Blood dripped from the corpse's palms.
Not in drops.
In thin, trembling threads —
stretching, breaking, reforming
as dead fingers twitched unnaturally.
Bones beneath the skin retwitched,
shuddering like trapped insects.
Fragments re-knitted with quiet, sickening pops,
skin stretching, loosening, then pulling back into shape
as if something was forcing a corpse to imitate life.
The grey-haired man stumbled backward.
Rain plastered his hair to his face.
His knees hit the ground with a splash.
"What… what is this…?"
His voice shook violently.
The body on the ground twitched.
Then—
Its eyelids slowly lifted.
Two eyes, empty yet bleeding with dark red ink,
stared straight into the man who killed him.
The man's breath vanished.
The rain grew heavier,
as if the world itself leaned closer.
The corpse pushed itself upright —
slow, rigid, mechanical —
like a marionette remembering it once had strings.
The man whispered, voice breaking:
"…hey…
are you… really human…?"
One step.
A wet crunch.
Another.
Bone grinding.
Tendon reattaching.
The rain swallowed the entire street.
The corpse stood not by ability,
but by sheer, terrifying refusal.
Its voice leaked out like something dragged through water:
"…I knew I was going to die someday."
A pause.
A terrible, dragging pause —
long enough for the man's heartbeat to feel fatal.
"I wouldn't have minded."
The head tilted —
a disturbingly human gesture on a body that wasn't.
"But you…?"
The jaw shifted with a brittle creak.
"I can't allow filth like you to roam while I rot in the grave."
Cold.
Blunt.
Direct.
Not emotional.
Not angry.
Just true.
Brown hair clung to the corpse's decaying forehead,
pieces of flesh sagging,
others repairing,
the entire form flickering between collapse and reconstruction.
The man's legs gave out completely.
He fell forward onto his hands,
rainwater splashing around him.
He tried to look away —
but the street warped,
his vision twisted,
and even the air felt wrong.
Civilians hid behind windows and curtains,
shaking silhouettes
watching a dead man stand.
The corpse leaned down,
picked up its shattered sword,
and raised it.
Slowly.
So slowly it felt like time was trying to stop it.
The man began laughing.
Not from humour.
Not from bravery.
But because terror finally broke him.
He shook violently,
choking on his own breath,
sobbing between jagged laughter.
"Hey…
you wouldn't…
not here…
not now…
don't tell me you're being serious…?"
His jaw twitched.
His pupils shrank.
Because he finally understood.
He killed this man.
He ended him.
He watched the life leave his eyes.
And none of it mattered.
This was not resurrection.
Not a miracle.
Not revenge.
This was a corpse
too stubborn to accept death.
A corpse that remembered.
A corpse that hated.
A corpse that judged.
The dead man lifted his gaze.
And spoke the word the world would never forget:
"Kyōshin."
The word tore through reality.
Colour drained from the buildings,
from the sky,
from the man's face —
as if existence itself recoiled from him.
The corpse did not smile.
Did not breathe.
Did not move.
He simply watched
as the world lost its colour.
And that was the day
no one
ever
forgot.