The air in the ruins did not move. No drafts whispered through the shattered stone. No scent escaped beyond the threshold. The moment Amatsu stepped inside, he noticed—
The outside world could not reach here. And nothing inside would bleed into it.
Oyama had spoken of this place, half-buried in the veins of the 24th Ward. A structure swallowed by history, by time, by the slow erosion of all things. He claimed its silence was absolute. The scent of those within would never breach the walls. The dead air ensured that.
Amatsu tested it. He dragged his fingertips along the fractured stone, let the damp scent of decay settle in his lungs. He turned, staring back toward the entrance, where the world should have still been waiting.
It was true. The scent did not move.
The ghouls outside would never smell them here.
A secure place—
For now.
But Amatsu did not believe in permanence.
Even places buried beneath history were not immune to being found.
Eto knew this. Oyama knew this. The three of them had never intended to stay.
This was only a part of the plan. A misdirection. A flicker of bait in the dark, meant for the watcher who followed them.
Because Amatsu knew they were being watched.
He had felt it for days. The silent weight of attention just beyond his reach, the eyes that never quite met his, but never left. A persistent presence, lingering at the edges of their movement. Not careless enough to be seen, not distant enough to be dismissed.
A predator waiting for certainty.
Let them believe this was a sanctuary. Let them believe they had found the trail. Let them step just a little closer.
Amatsu lay in the dim ruin, staring into the endless dark above him. Time stretched in slow, measured breaths. Days passed in silence, his mind unraveling plans, dissecting possibilities like a surgeon peeling back flesh. Every variable, every limitation—laid bare in his thoughts.
Calculations drifted through him like instincts. He knew his strength, knew the weight of it in his limbs, the pull of his Kagune in his spine. He had killed before. Two ordinary ghouls at once was simple. Six starving ghouls, desperate, with Rc cells ranging between 800 and 1500—that had been manageable.
But now his Rc cells stood at 9,800.
The question formed, cold and analytical:
How many ghouls could he kill now?
He closed his eyes, let the numbers shift like moving pieces on a board. Strength dictated outcome. Hunger dictated recklessness. Terrain dictated control. He accounted for the variations, the unknowns, the inevitable chaos that lived within every battle.
9,800 Rc cells was not just an increase. It was a shift in class.
With 1,500 Rc cells, a ghoul could still be overwhelmed by exhaustion, by blood loss, by sheer attrition. At 9,800, those limitations eroded. He could regenerate faster, endure longer. His Kagune would not just tear flesh—it would devour. Adapt.
Six starving ghouls had been a challenge once. Now?
The numbers built themselves in his mind, multiplying, breaking down, reconstructing. If he could sustain himself through feeding, if the battlefield favored him, if his control over his Kagune was absolute—
Ten? fifteen? More?
No. Numbers were too simple. It wasn't just how many he could kill—it was how efficiently.
A mass assault? Inefficient. Too many angles, too many moving parts.
A bottleneck? Better. Force them into tight spaces, where their bodies would clog their own escape.
Hunger. Desperation. Psychological breakdown. A ghoul who saw a comrade torn apart in an instant would hesitate. A ghoul who hesitated would die.
Now—factor in ordinary-strength ghouls. Rc cells between 3,000 and 5,000.
They would not shatter as easily. They could take damage, regenerate. But they had limits. A ghoul at 3,500 Rc cells could keep up with a bit with him. A ghoul at 5,000 could overpower most. They relied on endurance, not burst power.
He did have their endurance. He had overwhelming force.
At this level, his Kagune could crush little of Bikaku defenses, could match through Ukaku speed. Even a Koukaku's hardened frame would not hold forever. He did not have to kill them in one blow—he had to stagger them, break their rhythm, and tear them apart piece by piece.
A battlefield scenario:
—Ten ghouls, 3,000 Rc cells each. If they swarmed, he could strike first, break two immediately. The rest would hesitate. That gave him time to cut down three more. Five left. A war of attrition? No. His Kagune was not meant for war. It was meant for slaughter. The moment they hesitated, he would devour them.
—Five ghouls, 5,000 Rc cells each. This would be different. They would not hesitate. They would coordinate. Against them, it was endurance. He could outmatch them in strength but not sustain it endlessly. A frontal assault was reckless. But a staggered engagement? Force them into a space where they could not strike together? Yes. One at a time, they would fall.
—A mix. The worst scenario. The weaker ones would serve as fodder, buying time for the strong. This was not about power. It was about control. Disrupt them, break their formation, make the weak ones panic before the strong could react. Divide them. Then pick them off.
He let the calculations settle. The answer was clear.
The question was not how many he could kill.
Amatsu watched Oyama's face, the flicker of unease in his gaze.
Oyama was thin but not weak. His frame, stretched to at least 174 cm, had the wiry build of someone who had survived too long underground—lean muscle hardened by necessity, not excess. His face, shadowed in the dim light, was gaunt, the sharpness of his cheekbones betraying a life of hunger. Dark, sunken eyes flickered with unease, darting toward Amatsu but never quite meeting his gaze.
His hair was a tangled mess, strands falling over his forehead in a way that might have once looked careless—now, it only made him seem unkempt, like something wild pretending at civilization. His lips were dry, slightly parted as if on the verge of speaking, but no words came.
And his hands—
His hands trembled.
Just slightly.
Not enough for most to notice. But Amatsu did.
A useful tool. A fragile one.
A man whose fear had already begun to bloom inside him.
He would break him slow.
The Vultures lurked in the deep, unseen in the labyrinth of the 24th Ward, but no matter how far they buried themselves, they were not untouchable. They could be eroded. Picked apart, piece by piece, like a body stripped of its flesh.
One by one.
Kill. Eat. Kill. Eat.
Time was against him.
Or maybe it wasn't.
Maybe time was just the stretch of moments between one meal and the next.
His stomach ached. Not from hunger. Not in the way that lesser ghouls felt it, that desperate gnawing of starvation. No—his was something else. A deeper, older hunger. A force curling in his ribs, whispering to him. It was not a voice, not exactly. More like the slow, creeping pressure of something pressing against his skin from the inside, urging, stretching.
You are made to devour.
He exhaled slowly. The ruined stone around him felt like a grave.
Oyama shifted, blinking as if he had only just now realized the weight of Amatsu's stare. The moment their eyes met, his pulse spiked.
"You…" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Amatsu tilted his head.
Oyama swallowed hard. "You're thinking something, aren't you?"
A slow smile curled at the edge of Amatsu's lips. He did not answer.
Let him wonder. Let the thought fester.
Because in the end, what was the difference between prey and predator? Between fear and understanding?
The only certainty was.
Someone would be eaten.
The question was only—who?