Tick tock tick tock.

He could hear the clocktower even from this distance, each one-second tick resounding in the back of his head. The world was constantly in motion, and he was still trying to catch up, not letting a single second pass by without staring at it.

‘Tomorrow’ was a frightening concept, that of a new world whenever one closed their eyes and let themselves go. He had not slept ever since he was released into this era. Not a single day was left unobserved in its entirety, and yet, what he did see during those sleepless months were ugly, petty things. The stagnant peace. The material obsession. The impurity of humanity. The weakness of the strongest.

It made Arata want to puke, and it made Arata want to disappear.

But not today. Not now.

The edge of his vision was dimming, and his half year of wakefulness was beginning to take its toll on him. Brick dust and cement caked his ragged robes, and his head throbbed, as if nails were driven into his skull. Even if he closed his eyes now, it wouldn’t disappear, and his stomach was in turmoil, rioting against its master. The oni could still eat, for the sake of maintaining his strength, but so what? Other than that one meal from the food-lady, everything tasted of dust, ashes, and blood.

As the sun set, as the clock stopped ticking, the oni rose from the park bench, gazing up towards the Tower. [i]She[/i] would be waiting. The champion of this new age and this new world. The bat-winged bitch who claimed the heavens as her own.

Arata wanted to win. But if he won, that meant that there was no challenge to aspire to overcome. If he won, that was it. He’d become the strongest in the school. And that…that would be all.

So should he lose? Lose half-heartedly and lie to himself that he has a rival to defeat? Should he make a mountain out of a molehill? It would be great, wouldn’t it? Lying to himself and simply bowing his head, submitting to this world without legends and heroes.

He could sleep, he could forget, and he could…

Arata ground his teeth together so hard that his jaw ached.

He clenched his hands so hard that the skin around his knuckles split.

He was already fucking priming himself up for loss, isn’t he? An oni with an iron club was strong beyond strong, but he has already set his mind upon facing her bare-handed. Or was this his arrogance, that he merely needed to be ‘strong’ when facing the foes of this lavish, self-indulgent world?

The stars came out, the crescent moon cutting through the fabric of the night. It was a hazy moon, wispy clouds veiling this bone-white wound.

Arata cast his thoughts away.

And slowly, he began to walk.

Down the street.

Through the doors.

Up the stairs.

Ascend, ascend, and ascend, only to find that there was only a single other presence on the summit.

How lonely.

He looked at his hands, at the hands that lost their calluses and their scars as the century turned.

With those empty hands, he pushed open the door to the top of the Tower, and stepped out onto the starlit stage.

His blood burned. His joints cracked. His eyes sharpened.

[b]“Are you prepared, Sorcha?”[/b]

[i]Are you prepared, Arata?[/i]