Chapter 7
Red Day
That day… rain fell…
Bombs and bullets pounded the earth. Blood fell like rain.
Heart-wrenching sounds filled the air.
But we will not fall!!!
Charge… even if the ground is soaked with blood…
We will win… we will let them sleep forever…
No matter how much blood is shed… even if the sky itself turns red that day…
We will win… for freedom… for humanity…
Yet reality is far crueler. There has never been a war fought purely for martyrdom… Every war is born from human greed, from the egos of leaders. From the senseless battles of the First and Second World Wars to modern conflicts, nations claim justice, but in their hearts, it's always about money, power, and control. The so-called war on terror waged by the United States? At its core, it was about oil and profit, nothing more.
Humanity is inherently greedy—creatures who serve only themselves, willing to trample others. Money is often more valuable than life. Humans obsess over simple questions: "How much can I earn today? Can I survive?"—ignoring the true consequences of war.
And so it continues…
In another place, inside the Anti-World, the sky was stained a deep, bleeding red. The moon shattered into thousands of fragments, like countless stars. Black clouds loomed, heavy with despair, as lightning began to strike. From afar, a beach stretched out before the eye, its waters nothing but a stagnant pool of blood, suffocating and surreal… A despair so profound that humans could neither comprehend it fully nor bear to remember it.
Through trenches filled with dirt and sand, past bombed-out roads and rivers blackened with poison, past houses set aflame by Nazis who had slaughtered everyone inside… he came to a village, ruins beneath a crimson European sky. Roofs were caved in, walls cracked, graves piled with hundreds of bodies strangely crystallized, as if hundreds of years of decay had been compressed into this one nightmarish landscape. Streets once filled with the laughter of children were now desolate, pockmarked with bullet holes, or had always been empty.
Eventually, he reached a crumbling white church. Its paint had turned red in the blood-soaked air, the roof sagged as if it might collapse at any moment. The bell had long been stripped for its bronze by the Germans, and walls were perforated with countless bullet holes. Inside, fractured stained-glass windows let in slivers of dim light, falling on the pews below, where worshippers had once prayed. At the front stood a statue of Christ, unlike any other. Its gaze was heavy with sorrow, arms and legs nailed for centuries yet still bleeding. Even though it was a bronze statue, it wept blood. The oppressive melancholy filled the air.
Above the blood-soaked pews lay a man, weary and charred, one hand shielding his eyes. After a moment, he slowly rose, gripping a pew for support. His gaze scanned the surroundings, filled with fury and exhaustion—a scene all too familiar, reminiscent of wars he had endured during World War II. Light crept over the pews, the church carpet scorched, and his own blood drained like towers collapsing from his body. Barefoot, he stepped on shards of glass scattered across the floor.
His hand reached for a decrepit French calendar from the war. His dry, cracked fingers froze on the date: "June 7, 1944." His eyes widened with anger. He grabbed the calendar and tore it to pieces, grinding his teeth in fury. Madness flared in his gaze as he flung the pages to the floor, blood spreading across the torn pages. He sank to the ground, cursing violently, his hand shielding his reddened, angry eyes.
Light
"Damn it… what the hell is happening? This isn't real… This isn't what I remember… Everything ended sixty years ago… This isn't what I know…"
He leaned against the wall, exhausted and drained of blood, sinking into a soldier-like sleep. Sweat dotted his face, and anger lingered in his gaze even as fatigue overtook him. His muscles relaxed, giving in to slumber, a combination of blood loss and exhaustion. When he opened his eyes again, the world around him had shifted, clearer and more complete. The daylight had faded into evening. Suddenly, he realized something and turned… only to feel himself collapsing like sinking sand.
Elsewhere, inside the mind of a fragile, foolish child…
At the end of a school year, a lone child sat in a classroom, surrounded by the cruel laughter of classmates. Her backpack had been thrown into a trash heap filled with discarded, disgusting items—old pens, spoiled food. She sat silently, drenched and humiliated, unable to defend herself, ignoring the pleading eyes of her younger self. A bucket of water from the bathroom splashed her face.
Then, from above, a child appeared before her. Mockery shone in its eyes. Its hair was long and golden, ears pierced with earrings, lips painted an exaggerated red. A cruel, playful voice spoke:
Bully
"Where are your parents, you little dog… oh right, monsters like you have none."
The bully slapped her. Bap… bap… Her face burned from the blows. Suddenly, her own small hand shot out with astonishing speed, eyes blazing with anger. Instinctively precise, she grabbed the bully's throat and drove a pen into its eye. Blood spattered across the room, onto desks and chairs. Another strike, more blood erupted, spraying like a fountain. Her classmates' eyes reflected her furious power—she was a demon unleashed.
She continued relentlessly, until the classroom was drenched in the aftermath of her revenge. Twenty minutes later, silence fell, broken only by Ayumi's calm, eerie voice as she sipped imaginary tea amidst the destruction. The blood-stained ruins of the past lay around her, yet she smiled, conversing with the departed as if hosting a proper tea party.
Ayumi
"Tea? Who wants some? I truly appreciate your presence…"
The surroundings seemed to collapse around her.
Before everyone stood Ayumi, her smile slow and deliberate, curled in mockery. Her eyes shifted to surprise—everything was not as she had expected. Her amusement turned into a strange fear at the scene before her. Her hand trembled slightly as the terrifying, impassive gaze of the onlookers pierced her. They watched her like she was a hated monster. The castle-like hall stretched out before her: a long red carpet flanked by knight statues in black armor, swords pointed forward, a lavish yet eerie display. Crystal chandeliers hung from above, stained glass adorned the walls.
Below, Sora glared as if ready to devour her, Lucas grasped a knight's sword, Light tried to calm things, Elena slept, Qu remained unresponsive, Mei had her gun aimed… but Ayumi noticed one absence: Hoshino.
Suddenly, a white hand shot forward, gouging Ayu's face and nose, blood splattering everywhere. A sword pierced her chest, puncturing her lungs, spraying crimson across the throne. Her eyes widened in agony. A bullet then hit her head, exploding her brain; her eyes flew backward into the person behind her. Another shot tore through her abdomen, spilling entrails, Mei's wolf-like precision behind the attack. Far away, Hoshino observed, and in another distant corner, Elena's eye opened…
[To be continued]
Secret revealed by the author: Ayumi is 46 years old