Ghoul: Re Insanity

The words settle into Amatsu's bones, sinking into the marrow of his thoughts.

Are you meat, or do you eat?

Noroi's voice lingers, heavy, pressing. Not just a question—a truth. A reality carved into the 24th Ward itself.

Amatsu knows. He has always known.

Hunger is a law. Hunger is truth. Those who eat survive. Those who do not— they are nothing.

The world above pretends otherwise. People with full stomachs, with warm meals and soft beds, they believe in things like right and wrong. They kill in the name of gods, of laws, of money, of pride—and they call it just.

But here, beneath the bones of the city, there is no such thing. There is only need.

And Amatsu is starving.

A dull ache gnaws at his stomach. A slow burn behind his ribs. He has felt it since birth—hunger without name, without end.

He clenches his fingers into a fist.

If he eats, is he evil?

No.

He suffers. He bleeds. He has lost everything. And the world does not weep for him.

So why should he weep for it?

A sound. Wet, heavy.

Amatsu looks up just in time to see the thick slab of meat flying toward him. A severed human leg.

It hits the ground with a dull, sickening thud.

The scent rushes over him, hot, iron-rich, thick with marrow and flesh and the remnants of a life already ended. His stomach clenches—no, his entire body clenches. His fingers twitch, his breath quickens, his mind goes silent.

Without thinking, he moves.

His hand reaches out—

But the Serpent is faster.

His Kagune lashes forward, a bloated tendril of dark, pulsing flesh, the maw at its tip splitting open, fangs glistening.

The maw clamps down.

A wet, sucking noise, thick with marrow and torn sinew. Flesh stretches, resisting for a heartbeat—then rips apart with a sickening schlck. Bone snaps, brittle shards grinding against the Kagune's rotating fangs.

Amatsu feels it.

The Serpent coils tighter, pulping meat in its grasp. The warmth seeps into him, thick and cloying, too full of another's life.

And then, swallowing.

The sound is worse.

He exhales—slow, deliberate. His heartbeat thrums in his skull. The air tastes of iron and decay.

The hunger fades.

For now.

Amatsu watches, heart hammering, as the Kagune retracts.

A slow shudder rolls through his body, deep and visceral.

His cells feel like they are shifting. Strength curling through him, seeping into his bones. The ache dulls, the hunger soothes, if only for a moment.

The Serpent has fed. Noroi steps away, boots pressing into blood-streaked floors. He does not glance back—there is no need.

He reaches the door, placing a hand against the worn wood. The world outside is still. Cold. A silence that lingers deep, pressing into the air like a quiet weight.

You decided.

Noroi exhales, slow and steady. He does not need to witness it.

The boy is gone.

The one who once stared up at him with wide, innocent eyes. The one who had once called him Uncle. That child no longer exists. Only hunger remains.

And he understands.

This boy—no, this thing—will one day become something monstrous. Something that will shake even the darkest corners of the world.

But so what?

Noroi does not care. Life is like this. The strong eat. The weak rot.

Besides...

He made a promise.

A whisper in the past, a vow sealed in death. Take care of him. If I die, take care of him.

Noroi closes the door.

—

Inside, Amatsu does not move for a long moment. The room is dark. Heavy with the weight of ghosts.

Then, he exhales.

Slowly, deliberately, he kneels.

The remains of his parents lie scattered—discarded. Torn, broken, barely recognizable. Not much is left. A few strips of meat, a severed hand, a fragment of his mother's ribs.

But he does not hesitate.

He will not waste it.

The words settle in his mind like iron—He had promised he will never be hungry again.

His fingers close around a scrap of flesh. Cold, stiff, soaked in blood long dried. He lifts it to his lips.

Before he can take a bite—

The Serpent moves.

His Kagune lashes out, the bloated tendril twisting forward. The maw splits open, rows of fangs glistening with slick hunger. It clamps down. Flesh folds inward, crushed, shredded, reduced to pulp.

But for a moment—just a moment—he feels it.

The warmth still clinging to the marrow. The faintest trace of lingering heat, like a ghost of life that refuses to fade.

His mother's ribs—they still hold the memory of her breath.

His father's flesh—it carries the echo of his last heartbeat.

Not yet cold. Not yet gone.

And then—the Kagune swallows.

A wet, sucking sound. A sickening squelch as the last vestiges of warmth are pulled away, dissolved into nothing. Bone snaps, marrow seeps, life is undone.

And Amatsu watches.

Not with horror. Not with grief.

With understanding.

His Kagune does what he cannot.

It feeds where he cannot reach.

It devours what he cannot grasp.

Just like his dreams. Just like his past.

Hunger. Suffering. Weakness. Everything.

He does not resist.

He closes his eyes.

And lets it eat.

Slowly Amatsu rises.

His body, once weak, now pulses with vitality. The dull ache of hunger has faded, replaced by something new—something deeper. His muscles no longer tremble. His breath no longer shakes. The blood and flesh have settled into him, strengthening every fiber of his being.

His eyes, once glowing with the crimson hunger of a ghoul, slowly shift. The red bleeds away, leaving only dark irises, the color of a boy untouched by the horrors of the world.

And yet—

The change is only skin deep.

The Kagune, slick with fresh blood, coils back into his flesh, dissolving like mist in the cold air. The monstrous presence vanishes. What remains is the face of a child—smooth, pale, innocent. A face that should not belong to something that devours without hesitation.

He turns, his gaze sweeping over the house one last time.

The memories are not his, yet they press against his chest with an unbearable weight. Even if his mind is cold, even if logic tells him that nothing matters but survival, the heart does not lie.

This place—this ruin—was once a home.

His fingers tighten.

For a moment, something like pain flickers across his expression. But it is brief. He does not allow it to linger.

Instead, he steps forward.

The door creaks as he pushes it open.

Noroi stands outside, towering beneath the dim light of the underground. The shadows cling to his face, obscuring half of it, but the other half remains sharp—chiseled like something carved from the bones of a dead god. His obsidian eyes gleam, unreadable.

Amatsu thought—hoped—that walking through this door would bring him a moment of rest. A pause before the next step. A moment to gather himself before whatever lay ahead.

But the world does not allow such things.

Because the moment his foot crosses the threshold—

He sees them.

Ghouls.

Hungry ones.

They stand just beyond Noroi, their hollow eyes fixated on the house behind him. Or rather—on the scent seeping from within.

Blood. Flesh. Death.

To them, it is not tragedy. It is opportunity.

Amatsu feels it immediately.

The air is thick with hunger, pressing against his skin like a fever. Their bodies twitch, spines arching like dying animals straining for breath. Some barely stand, bones brittle, limbs trembling under their own weight.

Blackened tongues slide over cracked lips.

Drool pools thick at their feet.

Others are sharper—lean and honed, their eyes flickeringf with the cold glint of carnivores that have learned patience. Their chests rise and fall in shallow gasps, nostrils flaring, jaws clenched so tightly their teeth creak against each other.

One lets out a wet, rattling breath. Another gurgles, its throat half-collapsed, voice shredded by starvation.

The ghouls do not move at first.

They only stare.

Hollow, cavernous eyes fixed on Amatsu, unblinking, unseeing—no, not unseeing. Seeing only one thing. Flesh. Meat. A meal.

The stronger ones hold still. Their jaws clench so tight the bone groans. Their breath is slow, measured—but their eyes gleam, sharp and unrelenting. They do not waste energy. They do not lunge blindly. They wait.

And in that waiting, there is a sound.

Wet. Hollow. A stomach turning in on itself.

A rattling breath, jagged and desperate, like a man choking on his own air.

A gurgle—thick, bubbling, something scraping against the ruined walls of a throat too far gone.

Then—

A step.

The weakest one moves first, dragged forward by instinct, a creature of nothing but need. Its fingers claw at the ground, nails splintering against the stone, legs too brittle to carry its own weight. It stares at Amatsu, but it does not see him. It sees only the scent—blood, marrow, something still lingering in his veins.

Its jaw unhinges.

A moan escapes.

Not words. Not a threat.

Just hunger.

Another step.

Then another.

More follow, drawn forward, their skeletal frames lurching, their breath coming in sharp, wheezing gasps.

A hand twitches. A foot scrapes forward.

A single heartbeat passes.

Then—

A blur of motion.

The strongest moves.

No hesitation. No wasted effort.

Just instinct.

It lunges—

And—

Stops.

A sound slices through the thick air.

Not a word.

Not yet.

Just—breath.

Steady. Calm. Controlled.

Noroi exhales.

A quiet thing. Almost insignificant.

But it slams into the moment like an executioner's axe.

The ghouls freeze.

Their hunger is primal. But their fear is older. Older than hunger. Older than instinct. Older than survival itself.

Because Noroi does not move.

He only stands.

The shadows cling to him, swallowing half his face, but the other half remains sharp, like something carved from the bones of a dead god. His obsidian eyes gleam, unreadable. He does not raise his hands. He does not step forward.

He only waits.

Waits until the silence is deep enough to drown in.

Waits until even the breathless hunger of the ghouls feels fragile.

Waits—

And then, at last—

He speaks.

Low. Absolute.

"This is your first training."

The words slip through the silence like a blade against bone. The ghouls flinch.

Noroi does nothing.

A pause.

Long. Drawn out. Heavy.

Amatsu does not move. He only watches, breath held, the weight of the moment pressing into his chest.

Then, finally—

Coldly.

Quietly.

Like a death sentence whispered at the gallows.

"Eat."

A breath.

Then—

"Or be eaten."

Amatsu exhales.

knowing is different from obeying.