The sky above Tokyo had ceased to be a celestial dome and had become a graveyard of concepts. Billions of tons of pulverized iron filings, the remains of the God of War's failed siege engine, suspended themselves in the atmosphere, creating a shimmering, grey veil of "Blood-Rust." This mist was a conductor. As the golden fleet of the God of Light repositioned itself, the iron dust began to hum with a low frequency divine resonance. Every particle of iron acted as a lightning rod, ready to channel the coming Purification Protocol into the lungs and buildings of the city below.
Ren Hanshin hovered in the center of this metallic smog, his silver threaded hair whipping in the updrafts. His Divine Mana was a flickering at [45/150.] The cost of severing a three mile mass of iron had been steep, leaving his mana circuits burning with an icy numbness.
[The God of Fate is pressing her spectral form against the back of your mind, her voice a frantic, velvet plea.]
