The air in Yokohama didn't feel like air. It felt like a wet shroud. The mist was so thick that Ren could barely see his own boots as they crunched over the salt-crusted asphalt. Every breath tasted of brine and old copper. The city, once a bustling hub of commerce and bright lights, had been reduced to a skeletal remains of steel. The tall buildings stood like jagged tombstones against the pale, grey sky, their windows long since shattered by the pressure of the God of Death's arrival.
Ren leaned vehemently on his wooden staff. His right arm, still blackened and stiff, was tucked into the folds of his tattered coat. He felt every mile of the walk from the pier. Without his divine agility, the simple act of navigating a debris-strewn street was a battle.
"Niisan, wait," Haru called out.
