"He looks no more than eight," Kiyomi whispered, her voice caught between disbelief and unease. Her eyes were fixed on the central figure carved in stone—the boy in the choza pose, painted with blood, praised by beasts and kings alike.
Atama didn't blink, arms crossed as he surveyed the madness frozen in the wall's ancient artistry. "This is the age of overpowered kids, baby," he said, half-joking, but his tone lacked its usual levity.
The atmosphere thickened suddenly—cut sharp by a voice that rarely dipped into gravity.
Violet.
He was standing still, his lavender eyes dimmed, locked on the figure as though recognizing an old ghost.
"That thing," he said softly, "killed my clan."
Everyone turned to him.
Seko's breath hitched. He hadn't expected that. Not from Violet—the flirt, the fool, the bizarre man who turned flowers into fireworks and had a simping radar more sensitive than Atama's snack sense. But this Violet... he was different now. Composed. Haunted.
Seko took a step forward, something in him stirring. "He was my age at the time?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else. "What kind of an anomaly was he?"
No one answered. Not yet.
Because how do you quantify the kind of entity that kills entire clans before reaching double digits? That sits among corpses and earns worship? That leaves behind not just bodies, but insanity?
Seko felt his chest tighten. His memory of Nirvana's last moments—the smirk, the blood, the man in shadows who wasn't quite human—was starting to twist and evolve. The image that had once been a blur was clarifying now.
What if it wasn't just any sadistic bastard?
What if that person—the one who took Nirvana—wasn't merely evil, but something far worse?
Something unnatural.
Something that shouldn't exist.
Violet's voice cut the silence again, lower this time. "He didn't kill them because he had to. He did it because he was curious… to see how long a soul screams before it stops sounding human."
Kiyomi's words sliced through the heavy silence like a broken dagger. Her voice trembled, her eyes locked on the ancient, horrifying mural etched into the wall—one that showed a boy, seated calmly in a choza pose, surrounded by corpses and worshippers alike.
"C-could he be the one who made the second phase of Human Rules?" she asked, barely able to push the words out. "The one that gave the rich authority to enjoy killing poor souls while torturing them... like entertainment?"
No one answered.
The cave suddenly felt colder. Even Violet, who was usually so expressive—too expressive—stood deadly still. His lavender eyes didn't blink. Didn't shift.
Seko's hands curled into fists as he stared at the wall. The images. The symbols. The chaos. His memories of locked rooms and systemic pain flickered through his mind like haunted reels of an old film.
And then—crunch.
Atama was still crouched by a rock, munching on what looked like sun-dried crystal-root chips.He didn't look up. He didn't stop chewing. He just said, voice still annoyingly cheerful:
"That was the same time… around 8 years ago, wasn't it?"
A pause. Still chewing.
Then he added, "What if… he was watching? I mean, if he had to do evil, he must be watching, right?"
It was such an Atama thing to say—absurd, light, casual.
And yet it sent a chill through all of them.
Because beneath the joke… was something else.
Kiyomi's breath hitched.
Seko stared deeper at the boy's face carved into the wall. He hadn't noticed before—but the way the eyes were drawn… it wasn't looking at those around him.
It was looking out.
Out from the wall. Out from time.
Watching.
Violet took a step back, almost trembling—not from fear, but rage held deep beneath his bones.
"I don't think he ever stopped," he muttered.
As Seko stood frozen before the mural, his eyes locked with the lifeless carvings of the boy's stare, something inside him began to shift.
It wasn't just the art anymore. It moved.
The more he stared, the more he felt it… like the boy on the wall was staring back.
A whisper slithered into his mind—not of words, but of instincts. A sickening familiarity. Rage. Pain. Hunger.
His breath hitched.
The air thickened.
His pupils thinned to slits, his veins darkening beneath his skin. He felt his fangs ache. His fingers twitched like claws just beneath the surface.
Kiyomi gasped beside him, clutching her chest. Her mind was clouded too, her bloodlust spiking—but it didn't dig deep. Her body trembled, but it never gave in. She gritted her teeth and took a step back, shaking the pressure off like mist.
Atama, who had long since backed away and was casually balancing a small pebble on his forehead, glanced over and sighed.
"Oops," he said, with that same carefree tone. "Seems like they stared into the eyes…"
Kiyomi, still catching her breath, looked at Atama. "What… was that…?"
"The mural is a sigil," Atama replied simply, now juggling two stones as if nothing dangerous was occurring. "And that kid? Not a carving. It's a recording. An echo of his soul—or something worse."
Kiyomi's eyes widened. She turned to Seko.
But he was already trembling, teeth clenched, shadows forming in the corner of his eyes.
Seko wasn't just seeing the image anymore—he was reliving the emotion behind it. The bloodlust wasn't his alone. It was being shared with him. His breath grew ragged, and for a split second, his body looked ready to pounce.
Kiyomi reached out instinctively, but Atama stopped her. "No," he said. "Let him fight it. If you pull him now, you'll break more than the trance."
She hesitated, her hand trembling.
Meanwhile, Seko stood locked in battle—not with an enemy, but with himself.
With the blood in his veins. With the curse of the past.