Chapter 7; ⠀⠀Shattered Real!ty — Dust! 『 7 』

Some truths resonate clearly, while others slip away, obscured by uncertainty.

We pursue our desires passionately, seeking to escape our fears. When purpose infuses our actions, they gain significance, like distant stars guiding us through darkness. Yet, without purpose, we become hollow shells lost in this vast world.

What if purpose is merely an illusion, a fragile façade built on fleeting desires? We convince ourselves that our actions are meaningful, often blurring the lines between illusion and reality.

But when desire collides with power, humans may forsake everything, manipulating and destroying. Morality bends under the weight of unfulfilled longing, leading to an ever-deepening abyss.

So, what does it mean to be human?

I don't know.

Humans are complicated creatures.

Humans are not to be trusted.

Anything can happen.

And betrayal... betrayal never comes from an enemy.

Just like someone betrayed me—

Agh. It hurts.

I look down. Blood spills from my body, staining the ground beneath me.

Ah... I see.

I have been shot.

"Heh... how unironic."

The world began to blur, a distorted mess of movement and sound. The screams, the gunfire, the laughter of the one who pulled the trigger—they all merged into a single, unbearable noise.

People are still fighting.

So... this is war.

No one can be trusted.

Not in war. Not ever.

Mikurin, you were right. You always told me not to trust anyone.

But I was foolish.

When did I become so naïve?

–

It started after I ran—after I stole that gun and found myself in the middle of a battlefield. The soldiers mistook me for one of them. I blended in, just like always. And before I knew it, I had a friend.

Whose name was apparently Alex.

He spoke Japanese. We understood each other. We fought side by side. And as time passed, I trusted him.

But something was strange.

I couldn't tell what time it was. Every clock was blurred, every attempt to track time slipped through my fingers. It was as if I was avoiding it—lno, as if something was keeping me from knowing.

But the Primordial Fallen Angel wouldn't let something like that happen subconsciously, would he?

I didn't ask questions. I didn't need to.

Alex seemed afraid to talk about certain things. And I understood—after all, I knew all things.

Still, everything around me felt... off. It was like I had stepped into a sci-fi world—technology too advanced, weapons too powerful, reality too distorted.

Maybe I really had been transported to another world.

Wait... If my dream came true, then what am I suppose to do?

I don't know why but I feel empty.

The commander gave the order to move. The enemy(?) soldiers carried Japanese flags.

I took a step forward—excited, relieved, eager to see something familiar.

*BANG*

A gunshot. Someone shot me.

A translucent shield flickered to life behind me, hexagonal patterns glowing in the air.

Oh.

That was cool...

Just what I’d expect from a sci-fi world.

I adjusted my grip on my gun, bracing myself to shoot. It took more courage than I expected. But it was fine—I would only shoot them in the leg.

Strangely, my thoughts felt normal again. Clearer than before.

Before I could push the trigger, Another shot rang out.

I felt a sharp jolt. The force knocked me off balance.

I missed.

I looked down.

An empty feeling spread through my chest, something deeper than pain, heavier than regret.

I turned around.

Alex stood there, gun in hand, an awkward smile on his lips.

Then he walked away.

Ah.

So that’s how it is.

I shouldn't have trusted him.

I shouldn't have trusted anyone.

Everything became blurry..

The sky, the battlefield, the faces of the soldiers who didn’t care enough to look.

Before I could think another thought—

I fell and Died...or maybe, If I was lucky, I fainted.

It really doesn't matter anymore.

–

A thick, suffocating void wrapped around me. My body felt weightless, yet unbearably heavy at the same time.

The echoes of distant gunfire, laughter, and betrayal still clung to my mind.

Low and distorted murmurs. Unfamiliar voices speaking in hushed tones, their words slipping through my consciousness like shadows.

I tried to move.

Something was wrong.

My arms wouldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t budge.

The whispers grew louder.

A searing, mind-shattering agony radiated from my chest..

My breath caught, a choked sound escaping my lips.

My fingers twitched against cold metal.

Metal?

I forced my eyes open.

A dim, flickering light swayed above me, casting eerie shadows across the damp concrete walls. The air reeked of rust and something acrid and something burnt.

Something's wrong.

Why can't i move?

Thick straps dug into my wrists and ankles.

Ah.I'm tied to a chair.

I tried to stand up but failed..

Suddenly, I hear footsteps.

Slow, and deliberate.

A silhouette emerged from the darkness.

A deep voice cut through the silence, speaking in Japanese, and not in Russian?

"You will tell us everything about your plans."

Plans?

What plans are you talking about?

Plans about capitalism?

What the hell are they talking about?

My lips are dry, my throat raw, but I forced the words out anyway.

"I… I’m Japanese too."

A quiet chuckle echoed through the room.

Ah crap.. Not this again.

"Stop lying," one of them said. "Now, spill it."

A pit formed in my stomach.

I'm being shunned again..

Anyways, I'm not lying.

But their eyes—cold, empty—stared at me as if I was a great threat to them.

Haha...

I lowered my gaze, and—

My breath caught.

The hole in my chest—

Its Gone.

The wound that should’ve killed me, the burning pain, the gaping emptiness is not gone...

Oh... Its probably the work of my super regeneration powers.

I stared at my body, at the smooth, unbroken skin where the bullet had once torn through me.

Nice

But why do i suddenly feel so tired...

What's happening to me?

Are they talking me hostage?

Why do I have no desire to live?

I sighed.

My vision blurred.

I felt nothing.

No fear.

No anger.

Not even confusion.

Just… emptiness.

"I don’t know,"
My voice devoid of life.

I didn’t even have the strength to pretend.

I'm tired.

The silence stretched on.

Then, a low voice.

"Remember, kid—there’s no mercy in war."

The silhouette picked up a switch and clicked the button.

Suddenly, a sharp, violent tremor coursed through my body, the world exploding into white-hot pain.

Electricity surged through me, ripping apart every nerve, every cell, every thought. My muscles clenched, body convulsing violently against the restraints.

A choked scream clawed its way out of my throat.

Blood trickled from my nose, the metallic taste filling my mouth.

My vision darkened.

The pain didn’t stop.

It just kept coming.

A relentless current flooding through my veins, scorching my skin, twisting my insides.

I could hear it—the crackling of my own burning flesh.

Smoke curled from my skin, the acrid scent making me sick.

Am I dying?

I'm not sure.

Maybe I already am.

The pain merged into something distant, something unreal.

And yet, I was still here.

Still breathing.

Still looking down on these petty humans.

The chair shuddered beneath me as the voltage cut off.

I slumped forward, head hanging low, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My body was shaking, yet I felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

I just stared at the floor.

"Like I said," I muttered, voice hollow.

"I don’t know."

A slow exhale.

Then—footsteps.

The silhouette shifted, stepping back into the darkness.

"Listen, kid."

His voice was husky, detached, and full of boredom.

"Your efforts are useless. So just give up early."

The silhouette snapped its fingers.

A tiny, flickering light bulb hummed to life above me, casting weak, yellow light over the room.

The Silhouette stepped forward.

For the first time, I saw him clearly.

Lustrous black hair.

A Handsome face.

Red eyes.

A crisp military uniform.

A katana strapped to his back.

Two guns at his waist.

His expression was plainly simple to read..

Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked out.

The door creaked shut behind him, the dim light still swinging above me.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

I just stared at the floor, at the pool of sweat and blood gathering beneath me.

It was strange.

I had always thought that loneliness was the worst thing a person could experience.

But maybe, pain might be there too.

✧✧✧✧

The black haired man stepped out into the open air, the heavy metal door groaning as it shut behind him. A faint scent of charred flesh lingered on his uniform, but he didn’t acknowledge it. His steps were steady, unhurried, boots pressing into the ground—a land long since devoured by war.

The world outside was dead.

The sky, once boundless and blue, was now a suffocating expanse of ashen gray. Dust rained from above like a mockery of snow, settling over the corpses of buildings, the skeletal remains of machines that once moved with purpose. The earth beneath him was brittle, a graveyard of wasted steel and wasted lives.

A gust of wind swept through the desolation, carrying with it the echoes of distant gunfire, the dying gasps of a world that had already lost.

He barely noticed.

Ahead, the camp loomed in the haze, a scattering of structures half-buried beneath layers of debris. Barbed wire curled around the perimeter like the broken ribs of some great, dying beast. The entrance stood guarded—men in tattered uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, faces carved from stone.

As he passed, they did not stop him.

He entered the largest tent, a thing of weathered fabric stretched taut against the wind, its seams fraying, its surface marred with stains too deep to ever be washed away.

From the outside, it was small and unassuming.

And from the Inside, It was like a mansion.

The walls extended impossibly far, towering pillars of polished marble stretching toward a ceiling bathed in artificial light. Staircases spiraled upward in elegant arcs, their steps pristine despite the filth that clung to the world beyond. Chandeliers hung motionless in the stagnant air, their glass untouched by the duststorm raging outside.

He walked forward, his boots echoing against the polished floor, ascending the grand staircase without hesitation.

At the top, there was a single door.

He reached for the handle.

It creaked open, revealing a long, empty room.

At the center, There was a long floating table.

He stepped inside, his presence swallowing the silence.

At the far end, a chair faced away, its occupant absent.

He approached, his shadow stretching long against the dim light.

He stopped behind the chair.

After a few moments, the door behind him collapsed, falling into itself with a deafening crash. The air shifted, the stillness replaced with something heavier, something crawling beneath the surface of perception.

Footsteps echoed through the room

The echo carried through the vastness, each step a whisper of inevitability.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

His hair, long and unbound, held the color of deep ocean currents, with the hue of twilight and crimson. His eyes, piercing yet unreadable, burned with an icy hue of deep periwinkle, as if holding secrets too ancient to be spoken.

A long coat hung from his shoulders, its fabric untouched by the filth of war. A tie rested neatly at his throat, pristine, unblemished. He moved with an effortless grace, his build tall and unyielding—a frame sculpted for command.

At his waist, a katana.

The sheath, dyed the delicate hue of cherry blossoms in bloom.

The strap, a deep, endless blue, like the sky that no longer existed.

He stepped forward.

The air tensed.

Every soldier in the room rose as one, their movements synchronized, rehearsed to perfection.

They saluted, voices unified, sharp and unwavering

“Greetings to Commander Kenzaki Kyotaro!!”

Kyotaro said nothing.

He walked forward.

Then—without pause—he sat.

The chair creaked under his presence.

"Has there been any progress?"

Kyotaro's voice was calm, devoid of emotion, yet it carried the weight of command. His sharp gaze did not waver as he addressed the red-haired man standing behind him.

Shinoa Hatsuki—The black haired man, draped in a dark military coat, stood straight, his scarlet hair slightly disheveled, giving him a deceptively relaxed appearance. He inclined his head slightly. "We have captured a high-ranking enemy soldier. We will soon extract information from her."

Kyotaro didn't respond. He simply nodded once, acknowledging the report.

The meeting soon ended.

Kyotaro stood, his coat shifting slightly as he turned. Without a word, he walked out of the grand tent, Hatsuki following a few steps behind. The air outside was thick with smoke, the sky continuing its slow descent into oblivion, the falling dust merging into the lifeless land. The distant gunfire had dimmed into an occasional echo, swallowed by the ashen wind.

Then, without a single word, Kyotaro vanished.

Hatsuki, unsurprised, barely reacted. Instead, he turned his head slightly and raised two fingers in a subtle signal.

A shadow moved.

A man with slender features and striking orange hair stepped into the dim light, his golden eyes shimmering with something playful yet unsettling.

"Sir, what can I do to serve you?"

Hatsuki silently lifted a heavy metal bag. It was engraved with an intricate I-6 hexagonal pattern, its cold steel reflecting the distant fires consuming the land. Without another word, he handed it over.

"Zenshu, take care of it."

The orange-haired man—Zenshu—grinned, his teeth sharp against the dim light.

"Understood."

Hatsuki disappeared into the shadows just as Kyotaro had.

Zenshu, still smirking, turned his gaze towards the tent nearby. Without hesitation, he strode forward and entered.

Inside, The space expanded beyond what the exterior suggested. The floor was checkered black and white, a sharp contrast to the filth outside. The air inside was still, suffocating, reeking of iron and something far worse.

A single bulb swayed from the ceiling, its weak light flickering, casting restless shadows against the walls.

The floor was slick. Blood pooled in uneven streaks, some fresh, some dried and crusted over time.

At the center, There was a single chair and in that chair sat Natsumi.

His head hung low, black hair matted against his pale skin. His arms, bound tightly with thick chains, bore faint bruises from his previous struggles. His legs were secured just as cruelly, metal cuffs binding them to a weighted chain ball. His fingers twitched slightly, but there was no energy in his movements. His breathing was shallow.

His eyes were hollow and empty.

Zenshu whistled softly as he approached, his footsteps slow, deliberate, letting each step echo within the vast chamber.

"Hello…" His voice was light, almost amused. His gaze trailed over Natsumi’s delicate features. "You’re… surprisingly pretty. Almost like a girl. No wonder the captain mistook you."

His words hung in the air, an observation more than a taunt.

What was strange, however, was that Zenshu had recognized him as a boy at first glance.

"Well," Zenshu shrugged. "It doesn’t really matter. Girl or boy—pain feels the same either way."

He took a step forward, leaning in slightly, his golden eyes narrowing.

"First and last time—will you speak?" .

For a long moment, Natsumi remained motionless. Then, slowly, his head lifted.

A hollow, cold voice, raw and husky from exhaustion, escaped his lips.

"You dare lay a finger on me, and I’ll kill you."

Zenshu’s pupils dilated slightly. A reaction—not of fear, but something deeper, something… intrigued. For just a second, his body tensed, an unconscious step almost taken backward.

Then, he smiled.

"Is that so?"

His voice held no mockery, no irritation. Just curiosity.

He crouched down, placing the metal bag on the floor. The latches clicked open with an eerie softness, the contents inside glinting under the dim light.

Surgical tools. Rusted needles. Serrated scalpels. A chip. A strange cube with shifting surfaces. Vials filled with murky, viscous liquids. And so much more.

Zenshu’s fingers hovered over the collection, searching.
After a minute of searching, he found it.

A pair of scissors.

His grin widened as he slowly lifted them, running a thumb along the blade.

He stood up.

He walked forward.

Closer and closer to Natsumi.

Natsumi’s body went rigid. His breathing hitched. His mind screamed at him to move, to run, to do something—anything—but his body refused to obey.

Instinct clawed at his nerves, twisting in his gut.

"I-I seriously don’t know anything—"

He didn't listen as Natsumi started cutting into his own skin and flesh, steepening the wounds, then scraping the flesh off. He put in sharp needles, peeled off his nails, drowned Natsumi, burned his left hand, poured boiling water on him, electrocuted him, and strangled him. He fed Natsumi contaminated, radioactive waste, bugs, and insects, and then injected him with a regeneration serum that healed all of his injuries and kept him alive.

For minutes, maybe even hours, Natsumi's horrifying screams reverberated through the battlefield.

The soldiers who were fighting stopped for a moment and stood there in fear of what was happening. To them, it was as if the heavens were screaming at the earth.

Somewhere unknown, Hatsuki stood there, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it up, saying, "Told you, kid."

-

Author's Note:

Tried to add illustrations but I kept getting an error, tried to fix it but failed.I'm not motivated to write...