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Chapter 9 - Beyond the Dream

Darkness slowly faded.

 Ayanokōji felt something pass through him — cold, weightless, and hollow, like the absence of breath.

He opened his eyes.

Around him stretched an endless space of light.

 Not sky. Not ground.

 Just radiance — soft, boundless, without shadow.

And there, standing in the center, was Ichigo.

His outline shimmered faintly, half-transparent.

His hair glowed with a quiet ember-light.

 He stared into the distance — not at Ayanokōji, but somewhere far beyond him, as though the horizon itself were listening.

Ayanokōji walked forward.

 His footsteps made no sound.

 Even thought itself felt muted here.

 — What is this place, Ichigo? — he asked.

 — What does it all mean — the dreams, the fire, the school?

Ichigo didn't answer right away.

 When he finally turned his head, his eyes were calm, unblinking.

There was no human expression left in them — only a kind of vast stillness.

— It wasn't a dream, — he said.

Ayanokōji frowned slightly.

 — Then what was it?

Ichigo's voice was quiet, but each word carried weight, as if the air itself bent around it.

 — I simply let you feel what, for me, is reality.

The space trembled — not violently, but like ripples spreading through water.

 Ayanokōji felt a chill, not physical but inward — a cold that crept through his thoughts, unmaking their structure.

— Reality…?

 — You mean, what we thought was illusion — that was your world?

Ichigo smiled faintly.

 — My world isn't a place.

 — It's a feeling.

 — Pain that never ends… and the silence that follows.

He paused, then added softly:

 — You only touched its edge.

The light quivered, as if the words themselves had disturbed it.

 Ayanokōji's voice was steady, though the edges of his mind felt like they were dissolving.

 — And now?

Ichigo looked at him, the faint ember in his eyes burning just a little brighter.

 — Now you know how I see the world.

He reached out his hand.

 The touch wasn't physical — more like warmth pressing through the air.

The light surged.

For a heartbeat, everything was white — too white to contain thought.

 And then it all faded.

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