"When the sun dies, it leaves behind only darkness. And in that darkness… monsters are born."
The wind was dry. Not cold. Not warm. Just dry—like the breath of a dying world gasping one last time.
Rentarō Satomi stood atop the skeletal frame of a collapsed monorail, the steel bones twisted into grotesque shapes by a battle long past. Smoke still hung in the air, stubborn and reeking of oil, ash, and blood. Below, the ruins of Tokyo Area's District 7 stretched out like a graveyard—a broken monument to what they once called "hope."
His mechanical arm buzzed faintly, an old injury acting up again. It wasn't pain. He was used to that. It was a reminder. A whisper of everything he had failed to protect.
"How many more will I lose?"
The wind didn't answer.
Enju's voice echoed faintly from the comms. "Rentarō... do you really think they'll come after us again?"
He didn't reply right away.
Seitenshi's government had been shattered. Tendo Civil Security was gone. The cursed children were being hunted—again. Only now, there were fewer places to hide. Fewer people left who gave a damn. The Seven Stars Council had taken power after the coup, and their first decree was clear: All Initiators are to be registered, detained, or executed.
That included Enju.
That included every little girl he had ever sworn to protect.
His voice was low. Grim. "They won't stop, Enju. Not until they've erased everything we stood for."
Silence followed. Enju didn't cry anymore. She hadn't since Kisara vanished.
Rentarō looked west, toward the border where the Gastrea territory began. Beyond the concrete walls and crumbling barricades, the forest writhed with life not meant for this world. A colossal silhouette stirred in the mist—an insectoid Gastrea, Class IV or higher. It hadn't noticed them. Yet.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. A child. Dirty. Limping. Red eyes—cursed blood. She stared at him from the shadow of a burnt-out tank, clutching a stuffed animal with one arm. The other was gone.
Rentarō didn't move.
He couldn't.
Because in her gaze, he saw it again.
The world they'd lost.
And the one they still might build.
But only if he was willing to become something else.
Not a hero.
Not even a protector.
But a weapon.
The wind blew again, rustling his coat. This time, it was colder.