Ghouls Devourer
"No matter how much pain you inflict on others, it will never fill your own—it only drags you deeper into despair… and still, we keep doing it."
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The rooftop of Ward 13 was an altar of shadows, the wind moaning like a trapped lament.
Ayanato Ashida flipped through the CCG's classified folder, red eyes flashing when he read the name Yakumo Ōmori, alias Yamori—an S-class ghoul who crossed paths with Rize before she vanished.
The word "Binge Eater" burned on the pages—bait Yoshitoki and Marude knew would hook him.
Ayanato clenched the folder until paper creaked, the fury he kept leashed finally cracking his hollow mask.
He vanished in a red flash, black cloak snapping behind him like a shroud, heading for an abandoned building where the echo of blood was waiting.
The place was a mausoleum of broken concrete: walls splattered with rust and dried gore, air heavy with the stink of rot.
Yamori stood at the center, beating a forgotten ghoul into paste—his shoes crushing the body with wet crunches.
"You're lucky the Binge Eater stole my pliers," he hissed, arrogance dripping from every syllable. "Otherwise we'd be having real fun."
His foot pressed down.
The ghoul's skull collapsed with a crack like spoiled fruit.
Yamori turned—his eyes catching the red glow of Ayanato's eclipse kakugan in the dark.
"Well, look who crawled out of the grave," he mocked, voice oozing contempt. "They say a week ago the Binge Eater met a tragic end under a steel beam, hunting some pathetic student. Did it hurt, Devourer? They say she was your friend—though her ego would never admit it."
His grin widened, uglier.
"Shame she didn't die in my torture room. Her screams would've been… music."
Ayanato didn't answer. His face remained a pit of vacancy.
He activated his quinque—Kiriha—and red threads unfurled in silence, weaving an invisible net that sliced the air like barbed wire.
Yamori laughed, blind to the trap.
"Without your little webs, you're nothing but a ghoul without a kagune—" he spat, pointing at the black CCG uniform, "—and from what I see, you're a pet now."
He leaned forward, savoring it.
"How's it feel, Devourer? Humans tightening your leash like a dog, while you cry for your problematic friend in silence?"
Ayanato sprang at him, eyes empty.
Yamori's Rinkaku exploded out—two bluish tentacles with metallic spikes—roaring into the air…
…and slammed into the red-thread net.
Metal shrieked as it tangled.
Ayanato twisted the needle, threads tightening like blades.
In an instant, they captured Yamori—lifting him up like a broken marionette, limbs pinned, blood dripping where threads cut into skin.
"Yakumo Ōmori," Ayanato said, voice a vacant whisper sharper than any weapon. "S-class ghoul, codename Yamori. Specialist in torturing the weak to feed your ego. Remember Cochlea?"
He tilted his head—still empty.
"Today I'll teach you something… less human."
With a swift motion, he slashed with Kiriha—splitting Yamori's abdomen in a visceral burst.
Blood sprayed the floor.
Yamori's scream hit the room like a snapped wire.
"The record says you use a method to keep your victims 'sane,'" Ayanato continued, tone colder than steel. "You'll count down from one thousand, subtracting seven each time."
A pause—flat, merciless.
"And I'll add my personal touch. Breaking fingers isn't enough. For every mistake… a needle will sew your flesh."
He pulled a long, sharp sewing needle from his coat. Silver glinted under weak light.
"What's one thousand minus seven, Yamori?"
Yamori thrashed—threads slicing deeper with every movement.
"Nine hundred ninety-four," he gasped, voice trembling as the wound tried to regenerate.
Ayanato's head tilted again.
"Wrong."
He flicked the needle.
It pierced Yamori's shoulder, stitching meat with threads that burned like liquid fire.
Yamori convulsed, screaming.
"Nine hundred ninety-three minus seven. What is it?"
"Nine hundred eighty-six," Yamori rasped, voice breaking.
Ayanato nodded.
But the torture had only started.
Time warped—every repetition a loop of pain.
Needles sank into Yamori's flesh, denying regeneration, slicing muscle and tendon with surgical cruelty. Blood dripped, pooling into mirrors that reflected Kiriha's red glow.
"What is five hundred forty-five minus seven?" Ayanato asked—monotone, mechanical.
Yamori, drenched in sweat and blood, babbled: "Five hundred thirty-seven."
Ayanato replied without blinking:
"Wrong."
A needle speared Yamori's cheekbone, stitching part of his lips together in a single quick motion that tore a muffled bellow from his throat.
The red threads trembled.
Every mistake added more needles—some punching through eyes, others sewing his mouth into a grotesque mosaic of agony.
The count kept going.
Yamori's body became a canvas of suffering.
"What is thirteen minus seven?" Ayanato asked, needle poised.
"Six," Yamori wheezed, voice shattered, pain eating him alive.
Ayanato nodded—still empty.
"The test is over," he said, contempt dripping like poison. "One hundred forty-two repetitions. One hundred errors."
A beat.
"A seventy point forty-two percent error rate. Clearly you're not the brightest in your class."
Ayanato stepped back. The threads began to retract.
"A sick animal like you doesn't deserve to die," he continued. "You'll walk stitched up—miserable—so everyone understands: enemies of the Binge Eater die by my hand."
A black widow crawled out of the shadows, climbed Yamori's stitched body, and slid into his ear.
The bite unleashed one final scream.
The threads left him suspended—alive, ruined, and dripping.
Ayanato vanished in a red flash, his cloak's echo lingering in the building's silence.
Yamori hung there, sewn and bleeding—a brutal message for anyone arrogant enough to cross the Ghouls Devourer.
Hollow Pleasure
"In a meadow where black roses bleed and shadows whisper guilt, a warrior drowns in a void that devours his soul—while a titan vows to crush the web."
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Ayanato Ashida collapsed on a rooftop in Ward 1, near the CCG. His quinque, Kiriha, was stabbed into the concrete like a broken anchor.
He closed his eyes, searching for relief he already knew didn't exist—the weight of his empty soul dragging him toward the edge.
His mind cracked open, dropping him into a "sleep" that wasn't rest, but a cyclone of nightmares.
He stood in an endless meadow of black roses, petals smeared with red blood. The air smelled of wilted lavender mixed with tragedy and desperation. The ground crunched underfoot, as though thorny stems wept at every step.
A soft voice—warped—pierced the silence.
An echo of Rize Kamishiro, her broken figure rising among the roses. Her wounds gaped, unhealed, bleeding into the soil.
"Seems someone's… more enthusiastic than usual," she whispered, voice a knife through air. "You enjoy other people's suffering, Ayanato, even though you swore you hated it. Such an elaborate method for someone who claims not to crave pointless violence."
Ayanato stared, face empty but trembling—unable to answer.
Behind him, the shadow of Alicetroemeria Ashida rose, claws opening in a motherly embrace twisted into cruelty. Her eyes glinted with madness that reflected his own. Her fingers dug into his uniform, tearing fabric like she wanted to rip out his soul.
"You're identical to me," she hissed, venom sliding into his thoughts. "An empty soul trying to fill itself with other people's blood—condemned to fail forever."
Ayanato staggered back—
and hit Himari.
Her eyes were hollow, bleeding endlessly, black tears spilling like an infinite river.
"Why do you live, nii-san?" she asked, voice a lament that stabbed straight through the heart. "Why did we pay the price for your mistakes?"
Her nails sank into his back.
An impossible sea of black blood erupted, flooding the meadow.
The roses withered, transforming into a cemetery of thorny graves—each marked with the names of those Ayanato had killed in the name of Alicetroemeria, Himari, and Rize.
A coffin of black thorns rose up, its surface pulsing like a rotten heart.
"What title does this chapter of your life deserve, Ayanato?" Rize asked, her wrecked figure floating above the coffin. "A grave for both of you? You promise and you never deliver. It's time you're the one buried."
Alicetroemeria lifted a needle identical to Kiriha, its edge shining sick red.
"I'm the only one who understands you," she whispered, voice echoing through the void. "I know the evil inside you. Life is a mistake. Why not correct it?"
The graves split open.
Corpses rose—faces deformed—screaming in silence.
Ayanato dropped to his knees, guilt crushing him, air choking him with the stink of blood and dead lavender.
Alicetroemeria's needle brushed his throat.
A thin line of black blood slid down.
But before it could cut—
everything dissolved into a whisper too quiet to hear, leaving only silence that devoured him whole.
Ayanato jolted awake, gasping, dawn's harsh sun burning his face.
Minutes had become hours—time betraying him like everything else.
He grabbed Kiriha off the rooftop ground and stared at the horizon.
Meanwhile, back in the abandoned building, Yamori still hung in the red-thread net, stitched by needles that burned with every twitch. Blood dripped, pooling into pale reflections of sunrise through holes in the roof.
Heavy footsteps thundered.
The floor trembled beneath colossal weight.
A massive figure entered—white hair falling like a waterfall, beard framing a cruel smile.
Girasawa the Immortal, a titan among ghouls, stopped before Yamori. His presence filled the air with pressure that made the walls creak.
"What do we have here, Yamori?" he rumbled, voice like distant thunder. "The Devourer left you in pieces."
He activated his kagune.
A Koukaku blade erupted from his arm—so massive it seemed to swallow light.
One swing—
the red threads were shredded.
Yamori slammed to the ground, coughing blood, needles buried in him firing waves of unbearable pain.
Girasawa looked down, smile widening—disdain flashing in his eyes.
"You're far outside your league," he hissed, threat heavy as concrete. "That message you're carrying will make you look like a clown to those of us who work professionally."
He leaned in, face close, air vibrating.
"I'll crush the spider."
He punctuated it by stomping a black widow into the floor with savage force.
Then he straightened, blocking the sunrise—
and vanished in a golden shimmer, leaving Yamori trembling on the ground: sewn, broken, and still echoing with agony.
Gourmet Excellence
"In a café where espresso aroma masks the stench of blood, a gourmet dances between routine and threat—spinning charm beneath a predator's shadow."
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Anteiku was a refuge of borrowed calm. Fresh coffee scent drifted through the air, mingling with murmured conversation and the clink of cups against saucers.
Touka Kirishima wiped the counter with precise movements, her face locked into concentration and irritation.
The door chime rang—
and an extravagant figure swept into the café:
Shuu Tsukiyama, hair perfectly combed, suit immaculate, wealth screaming off every seam. He moved like theater, every step designed to be seen.
"Magnifique! Long time no see, Kirishima-san!" he sang, voice melodramatic music. He inhaled with flourish as if coffee were a rare perfume. "This place never loses its rustic charm."
Touka growled without looking up. "What do you want, Tsukiyama?" she snapped, scrubbing harder than necessary.
Tsukiyama pressed a hand to his chest as if struck. "Oh, how cold, Kirishima-san!" he sighed, scratching his ear in exaggerated tragedy. "But that roughness is part of your charm, is it not? A raw diamond in this humble café."
"You're disgusting, you smug bastard," Touka spat, kakugan flaring for a heartbeat before she returned to her work, dismissing him like trash.
Unbothered, Tsukiyama turned toward Ken Kaneki, sitting by the window, his uncovered eye fixed outside—lost in worry over Ayanato's disappearance.
"And you—our gentleman with the eyepatch!" Tsukiyama trilled, gliding closer like an actor on stage. "A new soul in Anteiku? Quelle surprise!"
Kaneki barely turned, tense, distracted, replying to questions his mind wasn't even hearing.
"K-Kaneki," he muttered, nervous, mind stuck on the memory of Ayanato's empty fury.
Tsukiyama circled him, sniffing with an intensity that bordered on violation, his smile widening.
"Kaneki-kun… what an intriguing aroma," he purred, leaning far too close. "A blend of sweetness and bitterness—like rare coffee. Come now, tell me more about yourself, mon ami."
"He told you his name, idiot, that's more than enough," Touka cut in, voice razor-sharp, throwing a look that could slice steel. "Get out, Tsukiyama."
Tsukiyama laughed, patting Kaneki's shoulder with shameless familiarity.
"We'll speak later—when Yoshimura is present… or somewhere far from anxious eyes," he promised, sweetness hiding a hook. "See you soon, Kaneki-kun!"
He bowed theatrically and left, purple coat trailing like a curtain drop.
Hours later, in a park near Kamii University, afternoon sun painted the grass gold, but tension lived under the warmth.
Kaneki sat at a picnic table, coffee untouched, mind spinning around Ayanato's absence.
Tsukiyama perched on the tabletop in dramatic pose, playing with a sugar cube—dropping it into Kaneki's coffee with slow calculation, smile dripping suspicion.
"Kaneki-kun, forgive my insolence, but that long face doesn't suit you," he murmured, melodic voice hiding an edge. "What troubles your soul? A tragic amour? Or perhaps… a missing brother?"
Kaneki lowered his head. The memory of Ayanato's vacant fury crawled cold up his spine.
"It's just… a lot in my head," he whispered.
Tsukiyama tilted his head, sniffing again—so close Kaneki recoiled.
"Oh, what an aroma!" he exclaimed, hands gesturing like a conductor. "Broken sweetness and burning bitterness… a bouquet that sears the lungs."
He bowed deeply.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly: Shuu Tsukiyama. A pleasure."
A chill ran down Tsukiyama's spine—his ghoul instincts screaming danger.
He turned—
and there stood Ayanato Ashida: black CCG uniform swallowing light, blood-red inner edges flashing like an open wound. His eyes—cold, empty—pinned him in place.
In a blink, Ayanato vanished in a red flash and reappeared behind Tsukiyama.
"Seems you don't learn, Kaneki," Ayanato said, voice dry as ash. "Koukaku ghoul, S-class. Shuu Tsukiyama. Codename: the Gourmet."
Tsukiyama laughed, theatrical even under death's shadow.
"Magnifique!" He bowed, deep and elegant. "The unmistakable mark of the Ghoul Devourer, the Binge Eater's crescent. That red flash makes ghouls and investigators tremble alike. An honor, monsieur!"
Kaneki watched in silence, chest tight under Ayanato's oppressive presence.
"As a Special Class agent of the CCG," Ayanato continued, tone glacial, "I'm authorized to turn you into a decorative quinque, Tsukiyama. One for exhibition—your kind loves displays."
Tsukiyama laughed again, a song that dared death.
"Oh, what waste that would be, mon ami!" he sighed, hand to face in mock ecstasy. "I deeply regret what happened to Rize-san. The news spread like wildfire in our world."
His eyes glittered.
"But how about a break in my salon?" He produced an invitation with gold edges from his purple jacket, offering it with flourish. "I know exactly the forbidden delicacies that delight your palate, Devourer. Cannibalism—such an exquisite taboo… it will be a banquet to watch you savor what the ignorant fear!"
Ayanato took the invitation with a leather-gloved hand, scanning the gold edges without emotion.
"And I haven't forgotten you either, Kaneki-kun," Tsukiyama added, turning with a smile that dripped hunger. "You're the guest of honor too. A feast isn't complete without company!"
He bowed once more and glided away, laughter lingering in the air.
Kaneki stared at Ayanato. The uniform cast a shadow that made him shiver.
He joined the hunters… which side is he on? the doubt squeezed his heart.
Ayanato looked at him—an abyss.
"Don't let them eat you," he said, voice sharp as a blade.
Then he vanished in a red flash, leaving Kaneki alone with the echo of the warning and the weight of a world collapsing.
Impenetrable
"In an alley where blood paints asphalt and red threads slice the air, a hunter faces living armor—each clash a lightning bolt that illuminates the void."
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Ayanato Ashida studied Tsukiyama's invitation, gold edges glinting under rooftop light. His eyes—empty—hardened.
"Still early," he murmured, ash-dry. "I'll begin the purge."
He activated hemogenic vision.
The world flooded scarlet—red lines pulsing like lighthouses toward Tokyo's ghouls.
He pocketed the invitation and vanished in a red flash, cloak snapping like a death banner.
His steps found an alley in Ward 20, two hundred meters north of Kamii University, where the air stank of blood and garbage.
Five street ghouls lurked in shadow—cruel laughter cutting off when Ayanato arrived.
He drew Kiriha, sick red glowing from within.
No hesitation.
He hurled the needle like a projectile—punching through the first ghoul's chest with a visceral crunch.
Blood splashed asphalt.
The body collapsed into a puddle reflecting flickering alley lights.
He yanked the red thread, reclaiming Kiriha in one fluid motion, and spun—slashing the second ghoul from shoulder to hip.
Entrails spilled in a torrent.
The scream died under the clean cut.
The remaining three ghouls gasped, kakugan igniting in terror.
An Ukaku spread wings, firing shards in desperate bursts.
Ayanato spun Kiriha like a fan—red threads weaving a shield that pulverized the projectiles into a glittering rain.
He vanished—reappeared in front of the Ukaku.
The ghoul barely swallowed before Kiriha pierced its skull, blood erupting like a geyser, painting the alley walls.
The last two—Koukaku—roared, armored kagune charging with fury.
Ayanato moved with surgical precision, dodging blows by centimeters—sparks exploding when their strikes crossed.
One slash from Kiriha cut them both in half.
They collapsed into a heap of ruined flesh, blood forming rivers that mixed with filth.
Ayanato straightened, expressionless, and raised his radio.
"This is Ashida," he said, voice an empty echo. "Reporting elimination of a group of street ghouls in Ward 20, two hundred meters north of Kamii University."
"Understood, Agent Ashida," came the reply—voice trembling at the clinical lethality.
Then heavy footsteps broke the silence.
The ground trembled like a titan waking.
Ayanato turned—
and met Girasawa the Immortal, colossal, white hair falling like a waterfall, beard framing an arrogant smile.
"Partial Kakuja, SS+," Ayanato stated, tone flat. "Girasawa the Immortal. The CCG will appreciate your elimination."
Girasawa laughed like thunder.
Without a word, he activated partial kakuja—his body plating over with thick Koukaku armor, silver as reinforced steel.
One arm mutated into a colossal drill, the other into a serrated blade glinting under weak light.
Ayanato lunged in a red flash, Kiriha carving an arc toward Girasawa's torso—
Impact.
A metallic crack.
Sparks sprayed like lightning—
and Kiriha bounced off, unable to pierce living armor.
Girasawa roared, reaching for Ayanato—
Ayanato dodged back, red threads unfurling into a net that glowed like scarlet veins.
"Little spider!" Girasawa bellowed, arrogance thick. "Your needle can't beat real armor. I'll show you what an authentic ghoul looks like!"
He charged—drill ripping up asphalt and launching chunks like shrapnel.
Ayanato vanished—reappeared above him—Kiriha stabbing down—
More sparks.
Armor held.
Regenerated instantly.
Girasawa laughed and swung the serrated blade in a savage arc.
Ayanato slipped under it by centimeters—movement a lethal dance.
He struck Girasawa's back—
More sparks. Another bounce.
Kiriha can't cut that armor, Ayanato thought, mind sharp as his weapon. If I still had my original Kokuseigu, I'd shred him. I need a new strategy.
Girasawa gave him no air. The drill tore through a wall, exploding debris.
"You're fast, spider, but my kakuja is indestructible!" he howled, manic laughter echoing. "Soon you'll run out of strength!"
Ayanato attacked—vanish, reappear, vanish—red flashes in rapid fire.
Every strike was lightning.
Every collision sprayed sparks.
Torso. Back. Arm.
The armor dented—but never broke.
Each dent healed like it never existed.
Ayanato exhaled hard, then threw Kiriha like a spear—
It struck Girasawa's chest.
A storm of sparks.
A shallow scratch.
Healed instantly.
Ayanato snapped the thread, reclaiming Kiriha midair.
"I'm immortal!" Girasawa roared, drill spinning with a deafening growl. "Not even the Ghoul Devourer can beat me!"
Ayanato, breathing hard, measured the titan.
His armor is a wall. His strength is too high. One clean hit and I'm dead. I need to rethink.
He vanished in one final red flash, leaving the alley silent—except for Girasawa's manic laughter as he spun the drill through air like a hymn of arrogance.
Guest of Honor
"In a hall where gold and crimson disguise horrors, a gourmet orchestrates a feast of taboos—while a predator weaves his web beneath chandelier light."
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Ayanato Ashida stood on a rooftop in Ward 1 near the CCG, Tsukiyama's invitation in hand, gold edges gleaming under the setting sun.
Exhausted from the clash with Girasawa, he looked up at the sky, searching for relief that never came.
"Time," he murmured, voice hollow. "I'll arrive before Kaneki so he doesn't do something stupid."
He leapt from the rooftop, cloak trailing like a crow's wing, and walked toward a marble-faced building hiding opulence within.
Tsukiyama's salon was decadence made architecture: crimson velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers spilling golden light, tables dressed in fine linens.
Ayanato adjusted his CCG uniform, letting the blood-red inner edges of his cloak gleam like a warning.
He sat on a carved chair, face expressionless, waiting for the event to begin.
Ken Kaneki arrived shortly after, black tuxedo immaculate but deeply out of place, discomfort tense in his posture.
"Good to see you, nii-san," Kaneki said timidly, bowing awkwardly before sitting across from him.
"Good to see you, Kaneki," Ayanato replied, tone as dry as Kiriha's edge, eyes fixed on nothing.
A masked servant approached with a silver tray.
For Kaneki: fine coffee, bitter aroma rising.
For Ayanato: a red crystal goblet—viscous liquid, unmistakable metallic scent: ghoul blood.
Kaneki flinched, face paling.
Ayanato lifted the goblet with indifference and drank.
The taste was raw, intense—a taboo echoing in his mouth like the past.
"Ashida-san, would you accompany me?" the servant asked, voice neutral but firm. "Tsukiyama Shuu wishes to speak with you before the event."
Ayanato followed her through a torchlit corridor into an even more extravagant room: mahogany tables loaded with exotic dishes, golden chandeliers casting dancing shadows, aristocrat ghouls in opera masks whispering with unease.
"The black dove of the CCG…" one ghoul murmured behind a raven mask. "What is he doing here?"
"They say he reached Special Class on day one… he's terrifying," whispered a woman, butterfly mask glittering.
Shuu Tsukiyama entered in an immaculate purple suit, a golden crescent mask covering his face.
He clapped with theatrical flourish, laughter ringing like an aria.
"Mesdames et messieurs!" he announced, voice filling the hall like stage music. "Allow me to present our guest of honor—legend itself, the Binge Eater's crescent… the Ghoul Devourer!"
The aristocrats recoiled, masks hiding pale faces.
"The cannibal!" a woman shrieked, eyes darting for red threads in the dim. "Why would Tsukiyama invite him?!"
"I'm not fond of cannibalism… but this could be entertaining," another said, stepping forward cautiously, fox mask shining.
Ayanato remained motionless, expression a void.
Tsukiyama dramatically uncovered a silver tray: a fine steak glistening with fresh blood.
The smell was unmistakable—ghoul flesh, taboo even here.
The aristocrats gasped, retreating further.
"Magnifique!" Tsukiyama sang, hands conducting the air. "The Devourer doesn't settle for small things, so let's proceed to the main course. A virgin steak, bathed in a blood sauce… with an exquisite surprise!"
Rize never appreciated my art, Tsukiyama thought, smile twisting with contempt. Who needs her? The Devourer is a star just as bright.
Ayanato pulled out two long needles and used them like chopsticks.
With an invisible slice, he cut a piece with surgical precision, tasted it—
the flesh was soft, almost delicate.
But a familiar note brushed his tongue.
His eyes narrowed.
Tsukiyama noticed, smile widening.
"Oh, mon ami! Do you taste that excentrique note?" he purred, leaning close so no one else would hear. "A pinch of Kaneki-kun's blood—fresh, evocative. Been a long time since you tasted it, Devourer? I see you like to let delicacies mature before harvesting."
Ayanato looked up. Empty gaze—yet a flicker of contained fury.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, voice a cold murmur that made aristocrats tremble.
Tsukiyama laughed, arms spreading like an opera climax.
"Mon dieu! A touch of Kaneki-kun, collected with the greatest care from a small domestic accident!" he sang—then raised his voice for the room.
"Witness, all of you, how even the Ghoul Devourer delights in my culinary art—my masterpiece of taboo and flavor!"
Ayanato exhaled and drew Kiriha.
One slash through air—
red threads exploded outward, weaving a scarlet net that caged the table like a living trap.
The aristocrats stumbled back, terror slipping through their masks.
"Come with me, Ashida-san," Tsukiyama said, tone still theatrical. "Our conversation will be… interesting."
Still smiling, unshaken, he guided Ayanato toward a private room—leaving aristocrats trembling beneath chandelier light, red threads vibrating like a warning: the Devourer was not an ordinary guest.
Slaughterhouse
"In a hall where crimson and gold conceal a blood altar, a gourmet dances with death—while hunter and prey face the edge of a forbidden banquet."
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The private room was a mausoleum of opulence—crimson velvet walls swallowing the light of gold chandeliers, flames dancing like trapped souls.
Ayanato held a crystal goblet of ghoul blood, viscous liquid swirling with metallic shine.
Across from him, Tsukiyama—purple suit perfect, golden crescent mask—gestured like a conductor, voice melodic with malice.
"Magnifique, Ashida-san!" Tsukiyama exclaimed, leaning in with manic glint. "Did the delicacy please you? I find it fascinating you've never tasted that little ghoul you carry with you… Kaneki-kun. Such an exquisite bouquet."
Ayanato rotated the goblet. Face unchanged.
"He's not on the menu," he said, voice knife-dry. "And I'd like it to stay that way. Prey isn't touched until it's ready."
Tsukiyama clutched his chest as if struck. "Oh, mon ami! What restraint, what discipline!" he sang, laughter like broken bells. "Such a shame Kamishiro-san didn't introduce us sooner. Selfishness perhaps? Jealousy? Mon dieu—imagining the Binge Eater with such passions makes my skin crawl with excitement."
Ayanato stared—unmoved.
"If you'd stepped into my web," he said, tone freezing the air, "I would've torn you apart before you opened your mouth. Don't tempt a predator in its territory."
A black widow slid out of Ayanato's sleeve onto the mahogany table.
Tsukiyama watched, smile growing. "Quelle touche dramatique!" he clapped delightedly. "Come now—tell the story. How did you meet magnificent Rize-san? It must have been sublime!"
Ayanato sighed. Something inside him fractured—his face still empty.
"I met her when she was a teenager," he said, voice monotone. "Still polishing her hunting style. The CCG expelled her from Ward 11 earlier than she planned. Ward 20 was my territory—considered ghoul-free because of my presence."
He paused.
"She attacked me, mistaking me for human. I spared her. Then… we talked. A lot."
Tsukiyama pressed hands to his face, ecstatic. "Oh, exquisite! A young Rize—still with a trace of innocence in that dark soul—going for the throat like a panther. C'est parfait!"
Then his smile sharpened into malice. He leaned in, whispering like death was listening:
"Tell me, Ashida-san… did you ever taste the delicacy that was Rize-san? Did you savor the blood everyone coveted?"
Ayanato's eyes darkened—fury contained.
Tsukiyama laughed and stepped back, bowing extravagantly.
"Pardonnez-moi! The main event is about to begin, Ashida-san. Kindly don't interrupt… yet. Let the young Kaneki develop his caractère."
With a flourish, he left—laughter echoing.
Ayanato followed into the main hall, a coliseum of decadence: velvet walls, chandeliers casting twisted shadows.
Aristocrat ghouls in opera masks whispered, hunger and fear shining through eyeholes.
Ayanato stood at the balcony, cloak billowing, blood-red edges flashing like a warning.
The lights dimmed.
Silence thickened.
A platform rose from the floor, spotlight revealing Ken Kaneki at center—tuxedo immaculate, face pale and confused, eyes wide with terror, searching for escape.
The announcer, a ghoul in a white mask, raised a hand.
"Mesdames et messieurs! Thank you for attending this banquet!" he cried, applause roaring like fever. "Tonight, we present the main course… a ghoul!"
Applause stuttered into incredulous whispers.
"First the Devourer, now this?" someone murmured, mask trembling. "Tsukiyama's obsessed with cannibalism lately," a woman whispered, retreating.
The announcer pointed to the balcony.
"And now—our host of this sublime dinner—Shuu Tsukiyama!"
Tsukiyama emerged flanked by two masked women with white feathered masks, arms linked with his. He bowed, laughter like macabre opera.
He produced a handkerchief with a drop of Kaneki's blood and let it fall to the floor.
Aristocrats leaned in, kakugan igniting, drawn like flies to rot.
"Notice," Tsukiyama sang, "though he is a ghoul, his aroma is human—mixed with an essence that surprised even the Devourer… a unique delicacy!"
Kaneki trembled on the platform, staring up at Ayanato.
"Tsukiyama… nii-san, why?" he whispered, voice torn by terror.
Ayanato jumped from the balcony, landing before Kaneki, hand on his shoulder.
"I won't let them eat you," he said, tone dry but firm. "But this will teach you what it means to be a ghoul."
A colossal door opened.
The floor shook under heavy steps.
A huge butcher—Taro—entered, massive hands gripping a serrated saw the size of a man.
"Step, step, step," he sang in a grotesque rumble, then swung the saw at Kaneki.
Ayanato stopped it with two fingers.
Metal screamed under his grip.
Aristocrats gasped, stumbling back.
"A modified human," Ayanato said coldly. "Not impressive."
He drew Kiriha—click.
The giant needle formed, taller than Kaneki, red pulse throbbing like an artery.
Ayanato stabbed Kiriha into the floor—impact like thunder.
He released Taro's saw and sprang back to the balcony, empty eyes watching from shadow.
Kaneki stared at Kiriha—its size mirroring his fear.
Tsukiyama applauded from center stage, laughter filling the hall.
"Let the spectacle begin, mes amis!" he cried, as Taro advanced, saw glittering beneath chandeliers.
The slaughterhouse was ready.
And Ayanato watched—his red-thread net ready to cut at any moment.
Ghoul Instinct
"In a coliseum where blood paints the floor and screams feed the chaos, a cornered ghoul awakens instinct—turning despair into an edge that cuts flesh."
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Tsukiyama's hall was a slaughterhouse wearing opulence.
Golden chandeliers threw shadows like hungry specters.
Marble floors, splattered with blood, reflected aristocrat screams—opera masks shining over faces twisted in ecstasy.
At center stage, Kaneki shook—tux ripped, terror choking him.
Taro, an inhuman mound of meat, swung the serrated saw under the lights.
From the balcony, Tsukiyama clapped, theatrical laughter ringing like a macabre aria.
"Let the spectacle begin, mes amis!"
Kaneki rushed to Kiriha, the giant needle planted like a monolith of death.
His trembling hands fought the hilt—
but the quinque wouldn't budge, its weight mocking his weakness.
It's stuck… nii-san's strength… Panic crushed his chest.
Taro swung.
The saw whistled.
Kaneki rolled, the blade grazing his back, ripping fabric and carving a burning cut in skin.
Blood dripped.
The metallic scent ignited aristocrat kakugan—roars of delight.
"Wait, I said WAIT!" Taro bellowed, fists lifting like hammers.
Kaneki crawled, breath shattered, and ran—stumbling in desperation.
"Give it your best, Taro-chan!" Madam A shrieked, green glasses flashing as she clapped wildly. "Crush him for mommy!"
Taro roared. "I will, mommy!"
He swung again—air splitting.
Kaneki dodged by centimeters, metal brushing his cheek, a thin line of blood sliding down his face.
Aristocrats erupted into laughter, a choir of sadism.
"The Scrapper Taro has Madam A's backing!" the announcer shouted over the frenzy.
I can't disappoint nii-san again… Kaneki thought, heart hammering.
He tore off his tux jacket and threw it over Taro's face.
Taro stumbled, roaring.
Kaneki sprinted to Kiriha, hands slick with sweat and blood, trying to wrench it free.
Taro recovered—saw screaming toward him.
Kaneki ducked behind Kiriha just in time.
The saw slammed into the needle—
THUNDER.
The blade shattered into a thousand pieces, metal fragments spraying like shrapnel.
Taro stared at his broken weapon, confused.
Kaneki tried to flee—
but his foot slipped in fresh blood.
His ankle twisted.
Pain struck like lightning.
He crashed down with a strangled sound.
Aristocrats howled with laughter, humiliation echoing.
Taro stepped closer, shadow covering Kaneki like a sentence.
With a roar, he lifted Kaneki by the throat, massive hands squeezing—bones creaking.
Blood bubbled from Kaneki's mouth, lungs clawing for air.
Aristocrat screams rose into fevered crescendo.
"Crush him, Taro-chan!" Madam A shrieked, joined by a chorus.
Nii-san… I won't die… I'll be strong… to protect others…
Kaneki's eye filled with desperate tears.
His single kakugan ignited—bright red cutting the dark.
With a primal scream, he kicked Taro's chest with full ghoul force—sending the giant crashing down.
Silence hit the room—thick with disbelief.
Kaneki, shaking with fury and pain, grabbed Kiriha with both hands.
The tiles shrieked as he dragged the massive needle, sparks flying.
He roared from the deepest part of his soul and leapt—
driving Kiriha into Taro's chest.
The needle tore through meat and bone.
A geyser of blood exploded, spraying Kaneki and the floor.
Taro was pinned, eyes wide in a silent scream, as the crowd erupted—applause mixing with shrieks of ecstasy and fear.
On the balcony, Tsukiyama fought against the masked women restraining him, crescent mask shining with manic fervor.
"A one-eyed ghoul!" he screamed, voice trembling with worship. "Mon dieu—I must taste him! Get off me!"
A red-thread net snapped out, stopping him cold.
Tsukiyama turned—meeting Ayanato's gaze.
Ayanato lifted a fist, eyes empty, threat wordless.
Tsukiyama smiled—yet sweat betrayed his nerves.
Ayanato watched from above, while Kiriha vibrated in the floor like an extension of his will.
Kaneki, drenched in blood, panted—kakugan still lit—body trembling between rage and exhaustion.
The hall—blood and gold—echoed with awakened ghoul instinct.
And aristocrats held their breath… afraid of the hunter watching from the shadows.
Puppeteer
"In a coliseum where red threads weave nightmares and blood sings beneath golden chandeliers, a puppeteer conducts a ballet of broken flesh—while a soul fights not to shatter."
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Tsukiyama's hall was an altar of decadence. Crimson velvet walls swallowed chandelier light, shadows twisting like hungry ghosts.
Opera-masked aristocrats roared with sadistic frenzy, kakugan glowing like embers.
Center stage, Kaneki trembled—tux shredded, soaked in sweat and blood.
The air reeked metallic.
Puddles on the floor reflected flickering light.
From the balcony, Ayanato Ashida leaned on the railing, cloak fluttering like a shroud, face a void.
Silence broke—
Ayanato jumped.
A red flash split the air like lightning.
Taro writhed on the floor, Kiriha pinned through his chest, flesh tearing with each struggle.
His agony howled—an animal lament nobody cared to hear.
"Get up, Taro-chan!" Madam A screamed—until her voice cracked as Ayanato reappeared, dropping like a projectile onto the butcher.
With brutal force, Ayanato drove Kiriha deeper—metal punching through Taro's heart with a wet crunch.
Blood erupted in a geyser, splattering floor and Ayanato's uniform.
Ayanato didn't flinch.
Taro collapsed, convulsing in crimson, eyes wide in a mute scream.
The crowd held its breath.
Only dripping blood spoke.
"Boring," Ayanato said, voice a cold blade. "Let's raise the level."
He threw Kiriha into the air.
Red threads burst outward, weaving a scarlet net that glowed like living veins.
Kaneki—pale, horrified—caught the needle before it fell, its weight nearly crushing him.
Ayanato sprang onto the net, moving with the precision of a dark god.
Red threads shot into Taro's corpse, sinking into meat with wet cracks—needles piercing rotten leather.
Viscera dangled, stench flooding the hall.
Black widows poured from the shadows, crawling over the torn body, legs weaving across shredded muscle.
They slipped into the corpse's empty eyes—
and the sockets became red beacons, dozens of tiny scarlet eyes blinking in darkness.
Long sharp needles erupted from Taro's fingers, turning into claws that tore the air.
The corpse rose on all fours, split flesh dripping, ribs exposed and cracking.
A broken-throat scream scraped out—an inhuman sound that froze aristocrat blood.
The body moved like a grotesque beast—
red threads yanking muscle like a sadistic puppeteer—
blood splashing in a macabre ballet.
"Don't stop the theater music," Ayanato whispered, monotone, as he pulled the threads. "The event has only begun."
The announcer, trembling with excitement, raised his hand.
"The main event becomes a puppet spectacle, sponsored by the Devourer—Ayanato Ashida!" he screamed, as music surged into a fevered crescendo—a waltz that danced with screams.
Kaneki stared in absolute terror.
"Nii-san…" he whispered, voice broken.
Taro's corpse lunged—claws slicing with inhuman speed.
Kaneki raised Kiriha, blocking.
Sparks exploded.
The impact slammed him to the floor.
Blood spilled from a cut on his arm—pain burning.
It's faster… stronger than when it was alive… Panic hammered his heart.
The corpse attacked again—claws flinging cutting red threads that ripped Kaneki's shoulder open, dragging a scream from his throat.
Blood splashed.
Kaneki shook under pain.
Is this being a ghoul? Fighting until I break? Nii-san… why?
His single kakugan burned brighter, red mist spilling from him, but his Rinkaku stayed locked down—held back by a shattered will.
"Come on, Ashida-san!" Madam A screamed, ecstatic. "Use that idiot Taro better than when he was alive!"
Kaneki panted, dragging Kiriha—sparks scraping tile.
With a desperate roar, he swung a messy slash, tearing the corpse's chest open in a spray of blood.
The puppet didn't react.
Claws came again—more violent.
Kaneki barely dodged, every move costing him what little he had left.
Ayanato lifted a brow and pulled more threads, forcing the corpse into terrifying speed.
A final slash launched Kaneki into the wall.
Threads cut his chest.
Blood ran like a river.
He fell—shaking—
then forced himself up with a last breath.
I won't die…
Hands slippery with blood, he gripped Kiriha.
With a primal roar, he swung—
Decapitated the corpse.
Cut the controlling threads.
The head rolled.
The black widow eyes went dark as the spiders scattered, fleeing the skull.
The body collapsed into ruined meat.
Kiriha dropped across Kaneki's back, pinning him.
His breathing rattled in the sudden hush.
The hall erupted into applause—aristocrats roaring with sadistic ecstasy.
Tsukiyama jumped down, eyes blazing with hunger, sniffing the air near Kaneki.
"Quelle fureur exquise, Kaneki-kun!" he sang, kagune trembling to deploy. "A one-eyed ghoul—sublime delicacy!"
A red-thread net halted him, vibrating like a living warning.
Ayanato landed beside Kaneki, yanking Kiriha free with a smooth motion.
He deactivated the quinque, collapsing it back into its hilt, and hoisted Kaneki onto his shoulder—limp body dripping blood.
"Show's over," Ayanato said, voice a cold knife. "Kaneki needs rest."
Tsukiyama swallowed his impulse, desire burning behind his smile.
"Une épreuve de caractère sublime, mon ami," he bowed. "Let us hope Kaneki will be… willing to repeat."
How dare he take my banquet away without leaving me a bite… Tsukiyama thought, laughter hiding a furious heat.
Ayanato stepped onto the platform as it descended, carrying Kaneki unconscious down out of the spotlight.
The hall remained—silence broken only by fading applause and dripping blood—
a coliseum where the puppeteer had woven his nightmare.