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When Manjoume Jun opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was how quiet everything was.
Not peaceful—quiet. Like the air had forgotten how to move.
He sat up, wincing, the movement sending a low ache down his spine. His head was pounding like he’d been hit with a brick. For a second, he half expected to see the others sprawled nearby—maybe Kenzan snoring, Sho nagging him for daring to make noise, or Judai pacing ahead, running his mouth like always.
But there was no one.
The ground beneath him was a cracked, black plain, glimmering faintly like scorched glass. Every fissure pulsed with a dull, reddish glow, like the veins of something that had long ago stopped bleeding but refused to die. Above him stretched a sky the colour of a healing bruise—deep purple, streaked with sluggish veins of gold that flickered and dimmed in uneven rhythm. Like the heavens themselves were wounded.
For a long, empty minute, he just stared.
Then it hit him: the last thing he remembered was Judai.
Judai’s voice—panicked, desperate. The battlefield, that monstrous card, Wicked Rune—and that unbearable light swallowing everything. His body had felt like it was being burned out from the inside, like every nerve was being rewritten mid-scream. He remembered shouting something, too. Something angry. Something stupid. Something he couldn’t take back.
And now—this.
Either he was dead, or he’d finally lost it.
He dug his fingers into the ground, trying to feel anything solid. When he pulled his hand back, his palm was streaked with black dust, as if the world itself was coming apart in his grasp. His laugh broke out before he could stop it—a brittle, ugly sound that didn’t echo properly. It warped and fell flat, swallowed by the heavy air.
Fantastic. Truly, the grand finale of Manjoume Jun—face-down in some volcanic wasteland. Fucking fantastic.
He pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt stiff, like they didn’t entirely belong to him.
Alright. So, he’s dead. Possibly. Maybe. Or something. Fine. Be dead. But he’s not gonna sit here and do nothing about it.
He started walking.
Not toward anything in particular—there was no horizon to follow, no sense of direction. Just motion for motion’s sake. The ground cracked faintly under his boots. The air reeked faintly of metal and burnt ozone. Every few steps, he thought he heard the faint, tinny giggling of the Ojamas—then silence again. Even they were gone.
He didn’t know how long he had walked. Time didn’t seem to move here. His thoughts blurred. His breath sounded too loud. His own footsteps became unbearable. He counted them for a while—forty-three, seventy-two, two hundred—before giving up.
He was almost ready to scream just to make a sound when he saw something in the distance.
At first, he thought it was a mirage—a distortion in the air, a trick of heat or madness. But then it didn’t fade. A human shape, standing alone on the crest of a distant dune. Dark cloak trailing behind him, the edges flickering like burning paper. The figure stood perfectly still, turned away, as though watching something unseen beyond the horizon.
For a moment, Manjoume froze. Then his chest seized with something between relief and disbelief.
That hair—he’d know it anywhere. That stupid mop of brown hair.
“Judai,” he breathed.
The word cracked something open in him. He’d be embarrassed if it even mattered at this point.
He stumbled forward, faster, almost tripping over his own feet. “Judai! Hey—Judai!” The sound of his own voice jolted him. It sounded smaller here, like shouting underwater. “What the hell is this place? Where are we?! Where is everyone?”
No response. Fine. Whatever. As if that ever stopped him.
“Hey! Idiot! Why are you—What’s with the getup?”
Still nothing.
“Stop ignoring me, Judai! I know you can hear me!” His throat tightened, the words coming out sharper now. “Judai—!”
Then the air changed.
A pressure at the front of his skull, a heat that didn’t come from any source. Every hair on his body stood upright. His gut dropped. The wrongness arrived before he could name it, before his mind could form the word for what he was perceiving, and in the three seconds it took him to close the remaining distance, he had already understood, somewhere below language, that the thing standing before him was not who he had come running toward.
The figure turned.
The face was Judai’s. Every feature that Manjoume had memorized without meaning to—the slope of the jaw, the width of the brow, the particular way the mouth sat when it wasn’t in motion—all of it exactly right. It was a perfect rendering.
But the eyes were gold. Flat and absolute, like molten metal poured into the shape of irises and cooled. They did not brighten when they found him. They did not do anything, except look. And in that look, there was no recognition, no acknowledgment, no warmth of any kind. Just nothing.
Manjoume’s whole body went cold.
“…You,” he said, the word catching in his throat like something that didn’t want to come out. “You’re not him.”
No response.
Those gold eyes still refused to acknowledge him, and yet nausea rolled through him so hard he almost staggered. He tried to steady his breath, but it came out uneven, shaking. His voice cracked into a bitter snarl, dropping into the register he used when he was trying to sound braver than he was. “Whoever gave you the right to wear his face?” he spat. “You think this is funny? You think this is some kind of joke? Where is he?”
The figure regarded him. Not with contempt, not with cruelty—with the complete absence of both, which was somehow worse.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice was Judai’s voice. Except it wasn’t. The cadence wasn’t. It was lower, stripped of every inflection that had ever made that voice something worth listening to at a distance.
Manjoume freezes. And when that happens, his logic leaves his brain, and his mouth just starts running. “Yeah? No kidding,” he snaps, his words scraping through a dry throat. “Where the hell is ‘here,’ exactly? You wanna fill me in before you start throwing out cryptic one-liners?”
No response.
The figure doesn’t move. The wind—or what passes for it—moves strangely around him, heavy and slow. His cloak lifts as though underwater, the air humming with heat.
“Judai?” Manjoume tries again, his voice cracking on instinct. Maybe he could wish this into being a different reality. He felt lightheaded. “If this is some kind of test or whatever—fine. You got me. Ha-ha. Real funny. You scared the crap outta me. Now can you cut it out and—”
He stops when the other finally moves.
“No. I—” Manjoume’s mouth goes dry. “What… are you?”
Not-Judai regards him for a long moment, evaluating him like he’s nothing more than the wastes around them, and then says simply: “What’s left of him.”
That should’ve been nonsense. What kind of stupid response was that? Seriously? But it isn’t nonsense. Something about it feels like a door slamming shut in his chest.
Manjoume takes a step back, trying to keep his tone steady, biting down on the rising panic. “You mean Judai’s gone, is that it? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? You seriously expect me to just believe that? What, you just decided to move in and redecorate? I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but you’ve got five seconds to start making sense before I—”
“Before you what?” Not-Judai interrupts, not even looking at him anymore. His gaze drifts past Manjoume, scanning the endless wasteland as if searching for something. “There’s nothing here to threaten me with. You’re dead.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Manjoume stumbles; his first instinct is denial. Of course it is. “That’s bullshit. If I’m dead, then what the hell are you? Some kind of ghost, too? Judai wouldn’t have died.”
“Not a ghost.”
“Then what are you?”
The figure doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts one hand, the motion deliberate, almost languid, and gestures toward the horizon—or what might be one. There’s no end to the landscape, just the same cracked obsidian plain bleeding into a void of violet and gold.
“This,” he says at last, his voice low and precise, “is a boundary. A dead dimension. The remnants of what cannot move forward or die properly drift here until they erode into nothing. At the farthest edge are other worlds, waiting to be conquered. This is where I walk between them.” His hand drops to his side again, the faintest whisper of heat following. “Few who fall here retain coherence. The mind collapses long before the body does. What remains becomes part of the ash.”
Manjoume swallows, but his glare stays fixed. He crosses his arms, trying to comfort himself. He can’t think of another way to respond to that than to just persist. He swallows. “Answer my damn question. Why are you dodging it? Are you scared to tell me?”
The other tilts his head slightly, as though regarding an insect that has inexplicably learned to speak. When he speaks again, there’s no rise or fall to his tone—only a flat, surgical precision that makes every word land like a knife.
“Stubbornness,” he says, “is not strength. Understanding will not save you.” Manjoume flinches at the phrasing, the way it’s said—utterly stripped of contempt or pity. Just a statement of fact.
“Try me,” Manjoume snaps.
The faintest flicker passes over the entity’s eyes—something too sharp to be amusement. “You were sacrificed,” he says simply. “Your existence burned away to feed another’s ascension. Mine.”
Manjoume’s stomach twists. “What are you saying? What kind of nonsense is that supposed to be?”
“The boy’s body was imperfect,” Not-Judai says. “His soul fractured—too kind to destroy, too proud to surrender. I grew in that fracture. I am what filled the space he refused to acknowledge. His mind could not hold itself together. So it broke. And when it broke, it gave me shape.”
“No, that’s—” Manjoume takes a step back. “You’re saying you—what, killed him? Took him over?”
The figure’s expression doesn’t change. “He ceased. I remained. The difference is semantic. I am him, and he is me.”
Manjoume’s stomach drops. “You’re—You’re insane. You think talking like this makes you sound smart, but you’re just—”
“—truthful,” the other interrupts, voice as flat as stone. “That is the difference between us. You lie to yourself to endure. I do not require the illusion of purpose.”
The words fall with such perfect calm that Manjoume wants to scream, to shake him until something human breaks through—but there’s nothing behind those eyes except a slow, terrible understanding.
“You don’t know me—to hell with that. You—”
“I do know you, Manjoume Jun.” Not-Judai cuts in. “Your fears, your experiences. Your desire for closeness with Yuki Judai.” He pauses for a moment, almost amused. “This body calls for you,” the figure says. His tone never rises, but the words slide beneath Manjoume’s skin like ice. “I can feel it reaching out in your presence. How fascinating.”
Manjoume’s breath stutters. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The heat radiating from him is unbearable now, like standing too close to a forge. Every instinct in Manjoume’s body screams run, but his legs won’t move.
“It seeks familiarity. It clings. Such weakness is inconvenient, but instructive. Even now, a fragment of him recognizes you. It wants to believe you can still save him.” Not-Judai’s eyes sharpen, gold and unblinking. “Perhaps I should take you with me to crush any hope that this body has left.”
The words feel like they’re spoken directly into Manjoume’s chest. He takes another step back, choking on air that no longer tastes like air. “You’re lying,” he rasps. “Judai—Judai wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what?” Not-Judai cuts in. “Care for you? Trust you? You mistake affection for strength. The boy’s sentimentality is what doomed him. It made him fragile. And yet—” He leans in slightly, his voice lowering to something almost reverent. “Even now, his soul recoils from what I am, but it still remembers you. That memory pulls at me. I feel it every time you speak.”
The silence afterward is unbearable. The air hums faintly with tension, as if reality itself doesn’t want to be near this conversation.
Manjoume feels sick. The idea of Judai—his Judai—somewhere inside that thing, clawing against it, trying to reach out— He can’t breathe.
No, the entity said Judai ceased to exist? That can’t be right. Something isn’t adding up here. Both of these things couldn’t be true at the same time.
Then Not-Judai adds, almost absently, not acknowledging the nausea across Manjoume’s face, “You were meant to dissolve with the others. Yet you persist—dragging your fragments across a world that has no use for them. Curious.”
“T-That’s….” Manjoume’s laugh is shaky and raw. “....Guess I’m just too stubborn to die, huh?” If he were more of a coward, then maybe he’d think that perhaps death would have been a better fate than whatever the hell this was.
The figure studies him. “No,” he says finally. “You are too afraid to accept that you already have.”
Manjoume hissed. No. No, he shouldn’t believe any of this. This random stranger wearing Judai’s face. How could any of this be real? This could all just be designed just to mess with him. He needed to stay stronger. Hold your ground, Manjoume.
If Judai is still out there, if his friends are still out there, then they need him to stay strong.
“Maybe because what you’re telling me sounds like complete bullcrap.”
At that, Not-Judai’s eyes flicker toward him—briefly, but enough to freeze him where he stands.
“You believed in him,” the monster says. “That’s why you died.”
That stings worse than any wound could.
He can’t think of anything to say for a moment. The landscape stretches around them endlessly—black and gold, bleeding light through every crack.
Manjoume swallows hard. “You—You’re seriously enjoying this, aren’t you? Acting all high and mighty, watching me scramble for answers. You think I’m just some idiot who won’t understand your cryptic crap?”
Not-Judai’s expression doesn’t change. “Understanding doesn’t change truth.”
“Then say it!” Manjoume explodes. “Say what the hell happened! Tell me what you did to him! You’re a fool if you think I seriously can’t tell you’re trying to mess with my head.”
The entity pupetting Judai tilts his head slightly, as though studying a very loud, very small animal.
“I did nothing he did not choose.”
“You’re lying,” Manjoume spits, though the words feel empty. “Judai wouldn’t—he wouldn’t throw everything away! He wouldn’t—”
“He would,” Not-Judai cuts in, voice calm as ever. “He did.”
The silence afterward feels infinite.
The horizon burns faintly gold, like veins of fire under glass.
Manjoume held his ground. He was good at holding ground. He had practiced it for years, in arenas and dormitory hallways and every time Judai beat him and grinned like he was doing Manjoume a favour. “That sounds like the convenient version,” he said. “That sounds like the story you tell yourself.”
The figure regarded him with something that might, in a human face, have been curiosity. “You were always one of the loud ones, Manjoume Jun. Always clinging to the idea that you could fight hard enough to make meaning appear.”
Manjoume glared. “Yeah, well, that’s what people do. We fight back. Against monsters like you with no humanity. What did you mention about conquering other worlds? What a stupid statement. As if things exist just to be taken over.”
The entity tilted his head. “Humanity is the excuse of the weak. The name they give to their failure to survive.”
That made Manjoume’s stomach tighten—something about how calmly it was said. “So what, you think power’s the only thing that matters?”
Not-Judai’s eyes burned brighter. “What else is there? You are a very curious one. Morality is an invention of the powerless. They use it to comfort themselves when they lose—to pretend that defeat was noble. But the universe doesn’t keep score. It remembers only those who impose their will.”
“Typical,” Manjoume spat. “You sound like every spoiled kid in the Obelisk dorm who thought rules were for other people.”
“And yet,” Not-Judai murmured, “it is always those people who write history.”
Manjoume’s jaw tightened. “You really believe that? That ‘strength’ makes you right?”
Not-Judai took a step forward, the cracked ground spiderwebbing around his feet. “Not right. Simply real. Justice, mercy, fairness—those are human fictions. They require agreement. Power does not. It enforces itself.”
Manjoume crossed his arms. “You’re describing a world where nothing means anything. Sounds lonely.”
“It’s the only world that’s honest,” Not-Judai replied. “Your kind builds stories about friendship, love, loyalty. You call them values. I call them conditions—fragile bargains meant to hide the truth that one will always consume the other. In the end, someone rules, and someone kneels.”
“No. It’s not always like that. Not with Judai,” Manjoume said sharply. “He wasn’t like that.”
The faintest smile ghosted over Not-Judai’s lips. “No. He was worse. He believed the illusion so completely that he mistook his victories for kindness. Even when he crushed an opponent, he told himself it was compassion.”
“That’s not—”
“But it is,” Not-Judai interrupted. “He smiled as he defeated you, didn’t he? Every time? Told you it was fun. A chance to grow. You wanted to hate him for it, but you couldn’t—because some part of you wanted that light to be real. You needed to believe he wasn’t stronger because he was better, but because he was lucky.”
Manjoume’s throat tightened. “You’re twisting it.”
“No,” Not-Judai said. “He won because he could. You lost because you couldn’t.”
The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that made Manjoume feel his own breath too loudly.
He wanted to say something clever, to throw the entity’s logic back at him—but Not-Judai’s words had a gravity that pulled the fight out of him one syllable at a time. It wasn’t that they made sense; it was that they described something he’d felt—in every defeat, every hollow victory, every time he’d looked at Judai and wondered why he could never catch up.
The figure must have seen it in his eyes, because he said slowly, “You understand, don’t you? Why mercy is a luxury. Why weakness is a sin.”
Manjoume’s voice came out rough. “I understand that you’re insane.”
Not-Judai just stared, low and without joy. “It is futile to fall back on your illusions.”
Manjoume took a step forward—reckless, defiant. “Listen clearly, your majesty. You think you’ve seen the world for what it is, but all you’ve seen is the part you broke. You’ve confused control with clarity. And when Judai comes back—”
“He is no longer,” the entity said, quiet as the air splitting. “He ceased to exist when he understood me.”
“No. He’s still in there somewhere,” Manjoume said. “You admitted yourself when you were taunting me earlier.”
“There is nothing left of him in the sense you mean.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“You mistake my remarks for evidence. The body retains associations. That is not consciousness. That is not him.” The figure’s voice didn’t rise, but there was something in it now, barely perceptible—like a word that has been repeated so many times it has worn smooth and begun to lose its meaning. “Do not make that error.”
“I’ll find him in there. I’ll drag him out kicking and screaming if I have to. Because I know you’re not telling the truth.” Manjoume points at the figure in front of him. “Do you hear that in there, Judai? I’m not letting you run away so easily, you coward. You’re not allowed to give up so easily, especially just to hide behind the face of this maniac. We still have a score to settle, and I won’t just let you forget that.”
For the first time, Not-Judai’s expression shifted—not anger, not surprise, but something close to disappointment. “You are very determined,” he said, “to find something worth saving here.”
“I’m not just going to lie down and take it,” Manjoume said. “That’s the thing about me. I don’t know when to quit.”
The figure regarded him with something close to curiosity—not anger, not pity, just a kind of clinical fascination. Then, almost gently, he said, “Defiance is a candle in a storm, Manjoume Jun. Beautiful, but temporary.”
“Then I’ll burn bright,” Manjoume said, “and make sure you remember the light.”
No answer.
The gold eyes held him for a long moment—measuring something, or perhaps simply looking, for reasons that neither of them could entirely account for. Then the figure turned, and the dark cloak caught what passed for light in this place, and he walked toward a horizon that had no end and offered nothing, and the silence closed behind him like a door pulled shut by someone who has finally finished a conversation they didn’t want to be having.
Manjoume stood in the dark and the broken glass and the dull red light bleeding up through the cracks in the world, and said nothing, because there was nothing left to say, hands shaking, unsure if the encounter had meant anything at all. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe the entity was right.
And then the wasteland broke apart—into dust, into light, into breath—and Manjoume gasped awake on cold stone, the echo of that voice still in his skull like a blade pressed flat against thought.
He didn’t know if he’d won.
But he knew he hadn’t surrendered.