Chapter 26: Nanashi the Nameless

Kyle’s back hit the floor with a wet crack that echoed too loudly in the hollow chamber. The breath was punched from his lungs, leaving him gasping in a vacuum of his own making.

Beside him, Kotomi lay curled like a broken doll. Her arms trembled, fingers clawing at the cold concrete as she tried to rise, but the blood streaking her temple and her torn outfit told a story of exhaustion. Her magical aura flickered like a dying signal in a storm.

Three feet away, the Sunbreaker lay mocking him. The katana was slicked with floor-grime and shadows, its hilt just beyond the reach of his numbing fingers.

The dozen Akaname stood in a loose circle around them — identical, silent, still. Their tongues retracted, their movements mechanical. No snarls. No twitching limbs. No hunger.

Just obedience.

Kyle coughed, tasting iron. His vision swam. Every inch of him ached — ribs cracked, shoulder screaming, Chi leaking from his skin in uneven pulses.

Kotomi stirred beside him, dazed. “Why… can’t I hear them?”

Her voice was small. Frightened.

She pressed a trembling hand to her ornament, her eyes wide and glassy. She was reaching out with her gift, searching for the psychic resonance of life, but she found nothing. No scream. No pain. No soul.

“Because there’s nothing left to hear.”

Nanashi’s voice cut through the silence like a scalpel. He stepped into view, pristine as ever, hands clasped behind his back. His smile was thin. Clinical.

“These are not like that one you mourned,” he said. “After Subject #108, we refined the process. No more screaming. No more resistance. Just control.”

He gestured to the nearest creature. The monster’s eyes were blank, fixed on a point in space that didn't exist.

“Each one is fitted with a cranial chip. Neural dampeners at the base of the brainstem. Pain is irrelevant. Emotion is simply... erased.”

To demonstrate, Nanashi drove the heel of his boot into the creature’s ribs with a sickening thud.

The Akaname didn't flinch. It didn't blink. It didn't even shift its weight to compensate for the blow. It was like a statue made of genetically modified meat.

Kotomi recoiled. “You… you can’t…”

Kyle forced himself upright, his hand scraping against the grit of the floor, eyes fixed on the Sunbreaker.

“You and your boss are not a god,” Kyle spat, his voice gravelly and low. “You’re both monsters.”

Nanashi’s clinical smile didn't just fade—it vanished, leaving behind a face of cold, sharp stone. He didn't dignify the insult with a word.

He simply snapped his fingers.

The movement was instantaneous. One of the Akaname surged forward with the jerky, terrifying speed of a machine. Its tongue lashed out—not a wet organ of flesh, but a cord of muscle and scar tissue that felt like braided steel. It wrapped around Kyle’s neck with a wet schluck sound.

It lifted him effortlessly.

Kyle’s feet dangled, kicking uselessly at the air as the pressure set in. It was immediate. Crushing. Like a noose made of cold, wet iron. His vision narrowed to a pinprick, the world turning purple at the edges.

Through the haze of suffocation, Kyle looked down at Nanashi.

“Why…” Kyle wheezed, the words scraping out of his constricted throat. “Why is... Shiraishi... doing this?”

The name hit the room like a physical blow. Nanashi froze.

For a moment, his expression flickered — not confusion, but something rawer. Something personal.

Nanashi stepped forward, the distance closing in a blur, and slapped Kyle across the face.

The crack of skin on skin echoed through the silent chamber.

“Don’t speak his name,” he hissed. “You don’t get to.”

Kyle’s head lolled, a fresh trail of blood leaking from his split lip.

But beneath the bruising and the grip of the tongue, Kyle’s mouth quirked into a bloody, defiant grin. He saw it.

The tremor in Nanashi’s hand.

The first fracture in the mask.

***

The tongue slackened for just a heartbeat—a millisecond of hesitation as Nanashi’s focus shifted from the kill to his own rising temper.

It was enough.

Kyle didn't pull away; he drove his weight into the grip, twisting his body with a desperate, oily motion. Slick with blood and the creature’s cold saliva, he slipped free like a knot coming undone. He hit the ground hard, the Sunbreaker rattling just inches from his hand, but he didn't grab it.

He knew Nanashi’s eyes were on the weapon. To reach for the sword was to invite a bullet or a swarm of tongues.

Instead, Kyle lunged forward.

He stayed low, a predator in the dirt, and drove himself straight into Nanashi’s space. The handler’s eyes widened. This wasn't the "disciplined" combat of a soldier; it was the frantic, claustrophobic violence of a cornered animal.

The Akaname hesitated. Their heads jerked in short, robotic arcs, tongues twitching mid-air. Their protocols were caught in a feedback loop: Protect the handler, but do not strike the handler. By sticking to Nanashi like a second skin, Kyle had turned the man’s own army into a ring of useless statues.

Kyle slammed into Nanashi’s chest, the air leaving the handler in a sharp woosh.

They crashed to the floor, rolling over the cold concrete. Nanashi grunted, his refined mask completely gone as he scrambled to find his footing. He came up swinging, a sharp, technical jab that caught Kyle’s cheek, but Kyle didn't flinch. He caught Nanashi’s second strike with a forearm that felt like a lead pipe and drove his knee upward into his opponent’s gut.

Nanashi staggered back, coughing, his pristine white jacket now smeared with Kyle’s blood.

“Do you think this changes anything?” Nanashi spat, circling. “You’re still just a broken tool.”

Kyle didn’t answer. He couldn't afford to miss a breath.

He moved.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t clean. It was a brawl — fists, elbows, knees, grit. Kyle fought like a man with nothing left to lose. One arm. Blood in his eyes. Every unnecessary movement was a gamble. But he was faster. Meaner. More desperate.

Nanashi was trained, but too used to control. Too used to distance.

A punch to the ribs. A duck. A savage headbutt that resulted in the sickening crunch of Nanashi’s nose.

Nanashi reeled, his heels catching on the katana. He tripped, slamming back against the cold steel wall of the chamber.

For a moment, it looked over. Nanashi slumped, head hanging, blood pouring from his face.

Kyle took a step forward, his hand finally reaching out for the hilt of his sword.

For a moment, it looked over.

Nanashi lay still.

Then his hand twitched.

Kyle saw the glint too late.

The gun came up.

Kyle braced for the shot — but the barrel shifted.

But Nanashi’s eyes didn't find Kyle. They shifted to the side. Toward Kotomi.

“No—!”

CRACK.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

Kyle turned, his heart lurching into his throat. Time seemed to liquefy, slowing down as he watched Kotomi. She stood frozen, her eyes wide, reflecting the muzzle flash. Then, the strength left her legs.

He caught her before she hit the ground.

Blood bloomed across her chest, dark and spreading.

“Kotomi—” His voice was a jagged wreck. “No, no, no… stay with me. Look at me!”

He pressed his hand to her chest, but the heat of the blood was already soaking through his fingers. It was a dark, spreading bloom against the pale fabric of her gown. She didn't scream. She just looked at him, her aura fading until it was nothing more than a ghost of a spark.

Behind him, a wet, rattling sound began.

It was Nanashi. He was leaning against the wall, his broken nose leaking blood down his chin, and he was laughing.

It started as a wheezing chuckle. Then it grew into a high, hysterical cackle that filled the room with a jagged, infectious madness.

“I forgot,” Nanashi giggled, wiping a hand across his ruined face. “I forgot… the Commander wanted her heart intact. How very careless of me.”

He staggered to his feet, swaying. “But it’s your fault, KL-3. All of it. Every delay. Every failure. You made me forget. You made me—”

He stopped. The laughter died in his throat.

Because Kyle was no longer looking at him.

Kyle was looking at his own hand—the one covered in Kotomi’s blood. The room grew unnaturally still. The Akaname stopped their twitching. Even the hum of the facility seemed to dim.

The air around Kyle didn't just get hot. It began to scream.

***

Her blood stained his hand.

It was warm. Too warm.

Kyle stared at his palm, at the dark, viscous liquid filling the lines of his hand. Nanashi’s laughter continued to echo through the chamber—high, cracked, and unraveling—but the sound was beginning to distort, like a recording being played at the wrong speed. It was being drowned out by a low-frequency thrumming that vibrated in Kyle’s very marrow.

A pulse.

From Kyle’s chest, a red Chi began to rise. It wasn't the flickering, leaking spark from before. This was thick and heavy, like smoke curling from a forest fire. It coiled around his arms and shoulders, pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat, warping the air until the laboratory equipment in the background began to shimmer and melt.

He didn’t scream. He didn't roar. He leaned over Kotomi's still form and whispered a single, broken command.

“Come, my Sunbreaker…”

Across the floor, the discarded katana answered.

The steel didn't just slide; it shrieked. It rattled against the concrete, then shot through the air like a bolt of lightning drawn by a magnet. The hilt slammed into Kyle’s blood-stained palm with a force that would have shattered a normal man's wrist.

The moment his fingers closed around the grip, the blade ignited.

A shockwave of crimson light flared outward, a physical wall of heat that cracked the floor tiles and sent a cloud of pulverized stone into the air.

His eyes widened. “No… no, no—”

He stumbled back, his voice rising to a panicked shriek. “Kill him! Kill him now! Erase him!”

The Akaname obeyed.

Dozens of tongues lashed out, slicing through the air like cords of steel.

***

Outside the facility, the rescue team skidded to a halt at the edge of the courtyard. Masayuki, Kokoro, and Luna stared at the monolithic secret base, their breath catching.

Renji shielded their face with their arms. “What the hell was that?!”

A red glow pulsed from within — steady, unnatural, alive.

Then—

The windows exploded.

Every pane of reinforced glass burst outward in a synchronized blast, shards raining down like crystal knives. The shockwave hit them a second later, a wall of heat and pressure that forced them back.

Masayuki’s eyes widened. “That’s Kyle’s Chi. But it’s—”

“Wrong,” Kokoro whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s not just Chi. It’s grief.”

***

Inside the ruin, Kyle stood.

The tongues struck. They should have pierced him, shredded him, crushed his windpipe. Instead, they hit the aura surrounding him and hissed, the tips of the organs blackening and curling back like hair in a flame.

Through the swirling dust and the smell of ozone, Kyle’s voice rang out. It was low, steady, and carried the weight of a funeral bell.

“Cleave this world in half.”

A flash of red.

It wasn't a sword stroke; it was a horizontal line of absolute destruction. A flash of red light blinded the room, accompanied by a sound like thunder cracking the sky.

In an instant, half the Akaname fell. They didn't bleed. They didn't scream. They were severed so cleanly that their upper torsos simply slid off their waists, their cauterized remains glowing orange as they hit the floor in eerie silence.

Nanashi stared, paralyzed.

And Kyle — bathed in red light, blade humming with fury — turned his gaze toward him.