The deeper Akira walked into Ningen no Mori, the more the forest changed.
The trees grew closer together, their trunks bending inward as if conspiring to block his path. Roots twisted across the ground like the ribs of some enormous buried creature, forcing him to step carefully. With every breath, the air felt thicker, heavier—each inhale carrying the taste of decay and something old.
Time became uncertain.
Akira could no longer tell how long he had been walking. Minutes stretched unnaturally, bending in on themselves. The forest played tricks on the mind—that much his father's journal had warned him about.
Never trust distance in Ningen no Mori.
Never trust sound.
And never trust silence.
Akira stopped.
The whispers had begun again.
They crawled through the trees like insects, soft and persistent, just beyond the edge of understanding. At first they sounded like the rustle of leaves, but the longer he listened, the more shape they took.
"A… ki… ra…"
His name.
Akira tightened his grip on the blade.
"Don't listen," he muttered to himself. "They're not real."
Yet the voices grew clearer.
"Akira…" "Hunter's son…" "Blood remembers…"
He turned sharply, blade raised.
Nothing stood behind him.
But the shadows between the trees had deepened, stretching unnaturally long, writhing as though alive. Akira felt a sudden pressure in his chest—a sense of being surrounded, encircled by unseen eyes.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. More than one.
Akira lowered his stance, steadying his breathing. Ghouls were careless hunters when excited, but groups were different. Packs learned. Packs adapted.
A shape detached itself from the darkness ahead.
Then another.
Then several more.
They emerged from between the trees, pale bodies hunched low, limbs bent at impossible angles. Their mouths hung open, rows of jagged teeth glistening with saliva. Their eyes reflected the faint glow of Akira's blade, shining like animal lanterns in the dark.
Five ghouls.
No—six.
One of them was different.
It stood taller than the others, its body less decayed, its movements deliberate rather than frenzied. Symbols—crude and black—had been carved into its flesh, pulsing faintly as though alive.
A Marked Ghoul.
Akira's heart sank.
"Of course," he whispered. "You've already started evolving."
The smaller ghouls hissed and clicked their tongues, circling him slowly. The marked one tilted its head, studying Akira with unsettling intelligence.
"Hunter…" it spoke, voice smoother than the others, thick with mockery. "We smelled you before you entered."
Akira didn't respond. He shifted his weight, counting steps, calculating distance.
Three to the left. Two behind. Marked Ghoul in front.
The pack lunged.
Akira moved.
He spun left, blade flashing as crimson symbols ignited in a violent flare. The first ghoul's arm came off at the shoulder. Before it could scream, Akira drove the blade into its chest, twisting sharply.
Ash burst outward like smoke.
Another ghoul leapt from behind, claws aimed for his neck. Akira ducked, rolled, and came up slashing. The creature's legs were severed mid-air. It hit the ground screaming—until the blade finished the job.
But there was no pause.
A third ghoul tackled him, slamming him into a tree trunk with bone-crushing force. Akira gasped, pain exploding through his ribs. Rotting breath washed over his face as the creature snapped at him wildly.
"Die—"
Akira slammed his forehead into the ghoul's skull.
It reeled back just long enough.
He plunged the blade upward through its jaw and into its brain. The glow flared blindingly bright, and the ghoul disintegrated mid-snarl.
Akira staggered to his feet, blood dripping from a cut above his eye.
Two ghouls left.
No—three.
The marked ghoul still hadn't moved.
The remaining smaller ghouls attacked together, no longer cautious. Akira met them head-on, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. One caught his shoulder, claws tearing fabric and flesh. He cried out but didn't stop moving, cutting it down in a wide arc.
The last lunged—and froze.
The marked ghoul raised one clawed hand.
The lesser ghoul obeyed instantly, dropping to all fours, trembling.
Akira stared.
"So it's true," he said grimly. "You can command them."
The marked ghoul smiled.
"You humans call me many things," it said. "Herald. Shepherd. Voice of the Root."
It stepped closer, eyes locked on Akira's blade.
"But that weapon," it continued, voice lowering, "belongs to him."
Akira's blood ran cold.
"My father is dead," he said.
The ghoul laughed softly.
"Death is not an ending in this forest."
The ground beneath them trembled.
Roots shifted, pulling back to reveal a dark hollow in the earth—a tunnel descending deep beneath the forest floor. From within it came a low, rhythmic sound, like breathing.
Akira felt it then.
A presence.
Ancient. Vast. Awake.
The Ghoul King.
The marked ghoul stepped aside, gesturing toward the opening.
"Come," it said. "The King wishes to see the last ghoul hunter."
Akira raised his blade, every instinct screaming danger.
But deeper still, beneath the fear, something else stirred.
Resolve.
"If the children are down there," Akira said, stepping toward the hollow, "then your king will have to go through me."
The marked ghoul's smile widened.
"Oh, hunter," it whispered. "He already has."
The roots closed behind them as Akira descended into the darkness—unaware that this was no longer a hunt.
It was an invitation.