The sun rose over Tokyo, but it didn't bring warmth. The sky remained a bruised shade of violet, a permanent reminder that the atmosphere had been tampered with by celestial hands. Down in the city, the Blood-Rust had hardened into a gritty crust that covered everything from abandoned luxury cars to the vending machines that no longer hummed.
Ren Hanshin stood at the edge of the Okutama shrine's main plateau, looking down at the winding mountain road. For the first time in weeks, there was no sound of falling iron or exploding mana. There was only the sound of a broom sweeping.
SCRITCH! SCRITCH!
One of the survivors, an older man who had lost his home in Shinjuku, was meticulously cleaning the stone path leading to the main hall. He didn't look up as Ren passed. He didn't dare. To these people, Ren was no longer the boy who carried their bags, he was the lightning rod that drew the wrath of the heavens.
