The night was still. The only sound in Nagisa's temporary hideout was the faint, rhythmic ticking of an old analog radio sitting on the cracked windowsill — its dial long faded, its surface scratched and worn.
Hakumura had tried to convince him to throw it away several times; it had survived two explosions, countless relocations, and one of Hozuku Ranei's flamethrowers. But Nagisa refused to part with it.
"Old habits die hard," he'd said.
Tonight, though, it wasn't nostalgia keeping it on.
It was whispering.
"…Division… seven… report… target… Nagisa Shiota… coordinates confirmed…"
The voice scratched through static — low, faintly distorted, but undeniably human.
Hakumura froze mid-sentence. "Wait. Did that thing just—"
Nagisa's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. It picked something up."
He moved toward the radio and adjusted the frequency knob slowly, carefully. The signal wavered, faded, then sharpened again.
"…Project Erebus… facility two-nine-one. Liquid displacement model in progress. Subject M-0 now active. Engage on sight."
The voice continued for a moment, before shifting abruptly to another, lower tone. A second person — calm, deliberate — responded.
"Acknowledged. Eliminating Shiota personally will be my honor."
Then silence.
Hakumura swore under his breath. "Who the hell is M-0?"
Nagisa didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on the radio — on the small, golden engraving beneath the cracked dial. A smiling, round face with tentacle-like etchings around it.
Korosensei's mark.
Hakumura followed his gaze. "…That's your old teacher's symbol, isn't it?"
Nagisa nodded. "He gave me this after I finished one of his solo assignments. Said it was a 'special gift' for effort that couldn't be measured by grades."
He reached for the dial again, turning it slowly. "He said it can pick up 'the voices that are meant for you.' I thought he was joking back then. Guess even in death, he finds ways to guide me."
Hakumura blinked, realization dawning. "You're saying this thing—"
"Intercepts willpower," Nagisa said softly. "If the voice behind it carries intent strong enough… the radio reacts."
A faint smile crossed his lips. "Fate must be on our side tonight."
By morning, they were already moving. The signal traced them north — toward an old coastal district outside Kyoto. The air smelled of salt and rust; the wind cut sharp against their faces as they approached a half-collapsed industrial complex.
Hakumura scanned the ruins with a drone. "Place looks abandoned. But the heat signatures say otherwise."
Nagisa stepped forward, his hand resting near his concealed knives. "Then let's see who's waiting."
They slipped through the rusted gate, quiet as shadows. Inside, the factory was half-flooded — the concrete floor glistening under the pale light that filtered through broken windows. Pipes hung like vines from the ceiling, dripping water in rhythmic intervals.
Everything smelled of iron and damp metal.
Hakumura crouched by a wall, holding the scanner close. "There's movement below. One person, maybe two. The liquid levels are high — like some kind of containment system."
Nagisa frowned. "Containment for what?"
Before Hakumura could respond, the ground shuddered.
A sound echoed through the hall — the deep, almost melodic rush of water moving through pipes. The puddles near their feet rippled.
Then a voice — cold, quiet, yet almost mournful — drifted through the air.
"You shouldn't have come here, Nagisa Shiota."
From the darkness beyond the water tanks, a figure stepped out.
He was young — maybe seventeen, but with eyes far older. His hair was jet black, soaked and dripping; his pale skin shimmered faintly, reflecting the light like glass. In his hand, he carried a long, curved katana that glistened with liquid silver.
The blade moved. Like it was breathing.
Hakumura raised his gun instantly. "Who the hell—"
The figure ignored him and kept his gaze fixed on Nagisa. "Agent Morusute Kaskemune. Division 7. Designation M-0."
Nagisa's eyes narrowed. "So you're the one who spoke through the radio."
Morusute tilted his head. "Oh interesting grasp of knowledge, that wasn't meant for your ears. But perhaps it's better this way. It saves me the trouble of finding you later."
The floor beneath him rippled again — the water rising like veins through the cracks in the ground, slithering toward him, merging into the blade he carried.
Hakumura swore. "He's manipulating the water."
"Not water," Nagisa corrected quietly. His sharp eyes studied the shimmering texture. "It's a biomimetic liquid — infused with nanofluid metal. Same tech they used for Ranei's flame weaponry, but far more advanced."
Morusute's voice remained calm. "You understand quickly. Good. Then you'll die with comprehension."
He raised the blade — and the room shifted.
The first strike came like a wave. Literally. The water erupted upward, spiraling into a massive vortex before collapsing forward like a wall of liquid knives. Nagisa dove aside, sliding across the wet floor, his knife grazing the concrete as he regained balance.
Hakumura opened fire, but every bullet was swallowed by the liquid mass, the impacts rippling harmlessly.
Morusute's silhouette moved within the water like a phantom — untouchable, weightless.
"You can't fight something that has no form," he said. "I was created for this purpose."
Nagisa's breath came slow and steady, his mind shifting into assassin's rhythm — perception over panic, awareness over fear.
"Then you've already lost," he whispered.
He grabbed a nearby wrench, flicking it toward a hanging pipe. The clang echoed loudly, distracting Morusute for a split second — enough time for Nagisa to rush in, low and fast, slicing through the thin membrane of liquid near his arm.
But the blade of Muzenashi Rikuri met his knife mid-motion.
The metallic ring echoed through the chamber.
For a brief moment, their eyes locked — blue meeting gray.
Nagisa saw pain there. Not rage, not hatred. Just… exhaustion.
And then — a flashback.
Past — Morusute Kaskemune, Age 9.
He stood in a narrow alley, the sky gray and silent. His sister, Yama, clung to his arm — trembling, eyes wide. Behind them, two strangers in government uniforms argued over a clipboard.
"She's the donor. He's the prototype."
Their parents stood a few steps away, faces blank. Not guilt, not anger — just emptiness.
"Please," Yama whispered, "I don't want to go."
Morusute held her tighter. "I'll protect you."
The person with the clipboard chuckled. "You'll be protecting her forever, kid. That's the point."
Then — the needle. The screaming. The light.
And Yama's voice fading into silence.
When Morusute awoke, he was holding something cold. A blade. Her blade.
And her reflection — faintly smiling in the metal.
Back in the present, Nagisa and Morusute clashed again. Sparks flew as steel met synthetic liquid, the metallic hiss echoing through the flooded room.
"You fight like someone who's lost everything," Nagisa said between breaths.
"I have," Morusute replied, swinging with impossible precision. "And I found purpose in that loss."
"You call this purpose?" Nagisa ducked another swing, countering with a knife to the shoulder. The blade sank into water and met no resistance.
Morusute smiled faintly. "Purpose is whatever keeps you from falling apart."
Nagisa's eyes softened — even as he blocked another attack. "That's what you believe they told you. But what do you believe?"
The question hit harder than any strike. For the first time, Morusute hesitated.
The liquid wavered around him, flickering slightly.
Hakumura noticed. "Nagisa! He's losing control!"
But Nagisa didn't press the advantage. He stepped closer, lowering his knife slightly.
"I can see it," he said quietly. "You hate what they made you. You hate that blade."
Morusute's expression trembled — fury and sorrow mixing into something raw.
"They told me she would live through it," he whispered. "That if I killed for them, she'd never die. That her memory was in the metal."
He raised Muzenashi Rikuri, and the blade shimmered — faint, ghostlike whispers echoing around them, forming the shape of a kids face.
Yama's face.
Nagisa's heart ached. "She's not in there. Just the memory they forced on you."
Morusute's grip tightened. "Don't you dare talk like you understand."
But Nagisa did. He took a single step forward, rainwater dripping from his hair.
"I do understand. I lost someone too. Someone who gave his life believing in us — in our growth, in our hearts." His voice cracked. "And I've been chasing his shadow ever since."
The room fell silent. The liquid around Morusute stilled.
For a heartbeat, he looked like a child again. Confused. Hurt. Human.
Then the whisper of Yama's false voice echoed once more through the blade:
"Kill him, brother. Don't let them take you from me."
Morusute's eyes turned cold. "You'll never take her from me."
The liquid surged upward again — forming spears, tendrils, blades.
Nagisa barely dodged in time. A spear grazed his shoulder, cutting deep. Blood splattered across the floor, mixing with the water.
Hakumura yelled something — maybe his name — but Nagisa didn't hear it.
All he saw was Morusute's eyes — filled not with hatred, but despair.
He reached for his last weapon — not a knife, but the radio.
He turned the dial all the way, static screaming through the air.
And through the chaos, a faint, familiar laugh echoed — gentle, amused, the voice of a teacher who once smiled at the end of the world.
"Don't forget, Nagisa. The greatest assassination isn't one that kills the body — it's one that frees the heart."
Nagisa smiled through the pain. "You taught me well, sensei."
He dropped his knife — and stepped forward, unarmed.
Morusute froze. "What are you doing?"
"Ending this the right way."
The water trembled.
Nagisa walked closer — calm, fearless. "If your sister's voice means that much to you, then don't let them own it. Don't let them own you."
The liquid wavered again. The whispers faltered.
Morusute screamed, clutching his head — torn between illusion and memory. The blade pulsed violently, cracks appearing in its surface as the false consciousness began to break.
"Stop—STOP—"
Nagisa reached out — and placed a hand on the kids shoulder.
The entire facility trembled. The liquid collapsed, splashing to the floor. The whispers faded.
And for the first time, Morusute Kaskemune fell to his knees, silent tears mixing with the water around them.
"I… I can still see her face," he whispered.
Nagisa knelt beside him, voice barely audible. "Then keep that face — not the weapon they made of her."
By dawn, the facility was quiet again. The water had drained through cracks in the floor. Hakumura was patching up Nagisa's shoulder when he finally spoke.
"You could've killed him."
Nagisa shook his head. "I wasn't supposed to kill him. Just save what's left. And just leave him be from then on."
Hakumura sighed. "And what if there's nothing left to save?"
Nagisa looked toward the faint sunrise through the broken windows. "Then I'll keep trying anyway. Because someone once did that for me."
The old radio crackled once more.
A faint voice whispered —
"Well done, my student."
Nagisa closed his eyes. The faintest smile touched his lips.
To Be Continued...