The Ginza district had once been the heartbeat of Tokyo's luxury. It was a place of polished marble, glowing screens, and air that smelled like expensive perfume and ambition. Now, it was a skeleton of steel and shadows. The "Blood-Rust" had settled deep into the cracks of the designer storefronts, turning the vibrant district into a monochromatic graveyard.
Ren Hanshin walked down the center of Harumi-dori avenue. He didn't use his divine senses to scan for traps. The silence itself was the trap. It was an unnatural quiet that made every one of his footsteps sound like a gunshot. He was hungry. It was a strange, grounding sensation. Despite his demigod status, his stomach was growling. It was a lingering echo of his mortality, a stubborn reminder from his body that he was still the boy who used to skip lunch to save money for his sister's medicine.
