A few hours later, beneath the cracked bones of a forgotten temple swallowed by the forest, Mirko stirred.
Pain laced through her body like barbed wire. Her vision blurred, pulsing with every heartbeat. Her limbs were bound—tight cords of muscle-like flesh wrapping around her wrists and ankles, grown from the walls themselves. The air was thick with rot and humidity. It choked her lungs, but she refused to panic.
Focus. Breathe.
She was suspended above a pit of writhing shadows—shapes that moaned, gurgled, some even sobbed. Faces twisted in eternal agony flashed beneath her. Corpses that hadn't died clean. They had been fed on—slowly.
Mirko tried to move, but pain screamed through her side. Her ribs—several were broken. Her arm barely responded. Kasumi's brutality had left its mark.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Not rushed. Not loud. Calm. Deliberate. Regal.
She looked up.
A figure stepped into the light that barely filtered through the ruin's broken ceiling. Tall. Impossibly pale. His eyes shimmered red like a predator in the dark, his pupils thin slits. His hair, black and slick like ink, flowed behind him like a shadow given form. His clothing was elegant—a sharp contrast to the carnage he ruled over. Traditional, almost ceremonial, and stained faintly at the hem with blood. Fresh.
The demons knelt.
Mirko recognized him immediately—not from face, but from instinct. The source.
He stepped closer, head tilting as if inspecting a rare animal caught in a trap. "Rumi Usagiyama," he said smoothly, as if tasting the name on his tongue. "Your reputation doesn't do you justice."
Mirko spat blood to the side, glaring through the pain. "You got a name, or do your pets just moan it while they eat people?"
He chuckled.
It was a terrifying sound. Not mocking. Not angry. Just amused.
"They call me many things. But I suppose, for you… Mazoku will do."
She growled, tugging at her binds. "You're behind all this. The disappearances. The villages."
His smile widened. "Yes."
No lies. No excuses.
Just that one word. Calm. Final.
Mazoku circled her slowly, eyes never leaving her face. "Do you know what I find fascinating about humans like you, Rumi?" He reached out and ran a finger along her arm, where the gash still bled slowly. "You fight so hard to protect something that's already dying. Society. Order. Heroes."
She tensed at his touch, fury burning behind her bloodshot eyes.
"I've watched your kind for months now," he continued, "watched as your so-called heroes postured and postured… while you all rotted from within. Hypocrisy. Corruption. Weakness disguised as morality."
"You think this gives you the right to replace us?" she hissed.
Mazoku looked innocently shocked he leaned in, his voice now a whisper against her ear. "No, Rumi. I don't want to replace you. I want to evolve you."
Her blood chilled.
His hand hovered just above her heart now. "Your strength is real. Your instincts? Pure. You're not like the others. That's why I stopped Kasumi. You're not meant to die here."
Her breath caught.
"I want you to serve me."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Mirko stared at him, unreadable. Then—she laughed.
It was dry, cracked, but real.
"Go to hell."
Mazoku didn't flinch. "I've already made my kingdom there."
He turned his back to her, speaking now to the shadows. "Take her below. Let her experience what we're building. Let her understand."
Katsumi emerged from the dark, her face now serene in the presence of her king. She bowed deeply, then approached.
Mirko struggled, kicked, even though every nerve screamed in protest.
"I'll tear your throat out," she spat.
Kasumi smiled as she hoisted Mirko once more. "I look forward to it."
The descent began.
Below the ruined temple, the earth itself had been hollowed out—an underground sprawl of tunnels and chambers teeming with life. Or at least, something that resembled life. Mirko's battered body was dragged through chambers of twisted evolution: children with bleeding eyes whispering to themselves, former heroes now mutated husks crawling across stone, begging to be useful again.
Demonized villagers groaned in cages. Others meditated in trance-like worship before vats of black blood, breathing in spores that Mazoku's mutated followers released like incense.
A cult.
A kingdom.
Mirko was tossed into a cell of bone and muscle, the door sealing behind her with a wet thud.
Mirko's body hit the floor hard, the pain ripping a scream from her throat before she could bite it back. Her fingers twitched uselessly against the pulsing bone-like floor. Every breath tasted of metal and mold. The walls weren't stone. They were alive. Breathing. Shifting ever so slightly like muscle beneath skin.
She tried to rise.
She failed.
Outside her cell, the hallway pulsed dimly with red bioluminescence. Shadows moved like sentries—shapes too lean, too tall, with faces that had forgotten what humanity once was. Demons born not of instinct but of design.
Then the hatch opened.
Not fully. Just a sliver.
Enough to let a small glass vial roll into the cell and clink softly against the wall.
Mirko stared at it, blood crusting in her eye.
The liquid inside shimmered crimson. Like blood in motion. But it wasn't thick. It looked…clean. Refined. Almost beautiful.
A whisper followed.
Not words. A feeling.
Drink.
She didn't move. Didn't blink.
Drink.
Then a voice—real, this time—spoke through the cell's sinewed wall. "Do you want to heal, Rumi Usagiyama?"
Mazoku. Calm. Patient.
"I want to break your neck."
"You could try," he replied, amused again. "But you'd fail in this state."
The vial pulsed softly. Mirko felt it in her chest.
"You're going to die, Rumi," Mazoku continued. "But that doesn't have to be the end. That vial you see in front of you Scarlet Rush, its a gift. A taste of power stripped from a god and refined by evolution. Drink it… and you'll be whole again."
She laughed again, hoarse. "You think I'm that desperate?"
"No," he said. "But pain has a way of clarifying priorities. We'll speak again soon."
The light vanished. Silence returned.
Mirko lay there for what felt like hours, maybe longer. Her body burned. Every movement sent lightning through her spine. Her lips cracked. Her breath grew shallow. She was strong—one of the strongest. But even she couldn't bleed forever.
The vial hadn't moved.
But the scent had changed.
It didn't smell like blood anymore. It smelled like adrenaline. Like thunder. Like… freedom.
Her fingers twitched again. Then crawled toward the vial.
No. No, she couldn't.
But she did.
She brought it to her lips, hands shaking violently, heart hammering. "Just a taste," she rasped. "Just to heal…and get out of this freakshow"
The moment it touched her tongue, the cell screamed.
Or maybe that was her.
Power tore through her nerves like wildfire. Her broken ribs snapped into place. Her tendons tightened, her muscles surged, her eyes widened with predatory clarity. She roared, body arching off the ground as red veins lit up beneath her skin.
For five glorious seconds, she felt divine.
She could move. She could fight. She could—
Collapse.
Pain exploded through her chest, her spine, her skull. Her blood turned to knives. Her body seized, flailing uncontrollably. It felt like she was burning alive from the inside out.
She shrieked. She begged. Not for mercy, but for more.
And outside the cell, Mazoku smiled. "Well so far the drug is a success" he said with glee "just a small diluted drop of my blood could do this".
"She'll need another dose," he said, turning away. "But don't give it to her yet. Let her beg next time."
Aika nodded silently beside him, eyes gleaming with reverence.
"And if she begs well enough," he added, "we'll start the next phase. Let's see if the rabbit still wants to be a hero when she's starving for the Rush."
Mirko didn't know how many hours—or days—had passed. There was no sun, no clock, just the rhythmic twitching of the walls and the ache. The burning had faded… but something worse remained.
Her hands trembled. Her mouth was dry. Her body still worked—but it no longer felt like hers. Every nerve screamed for the Rush. Not to heal, not to fight. Just… to feel like that again.
She clutched her stomach as it spasmed violently. Sweat poured off her skin. Her teeth chattered.
And then came the whispers.
At first, just echoes.
You were faster than all of them…
The top fighter…
You could've killed him, if you'd had more…
Her ears rang. She slammed her fist into the floor, over and over until blood smeared beneath her nails. "Shut up," she snarled. "It's the drug. It's not real."
But then—
"Rumi."
A voice she knew.
She snapped her head up.
Standing outside the cell was Crust.
His shield gleamed, pristine as ever. His expression was calm. Compassionate. "You did what you could," he said. "But the world needs more. You felt it, didn't you? That power?"
Mirko blinked. "You're dead."
"You think I stayed dead?" Crust said gently. "Not when I saw what the Rush could do. I'm more useful now than I ever was."
Her stomach turned.
"No—no. You're not real."
"Neither are heroes anymore."
He stepped closer. But when he moved, his shadow didn't follow. Instead, it crawled up the wall, stretching into horns and tendrils.
But they were wrong. His eyes glowed red. His skin was stretched, pulsing, his mouth too wide.
"I didn't die, Rumi," crust whispered. "I ascended."
"Join us," he said. "The Rush makes you whole."
She fell back, panting, her mind spiraling. Blood pounded in her ears. Her heart raced—and she realized, with horror, it wasn't beating normally. It was pulsing in sync with something else. Something outside.
The cell itself was feeding her visions.
Then—light.
The hatch opened again. Another vial rolled in. bigger than the last. Just a drop.
She stared at it.
"No," she whispered. "I won't."
But her body had already moved. Her hands were faster than her will. She gripped the vial. Raised it. Her thumb trembled.
You'll heal. You'll fight. You'll survive.
"NO!"
She threw the vial across the cell.
It shattered.
And she screamed.
The craving ripped through her like fire through dry brush. Her mouth foamed. Her fists slammed into the floor. Her own strength cracked the bone beneath her.
Outside, Aika watched through the wall.
"She's almost ready," she whispered.
Mazoku didn't look up from the circle he was etching into the floor with a clawed finger. "Next dose will be stronger. I want her to see god himself."