Petals were still falling when Aiko’s head rolled to a stop at Hoshikimaru’s feet.

  Pink on red.

  Pink on the dirt where her eyes used to be.

  Pink on the smile she forced for him even after they scooped out the sockets with slow, deliberate thumbs.

  She hadn’t screamed once.

  Not when the first Reaper took her right hand at the wrist. The blade was so sharp it didn’t bleed right away—just a clean line, then a slow welling of red that dripped onto the petals below. Not when they did the left the same way, letting both stumps drop into the dirt like broken dolls. Not when the heavy chain came down across her knees—once, twice, three times—until the bone cracked outward and white splinters poked through skin like broken teeth. Not when the thumbs went in. Slow. Deliberate. Twisting until the sockets were black holes and the blood ran down her cheeks like tears she couldn’t cry anymore.

  She just looked at him the whole time.

  Even after the sockets were empty, even after the blood painted her face, she kept that small, sad smile. Like she was saying: Don’t watch, Hoshi-chan. But remember.

  He watched.

  His sister’s turn came next. Eight years old. Hair in two little braids Aiko had done that morning while humming a lullaby. She kept calling for him—“Hoshi-nii, Hoshi-nii”—voice high and shaking at first, then getting smaller, thinner, like someone was squeezing the air out of her lungs.

  They started with her hands too. Tiny fingers. One by one. Snap. Snap. Snap. She screamed until her voice broke into sobs, then into whimpers, then into silence when they moved to the legs. The chain came down hard. Bone shattered. She didn’t scream anymore after that. Just stared at him with wide, wet eyes, mouthing his name over and over like a prayer he couldn’t answer.

  His father tried to reach her. A chain wrapped his ankle, yanked him face-first into the dirt. They didn’t kill him fast. Hands first. Legs next. Eyes last—thumbs again, slow, twisting. All the while his father kept whispering Hoshi’s name. “Hoshi… Hoshi…”* Like if he said it enough times the boy would disappear before they found him.

  They found him anyway.

  His mother tried to shield the girl. They dragged her away. Made her watch every second of her daughter’s death before they started on her. Same order. Hands. Legs. Eyes. Head last.

  The Reapers didn’t rush.

  They savored it.

  Said it was “merciful” to let people choose how much they lost before the end.

  Hoshi didn’t choose anything.

  Chains held him down. Iron bit into his wrists until bone showed through torn skin. He screamed until blood came up in his throat, then screamed without sound. His voice gave out long before his heart did.

  When it was over, the cherry blossoms kept falling.

  They covered the bodies like a blanket. Pink on black ichor. Pink on empty sockets. Pink on the shallow graves he dug later with his bare hands—fingernails splitting, dirt under his nails mixing with blood and tears. He dug until his fingers were raw, until the graves were just shallow hollows in the earth, until the petals settled on the turned soil like a mockery of peace.

  The Reapers collared the survivors.

  Hoshi among them.

  The collar was cold at first. Black iron. Tight around the throat. Then it started to burn whenever he thought of escape. Whenever he dreamed of Aiko’s smile. Whenever he remembered his sister’s voice calling his name. The pain wasn’t just heat—it was memory made physical. Every time the collar flared, he saw her face again. Saw the smile. Saw the sockets. Saw the petals.

  Four years in the mines.

  Digging for Power Star fragments—glowing shards the empire believed would unlock godhood. Slaves dug until their hands bled, until their backs broke, until the collar burned so hot they begged to die. Most did. Hoshi didn’t. He learned to swallow the screams. Learned to let the pain become fuel. Learned to hate so deeply it drowned out everything else.

  Every night the collar burned when he dreamed of escape.

  Every night he dreamed of her smile anyway.

  Now he was sixteen.

  Thin. Scarred. Eyes hollow but burning with something that wasn’t quite fire anymore—more like coals that refused to go out. Hair long, matted, streaked white from pain and sleepless nights. A stolen Reaper chain-blade wrapped around his right forearm like a gauntlet. It hummed when he was angry. It sang when he killed.

  He sat in a roadside shack, rain hammering the tin roof like fists trying to break in. The air smelled of wet dirt, rust, and old blood. Across from him slumped Kael—another slave he’d dragged from a mine collapse three nights ago. Kael’s collar glowed faint red, pulsing with his dying heartbeat. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, black and thick.

  Kael coughed, laughed weakly.

  “You really cut that Reaper’s arm off with his own chain?”

  Hoshi stared at the floor. Rain dripped between them, plinking into a puddle that reflected nothing.

  “Yeah.”

  Kael wiped black blood from his lip.

  “And then you kept swinging until the mask cracked open.”

  “…Yeah.”

  “You didn’t even blink.”

  “Didn’t need to.”

  Kael leaned his head back against the wall. His breathing sounded like wet paper tearing.

  “You’re sixteen. How the hell do you look forty?”

  Hoshi finally looked up. Eyes dead, streaked red.

  “I stopped counting birthdays the day they took her eyes.”

  Kael went still.

  “Her?”

  “Aiko.”

  A beat. Rain filled the silence.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Was.”

  Kael exhaled through his nose.

  “They made you watch?”

  Hoshi’s voice came out flat, like reciting a fact from a book he hated.

  “They made everyone watch. Started with hands. Said it was ‘merciful’ to let us choose how much we lost before the end.”

  Kael closed his eyes for a second.

  “Fuck.”

  “My sister begged. Eight years old. Kept saying ‘Hoshi-nii, make them stop.’ Chains held me. I couldn’t move.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Same. Hands first. Legs. Eyes. Head last. Father kept whispering my name the whole time. Like if he said it enough I’d vanish before they found me.”

  Kael opened his eyes. Looked at Hoshi like he was seeing a ghost.

  “And you didn’t vanish.”

  “No.” Hoshi’s voice cracked on the word. “I stayed. Watched every piece fall.”

  Kael nodded slowly.

  “Why didn’t you die with them?”

  Hoshi’s fingers dug into his palms until blood welled.

  “Because dying would’ve been kind. They wanted me alive. Wanted me to remember.”

  Kael’s breathing grew shallower.

  “This thing…” He touched the collar. “It’s gonna finish me soon.”

  “I know.”

  “You gonna kill me before it does?”

  Hoshi looked at him—really looked.

  “You want that?”

  “Yeah. I want to die angry. Not screaming.”

  Hoshi stood. The chain uncoiled slowly.

  “Okay.”

  He stepped closer. Wrapped the chain around Kael’s neck—gentle, almost careful.

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  “Hoshi.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When you find that Power Star… don’t use it to save us.”

  Hoshi paused.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re already gone. Use it to erase them. Every last Reaper. Every mask. Every chain. Burn the empire until nothing’s left to remember.”

  Hoshi’s voice came out small.

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Then die trying.” Kael met his eyes. “But don’t stop. Promise me.”

  Hoshi swallowed hard.

  “I promise.”

  Kael smiled—weak, bloody.

  “Tell Aiko… tell her I said hi. When you see her.”

  Hoshi’s eyes burned. He didn’t blink.

  “I will.”

  He tightened the chain.

  Kael didn’t fight. Just looked up—no fear, only relief.

  One sharp pull.

  Snap.

  Kael slumped.

  Collar light died.

  Silence except the rain.

  Hoshi knelt. Closed Kael’s eyes with bloody fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry…”

  He stayed there a long time, forehead pressed to Kael’s shoulder, shoulders shaking but no sound coming out. The rain kept hammering the roof, like it was trying to drown out the silence inside him.

  Then he stood.

  Wrapped the chain tighter until it cut fresh skin. Black veins pulsed under the scars.

  He stepped to the doorway.

  Red lightning cracked in the distance—another current tearing open.

  Hoshi smiled—small, broken, dangerous.

  “Good.”

  He walked into the rain.

  The chain dragged behind him like a leash he finally controlled.

  Rain had turned the dirt road to sludge. Hoshi walked alone now, Kael’s body left behind in the shack with the rain as the only mourner. The chain on his arm felt heavier—not from weight, but from memory. Every link remembered a neck it had snapped, a promise it had helped keep.

  Red lightning split the sky ahead.

  Another current ripping open.

  The empire never slept.

  Hoshi didn’t slow down.

  His boots sucked at the mud with every step.

  The chain dragged behind him, carving a thin trench.

  Then he heard it.

  A small, broken sob—barely louder than the rain.

  He stopped.

  In the shadow of a burned-out cart, half-buried in mud, a girl no older than nine crouched.

  Collar around her neck.

  Same black iron.

  Same faint red glow.

  Her hands were wrapped in rags, both missing fingers—fresh cuts, still bleeding.

  She looked up when his shadow fell over her.

  Eyes wide, terrified, but too tired to run.

  Hoshi knelt slowly.

  The chain rattled.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. Voice cracked. “Don’t come closer. They’ll… they’ll take more.”

  “I’m not one of them.”

  She stared at him. Rain streaked dirt down her face like tears.

  “You’re wearing their chain.”

  “I took it from one. After I killed him.”

  Her eyes flicked to the blade wrapped around his arm.

  “You… killed a Reaper?”

  “Yeah.”

  She swallowed. Looked at her missing fingers.

  “They took these because I tried to run. Said next time it’d be my eyes.”

  Hoshi’s throat tightened.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mira.”

  He looked at her collar. The glow pulsed brighter—warning.

  “They’re coming for you.”

  “I know.” Her voice was small. “I can feel it burning hotter.”

  Hoshi reached out.

  She flinched.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  She didn’t move away this time.

  He touched the collar. Cold iron. Hot underneath.

  The same heat he’d felt for four years.

  “I can take it off.”

  Mira’s eyes widened.

  “You’ll die if you try. It burns anyone who touches it wrong.”

  “I know.”

  He wrapped his fingers around the metal.

  The collar flared red—angry, searing.

  Pain shot up his arm like lightning.

  Skin blistered instantly.

  He didn’t let go.

  Mira started crying.

  “Stop! Stop it!”

  Hoshi gritted his teeth. Voice low.

  “Shut up and hold still.”

  The collar cracked.

  Black smoke hissed out.

  The red glow flickered, died.

  Hoshi yanked it free.

  Threw it into the mud.

  His hand was raw meat. Smoke rose from the burns.

  Mira stared at her bare neck.

  Touched it like she couldn’t believe it.

  “You… you really did it.”

  Hoshi stood. Swayed once. Caught himself.

  “We need to move. They’ll smell the broken collar.”

  Mira scrambled up. Grabbed his sleeve with her ruined hand.

  “Where are we going?”

  “North. Toward the empire’s heart.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where the Power Star is.”

  Mira looked up at him. Eyes huge.

  “The star that grants wishes?”

  Hoshi’s laugh was bitter, hollow.

  “That’s what they tell slaves. Truth is it’s a weapon. They want it to become gods. I want it to end them.”

  Mira’s voice trembled.

  “Can it… bring people back?”

  Hoshi looked away. Rain hit his face.

  “No.”

  She stared at the ground.

  “Then what’s the point?”

  Hoshi’s voice came out rough.

  “The point is they don’t get to keep winning.”

  Mira was quiet for a long moment.

  “My brother’s still in the mines. They took him last week. Said he screamed too much.”

  Hoshi closed his eyes.

  “How old?”

  “Eleven.”

  Same age Hoshi was when it happened.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Then we get him out.”

  Mira looked up fast.

  “You’d do that?”

  “I promised someone I’d stop them. Not save everyone. Just… stop them.”

  Mira wiped her face with her sleeve.

  “You’re bleeding a lot.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re gonna die if you keep going like this.”

  “Maybe.”

  She grabbed his good hand. Small fingers on burned skin.

  “Don’t die yet. Please.”

  Hoshi looked down at her.

  “I’ll try.”

  Red lightning cracked closer.

  The ground rumbled.

  A current tearing open—wider this time.

  Shadows moved in the rain.

  Reapers.

  Three.

  Masks glowing.

  Mira stepped behind him.

  Hoshi unwound the chain from his arm.

  The blade extended—jagged, dripping.

  One Reaper spoke—voice like grinding bones.

  “Chainbreaker. You’ve been busy.”

  Hoshi smiled—small, cold.

  “Not busy enough.”

  The first Reaper lunged.

  Chain met chain.

  Sparks flew.

  Hoshi sidestepped.

  Slashed upward.

  Black blood sprayed.

  The second came from the side.

  Mira screamed.

  Hoshi spun.

  Chain wrapped the Reaper’s arm.

  Yanked.

  Limb tore free.

  The third hesitated.

  Hoshi didn’t.

  He charged.

  Blade through the mask.

  Through the face.

  Through the skull.

  The Reaper dropped.

  Silence except rain and Mira’s ragged breathing.

  Hoshi stood over the bodies.

  Chest heaving.

  Black veins crawling higher up his neck.

  Mira stared.

  “You… you killed them all.”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked at the blood on his face.

  “You’re crying.”

  Hoshi touched his cheek.

  Wet.

  Not rain.

  He wiped it away.

  “No. Just rain.”

  Mira stepped closer.

  “Liar.”

  Hoshi looked at her.

  Then at the horizon.

  North.

  “We keep moving.”

  Mira nodded.

  “Okay.”

  They walked into the storm.

  Behind them, the bodies dissolved into ash.

  The rain kept falling.