How far has the past shaped who you are? That was the question echoing in the mind of a fool as he wandered through desolate lands, haunted by ghosts his restless thoughts could not expel.
With trembling fingers on rusted iron railings of a time-forgotten lot, he saw the scars left by a shameful past.
Before him stood the ruins of the old Garden of Golden Flowers, once a renowned brothel near the Gou district. Now, it remained a dark place that haunted its visitor's mind.
Rasen, the fool who hadn't set foot here in five years, walked with gentle but determined steps.
He pushed through the unlocked gate, his shoes splattering in the mud. The grounds, once part of Neo-Tokyo's luxurious entrances and postcard-worthy scenes, had once been a home of pleasures and sins.
Time had turned glory into decay, and he couldn't help but wonder how deeply his own past was intertwined with this desolation. I find myself here again, in the lands of purgatory… he thought as he climbed the twelve steps to the grand double wooden doors. He touched the dusty surface and gave a firm push; the door groaned and nearly gave way.
What appeared in his mind was clearer than reality.
As he walked slowly through the hall, he observed how the past's splendor contrasted with the present's decay. The once-barred floor was now dull, covered in shards of glass and debris from old furnishings.
He imagined the parties and celebrations that once brought life and music to this space—laughter, moans, whispered touches echoing through the walls.
Now, silence stood heavy, interrupted only by his own breathing. The paintings hung along the walls were faded by time, their colors muted but still capable of stirring forgotten memories.
As he advanced, signs of former luxury caught his eye: faded velvet curtains and ornate chandeliers, now covered in dust.
It was as if time had frozen in this place, preserving the memory of a brighter era, but reality's weight could not be denied. He realized he walked through the shadows of what had once been grandeur, now a dark reflection of its past glory. Crec-crec. The floor creaked beneath him as someone descended the stairs, interrupting his déjà vu. His eyes settled on the source of his torment. There, alone and exhausted, was his father—the man who had shattered his first life and tortured his soul with cruel abuses.
Weakened, he seemed a shadow of his former self, a ghost of his own past. The sight was a bitter confrontation with painful memories that never left him. Yet now, facing them again, he felt a whirlwind of emotions: pain, rage—and a strange sense of release. That he was still alive brought a strangely relieving clarity.
The moment was both disturbing and cathartic—a direct confrontation with the blade that had scarred his heart.
He descended the stairs and saw an extremely aged man, nearly bald, wearing rags and holding a plate with a burning candle.
"Who are you? There's nothing worth here anymore! Go away!" he rasped.
The surprise was sharp. How could he have forgotten that face? The face of the one who had brought death into his life.
The feeling was bitter and oddly tense as they locked eyes in that hall.
"Who? Don't you recognize your victim? Your son?" His eyes burned with a storm that shattered the fragile calm he'd found.
Maybe… he felt strong and confident, like a wolf facing a lamb. He no longer feared his abuser's icy touch. He was ready to confront his past—to seek justice. His justice.
"Rasen?" The man nodded.
"Well, you still remember my name, so destiny wasn't that cruel. But that's always how it goes, isn't it? Evil never pays for its crimes…"
As he spoke, images flooded his mind: being overpowered by the old man, vomiting for hours in the bathroom; the bitterness on his tongue; the agony between his legs…
If this continues, the world will never change… It had to end.
Those words barely registered with the old man, indifferent to the suffering he'd caused.
"What do you mean? Damn it, look at me! You already ruined me, worm—you and that slut of a mother of yours!" he shouted, voice thick with resentment and hatred. "My brothel, my money, my dignity—gone! Son of a bitch!"
"I screwed you over? You feel no remorse, do you?" His tone was dramatic, cold. Empathy? None. "Well, it doesn't matter to me… Remorse is a luxury you'll never know!" His voice cut like sharpened blades, eyes piercing.
He longed to see the man's head severed, like Ned Stark's.
"Remorse? The only thing I regret is not sending your mother to get rid of you before you were born! Damn child… But I'm a fool. I always saw the evil in you, but I chose blindness," the old man rasped as he rushed down the steps.
"Evil? You're rotten fruit from a good tree. Me? I'm a rare fruit that sprouted in barren earth, from a tree that never bore good fruit. Who's the real damned child here?" he roared, and fear flickered in the old man's eyes, along with rage.
"The rotten tree gave you shelter. What duty did I have to raise the spawn of a bitch? I don't even know if you're truly mine!"
"You'll never understand. You think you're a saint… but I won't let you realize that." He interlaced his fingers and stared. As he stepped closer, his aura rose, and the wound on his heart – still raw – bled hatred.
Thus we are, enlightened!
In that moment, he acted without hesitation. A moment of clarity and resolve seized him. He had decided: he would end his pain and anguish—embodied in the face of his tormentor.
"Cosmicae Expansionis Punctum: Origo Mundi in Spirali…" The words rang like a final judgment. His aura surged like a wave, engulfing the environment and surrounding the old man entirely.
He unveiled his supreme technique— the culmination of his exorcist power—manifesting the pure essence of his spiritual energy. It was the apex of his existence, a direct confrontation with the past that haunted him. For the first time, he felt the strength to face not just the enemy before him, but the weight of his own torment.
Suddenly, they vanished from the physical location—and beneath their feet appeared an endless spiraling staircase descending into an abyss. They stood before a surreal portal: the old man gazing into the eternal void above, the young man standing firm before him from across the spiral.
"What is this? Where are we?"
"This is the origin of everything, father. The world is like this endless spiral staircase—curved steps leading to infinity… fascinating, don't you think?" His voice was calm, building tension.
"Take me back! By Elum's name!" the father cried, stumbling as he slid down the steps. His eyes widened in horror at the darkness that enveloped him like a freezing mantle.
It was so dense it felt alive—whispering terrifying promises and wrapping its talons around his feet, biting through even his shoes.
"You appeal to your creator? Even though he abandoned you? Pathetic!" he mocked, unclenching his fingers, a sinister smile on his lips. His cold eyes found the old man's arm. "Disrumpe!" he declared with grim determination—his verdict resounding.
And so it was decreed.
A translucent spiral erupted from the void, slicing through the old man's shoulder and descending to his forearm, piercing flesh with surgical precision—and brutal cruelty. The sound of tearing flesh and muscle echoed, followed by a barely formed scream lost in the abyss.
"Curse it!" he roared, desperation thick in his voice, as the severed forearm dropped into the infinite void. blood gushed, coloring the spiral steps vibrant scarlet. With each drop that fell, its descent echoed into the silent vastness like a funeral drum, marking his agony's rhythm.
Blood spattered the spiral and stained the victim's clothes, while he crawled with excruciating effort. Every movement was agonizing until he found support on the cold concrete wall beside the staircase. His back pressed against the freezing surface, and his eyes—once bright—now reflected only fathomless darkness.
Cold and unfeeling to the brutality, the young man offered a slight smile, tilting his head while watching under the trembling legs of the man. The tension became unbearable as the victim's eyes widened, lips quivering, trying to plead for mercy.
But time had run out.
"Begging won't help… No one will hear you…" he repeated the old man's mantra, words former abuse conjured.
Only the sound of flesh being torn remained—a sickening tapestry of violence—and then a whisper, carrying the weight of his macabre verdict.
Then, again…
"Disrumpe!"
The cry echoed, as if the soul escaped through the lips. In that instant, something was born within the young man—shaped by the brutality and vengeance his nature demanded… but what would it be?