The silence that followed the violence was heavier than the battle itself. It was a physical weight, pressing down on the eardrums, amplified by the utter lack of life in the surrounding area.
The gymnasium, once a place of recreation—a space for echoes of sneakers squeaking, whistles blowing, and the shouts of youth—had been reduced to a hollowed-out shell. The structural integrity of the building groaned under the stress of the devastation. The air was thick, choking with a particulate haze of pulverized concrete, the sharp, electric sting of ozone from high-level Cursed Energy residue, and the overwhelming, metallic tang of fresh blood. It smelled like a slaughterhouse operating inside a thunderstorm.
Shin Zenin stood at the edge of the cratered floor, his breathing controlled, his eyes scanning the gloom. He wiped a smear of grime from his cheek, the grit scraping against his skin. He signaled Maki with a sharp, minimalist tilt of his head. They didn't need words. They barely needed signals. The two of them, bound by the shackles of the Zenin clan and liberated by their rejection of Cursed Energy, moved with a synergy that was terrifying to behold.
They blurred into motion. They cut through the debris field with a speed that left no footprints in the thick dust coating the floor. They rushed toward the center of the devastation, weapons drawn, muscles loose but ready to snap into violence. They were anticipating a second round. In the Culling Game, you didn't assume the fight was over until the Kogane announced a score change, or until you saw the body go cold.
But when they arrived at the epicenter of the carnage, the verdict had already been delivered.
Megumi Fushiguro stood amidst the ruin, swaying like a lone tree in a gale. His silhouette was ragged against the dim light filtering through the shattered roof. His uniform, usually pristine, was shredded, hanging off him in tatters that revealed skin that was no longer skin—it was a topographical map of deep lacerations, friction burns, and blooming bruises that ranged from purple to sick yellow. Blood dripped from his fingertips, pattering softly against the debris, a steady drip, drip, drip that marked the seconds like a macabre clock.
He looked less like a high school student and more like a survivor of a natural disaster.
At his feet lay Reggie Star. The ancient sorcerer, the man who had treated this death match like a transaction at a receipt counter, lay in a spreading pool of crimson. His throat was torn open, a gruesome ruin left by the savage claws of the Divine Dog: Totality. The light in his eyes was dimming rapidly, the arrogant spark of a sorcerer from the past finally extinguished by the sheer tenacity of the modern era.
Shin slowed his approach, Playful Cloud resting heavy on his shoulder. He watched Megumi. The boy didn't look triumphant. There was no fist-pumping, no sigh of relief, no shonen protagonist declaration of victory. He looked like a man who had hollowed himself out to secure a win. He looked like he had spent pieces of his soul to buy this moment.
Megumi held out his Kogane, his hand trembling violently—not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion of his nervous system misfiring. He watched the digital display as the points transferred. It was a slow, agonizing process, the digital chime seemingly mocking the brutality required to earn it. Five points. Just a number on a screen, paid for in gallons of blood.
Reggie's lips moved. Red froth bubbled at the corners of his mouth, spilling down his cheek to mix with the dust.
Reggie: "...Die... like a clown."
The voice was wet, gurgling, but the intent was clear. It was a curse, a prophecy, and a farewell all wrapped into one final insult. With those final words, the tension left Reggie's body. The sorcerer slumped, his chest rising one last time before settling forever, leaving behind only meat and bone. The history he carried, the contracts he held, the techniques he mastered—gone in a heartbeat.
Megumi's knees finally buckled.
The adrenaline crash hit him all at once, a tidal wave of fatigue that shut down his motor functions. His eyes rolled back. But before he could hit the unforgiving concrete, before his battered skull could crack against the rubble, two pairs of hands were there.
Shin and Maki caught him simultaneously. It was seamless. Maki took his left side, Shin his right. Their grips were firm, anchoring him before he could collapse completely.
Shin looked down at the battered summoner. His heightened senses, sharpened by his Heavenly Restriction, picked up the jagged, uneven rhythm of Megumi's heart. It was beating too fast, fluttering like a trapped bird, struggling to pump blood through a body that had lost too much of it.
Shin: "You look like hell, Fushiguro."
Shin's voice was rough, echoing slightly in the quiet gym. He shifted his grip, hoisting Megumi's arm over his shoulder to take the weight.
Shin: "But we got the points. That's what matters. We're done here."
Megumi opened his mouth to answer Shin. A wheeze rattled in his chest, wet and heavy, suggesting a bruised lung or worse. The words died in his throat, choked off by exhaustion. His eyes, half-lidded and glassy, struggled to focus on Shin's face.
Then, suddenly, they snapped wide.
The lethargy vanished for a split second, replaced by primal alarm. Megumi's gaze didn't lock onto Shin or Maki. It shot upward, past them, reflecting a blinding white light that hadn't been there a second ago.
Megumi: "Up..."
It wasn't a command; it was a warning. It was a desperate plea from a dying battery.
Shin and Maki looked up instinctively. Their reflexes took over, bodies tense. The gloom of the gymnasium, characterized by shadows and gray dust, was suddenly pierced by a shaft of brilliance descending from the jagged hole in the roof. It was blinding, pure, and terrifyingly out of place.
Floating down through the column of light was a figure that defied the grim reality of the Culling Game. In a world of blood, curses, and darkness, this figure was bathed in luminescence. It was a young woman. She descended with an ethereal grace, backlit by the moon, with wings of pure light sprouting from her back. She looked like a baroque painting come to life, a messenger from the heavens dropping into a pit of vipers.
But to Shin, she didn't look like an angel. She looked like a target.