Darkness swallowed the open-air prison as the partial moon drifted behind a bank of thick, highland clouds. Gantetsu knelt against the spruce-root wall, the iron shackles biting into his wrists with a familiar, localized chill. He shifted his weight, and a sharp, jagged edge of the iron reopened a scab on his right wrist.
A sudden, violent pulse spike hammered against his eardrums. Vertigo tilted the world at a five-degree angle, the spruce roots beneath him feeling as if they were losing their structural integrity. In the silence of the village heights, the orange boy's voice returned—a high-frequency vibration that rattled the base of Gantetsu's skull. He's already down! Stop it!
The pressure behind his eyes increased, a heavy, throbbing sensation. The village of Mori no Sato vanished, replaced by the dark, glacial roar of the past.
The transition arrived with the sound of a slow, gurgling drain.
The pond in the center of the Shinrin Estate receded, the water vanishing into subterranean channels. The estate bisected the rugged landscape with narrow, stone-lined canals that ran black and silent under the November sky. Nearby, the skeletal trunks of Erman's birch trees stood like white bones against the gray horizon.
Gantetsu breached the surface first.
The climb out of the basin sent a jagged burn through his calves, his muscles lagging behind his intent. His hand trembled as he gripped the stone ledge, his wet clothes hanging like leaden sheets. The biting wind turned the moisture on his skin into a thousand needles of ice. He climbed onto the ledge, his heavy frame dripping with mineral-heavy water. Behind him, Shura, Monju, and Toki emerged. The mansion loomed—a sprawling complex of dark-tiled gabled roofs designed to shed the mountain snow. Prominent signage marked the exterior—the tono hiragana signaling the Shinrin family's political weight.
Toki reached for the drilling gauntlet on his right arm. With a sharp, metallic click, the conical palm and spinning fingers folded inward, retracting into a simple forearm guard. He smirked, his arrogant posture catching the dim light.
"Keep the pace," Shura whispered. The leader adjusted the umbrella strapped to his back, the red markings on his face appearing as dark scars. "Greed doesn't wait for the sun."
They approached the primary structure. Shura dislodged a side panel, the timber displacing with a muted, sliding friction. They slipped into the long, claustrophobic corridors. Solid, weather-resistant composite doors trapped the heat against the biting cold of the highlands.
Shura led them toward the master suite. He didn't hesitate. He entered the room and silenced the mansion owner and his wife while they slept. Gantetsu stood in the hall, feeling the rhythmic, heavy thuds through the floorboards—the timber vibrating as the mass of the sleepers shifted for the last time. A heavy, iron-scent of fresh blood began to bleed into the drafty air, mixing with the faint sulfur from nearby vents.
"The vault," Shura commanded, stepping out of the room.
He shoved aside a heavy dresser to reveal a semi-secret door. Beyond it sat massive, iron-reinforced barriers. These stone-bridge style doors featured ornate, brass fixtures shaped like stylized flames, lending the core a ritualized, bunker-like atmosphere.
Monju's metal threads sang with a shrill, stinging vibration as they bit into the iron-reinforced wood, cutting through the heavy door with a mechanical, screeching friction.
RING-RING-RING.
The alarm shattered the stillness of the estate—a high-pitched mechanical shriek.
"Gantetsu! Deal with the guards!" Shura roared. He triggered his umbrella. A column of fire erupted from the tip, the whoosh-hiss of the flamethrower catching the dark wood paneling.
Gantetsu turned, his heavy boots echoing against the polished floor planks. He pivoted into a sprint, his system locked in a high-tension predator state. His stride shortened as his lungs began to burn from the sudden intake of resin-smoke, his coordination flickering as the oxygen grew thin.
As he rounded the final corner, the environment turned hostile. The fire behind him drew the air out of the hallway, a physical tug at his chest. His eyes watered, the smoke layering into a gray veil that distorted the edges of the walls. He felt the heat gradient against his spine, the temperature rising toward a flashover point.
His hand slipped on a soot-slick doorframe. He heard crying—a thin, jagged sound that cut through the roar of the combustion.
Gantetsu kicked open a side door. The wood warped under the heat, resisting his boot with a splintering groan.
Inside, a child sat huddled in the corner. Akio Shinrin stared up with wide, liquid eyes. The child's face reflected the orange glow of the encroaching fire, his small frame trembling against the cold timber wall.
Gantetsu froze. A ceiling beam above them let out a heavy, structural snap, raining dust and sparks onto the floor between them. The boy didn't scream. He just watched Gantetsu with an unblinking clarity that mirrored the same crushing pressure behind his eyes he felt in the prison cell.
Gantetsu's world narrowed. Sound dropped out, leaving only the rhythmic, booming thud of his own heart against his ribs. His vision tunneled into a gray static until only the child remained. The air thinned until it tasted of nothing but cinders.
He forced his arm forward, his hand shaking. His breath hitched, a jagged intake of hot air, as he reached for the boy. His soot-stained fingers finally pressed against the child's trembling shoulder. The heat of the fire behind him met the terrifying, ice-cold skin of the boy that flinched under the contact.