He jolted awake, gasping for air, like he'd been drowning. His hands clutched at his chest, unsure if he was trying to stop something from getting out or forcing something to stay in. Sweat ran down his face, cold and sticky. Bandages wrapped his arms, chest, and legs, soaked with the sharp smell of herbs and ointments. When he tried to move, pain shot through his body. His limbs felt heavy and far away, like they weren't his.
Faint murmurs floated around him—distant, muffled, like voices underwater.
"Ah, the Yamihana boy is awake," a voice nearby noted, calm but tinged with exhaustion.
He blinked against the overhead lamp—low and yellow, flickering faintly. A healer in dark robes moved across the chaos, barely glancing as she passed. "Lie still, Kuro Yamihana," she said, already tending to another cot. "Your body's not ready to move yet."
His breath came in short bursts. Around him, the world began to take shape.
It was a healing ward—but not a peaceful one. Talismans fluttered from rafters, enchantments hummed low beneath the surface. The air reeked of antiseptics, scorched incense, and iron-rich blood. Rows of the wounded filled the space—some groaning softly, others silent forever. Stretcher-bearers moved like ghosts through the haze, depositing torn bodies on straw-lined cots.
He turned his head and immediately regretted it.
A half-shredded man screamed as two healers tried to fuse muscle back onto exposed bone. Another stretcher passed by, carrying something that had once been human. The healer muttered an incantation and drew a talisman over the corpse's brow, sealing its soul before it could rot improperly.
Screams. Whispers. Sobbing. All layered beneath the endless murmur of pain.
He tried to remember—what had happened before the blackness swallowed him whole. The rift. But it was all broken shards in his mind, scattered and sharp. Only his father's voice remained.
Then he noticed it, cool weight against his left wrist, beneath the edge of the bandage. A faint, almost sub-threshold thrum vibrated against his skin.
A silver bell.
Thin and delicate, barely wider than his thumbnail, tied with a simple leather cord, exactly as he remembered from the last fractured memory. It looked ancient, worn smooth in places, yet pulsed faintly with that internal vibration.
He instinctively knew this was his mother's gift, the one his father had emphasised. He started to examine it more closely, wondering about the feeling it produced, when movement nearby drew his attention.
Two figures were approaching his cot – Vigilance Guard inspectors, identified by their refined uniforms and three-star sigils. They moved with an understated authority. Kuro remained still as they stopped beside him. One stood back, while the other settled onto a nearby stool. The air grew tense, yet Kuro's internal landscape remained oddly placid.
"Kuro Yamihana?" Hiroshi asked, his voice even, professional, though his eyes held a glimmer of something deeper—perhaps concern, perhaps curiosity. Kuro gave a small nod.
"I am Hiroshi Yamihana," the inspector stated. "Level Three, Vigilance Guard. My specialisation concerns Wretched manifestations and related psycho-spiritual phenomena." He paused, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. "You have been unconscious for three weeks since the incident, Kuro."
Kuro stared at him. He didn't move.
Hiroshi's gaze was steady, though his fingers tightened slightly around the clipboard he held. "The Class Five Reality Tear event caused... extensive devastation. Approximately one-third of the designated outer sector is considered lost or heavily corrupted."
His eyes met Kuro's. "We are aware you were present at the epicentre. And that you witnessed the final moments of your caretaker, Elara." He stated it as fact, his tone conveying gravity rather than overt sympathy, though the slight softening around his eyes betrayed genuine feeling. "Her loss under those conditions was horrific. The Yamihana clan and the Guard extend our formal condolences."
He gave Kuro a moment before continuing, seeming to choose his next words with care.
"You were rescued by a Black Circle unit within thirty seconds of the collapse. That level of deployment hasn't happened since the First Convergence. Just before the Wretched was neutralised, a massive spatial pulse hit the area. You—and every other human nearby—were teleported here. Their intervention prevented an even greater catastrophe."
He observed Kuro's impassive expression, a flicker of confusion passing briefly across his own face. "Your survival itself remains anomalous. You endured circumstances – physical proximity, direct psychic assault – that proved fatal to nearly everyone else. Upon your arrival, sensitive scans detected a unique protective resonance surrounding you."
"Most individuals, even peripherally exposed, suffered corruption or death," Hiroshi explained grimly. "We are still containing Wretched outbreaks among the relocated population. The final casualty count will be immense."
He shifted slightly. "Your home—it's within the sealed zone now. We followed standard protocols; teams went in and secured whatever personal items they could recover. They're being kept safe, and you can get them back once you're cleared to leave." He paused, leaning forward slightly. "Besides the physical injuries, have you felt anything... unusual? Since waking up? Any strange images? Odd feelings?"
Kuro considered this, the question filtering through his strange calm. Kuro exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the silver bell. "Can you see this?" he asked.
Both inspectors glanced toward his left hand and looked confused, exchanging a quick glance between them.
"See what?" the second inspector finally asked, breaking his silence, his brow furrowed.
Kuro's eyes narrowed. "The bell."
Hiroshi leaned forward, examining the boy's wrist intently, lips pressed together in concentration. His silent partner observed closely, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. After a long moment, Hiroshi straightened, a subtle frown touching his brow. "No, Kuro. There's nothing there. Just the dressing.
"Kuro confirmed it was invisible, as he suspected.
"The Wretched that attacked..." Hiroshi paused, rubbing his temple briefly as if fighting a headache. "It was unlike any we've catalogued or encountered. Probably a new variant. Or perhaps—" he cleared his throat, "—one not documented since ancient times."
He met Kuro's steady gaze, leaning slightly forward. "Its methodology is... well, insidious is the only word. It somehow leverages ambient terror, gets into the psyche, finds those core memories—you know, the ones tied to security and love—and it weaponizes them." His voice hardened. "Either twisting them into visceral horror or offering false comfort. Illusions designed to break the mind. Most victims couldn't survive that kind of internal assault." He studied Kuro's face. "But you did."
His expression became serious, a warning underlying the professional tone. "Residual effects are possible. Psychic echoes, intrusive visual fragments, periods where reality feels unstable. Maintain vigilance. Fear can act as an anchor for such remnants, potentially allowing latent influences to fester." He gestured slightly. "We currently have no specific counter-agent for this form of mental infiltration beyond containment and careful monitoring. Our active forces remain engaged, hunting dispersed Wretched."
Hiroshi stood, signaling the end of the initial assessment, brushing invisible dust from his uniform. "You'll need to stay here for a few more weeks, Kuro. Under observation. We'll need to run both physical and psycho-spiritual evaluations. It's necessary, you understand." He gave a brief, formal bow, though his eyes lingered on Kuro's wrist for a moment longer.
With a final, assessing glance, Hiroshi and his partner departed, leaving Kuro alone amidst the pervasive sounds and smells of the ward.
The ensuing weeks were a sterile blur of recovery and quiet scrutiny. Kuro learned the rhythm of the ward: the healers' rounds, the bland meals, the background hum of enchantments, the hushed urgency surrounding certain patients. He complied with physical therapy, answered assessors' questions sparsely, and spent long hours observing, his internal landscape locked in that strange, persistent calm.