The air on the Yokohama pier was heavy with the weight of the drowned. The Siren's song had stopped being a melody and had become a physical pressure, a high-pitched vibration that made Ren's teeth ache and his blackened right arm throb with phantom fire.
Ren stood five paces away from the Guardian. The iron-clad figure didn't breathe. There was no rise and fall of a chest, no mist coming from the visor in the damp air. But the intent coming off the man was a tsunami. It was the sharp, crystalline focus of the Shinen-ryu, twisted by the salt and the rot of the God of Death.
"You look pathetic, Ren," the guardian rasped. The voice was like wet gravel. "You threw away the Weaver's silk for a piece of wood. You traded a throne for a grave in the mud."
Ren felt his heart hammering against his ribs. He had low mana. He was effectively a zero.
