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A/N: Warning. This book contains dark morals. Do not take any of these seriously because I do not want to see any of my readers having a moral crisis.

I don't even know if it's that bad but just in case...

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Last BSD Book — Eternal Fate

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In a mansion that sat atop a hill like a crown of vanity, nestled between rolling fields and gilded fences, there was a boy who should have never existed.

Your first feeling was one of silk.

Not warmth, not the laughter of a mother, nor the coarse callouses of a father’s hand on your head.

No, it was silk. The expensive kind that lined your blankets and cradled your body like the family never would.

It was smooth, cool, and utterly empty. Like you.

They said you were born out of wedlock.

A bastard child from a late night affair that was never meant to exist, hidden behind the thick curtains of a sprawling mansion nestled in the quiet hills outside Yokohama.

Your mother? A name never spoken.

Your father? A powerful man draped in custom suits and scorn.

A man who only acknowledged you in the context of shame.

And yet, you lived.

Not because they loved you. Not because they saw value in your existence.

You were fed, clothed, educated.

Not in care, but in obligation.

To let you die would be unseemly. To let you thrive would be worse.

So you were raised in between.

A shadow behind the pillars of a noble house. The stain on the family portrait they never let you stand in.

The servants were polite when required, and quiet otherwise. Their eyes slid over you like you were furniture.

You could scream in the hallways and no one would ask why.

You could bleed in the garden and no one would fetch a doctor.

You could cry in your room for hours, and still the meals would come at the same time, untouched by concern.

You learned not to cry.

You learned instead to observe.

Every small movement, every look, every breath of those around you became a puzzle.

You watched your half siblings laugh at the dinner table from behind the cracked doorway.

They laughed with their mouths open, shoulders relaxed, eyes crinkling.

You tried to mimic it once. In front of a mirror.

It looked wrong.

It felt wrong.

Why was it that they could smile so easily? Why did laughter not bloom in your chest the same way it did for them?

You asked one of the maids.

She blinked at you and kept walking.

Yet you were not disappointed. You were curious.

Neglect does not always breed meekness. Sometimes, it gives birth to monsters.

That was the beginning of your curiosity.

Your earliest memory was not of comfort or kindness, but of pain.

At the age of six, you’d been running down the hallway, a rare moment of childish excitement, when you tripped and struck your head against a marble stair.

Blood spilled onto the floor, warm and slick.

Instead of crying, you stared.

Fascinated.

The color. The smell. The slow, steady drip from his brow.

It was beautiful. Terrifying. Alive.

No one came for you for over an hour.

It was during that time, when you lay on the floor, bleeding and alone, that you found the seed of something terrible blossoming in your chest.

A need to understand. Why did blood come out? Why did it hurt? Why did no one care?

Over the years, your questions deepened.

The maids ignored you, the butlers avoided you, and the family acted like you didn’t exist unless you risked staining their name.

In the shadows of that house, curiosity became obsession.

You started with insects.

Pulling wings from flies.

Snapping legs from beetles.

You watched them squirm, eyes wide with wonder.

No one stopped you.

Then came the animals.

A bird fell victim first.

It had broken its wing and lay helpless in the garden.

You picked it up gently, whispering soft words as you cradled it in your arms.

Then, you tore it open.

The entrails fascinated you.

The way they squirmed, the way blood pooled in the grass.

You weren't angry. You didn’t even feel pleasure. Just... curiosity.

Your father found you that day.

The man’s face twisted in horror as he watched his bastard son crouched in the dirt, hands soaked in red, eyes gleaming with a strange light.

"Demon," he hissed.

"You're a damned demon."

You tilted your head.

Demon?

What defined a demon?

Was it the blood? The lack of tears? The joy you didn’t feel? Or the questions that wouldn’t stop coming?

Your father’s response was swift. He ordered the servants to discipline you, "beat the wickedness out," he’d said.

And so they did.

Thick hands grabbed him. Strikes fell like rain. Bruises blossomed over his pale skin. Bones ached. Blood spilled again.

It hurt.

It truly hurt.

But emotionally?

Nothing.

No shame. No fear. No regret. Just more questions.

Why do adults scream when they hit you?

Why does pain make your head feel light?

Why do you feel like vomiting when you taste blood?

No one answered.

By the time you were thirteen, you had stopped asking out loud.

You'd realized people didn’t like questions. So you kept them in your head.

And you discovered something new.

You could disappear.

It started by accident.

One moment you were crouched in the basement, hiding from a storm.

The next, you were outside in the garden. There was no door. No passage. Just a blink, and then air.

Teleportation.

No one noticed. No one asked. And so you didn’t tell.

You began to play with it.

A blink here, a jump there. Places you'd never been. Rooftops. Forests. The edge of the city where people didn’t look twice at strange boys wandering alone.

And outside, the world was different.

People didn’t know you. Didn’t look at you with disgust. They looked at you with a smile, or didn’t look at all.

You liked that.

You wondered what kind of faces they’d make if you slit their throats.

So you tried.

A mugger first. Someone threatening a woman in a back alley.

You appeared behind him and drove a stolen knife into his spine.

The man screamed.

You tilted your head.

That sound… it wasn’t fear. It was agony. Was that what demons caused?

You killed more. Not out of anger. Not for thrill. But for study.

A young man wept as he died. A woman begged. A thief cursed. Each reaction was unique. Each death was a mystery.

You kept notes. Not written, just mental observations.

Pain Level: High.  Reaction: Crying.  Response to eye contact: Intense fear.

You'd never killed children.

Not because you felt bad. But because they didn’t have interesting reactions. Just screaming. Too predictable.

Eventually, even the criminals became boring.

One day, you found himself in front of a small building at the far edge of the city.

An old clinic, run down but still active.

The word 'Doctor' was scrawled on a wooden sign.

You'd never met a doctor before.

You wondered, were they different? Did they feel fear like the others? Or did they understand pain the way he did?

Knife in hand, you entered.

"Oh?"

The man behind the counter blinked at you.

He was older, short purple hair at the length of his chin. His voice was calm, almost cheerful.

"A patient? You're a bit young to be wandering alone, aren't you?"

You vanished.

In the blink of an eye, you were behind the man.

You pointed the knife at the man’s throat, the blade gleaming in the dim clinic light. 

He stood very still, blinking slowly as he stared down at the weapon you held.

“I’m going to kill you now,” you chirped, tone light and cheerful. “So give me a unique reaction, okay?”

The doctor blinked again.

He sighed, "ehhh..." His shoulders slumped.

"Are all the kids these days like this?"

You blinked. That wasn’t the reaction you expected. It was...unserious, in a playful way.

He blinked again, and then... smiled.

Not the frightened, pitiful smile of someone about to die. It was soft. Harmless. Almost amused.

“Go ahead. Do it,” he said simply.

You paused, head tilting. That wasn’t the response you expected.

“Mister,” you said, blinking up at him, “are you suicidal?”

His smile didn't fade. “No. It’s because you can’t kill me.”

Your eyes widened.

A cool pressure touched your neck, just below the chin.

You glanced down, and saw a thin, surgical scalpel pressed against your skin, held in his hand.

You hadn’t even noticed him move.

Since when did he—?

Your breath hitched. Your grip on your knife tightened, but it wasn’t from fear. It was excitement.

This harmless looking man wasn’t harmless at all. He was skilled.

The grin that spread across your face was wide and thrilled.

“You’re amazing, mister! What’s your name? Are all doctors like you? Can you teach me? Oh, oh! Wanna take me in?”

He blinked again, this time genuinely taken aback by the flood of questions.

“Don’t you have a home to return to?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Yeah. And what about it?” you replied innocently, smiling as if you didn’t understand what he meant at all.

The scalpel lowered slightly.

“…Interesting,” he muttered.

The man studied you. There was silence for a long moment.

"My name is Mori Ogai," he said at last.

"And perhaps... you might be useful to me after all."

There was a pause. A silence that felt like a scalpel sliding between muscle and bone.

His smile didn’t change. But behind his eyes, something cold stirred.

“…Alright. You can stay tonight. But only if you answer a few of my questions.”

You bounced excitedly. “Okay! But only if I get to ask some too!”

That night, you slept in the back of the clinic, wrapped in a thin blanket that smelled of medicine and iron. Mori Ougai sat nearby, pen in hand, jotting down notes.

Subject displays signs of psychopathy. Highly intelligent. Morality disassociated. Extremely dangerous, but manageable. Teleportation ability potential unknown.

He tapped his pen against his chin.

If properly molded, could be a valuable asset... or a devastating weapon.

He smiled again.

A smile that is far from innocent.