The raider slumped against the tree.
Like a mannequin. A broken mannequin.
A mannequin with cracked porcelain for a face.
Not porcelain. Bone.
Not bone. A mask.
Cracked.
Blood dripped down it, like someone had painted it wrong. His breath rasped—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—as if each one was an IOU he was already too broke to pay back.
Me?
I wasn't looking at him.
Not at first.
I was looking at my hand.
My hand was bleeding.
And shaking.
Bleeding and shaking. Shaking and bleeding. You'd think I'd pick one.
And then—
Then I felt it.
A surge.
Like a jolt. Like a jump-start. Like plugging my entire existence into a socket I hadn't even noticed before. Every vein a live wire. Every nerve humming. My heart skipping beats like it was bored of rhythm, like it was composing jazz. The grave wasn't alive. The grave was hungry.
And apparently, I was on the menu.
"Not bad," a voice drawled.
Seimei Arata.
Yes, that Seimei Arata.
Standing like gravity had given him a discount. Coat swaying without wind, staff resting against his shoulder like a lazy cat, eyes glowing with exactly zero interest in me but somehow more interest than I could handle.
Something slammed into the cemetery gate behind him. Hard. Too hard. The iron bent like it had a spine condition. Another raider. Launched. As in, fired. As in, not breathing.
Arata flicked his wrist. Cards—no, not cards, talismans, but cards in spirit—slid between his fingers.
"Let's make this quick."
Three foxes appeared.
Pale foxes. Moonlight foxes.
Foxes so quiet they made quiet feel noisy.
They leapt, tails splitting the air, and the raider didn't even get a final line. He was already confetti.
Arata wasn't watching. His eyes were elsewhere.
"Daigo Ren."
Ren stepped forward. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that belongs in slaughterhouses and execution chambers. His weapons weren't weapons. Not originally. They were farming tools. Shovel head. Hoe blade. Sickle. All bent and reshaped for something far less agricultural. "You should've stayed home," he said, softly.
Arata smirked. "Never liked home."
And then—
They moved.
Sparks burst. Sparks died. Sparks burst again. Every strike, every swing, every slash from Ren's improvised arsenal met Arata's staff. Tap. Redirect. Nullify. Tap. Redirect. Nullify. Like a dance. Like a conversation. Like Arata was a conductor and Ren was playing out of tune.
Me?
I was trying to breathe.
I was trying. And failing. Because the whispers were louder. The whispers in my skull, in my veins, in my teeth.
I blinked.
And the world was gone.
Or not gone. Changed. Distorted. Shifted. I was somewhere else. A reflection. A graveyard that wasn't a graveyard. Gravestones stretched into infinity. The moon hung low, huge, wrong, glaring at me like it was a streetlight with a grudge.
He was there.
The man buried under that stone.
Prison uniform. Tattered. Bloodstained. His body a constellation of stab wounds, each one screaming a story I didn't want to read. His eyes were hollow. His smile wasn't.
The whispers became screams.
I staggered back. Ice crawled down my spine. My blood floated upward, like smoke, like mist, like I was an overturned glass spilling myself into the air.
"No. No. No. No. No—"
Every step I took stretched the ground further. No gates. No fences. Just graves. And him. Always him. Every time I blinked, closer. His smile a knife.
He lunged.
Something cracked.
The headstone.
Reality slammed into me like a brick wall that hated me personally. The glow died. The whispers cut out. My body shook violently. But the surge remained. Smaller now. Embers after a firestorm.
Arata didn't glance my way. He moved forward. One step. One palm. Straight to Ren's gut.
Nothing happened.
Then everything happened.
Blood. Organs. The whole anatomy textbook emptied onto the dirt. Ren died like a puppet whose strings had been cut with a chainsaw. The foxes dissolved into light.
Silence.
"...That was unnecessary," I said. Or croaked. Whichever.
Arata slid his mask aside. Smirked. "Unnecessary? You were about to get eaten alive by a stab-happy corpse's bad mood. Forgive me for being efficient."
"How… did I get out of there?"
"Headstone." He tapped the shards. "Break the stone, break the link. Very professional. Very impressive. I'm good at what I do."
He crouched. Tilted his head at me like I was a crossword puzzle missing too many clues. "You're a strange kid. Most first-time Gravebinders either scream, cry, or die. You just… shook a little."
"I didn't exactly walk out."
"You're alive. That counts."
The shards crumbled under his staff like sugar. "Congratulations. You're a Gravebinder now. Not glamorous. Not heroic. Look at this grave, see the cause of death? Kenji Eito. Stabbed. Repeatedly. He wanted his blood back. You fed him too much. He dragged you under. Classic rookie mistake."
I swallowed. "So that's why my blood—"
"Floated?" He smirked. "That's dinner."
He stood, stretching like a man who had murdered someone mid-yoga session. "Come with me."
"Why would I—"
"Because you're alive." He cut me off. "And alive Gravebinders don't stay alive long without help. Education. Guidance. Tuition's free."
"Why are you even here?"
"Investigating."
"What?"
"Disappearances. No trace. Found the trace. Maybe. Probably."
I stared at my hands. The blood. The faint hum under my skin. My old life felt like a photograph I'd forgotten to take.
"Fine," I said. "I'll come."
Arata grinned. "Good boy."
The cemetery was quiet now. Too quiet. Comforting. Terrifying. Both.