The silence in the director's office lasted exactly three heartbeats. Akira stood before the massive desk, on which lay a single object—an exquisite black fan. Shiori, pale but composed, stood slightly behind, her fingers unconsciously clutching the edge of her kimono.
Director Keiden Fujibayashi didn't move. His face, usually inscrutable like a Noh mask, was frozen. He was looking not at Akira, but through him, at some distant point in the past.
"You claim you saw... it?" his voice was quiet, but steel trembled in it. "In the archives. And it spoke to you."
"It didn't speak," Akira corrected. "It emanated meaning. Like thirst emanates the need for water. It's searching for its Scar. The one lost at Hinoe. And it knew you. You were there."
The old man slowly raised his eyes to him. A storm raged in them—guilt, horror, rage.
"You, ghost-boy, have no right to dig through Scars you did not leave."
"These 'Scars' are now hunting us, Fujibayashi-sensei," Shiori said quietly but firmly. "They killed Yukihime-sensei. They were in the archives. We cannot ignore this."
Suddenly, the door swung open without a knock. A figure in a crimson kimono appeared in the office. Kaede Himeji. Her face was cold as polished jade.
"I apologize for the intrusion, Director," her voice cut the air like a blade. "But the Council of Five demands a report. Rumors of an 'intruder' in the archives and of... a certain incident involving a Mushiro... have already reached their ears. They are assembled. Now."
The director's gaze darkened. He knew this was not a request, but an ultimatum.
The Hall of the Council of Five resembled an ancient temple. Five daises arranged in a semicircle, each bearing a representative of a ruling clan. In the center, on the lowest level, stood Akira and Shiori. Ryūnosuke Morohashi was already there, leaning against a pillar with the air of a bored observer, but his eyes scanned the hall intently.
"Explain this madness, Fujibayashi," a rough voice came from the dais of the Takatori clan, whose crest—a fierce falcon—seemed about to fly off the haori of its head, a powerful old man with a face scarred by real battles. "A creature that is invisible to Kokuro is operating within our walls, and you've taken in another one just like it!"
"Masato-dono, the situation is more complex," the director began, but he was interrupted by a woman from the Himeji clan dais. Her beauty was cold and sharp as a diamond. Kaede's mother.
"More complex? Our best intelligence operative was killed in her own room. The Fujibayashi clan heiress was attacked in her own sanctum. And the only suspect is a rootless Mushiro you yourself brought in. I see not complexity here, but catastrophic negligence."
Kaede, standing behind her mother, looked at Akira. Not with hatred, but with a chilling analytical interest. To her, he was an anomaly that needed to be studied and classified.
"Perhaps the 'intruder' and the Mushiro are one and the same," Ryūnosuke inserted smoothly, playing with his sword. "How convenient—to be invisible to accusations."
Akira remained silent. He felt the tension in the hall, heavy as lead. This was not a trial. It was a hunt for a scapegoat, and he fit the role perfectly.
And then the fifth council member, the representative of the Kurokawa clan, spoke. Silent until now, he was wrapped in a deep purple haori, his face hidden in the deep shadow of a hood.
"There are old records," his voice was the rustle of dry leaves. "From the times of the Crimson Moon Rebellion. About... an experiment. An attempt to create a perfect weapon capable of devouring an enemy's Kokuro. Project 'Kureina' (Void)."
Everyone froze. Even Masato Takatori fell silent.
"That project was forbidden," Kaede's mother hissed. "It was destroyed. All traces erased."
"Traces, yes," Kurokawa nodded. "But Scars... Scars remain. And if 'Kureina' was destroyed... then what did we see in the archives? And why does it respond to this boy?"
All eyes fixed on Akira. Now there was not just anger, but an animal, primal fear.
"Is he... a conduit?" someone whispered.
At that moment, Akira felt it. The same cold as in the archives. The same hunger. It wasn't coming from outside. It emanated from the hall itself.
"It's here," Akira said quietly.
Shiori flinched. Ryūnosuke straightened up, his hand clenching his sword hilt.
"What?" Masato barked.
"The intruder," Akira's voice was indifferent as ever, but now it held an unshakable certainty. "It's here. In this hall. It has always been here."
He slowly swept his gaze over the five daises, then his eyes stopped on the figure in the purple haori.
"It didn't come from outside. It simply... awoke. And it is hungry."
And then the shadow behind Kurokawa stirred. It detached from the wall, elongated, and contours emerged from it. That same void. But now it was larger. Denser. And in its center, like a black hole, pulsed a tiny spark—that very fragment of the Hinoe Tree it had absorbed.
«...GIVE BACK...»
The mental screech struck everyone present simultaneously. Council members cried out, clutching their heads. Their faces contorted in pain—their own Kokuro, their Scars, screamed inside them, sensing the approach of annihilation.
The Void moved toward Akira. It ignored everyone else. It wanted him. His void. To complete itself.
And in that instant, Akira saw it. The Scar. Not on the Void, but on Kurokawa himself. A tiny, almost invisible "Scar of control," a thread leading from the back of his head straight into the pulsating void. Kurokawa was not a victim. He was a puppeteer. The keeper of a monster he could not fully control.
The battle began. But it wasn't a fight. It was an eruption of chaos. And at its very center stood Akira, looking into the eyes of his own reflection—the hungry Void, created from the same ashes as himself.