They passed through rust-eaten tunnels, where flickering signs still welcomed passengers to a Shin-Ōsaka that no longer existed. Yui walked beside him, silent, the gold in her eyes catching every shadow. Sometimes she stared into the dark too long, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
Koji jogged up from the front. "Ren. One of the kids is coughing blood. And two of them… their eyes are starting to glow."
Ren froze. His voice came out dry. "Which truck were they in?"
"Four."
That was the truck closest to Shinobu's final position.
In his chest, a dread he thought long buried began to stir.
"Quarantine them," Ren said. "Immediately. And burn what they touched."
Koji stared at him. "They're children."
"So was Yui," Ren snapped, before catching himself. His hand trembled slightly. "Just… do it. Please."
The rain over Kyoto did not fall—it screamed. Molten threads of iron-gray water hissed and steamed where they kissed the seared flagstones outside Ryo's private sanctum, as though the heavens themselves recoiled from the earth below. The Argwan citadel loomed like a living wound against the night sky, its obsidian towers twitching with black, pulsing cables that fed into its hive-heart, the distant glow of harvested power veins casting long, restless shadows through crystalline walls. And yet, within the chamber, there was silence. Not peace—no such thing could survive here—but the poised hush of something buried alive, waiting to rise.
Ryo stood before the altar of memory, unmoving. The cold, dark pedestal of polished bone supported a single object: the helm of fused skulls once worn by Shinobu. It was still damp with ichor, the scent acrid and faintly sweet—sickly like rotted flowers crushed under boot. A ragged edge of her tattered GHU lab coat still clung to its side like a forgotten prayer. He didn't speak for a long time. But his knuckles whitened around the glass in his hand, and the subtle crack that ran through its side had widened, weeping crimson wine like blood from a wound.
"She was the first," he said at last, voice hoarse. "The most loyal. The only one who never—never faltered."
The glass shattered in his grip. He did not flinch. Shards glittered like teeth on the floor, and blood streaked his palm, mingling with the red of the drink, pooling beneath his feet. His gaze didn't waver from the helm, from the dried ichor clinging to it like regret. In his memory.
That woman was gone.
The hiss of the chamber door broke the silence like a whisper slicing through old scar tissue. Ryo did not turn, not at first. He recognized the presence by rhythm alone: the measured steps, the scent of ozone and sandalwood, the faintest rattle of silver chains against polished military fabric.
Kaito.
The younger brother stepped in with the elegance of a serpent—hands clasped behind his back, his uniform unwrinkled even after the rain. The soft light caught on his earrings, on the data chips woven into his collar, on the faint, amused curl of his lips.
"You're late," Ryo said, voice deadpan, low.
"I thought you might want a moment," Kaito answered. He stopped five paces from the pedestal, posture immaculate, eyes drifting toward the helm with the mild detachment of someone appraising a museum artifact. "A shame about Shinobu. She was… exquisite. Efficient. A model of what the new world should be."
Ryo turned at that. His golden irises flared—briefly, like lightning through a stormcloud.
"This wasn't failure," he snapped. "It was sabotage."
His boots rang out against the floor as he approached, each step taut with the strain of control barely held. "She had them. She had Ren in her grasp. And then he was gone. And so was she."
Kaito's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly, curious.
"Perhaps he still felt something for her," he mused.
"Feelings," Ryo spat, "are corrosion. They make blades soft. People like him—they weaken the purity of the Argwan cause. That's why he fled. Why he couldn't let her become what she was meant to be."
He stopped before his brother, face inches away. "Did you find them?"
Kaito's smile widened, a flash of teeth behind velvet words. "Yes. It took some creativity, I admit. After the explosion at Shin-Ōsaka, most of the tracking arrays were burned out. But Ren is predictable—he uses old paths. Ghost corridors. I traced a thermal bleed through Sector 9-C. Abandoned since the second purge. Clever little rat, hiding in tunnels he once helped build."
He reached inside his coat and retrieved a small object: an Argwan memory crystal, matte black and veined with thin lines of red data flow. With theatrical ease, he tossed it.
Ryo caught it mid-air. The crystal flared in his palm—images bleeding across his vision. Rusted catwalks. Broken stairwells. And them. Ren, limping, half-covered in dust. And beside him—Yui. Her small hand gripping his, her golden eyes glimmering like twin sparks in the gloom.
Ryo watched in silence, the light of the crystal staining his face in ghost colors.
Then he crushed it.
The crystal shattered to powder in his bloodied fist, fine as ash. The cuts reopened. He didn't notice.
"They think they can run," he whispered. "They think this is still their world."
He turned, walking toward the command altar that slept in the chamber's center. With a fluid motion, he pressed his bleeding hand against the slab. The blood soaked into its circuitry. The walls lit up in pulsing crimson. Shapes unfolded. Voices whispered through the hive. And a dozen Argwan lieutenants appeared—holograms of bone-white armor and hollow visors, all kneeling in silence before their sovereign.
"New directive," Ryo said, voice as steady as ice. "Deploy a strike squad to Sector 9-C. I want Ren Kuroda and the girl alive. No sedation. No restraints. Bring them whole."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"And the others…" His voice thinned, turned to steel wrapped in velvet. "Send them to Argwan Hell."
The air in the chamber shifted. Even the holograms seemed to waver at the words. Argwan Hell. A phrase spoken only in passing, in legend. A place whispered about by defectors before they were silenced.
Kaito blinked, just once. Even he couldn't quite mask the flicker of unease that passed behind his eyes.
"…You're serious," he said at last.
Ryo said nothing. His hand returned to the altar of memory, resting gently atop Shinobu's helm. His fingers trembled—barely noticeable.
"You gave everything," he whispered. "And they tore you apart like meat."
His voice broke for just a second. A crack in marble. Then it was gone.
He looked back at Kaito, his eyes not just angry now—but hollowed, desperate. And something deeper still: betrayed.
"They will learn," he said softly. "What it means to lose everything."
Outside, the towers of the hive began to hum, their tips glowing with awakening power. The storm above Kyoto howled louder, and the first ripple of deployment swelled beneath the earth. The Argwan were coming