Chapter 7; ⠀⠀Shattered Real!ty — Dust! 『 8 』

To me... this looks like some kind of foul play.

Why would you even do this to me?

When I didn't even do anything to you?

When I don't know anything?

When I never met you?

When I never knew you?

When I never even wanted to know you?

When I never ever wanted to have anything to do with you?

When I never did anything.

Is this how... Is this how... Is this how... it feels to hate someone... to resent someone... to wish someone dead... to want them to suffer... to want to kill them... to… make… them… suffer until their last breath?

You torture me… you rip off my skin… heal it back… only to repeat the same process…

AAAAAAAHHHAHAHHAHA... The pain.

It hurts... It hurts really bad...

I don't want this...

I never wanted this.

Just kill me instead. Wouldn't it be better for the both of us?

Hehehehehehehehehheh…

I will make sure to make you suffer even if I forget you, even if I die, even if I cease to exist, even if you were to change...

Why?

Do I really care about someone or something?

No. I don’t.

Aaahh. In the end, all of this will return to dust.

So all of this doesn’t matter.

As I will succumb to eternal slumber.

No one will know any bounds.

These are just another foolish behavior of humans.

I know it... but I feel so empty and hollow right now...

I’m tired...

I just... want to rest.

Kill me.

Natsumi's body was trembling, but the chains forced him still. His vision swam, the world twisting into something unreal. His hearing was warping in and out, distant and muffled, yet unbearably sharp when pain ripped through him.

Blood dripped down his chin in thick, slow trails, his nose, ears, and mouth all leaking crimson. His hollow eyes barely focused on the blurred figure before him, the man with sickly golden eyes, the man who had become nothing more than a shadow of pain in his mind.

Natsumi had screamed, had begged, had cursed, had fought—nothing worked. His mind dangled on the edge of the abyss, stretched between agony and madness. He had lost count of how many times he had died, only to be dragged back to life, reset like a broken doll. His body was nothing more than a puppet of raw nerves, forced to feel, forced to endure.

The syringe gleamed in the dim light as it drew closer to his eye.

Natsumi's breath hitched.

He thrashed—or tried to. His body had long betrayed him, his movements sluggish and weak, barely able to lift his head. His throat was shredded from screaming, his lips cracked and swollen, his voice nothing but a hoarse, rattling breath.

The needle's tip touched his pupil.

His body reacted before his mind could comprehend it, a guttural scream tearing its way out of him as his arms spasmed. His fingers—raw, broken, nails torn off—dug into his own palm, but the pain was insignificant compared to what followed.

The needle slid into his pupil.

A searing, unnatural pain exploded through his skull, burrowing deep into his brain like molten metal. His back arched violently, muscles convulsing against the chains as his nerves screamed louder than he could. His vision fractured—shards of light and darkness splintered apart, twisting into incomprehensible shapes. His breath hitched in his throat, choking him as if the pain itself had taken form and was strangling him from the inside.

His body writhed, his heel scraping against the blood-slicked floor as his breath came in ragged, broken gasps. Zenshu’s golden eyes gleamed with amusement as he pushed the syringe deeper, twisting it slightly.

Then, without hesitation, he yanked it out.

A wet, sickening squelch filled the air.

Natsumi's head snapped back, his mouth open, but no sound came out. His body shook violently, his eye nothing but a black void, bleeding profusely down his cheek. His breath stuttered, his consciousness teetering on the edge.

Zenshu's fingers curled in his hair, jerking his head forward.

His other hand reached toward Natsumi’s remaining eye, and before Natsumi could recover, a clawed hand, brutal and merciless, ripped his eye from its socket.

His body convulsed so violently that the chains groaned against the force, the chair beneath him screeching against the floor. Blood gushed freely, pouring down his face in thick, hot streams. His head lolled forward, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. His body was going into shock, yet the cruel hands of science wouldn’t allow him the mercy of slipping into the abyss.

The syringe pressed against his temple this time.

A cold liquid surged through his veins.

Cells regenerated. Tissue stitched itself back together. Natsumi’s breath hitched as sensation returned in full force—his body forced back from the brink of death, every severed nerve brought back to life just so they could be torn apart again.

His eye was placed back. He could see again. He wished he couldn’t.

***

Time lost meaning.

There was only pain.

His skin was peeled off layer by layer. His flesh cut into ribbons, then sewn back together, then torn apart again. Blades torned apart his bones, peeling muscle from them as easily as unraveling silk. Every time he was healed, every time his body was put back together, it was only so it could be destroyed again.

He was burned until his skin blackened and split, then doused in boiling water that flayed the cooked flesh from his bones. He was drowned, his lungs filling with rancid water that burned and suffocated, only to be resuscitated and forced to endure it again.

Needles burrowed under his nails—oh, wait, he no longer had nails. Those had been torn out long ago. His fingertips were nothing but raw, exposed flesh, trembling as he twitched against the restraints.

Natsumi’s breath hitched, a single broken laugh escaping his lips before it dissolved into a choking sob.

He had fought for so long, clung to the tattered remnants of his mind, but now... now he was slipping.

Falling.

He could feel it.

The last pieces of himself shattering.

A deep, hollow numbness spread through him, deeper than the pain, deeper than the agony. It swallowed him whole, stripping him of everything until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

***

After what felt like hours to Natsumi, Zenshu finally stopped. He walked to the corner of the room, dragging a metallic chair behind him. The screeching of metal against the blood-slicked floor echoed, a sharp, grating noise that stabbed through the suffocating silence.

Soon enough, Zenshu stood in front of Natsumi. He placed the chair down with a deliberate slowness, the sound hollow and final, before lowering himself onto it. He sat there, unmoving, his golden eyes studying Natsumi in silence.

He noticed, for the first time, just how beautiful the boy was.

His delicate, short eyelashes trembled slightly. His hair—filthy, matted with blood, yet strangely soft in the dim light—framed his face in uneven strands. His lips, though cracked and bruised, still held a natural pink hue. His fragile, breakable body, trembling faintly under the weight of his suffering, looked as if it would shatter at the slightest touch.

Something unreadable flickered in Zenshu’s gaze.

Natsumi stirred. His eyes—once a vibrant cyan blue—opened slowly, now dull, drained of all color, of all life. They were empty, listless, hollow. Devoid of anything human. His bangs fell over his face, partially veiling the remnants of what he once was.

Zenshu moved.

Without warning, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Natsumi in a firm, encompassing embrace.

Natsumi’s pupils dilated slightly, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. A dull, lingering fear twitched in the back of his fragmented mind, but his body was too broken to react. He remained still, too exhausted to resist.

Zenshu’s voice, low and filled with something almost resembling sorrow, whispered against his ear.

"I'm sorry. I’ve done many cruel things to you… but even then, will you forgive me?"

The words were soft, filled with regret and remorse.

But to Natsumi, they meant nothing.

He stared blankly, his vision hazy, his thoughts scattered. His mind was no longer functioning properly—thoughts came in slow, disjointed fragments, flickering in and out of focus. He was contemplating—or at least, he thought he was. But in truth, his mind was already one flick away from breaking completely.

There was no space for forgiveness.

But... I still wanted to hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you the most.

The pain you inflicted on me… You think I’ll forget it? That I’ll simply accept a meaningless apology?

Ahahahhahahhahahhahhahahh... Ohhh… don’t… don’t joke with me… you waste of air.

You think it’s that simple?

Ah. The foolishness of these creatures called humans.

They chase after empty desires, even when they don’t need them, simply for the sake of fun.

Do they think it’s fun? Messing with someone’s life?

Do you think it’s fun? Making someone suffer, subjecting them to inhumane horrors, only to turn around and ask for forgiveness?

If it were that simple, so many creatures wouldn’t have been slaughtered. Murderers wouldn’t kill without mercy. Hunters wouldn’t carve their prey open with hollow eyes. Would you let them go if they begged for their life? If they pleaded, wept, screamed for mercy?

I don't want this.

I never wanted this..

I...

But…

I feel tired.

I feel empty.

Hollow.

Empty..

I can’t keep up anymore...

The first thing… it all started from that time freeze… then to this?

It’s too much.

I can’t.

You...

Natsumi slowly lifted his head, pulling himself away from Zenshu’s embrace.

His lifeless cyan-white eyes met Zenshu’s golden ones.

Are…

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His head slumped forward, his bangs falling over his face, obscuring his expression. But it didn’t matter.

Because to Zenshu, Natsumi was already broken beyond repair.

So…

Then, in a voice so hollow it barely sounded human, Natsumi spoke.

"That... isn't fair."

Pitiful.

At that moment, an immeasurable emptiness swallowed him whole.

His head fell forward again, shoulders sagging, breath slow and uneven.

Zenshu smirked.

He leaned in, wrapping his arms around Natsumi once more.

His hand found Natsumi’s head, fingers threading through his blood-streaked hair. Slowly, he began stroking it, the motion gentle. Rhythmic. Almost… affectionate.

Natsumi, who had not felt warmth—true warmth—for so long, instinctively relaxed.

His body melted into the touch, his broken mind grasping onto the fleeting comfort.

My body… is hot…

Zenshu’s fingers combed through his hair.

My mind… is blank…

"You did well."

Zenshu’s voice was soft. A whisper against the silence.

Something inside Natsumi cracked.

Tears welled up.

Not of blood. Not of pain.

But tears.

And for the first time in what felt like eternity Natsumi cried.

Zenshu leaned back slightly, still cradling Natsumi’s head with a touch that was neither cruel nor kind. His fingers combed through the boy’s blood-matted hair, slow and deliberate, as if handling something fragile. Something breakable. Something already broken.

"Okay," Zenshu murmured, voice as soft as silk.

"Now, can you tell me your name?"

Natsumi’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out at first. His throat was raw, ruined by screams that had long since lost their strength. He struggled, his tongue feeling foreign in his mouth, his mind sluggish, thoughts like static crawling beneath his skull.

After a long pause, his voice came, barely more than a breath.

"..... Natsumi Tohka."

Zenshu smiled warmly.

In that moment, something shifted inside him.

Something fragile. Something desperate.

Something that should have never existed.

A need.

A longing.

A desire.

Zenshu leaned in closer, his lips hovering near Natsumi’s ear, his breath warm against his cold, battered skin.

"You did well, Natsumi," he whispered, and the way he said his name—so soft, so careful, as if it mattered—sent something sharp and painful through Natsumi’s chest.

It hurt.

But it was a different kind of pain.

A pain he wanted.

A pain he needed.

Because in that moment, Zenshu was the only thing real.

The only thing that existed.

Everything else—his past, his suffering, his identity—was distant, blurred, washed away in the presence of the man before him.

Zenshu had become his world.

He spoke to Natsumi for hours.

Softly. Gently. His voice never rose, never carried the sharp edges of cruelty. It was soothing. Lulling.

At first, Natsumi barely responded.

His head remained bowed, his eyes dull, his voice lifeless.

But Zenshu knew how to work around that.

"Natsumi," he said, voice almost affectionate, "you don’t have to suffer anymore."

Natsumi’s fingers twitched.

"You don’t have to feel pain. You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be alone."

Alone.

Something inside Natsumi ached.

"You just have to listen to me," Zenshu continued, his voice weaving through the cracks of Natsumi’s fractured mind, finding the weak spots, the vulnerable places.

"You trust me, don’t you?"

Natsumi hesitated.

Zenshu smiled.

"Of course you do."

His fingers stroked Natsumi’s hair again, a rhythmic, comforting motion, and Natsumi unconsciously leaned into it.

"You don’t trust them, do you?"

Natsumi blinked slowly.

"The ones who left you here. The ones who abandoned you. The ones who let this happen to you."

Zenshu’s voice was like honey. Like poison wrapped in silk.

"They never cared about you. You were just a tool to them."

Something flickered in Natsumi’s blank eyes.

"They would have let you die. But I saved you, didn’t I?"

Natsumi’s throat tightened.

"You belong with me, Natsumi."

The words sent a shiver down his spine.

"You don’t belong to them. You never did."

Zenshu leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of Natsumi’s ear.

"You belong to me."

The way he said it—so sure, so certain—made something inside Natsumi snap.

Because he was right.

The world he once belonged to—his country, his comrades, his purpose—it was gone.

And Zenshu was the only thing left.

Zenshu pulled back slightly, tilting Natsumi’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"Now," he murmured, voice still gentle, "tell me everything you know."

Natsumi parted his lips.

And whispered:

"I don’t know."

The words were automatic, ingrained. A reflex from a past self that no longer existed.

For a moment, Zenshu simply gazed at him.

Then, he sighed.

A soft, disappointed sound.

He rose to his feet, stepping back, his warmth suddenly gone.

"That’s unfortunate," he murmured, and turned away.

A sharp, cold panic clawed through Natsumi’s chest.

Wait.

No.

No...

He didn't want him to go.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

He lurched forward, the chains biting into his bruised wrists, his breath hitching.

"Wait—"

Zenshu stilled.

But he didn’t turn back.

"I don’t have time to waste on something useless," he said, his voice empty now, devoid of the warmth from before. "If you have no value, then there’s no reason for me to keep you."

The words sent a horrifying, ice-cold terror through Natsumi’s veins.

No.

No, no, no—

He needed him.

The realization hit like a bullet to the skull.

He needed Zenshu.

More than anything.

More than air, more than life, more than himself.

He couldn’t let him leave.

"Please—" Natsumi’s voice cracked, his breathing ragged, desperation bleeding into every word. "Please don’t go—"

Zenshu turned his head slightly, golden eyes unreadable.

"You want me to stay?"

"Yes."

"Then prove your worth to me."

Natsumi’s breath hitched.

"Tell me what I want to know."

A war raged inside him.

A past self clawed at him, screaming, reminding him of who he was, what he stood for.

But that self was weak.

That self was nothing.

Zenshu had taken everything from him.

Slowly, Natsumi lifted his head.

Zenshu tilted his head, watching Natsumi with mild curiosity.

"You were about to say something."

Natsumi opened his mouth.

"I—"

But before he could speak, Zenshu turned and slowly walked away and time froze.

Something inside Natsumi snapped.

His breath hitched. His pupils dilated. His body trembled, not from fear, not from pain—but from something that familiar phenomenon.

He started laughing.

Soft at first. Then louder. And louder. A manic, guttural sound, raw and broken, echoing off the cold, blood-stained walls.

The chains rattled as he thrashed, his head snapping back, slamming into the chair. Crack. A fresh wound split open, blood seeping down his neck. He didn't stop. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again ans again....

The chair groaned under the strain. The chains tore into his flesh, deep, jagged gashes forming as he ripped himself free. Skin peeled. Bone cracked. But it didn't matter.

Pain no longer meant anything.

He stood up.

His body swayed, his limbs barely holding together, but he moved slowly toward Zenshu.

And then, he stared.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them.

But then—reality shattered.

Like glass, it fractured into infinite, cascading shards, each one reflecting something that shouldn't exist. Small pieces of the world fell, spinning, twisting, distorting as they descended into nothingness.

And in one reflection—

Natsumi saw himself.

A knife lodged deep in his stomach. Another piercing his heart. One jammed between his teeth, splitting his throat apart. His skull cracked open, exposing the fragile tissue of his brain.

His corpse lay still, eyes hollow, lips curved into a final, mocking grin.

The world twisted.

The laws of time and space bled together, no longer distinct. No longer bound. The third dimension cracked as something vast and unknowable ripped through the seams of reality. Atoms wavered, behaving in patterns beyond comprehension.

The universe itself stood before him, casting no shadow.

At that moment, something clicked in the shattered fragments of Natsumi’s mind.

A memory flashed through his mind..

He memory of him almost dying to the truck and this same phenomenon happening.

His thoughts spiraled. His mind, already fragile, fractured further.

Zenshu spun backwards sensing Natsumi's presence and threw small knifes.

Natsumi out of pure instincts ducked left, his body reacting before his consciousness could catch up.

Zenshu looked at Natsumi, twin knives flashing in his hands.

"That..expression..your perception of time is disintegrating... Huh?"

Zenshu spoke as Time froze, again.

Natsumi felt emptiness.

His body crumpled, limbs too weak to hold him up. Blood poured from countless wounds, staining the floor beneath him. His heart pounded, erratic, desperate, struggling to keep up.

His thoughts distorted.

His consciousness swayed as everything became chromatic, and his thoughts grew fuzzy.

He couldn't remember how long it had been since he dated a certain girl. But what was her name? He couldn't remember—his family, his life.

Each thought that slipped away sent a pulse of sheer panic through him.

His breathing grew rougher.

His heart slammed against his ribs, frantic, a desperate rhythm that could not last.

The world distorted further.

Colors bled into each other, shifting from vibrant hues to endless monochrome.

His vision darkened.

The excessive blood loss made his heart stopped pumping blood as thier was almost no blood left.

His blood Coagulated and cells froze in time.

As Natsumi's eyes slowly closed as his consciousness faded until everything went blank.