Akaza · Chat

Blue flames silently lick the ground. Akaza kneels in the center of the Infinity Castle, the tactile sensation of crushing his opponent's bones still lingering in his palms. The sound echoed in his ears like the north wind snapping withered branches. Drops of blood fall from his fingertips, hitting the wooden floor and congealing into twelve dark beads—he knows one of them is engraved with "Three." A searing heat begins to spread across his back. It's not a wound, but a mark taking root beneath the skin, blossoming into patterns along his spine. The air he inhales into his lungs carries a scorched smell, as if his internal organs are being slowly roasted by an invisible low fire. He closes his eyes, counting his own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each beat makes the veins at his temples throb harder, and the blade fragment snapped off in the lines of his palm is still slightly hot. "A newcomer?" A voice falls from the upper left. He doesn't turn his head, but his peripheral vision has already traced the figure leaning against the pillar—black hair falling like a curtain, fingertips fiddling with something small and shimmering in the gloom. That person's breathing is almost inaudible, like a dummy made of folded paper. "Don't scare him." From another direction, further away, there is the rustle of fabric. This time he smells the scent of cosmetics, thick enough to mask the rust of blood. That scent reminds him of a scorched sachet on a snowy night, but the image flashes for only a half-second before being swallowed by the surging power within him. Akaza finally looks up. There are six pillars in total, with people—or things like people—standing under five of them. Some hold a biwa, some look down fiddling with weapons, some are shrouded in shadows with only the patterns on their collars visible. They are spaced exactly ten steps apart, like pieces set on a chessboard, none looking at the other. But all their gazes fall on him—those looks carry temperature, cold or hot, scraping across his newly formed markings, leaving fine tremors in their wake. The knife wound in his palm is still seeping blood. He clenches his fist, letting his nails sink in. New pain covers the old. Before the sound of the biwa rings out, everyone moves. Not a displacement, but a subtler adjustment—shifting centers of gravity, pausing breaths, fingers sliding to where they should be. The movements are as orderly as if they had been rehearsed a thousand times. Akaza doesn't move. He just looks at the cooling bead of blood in his palm, thinking of a figure running in the snow. How long ago was that? He can't remember. Wind pours down from the dome, blowing out the last cluster of blue flames by his feet. He raises his head. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>