Akira's legs burned. The roots coiled tighter around him, biting into his flesh like living iron. His satchel had fallen somewhere in the chaos of the descent, leaving him with nothing but his blade. The crimson symbols pulsed in sync with his pounding heartbeat, sending heat up his arms, almost alive, almost whispering.
The Ghoul King leaned forward, massive, its eyes glowing a dark crimson that seemed to pierce through the shadows of the cavern.
"You feel it, don't you?" the King's voice rumbled, shaking the air. "The lineage. The blood of hunters… in your veins. You cannot run from it."
Akira's jaw clenched. He wanted to yell. He wanted to fight. But the roots were merciless, holding him like the grip of death itself. His father's hollow, gaunt eyes met his from across the chamber, silently begging him to fight—begging him to understand.
"You're stronger than they said," the King continued. "But strength is meaningless without choice."
A sharp crack echoed as a root sank into Akira's shoulder, piercing deep. Pain flared, white-hot, and for a moment he felt his vision swim. Then a surge ran through him, coursing along the line of his blood, almost like fire flowing through ice.
The symbols on his blade blazed violently.
And he understood.
This was not just a weapon.
It was a key.
Akira screamed, not with fear, but with rage. The roots shuddered under the heat of his will. They hissed as if in pain, twisting, contorting, trying to restrain him, but he could feel his strength blooming, raw and fierce. Memories flooded him—the day he first held the blade, his father teaching him in whispered tones, the hours of relentless training, the ritualistic marks he had learned to carve into the earth.
He had been born for this moment.
He ripped the roots apart, screaming as the forest seemed to recoil. Splintered wood and twisted earth flew in all directions. Ghouls shrieked, scattering in fear at the sudden display of power. The Ghoul King stood, massive and unyielding, but for the first time its expression faltered—an edge of surprise crossing its impossible face.
Akira stepped forward, each movement deliberate, each step resonating with the pulse of his bloodline. His father's voice echoed in his memory:
"The hunter's blood is a bridge between worlds. It is not just strength… it is control."
Now he understood.
The Ghoul King's eyes narrowed, realizing what was happening. "You cannot… you are not ready!" it roared. The sound shook the cavern, rattling bones and stone alike. Shadows twisted, ghouls screamed, and the cavern seemed to breathe.
Akira roared back, raising the blade. Symbols blazed like firestorms, illuminating the cavern in stark crimson light. The roots holding his father began to writhe violently, almost pleading for mercy. Akira's father gave a strained, weak nod: "Do it… Akira… end this."
Akira lunged.
The blade met the King's arm. Flesh cracked under the heat of the symbols, and a terrible scream echoed that shook him to the core. Roots writhed and shattered as the King reeled back. Blood—not ordinary blood, but thick, dark, almost ink-like—spattered the cavern floor, searing the stone as it hit.
The King's laugh, low and terrible, reverberated around him. "You are a hunter… but you are nothing without me!"
Akira pressed forward, every fiber of his being alight with rage and power. Each step was a drumbeat of defiance. The ghouls scattered, some fleeing, others collapsing in fear, unable to comprehend the raw force Akira now wielded.
Then the forest reacted.
Roots from above and around the cavern surged upward, thrashing like serpents. The walls themselves seemed to pulse and move, as if the entire forest were alive and reacting to the clash. Akira felt a strange resonance—the forest wasn't attacking him. It was… aiding him.
"The forest…" he whispered, realization dawning. "It's on my side."
With renewed resolve, Akira swung the blade in a wide arc. Crimson light flared like the sun, and the Ghoul King staggered, a deep, resonant scream escaping its twisted throat. The throne of roots shattered, sending shards of wood and bone flying in all directions.
Akira's father collapsed, freed from the remaining tendrils, weak but alive. He looked at Akira with pride, the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes.
But the King was far from defeated. Its massive body trembled, roots writhing around it as it rose, taller than before. The forest pulsed in warning. The cavern was alive, its very heart beating alongside Akira's own.
"You are powerful, boy," the King hissed. "But this forest… is mine. You cannot kill me here. You cannot escape me…"
Akira gritted his teeth. He knew then what had to be done. This was no longer just a fight for survival. This was a fight to claim the forest, to reclaim it from a darkness that had swallowed too many lives.
And he was ready.
Crimson light blazed brighter, engulfing the cavern, as Akira prepared to strike a blow that could either save the children, his father, and the forest—or destroy everything he loved.
The echoes of his ancestors whispered through the cavern walls. The blood of hunters ran in his veins. And for the first time, Akira felt the full weight of his destiny.
He was no longer just a boy.
He was the Last Ghoul Hunter.
And the battle for Ningen no Mori had only begun.