Once the spectral figure—which my mind, clinging to something familiar, baptized "Death"—vanished into the mist like a ghost dissipating at dawn, I was left with only the echo of its promise. A price to return. What did that mean? If he was dead, why not eternal oblivion? If not, where did this void fit? My teenage brain, trained in shonen manga and survival video games, labeled it Limbo: not the paradise of invincible superheroes, not the hell of fiery villains, but a stagnant purgatory, a modern-day Yomi where souls floated like fallen leaves in a stagnant river, awaiting a trial that was perhaps just a cruel joke of the hidden gods.
But this was not the gray, drab Limbo of Christian legends I had read in school. It was a living chaos, a swirl of fog whispering secrets in forgotten tongues. When I opened my eyes again, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of souls surrounded me, their ethereal forms flickering like flawed holograms. Faces blurred by eternal terror, sunken eyes that reflected lives cut short: a salaryman in a frayed tie, an old woman in a threadbare kimono, a boy in a school uniform stained with invisible blood. The air vibrated with a constant murmur, not just cries or screams, but a chorus of fragmented whispers: fragments of prayers to kami ignored, curses to superheroes who failed to save them, eternal questions like "Why me? Why now?"
At the center, hovering above us like a masked oni at a macabre festival, was Death. His cloak was not only black; absorbed light, creating voids that distorted the space around them. Under the hood, he guessed a crooked smile, like that of a playful yokai who enjoys torturing lost souls. "Entertained with our pathetic dance?" I thought, my stomach churning with a tingle of anger and fear.
"Welcome, wandering souls," thundered his voice, a deep echo that vibrated in my bones like the taiko of a distorted matsuri, but with a mocking undertone reminiscent of an infernal reality TV host. —Congratulations on your premature end. It wasn't epic like the clashes of those caped "heroes" they love so much up there, huh? An earthquake, a villain on the loose, a capricious god... But here we are. All is not lost, however. Today, I offer you a return ticket. A rebirth, if they deserve it.
A shiver ran through me, colder than the mist that tangled around my legs like living roots. I wanted to believe it was a headbang-induced nightmare, that I would wake up in my messy bed in Tokyo, with Akari yelling at me for breakfast and Mei babbling "brother." But the pain in my arm, the cut that was still bleeding ethereal drops, and the vivid memory of Haruto under the pole—his empty eyes, blood bubbling like a broken spring—anchored me to this reality. At 14 years old, I had watched enough anime to know that divine "prices" always came with hooks: a soul in return, a cursed power, an eternal debt.
"What the is this?" A game? Where are we, in the Yomi of legends? Several nearby men bellowed, their voices hoarse with rage, robust bodies that in life were perhaps yakuza or street fighters. They were not intimidated; or so they thought, clinging to their earthly machismo.
Before they were finished, Death snapped his fingers—a dry sound like the crunch of ancient bones. Men convulsed, their forms dissolving into wisps of black mist, souls torn away like pages from a burnt book. A stench of rotten sakura filled the air, sweet and nauseating. The silence fell like a guillotine, the terror palpable like a thick fog.
"Interruptions will not be tolerated," said Death in a tone of casual disinterest, as if he had just squished an annoying fly. "Now, pay attention, because I won't repeat the rules. Impatient souls have no place in my tournament.
I swallowed hard. The atmosphere became denser, charged with a palpable sense of despair. No one dared to speak, to move. We were all helpless sheep waiting for the will of this being.
"This is a tournament," Death continued, his voice echoing in every corner of Limbo. "A tournament to decide which of you deserves to return to the world of the living. It is not a question of morality, or justice, or who was better or worse. It's a matter of survival. But make no mistake... It will not be easy. Limbo does not yield to its prey easily.
The darkness around her stirred, as if she were alive. A dark and palpable energy swirled, and from it, five rules materialized, floating in the air. They were not written in Japanese or English, but in a universal language that, in some inexplicable way, we could all understand.
Limbo Tournament Rules:
Only five people will be able to get out alive. The others... those who fall will disappear forever. Its existence will be erased.
Weapons will be limited to medieval tools. No firearms or explosives. Here, power lies in strength and cunning.
There are no allies, only enemies. Betrayal will be part of the game. Do not trust anyone.
The pain they feel here will be as real as in the world of the living. Dying hurts, and they will do it over and over again if necessary.
Only those with a true will to live will be able to advance. Despair, doubt... they will make them weak. The only way to win is to long for life with every fiber of your being.
My heart sank with every word. Each of those rules was a death sentence in disguise, a cruel game that forced us to kill each other. I bit my lip, blood filling my mouth. This was not a tournament. It was a purge.
"So... a massacre," I murmured with a nervous smile, a humorless laugh that came from my gut.
Death clapped his hands enthusiastically, the sound echoing like thunder in the silence. "Exactly! And without further ado, let the tournament begin!
The ground beneath our feet vanished. A collective cry of panic filled the air as hundreds of us fell into an endless abyss, a black hole that promised never to give us back. The screams of the other competitors mingled with mine, a chorus of terror and confusion as we descended into a shadow-shrouded arena. The smell of blood and iron, more intense than before, made me close my eyes.
When the impact came, it wasn't as violent as I imagined. I fell into something that looked like sand, but it felt like ashes. I sat up with difficulty, my body numb from the fall. Around me, the arena was an immense expanse, divided into different sections by broken stone walls and collapsed pillars. And everywhere, scattered on the ground like the toys of a monstrous child, were medieval weapons: swords, spears, axes, mallets, daggers... everything necessary for the carnage that had already begun.
A cry of agony echoed through the air, breaking the silence that had lasted only a moment.
"MY ARM, DAMN IT, MY ARM!"
I turned, my head spinning. A man fell to his knees, desperately clutching the bloody stump where he had once held an arm. A crimson liquid splattered the sand. His attacker, a young man with a spear, did not stop. With a brutal movement, he pierced her throat, drowning her scream in a stream of blood that soaked the ground. The man collapsed, lifeless.
"Fuck... This is not a tournament... It's a slaughterhouse," I muttered to myself, stepping back cautiously as I dodged a man with a broken sword he was swinging desperately. Panic had already set in everyone, and the survival instinct had turned them into beasts.
"AAAAHHH, MY LEG, NO, NO, NO!" Another person shouted, crawling on the ground as blood poured from his thigh, leaving a dark trail. A guy with a war mace crushed his head.
My heart was pounding. The scene was brutal. He needed a gun. I looked around, feeling panic mixed with a strange lucidity. If I didn't move, if I didn't defend myself, I would be next. Limbo had no place for spectators.
As I moved forward, looking for a weapon, a silver flash caught my attention. It was a small, trembling figure, huddled behind a pile of bodies lying motionless in the sand. I approached cautiously, my footsteps silent over the ashes. The little figure hugged his knees, his shoulders trembling.
"Huh?" I frowned. I was expecting a monster, a bloodthirsty soul, but what I found was a girl.
The little girl looked up and her big blue eyes, full of terror, met mine. Her hair, an unusual silver color, was dirty and tangled. Her dress, a tattered rag, showed several wounds on her pale skin. He looked no more than six years old.
"What the hell is a girl doing here...?" I whispered, a twinge of disbelief and rage growing in my chest. Could a being as cruel as Death bring a girl to this hell?
The little girl didn't answer my question. —… Aiko..." she murmured in a trembling voice, as if the sound of her own name frightened her.
I sighed, a tired and frustrated sound. I didn't have time to play babysitter, not in this slaughterhouse. My mind screamed for me to leave, to leave her, that I was just a burden. But my conscience did not allow me. To leave her there was to sign her death warrant. Aiko wouldn't last a minute alone.
"Look, Aiko, I don't know who you are or how you ended up here, but if you want to live, you'd better come with me," I said, extending my hand. The girl looked at me with her big eyes, hesitating. Finally, he took it. His hand was small and cold.
"Well, now let's go to—"
"HAHAHAHA!" MORE, MORE BLOOD! A large, wounded man, with a demented smile painted on his face, ran toward us with a rusty axe raised. His eyes were bloodshot, and madness had completely consumed him.
"Fuck!" I shouted. I pushed Aiko hard, knocking her to the ground to protect her. I lunged at a metal shield lying nearby, lifting it just in time.
The axe fell with a brutal impact, and the clanging sound echoed through the arena. The force of the blow made me stagger. Blood splattered on my face, but it wasn't mine. The man with the axe looked at his own torso in surprise. A katana blade pierced his chest. Behind him, a young man with black hair, a cold expression, and a bloody katana, pushed him effortlessly, causing the madman's limp body to fall to the side.
The young man removed the katana from the body and cleaned it nonchalantly with a rag, without even looking at me. His expressionless face was focused on the blade.
"Don't be too confident. Your shield won't save you forever. The newcomer said in a monotone voice, as if he were just giving advice. He wasn't looking at me, but at my dented shield, evaluating it.
"And you, who the hell are you?" My savior? I asked, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.
The young man was silent for a moment, and then his dark eyes locked onto mine. His gaze was like an abyss, without a trace of emotion. "Daichi." Daichi Mokuren. And no, I'm not your savior. I just didn't want you to die so close to me. It's annoying.
Before I could answer, a rallying cry put us on alert. Three men, armed with swords and mallets, ran towards us. Daichi moved with unnatural speed, his katana cutting through the air with a lethal whistle. I blocked with my shield, pushing Aiko behind me, but there were too many of them. The group cornered us, and panic set in.
Suddenly, a silver flash. A huge halberd, which looked more like a metal pillar than a weapon, struck the ground with a bang, kicking up a cloud of dust that separated us from the attackers. A tall man, with silver hair and a scar across his eye, came between us and them. Behind him, a nimble woman with two daggers in her hands that shone with a sinister glow moved like a shadow.
"If we want to get out of here, we'd better join forces," the silver-haired man said in a grave, serious voice, his gaze sweeping over each of us. "Limbo doesn't want us to survive, but we're not going to give it to them on a silver platter.
"This is not an alliance of friendship," added the woman with the daggers, her voice as sharp as her weapons. —It's a survival pact. If we can't trust each other in battle, we will die. And the first traitor who tries something... He will not have a second chance.
I looked at Aiko, who was holding on to my sleeve tighter, then at Daichi, who was still impassive, and finally at the man with the halberd and the woman with the daggers. Five people. Just the number that Death had mentioned. It was too big a coincidence to ignore. A fragile pact. A desperate need.
"Five people, huh?" Well... I guess it's not bad to start with this," I said, looking at the group that had formed.
From afar, in the heights of Limbo, Death watched the spectacle, his invisible eyes fixed on us. Hundreds of souls were killing each other, desperately looking for a way to come back to life, but their attention was on that small group. They had broken their rules, their "tournament" of individual slaughter.
"Oh, how interesting... alliances in my tournament of death. They broke the most important rule so quickly... Let's see how long they last before stabbing each other in the back. This will be fun," thought Death, with a smile that no one could see. The tournament had barely begun, but the real massacre... It was just getting started.