//AYANOKOUJI POV//
I don't often think about the past. There's little point in it. Reflection is a luxury I abandoned long ago. But today, something about the quiet of the park stirs a buried fragment loose, pulling me into memories I didn't ask to recall.
The afternoon drags lazily, the sun casting long, golden shadows as it clings to the sky. Children's laughter drifts faintly from somewhere beyond the trees, mingling with the rhythmic spin of a bicycle's wheels. Overhead, the leaves whisper secrets to the wind, a language I'll never understand. It's a scene brimming with peace, but somehow, it feels hollow. The kind of hollow that sits deep in your chest and never quite lets you forget it's there.
My hand dips into the crinkling bag of birdseed, scattering another handful for the pigeons pecking at my feet. Their movements are mechanical, predictable. Like me. Routine is safe—unchanging, undemanding. I cling to it, not because I care for these birds but because the rhythm of it keeps the silence bearable.
An old dog lying beside me shifts, its breathing steady and untroubled. Its fur, graying and coarse, mirrors the stillness of the world around us. It, too, is a creature of habit. We are alike in that way.
I don't expect the moment to be interrupted. This park, this bench—it's my sanctuary. But then I hear it, the faint crunch of gravel. Footsteps. Deliberate and measured, they grow louder, closer, until I feel the presence before I see it.
The man sits down without hesitation, the weight of him shifting the bench just slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I take him in—the crisp gray suit, the angled hat that feels too purposeful to be casual. He doesn't belong here, not in this serene, unremarkable place. And yet, somehow, he fits.
I keep my gaze fixed ahead, though I can feel his eyes on me, studying. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. He unfolds a newspaper with deliberate care, but his attention isn't on the headlines. It's on me. I know this type people all my life. The ones who watch, who measure, who wait for you to flinch. But I don't flinch. Not anymore.
Finally, I break the silence, my voice calm and even. "I'm sure there are better ways to pass the time than staring at an old man."
His response is a quiet chuckle, one that makes me glance his way despite myself. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of amusement, perhaps. Then he speaks my name, soft and deliberate.
"Ayanokouji Kiyotaka. Are you free?"
The question pulls at something in me. Not surprise, but a faint irritation at his familiarity. I keep my hands steady, dropping more seed for the pigeons. "Yes," I say, the word carrying no weight, no conviction. "For the past thirty-five years, I've been experiencing the feeling of being free."
He tilts his head, as though weighing my response. "Is that so?" There's no mockery in his tone, only a quiet curiosity. "You sit here, day after day, alone with your animals. Is that what freedom is to you?"
The words settle heavily in the air. I don't let them sting, though they should. Instead, I focus on the pigeons, watching as they scramble for the seed. What is freedom to me? Routine. Repetition. The absence of expectation. I know what he's getting at, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of a deeper answer.
"Yes," I say again, my voice steady.
He leans back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "In a sense, you do have freedom," he says. "But in the process of acquiring it, you've lost what you truly wanted. What you yearn for—connection."
The word hangs between us, heavy and uninvited. I let my hand rest on the dog's head, its steady breathing grounding me. "What is connection?" I ask, my tone devoid of emotion. "I have companions. This dog, these pigeons—they're connection, aren't they?"
He smirks faintly, gesturing toward the birds. "Companions, maybe. But connection? That's a different story. Can you talk to them? Can they understand you? Or are they just a convenient excuse to avoid the connections you've never made?"
The truth in his words gnaws at me, though I force my expression to remain impassive. These animals, this routine—they're a facade. A barrier between myself and something I've never fully grasped: real connection. But I won't admit that. Not to him. Not to anyone.
My hand stills on the dog's head. "And what do you know about the connections I haven't made?" I ask, my voice calm, though I can feel the ground beneath me shifting.
He doesn't answer immediately, leaning in slightly as though to lower his voice. "Tell me, Ayanokouji, Do you regret it?" he asks. "That you didn't care for them?"
The question cuts deeper than I expect. Regret isn't something I've allowed myself to feel. Not openly. "Or was it simply that you couldn't?" he continues. "That despite being hailed as a masterpiece, the perfect human… you were incapable of forming genuine connections, so you settled for something simpler?"
I meet his gaze for the first time, my expression unreadable. He's pushing, searching for cracks in the walls I've built. But I won't give him the satisfaction of finding them.
He changes the subject abruptly, his tone colder. "Tell you what, let me save you some trouble. You're dying."
The statement lands heavily, though it doesn't surprise me. I've felt it—the slow betrayal of my body, the creeping weakness I've tried to ignore.
"You're not surprised," he observes, nodding slightly. "Decades of pushing your body to its limit, of forcing it to perform like a machine-just to escape the grasp of your father. The strain catches up, doesn't it?"
I say nothing. There's nothing to say.
"If you had a second chance," he presses, "a chance to start over, to form the connections you never had, would you take it?"
The question lingers, daring me to answer. I turn my gaze to the horizon, watching as the fading sunlight bathes the park in gold. "If I were given a second chance…" My voice trails off, the sentence unfinished.
It was as if something within him was stirring, something he had buried deep inside. Without warning, his mind was flooded with flashes—quick, memories from his past. They came in waves, one after another, each more vivid than the last. He saw himself again at ANHS High School, watching from the shadows as he manipulated his classmates, orchestrating their every move with cold precision.
The power he wielded over them, the calculated distance he kept... It was all part of the plan. To him, it was freedom—freedom from the need for connection, from the complications of relationships. But even then, something about it never felt right.
Then something shifted, and suddenly, he was back in the White Room. The sterile walls, the incessant drills, the oppressive silence. His father's voice, cold and detached, echoing in his mind. It was all too familiar—the endless tests, the constant pushing, the stripping away of everything that made him human. It wasn't just his body that was controlled, it was his very existence. He had been a tool, nothing more.
The memories morphed again, pulling him to a time years later, in a far-off place where he had managed to escape the clutches of his father. He was a shadow in a foreign land, always moving, always one step ahead of those who might track him down. His mind had become a weapon, his every decision calculated, every relationship shallow. There was no room for anyone to get too close.
He thought that was freedom—the ability to remain untouchable, to not be bound by anyone else's expectations. But with that freedom came something he hadn't expected—an overwhelming emptiness. There were no bonds, no real connections. The victories, the manipulations, the escapes... they were all fleeting.
In the end, they left him standing alone.
The last image hit hardest—the culmination of his struggle, his final battle with his father. He had won. He had finally defeated the man who had controlled him for so long. He was free.
But what had it all been for? What had he gained from it? A hollow victory. The silence that followed was deafening. His freedom had come at the cost of everything that might have given it meaning.
He had no one to share it with, no one to turn to. And in that silence, he had realized the truth—freedom was empty without connection. The memories faded, leaving him with a profound stillness. He knew, now.
He had sought freedom his entire life, but in the end, it hadn't been the freedom he needed. It had been the connections—the bonds with others—that he had truly been craving.
Then, just as suddenly as the flashback of memories arrived, it vanished just as quickly. And it planted a seed that subtly but soundly changed Ayanokouji, of which cemented the truth of Ayanokouji's yearning for true connection.
I finally turn back to him, my face unreadable. He's already waiting for my answer.
But I don't give it to him, not in words. If he is what I think he is, then he already knows what i was about to say—and will say, since the very beginning. Instead, I look at him and let the silence answer for me.
He smiles, a faint, knowing smile. "Good answer," he says softly.
And then, just like that, he snaps his fingers.
The world around me begins to blur, the vibrant colors of the park fading into darkness. His vision swam, his body growing light as if he were being pulled from reality itself.
Before I lost consciousness, For a minute or so, the man in the suit's voice echoed in the fading light.
"You'll find yourself in a world unlike any you've known before, Danmachi. A place where your freedom, your choices, will be tested like never before. It is a thrilling world, filled with monsters, gods, and heroes. Will you remain the same, Ayanokouji? Or will this new world, change you, and give you the one thing you want—yearn for, Connection."
And with that, everything went black.
Author's Note:
Reader's we're getting there—to the good part, I've just been setting up the background, feelings, and thoughts of my version of Ayanokouji. Since he's essentially an older version of Kiyotaka now, his thoughts and actions will differ from the original Kiyotaka.
I also revised the chapter because, after re-reading it a few times, I noticed some mistakes that went against what I originally envisioned for it. Glad I checked
End of Chapter 2.