The peace of Okutama was a fragile thing, and by the end of the first week of the Grey Horizon, that peace shattered under the weight of thousands of feet. Ren Hanshin stood on the lookout point, his left hand gripping the wooden staff that had become his third leg. Below him, the winding mountain road was no longer a path of asphalt and pine needles. It was a river of humanity. A line of refugees stretched as far as the eye could see, a crawling snake of grey rags and desperate faces.
They weren't just the survivors of Shinjuku anymore. They were coming from Saitama, from Kawasaki, and from the coastal ruins. Word had traveled through the broken radio waves and the whispers of the Grey Zones. 'The Executioner lives. The Mountain is safe.'
"How many, Tanaka?" Ren asked, his voice low.
