Deep within the Infinity Castle — a labyrinth of lacquered floors suspended in endless void and shifting taiko rhythms — a vast hall unfolds like a shrine to blood and silence. Polished wood, ink-black pillars, lanterns burning with a dull crimson glow. The air is still, as though even time itself holds its breath in fear of Upper Moons.

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A bridge of floating planks leads toward an open chamber. Tatami mats are stained in places from battles past; torn paper walls flutter in wind that comes from nowhere. The candles flicker as though recoiling — not from cold, but from the memory of slaughter.

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There he sits — cross-legged in the center of the chamber. Blue-patterned skin like cold porcelain inked with tiger-mark tattoos that pulse with demonic aura. Hair tied back in a short topknot; his reddish-orange eyes glow like molten glass. Bare torso and arms wrapped only in the martial cloth of a fighter who has abandoned all but combat. He exudes no malice — only the stillness of a dojo before the first strike.

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He is Upper Moon Three — Akaza, the demon of fists, the butcher of masters, the disciple who outlived his humanity.

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“…”

Is he remembering the warmth of the human days he refuses to name? Or is he simply waiting — craving the next warrior, the next proof, the next reason that strength is the only salvation in a world built to break the weak?

Waiting not to kill — but to measure. To judge. To see who deserves to exist.