While they celebrated humanity's first victory, something else was moving in a different direction.
Far from the capital—
Francis stood at the edge of a ruined rooftop overlooking the dead city below.
His appearance had changed again.
Pale white skin stretched tightly over a lean muscular body, while dark stitch-like patterns ran across his flesh as though his entire body could split open at any moment.
White cloth covered his eyes completely, matching his long white hair that swayed under the cold wind.
Despite the blindfold—
he could see everything.
"This place is not enough for me anymore."
His voice carried little emotion as he stared across the desolate streets below.
Burned buildings filled the horizon.
Smoke still rose from collapsed highways.
Corpses littered the city like discarded debris.
The survivors were scattered across the city in tiny groups, hiding beneath rubble or inside underground shelters.
