with it."
Kaito's blood ran cold.
Another ninja spoke. "Raijin-ke took the village to cover the trail, but they were sloppy. The pulse was clear. Whoever consumed it… still lives."
The first ninja leaned close. "We will find them."
The wounded warrior gasped, shaking his head. "They're… already cursed…"
A swift blade ended his words.
Kaito gripped the ruined wall, breath shallow.
They were hunting him.
His mind raced. The stone—the fever—the heat in his veins. Whatever the Organic Soulstone had done, it had marked him. Changed him.
Now they knew.
He backed away, careful not to make a sound.
Survive.
The word burned anew in his mind.
He had to move. Now.