Phantom Awakening

Vengeance Saga: Chapter 5

The journey to the attacker's family home had been long and cold, but Kujo barely noticed. His mind was locked on one purpose, his heart empty of anything but the weight of Niko's absence. There was no guilt, no hesitation—only the steady, unrelenting resolve that had driven him this far. The man who'd taken Niko from him would see, would feel, what it meant to lose everything.

When Kujo finally reached the small village nestled in the valley, he dragged the bound and gagged attacker to the front door of a modest house surrounded by trees. He didn't knock; he forced the door open, hauling the man inside and shoving him to his knees in the center of the room.

The attacker's family—his mother, father, an older brother, and a young boy—stared in shock as Kujo stepped inside, their faces pale with confusion and fear. They looked from their son, battered and restrained, to Kujo, whose expression was hard, unreadable.

"W-Who are you?" the mother whispered, clutching her husband's arm.

"Who am I?" Kujo repeated softly, his gaze icy and detached. "I'm the one left standing after your son murdered innocent people. I'm the one who has nothing left."

The family exchanged fearful glances, the realization dawning on them like a dark cloud. The father took a step forward, his voice trembling. "Please... whatever he did, we're his family. We had no part in this."

Kujo's gaze didn't waver. "Did he give my brother mercy? Did he spare him because he was young, because he was innocent?" His voice was low, hollow. "No. And you'll receive as much mercy from me as he gave."

He lifted his hand, and metal coiled from the beams and hinges in the room, twisting into thin wires that wrapped around the attacker's wrists and ankles, locking him in place before his family. The man's eyes widened, and though he struggled against the restraints, it was futile. The metal tightened, cutting into his skin, and a quiet, broken whimper escaped him.

"Watch him," Kujo commanded, his voice dead and cold. "This is the man you raised. This is the legacy he leaves you."

With a flick of his wrist, a metal shard peeled from the wall, forming a thin, sharp blade that hovered just above the attacker's fingers. With a single motion, Kujo guided the shard down, slicing into the skin, drawing thin rivulets of blood. The family gasped, turning away, but Kujo's voice cut through the room.

"Don't look away. You don't get to pretend this isn't real."

The older brother tried to speak, his voice shaking. "Please, he's still our blood—whatever he's done, this isn't justice."

"Justice?" Kujo repeated, the word empty on his tongue. "You wouldn't know justice if it stared you in the face."

One by one, he let the metal cut, slice, and dig into the attacker, drawing screams muffled by the gag, each one a reminder of the lives he'd taken. Kujo didn't flinch, didn't feel anything as he watched the man writhe and struggle, his face twisted in pain. There was no satisfaction in it, no relief—only the cold, detached fulfillment of what he had come to do.

He moved with mechanical precision, his heart a void as he drove metal into flesh, pulling it away only to strike again. The family was frozen, horror etched on their faces as they watched the slow, methodical suffering unfold before them. And Kujo, unmoved, felt nothing as he inflicted each wound, as he stripped away any hope of mercy.

Finally, when the attacker's screams had faded to ragged breaths, Kujo stepped back, his work done, the man's body slumped and broken at his feet. He turned to the family, their tear-streaked faces pale with shock and fear, their silent horror filling the room.

"Remember him like this," Kujo said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "This is all he left you."

Without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving them with the consequences of the life their son had chosen.

As he made his way back through the dark woods, blood soaked his clothes, staining his hands, a grim testament to what he'd done. But Kujo felt nothing—no sorrow, no regret. His purpose was complete, and the world felt as empty as it had when he'd started.

When he finally reached the Academy, dawn was breaking, casting a pale light over the grounds. He walked through the gates, the metallic taste of blood still lingering in the air around him. Ahead, a line of students and teachers waited, their faces a mixture of shock and horror as they took in his bloodied clothes, his cold, unreadable expression.

Sensei Jiro stepped forward, his gaze steady but troubled as he met Kujo's eyes.

"What did you do, Kujo?" he asked, his voice filled with a quiet dread.

Kujo looked at him, his expression empty, his voice hollow as he replied. "I did what had to be done."

And as silence settled over the crowd, he could see the mixture of fear and respect in their eyes—a new distance forming between him and everyone he had once called family.