The sky, once barely tinted with dawn, now roared red with smoke and the distant blaze of buildings. Streets had turned into rivers of ash and blood. Poor civilians scattered like startled birds, but not all could flee. A mother cradling her baby collapsed mid-run, her body folding over the child in one last act of protection. A husband clawed at the rubble, crying her name, voice cracking until it gave way to sobs.
Children, too small to understand why their world had cracked open, begged adults who were already corpses, or too afraid to move. The cries blended into a background wail, a steady dirge. And through it all—above it all—laughter. The rich, draped in luxurious coats and synthetic silks, leaned on armored railings and watched like spectators at a grand hunt. They pointed. They bet. They sipped imported wine as if the massacre below was theater.
Even their children laughed—some out of mimicry, others out of cruelty learned early. A boy no older than eight jeered as a slum girl tripped and cracked her knees on pavement, blood staining her thin dress. His father clapped.
Inside the reinforced upper walls of the Coalition headquarters, Atama stood still. His eyes, always lazy and unreadable, now hovered somewhere between blank and uncertain. His fingers twitched near the interface that could shut the entire operation down in an instant. It would take only a flick, a thought—yet he hesitated.
That's when a shape moved beside him.
Seko stepped forward with slow, deliberate calm. His expression unreadable, but the energy around him had changed—dense, still, like a storm gathering in reverse.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"He will not," Seko said, low and final.
Atama's hand froze in mid-air.
"I forced him to do so."
Silence filled the room like smoke creeping under doors. The implication wasn't shouted, but it was felt—deep, ancient, and heavy. There was no pride in Seko's words, no righteousness—only cold acknowledgement of a line crossed, and the burden of it willingly carried.
Kiyomi, standing by the window, barely breathed.
The ten-year-old boy glanced at Seko—not in awe, not in fear—but in recognition.
Outside, the screams did not stop.
"Enough distraction," Seko muttered, his voice low but razor-sharp, slicing through the tension like a blade.
In the next breath, he vanished from the high walls of the Coalition's headquarters. The emergency lockdown hadn't even registered his escape. Only Atama noticed, but he didn't move—he simply watched the screen as if he'd expected this from the start.
The sky was still dark. There was time before sunrise, but not much. Whatever Seko intended to do, it had to be done fast. And it wouldn't be quiet. Not this time.
Smoke curled through alleyways like fingers reaching for the stars. He moved through it like a ghost, silent and focused, heading straight toward the heart of the butchery. Toward the plaza.
That's where he saw him.
A man in a gold-threaded jacket, sipping something purple from a glass. Surrounded by bodyguards, laughing as women screamed nearby. One of the wealthiest human nobles—obnoxious, loud, and untouchable. He bragged louder than the sirens that wailed in the distance.
Seko didn't hesitate. He didn't announce. He didn't ask.
He appeared behind the man mid-laugh.
And then—
Crack.
The sound of vertebrae separating echoed through the air like a whip. Blood sprayed across the marble floor like an abstract painting. The man's guards didn't even have time to react. The noble's head rolled across the polished stone, his eyes still wide with disbelief.
Seko held the severed head by the hair.
There was a pause—a heartbeat of silence in the chaos. Then came the act no one, not even the most depraved rich, expected to witness.
Seko tilted the head. And he drank.
The blood of the elite—of greed, vanity, cruelty—ran down his throat. It scorched, even to him. Rich blood was laced with drugs, luxury toxins, genetic enhancements. But Seko didn't flinch.
His body rejected it violently at first. His hands trembled. His eyes glowed faintly with a red beyond natural. The ground cracked where he stood, small shockwaves pulsing from his feet. Civilians—rich and poor alike—froze.
The air shifted.
They realized: this wasn't rebellion.
This was retribution.
And he hadn't even begun.
Amid the stillness and horror, laughter had died.
Crimson splattered across gold floors. The wealthy onlookers stepped back, no longer entertained—just silent, mouths slightly open, unable to comprehend that someone actually did what they'd always joked about in fear-drenched whispers.
And above it all, Izanami simply sighed. Not shocked. Not frightened. Just… inconvenienced.
Her heels clicked against the stone as she stepped forward, brushing away a fleck of blood from her ornate sleeve. Her expression didn't change, lips still pressed into that polite, rehearsed smirk.
"This is getting boring," she said, turning slightly to the side. "Blue."
The name was barely a whisper, but the effect was instant.
From behind her, stepping out from nothingness like mist given shape, came a figure. He wasn't loud, nor did he make a show of presence. He simply was. Blue hair tied loosely behind him, eyes the pale color of moonlight on metal, and a long blade sheathed at his side that whispered with restrained violence.
The world felt colder as he approached.
Seko stood his ground, blood still wet on his lips. The pulse of the noble's last breath still throbbed beneath his skin. His power hadn't settled—his body was straining to keep it from overflowing, yet his expression remained unreadable. Hollow, perhaps. Maybe even… ready for death.
Blue moved like liquid precision. And in one smooth step, the tip of his blade was already at Seko's neck. It hadn't even made a sound.
No words were exchanged.
But before the blade could taste his skin, Seko raised his hands—not in fear, not in regret.
In surrender.
A slow, deliberate motion.
Around them, the soldiers of the Coalition waited for the order. But none came. Izanami watched closely, her head slightly tilted, as if trying to decipher a puzzle she wasn't sure she cared enough to solve.
Blue didn't push forward. His blade hovered. His eyes locked with Seko's, unreadable and still.
And then, silence again.
Seko had made his move.
Now, the world would answer.
Amidst the rising chaos, as the blood still dripped down Seko's arm, staining the ground beneath him in a slow rhythm, a subtle smirk stretched across Atama's face. Not surprised. Not moved. Just confirming what he already knew would happen.
He leaned lazily against a column, fingers curled around a half-eaten snack, eyes gleaming with the kind of satisfaction only a man who walks ahead of fate itself can afford. "Mm," he hummed to himself, as if checking off another item from a list no one else could read.
Kiyomi, on the other hand, froze mid-step. Her usual calm shattered, a flash of real concern sparking behind her eyes. She understood exactly what Seko had just done—not just in action, but in consequence. The political weight. The inevitable fallout. The impossible choice he made so effortlessly. Her hand gripped her weapon, not out of threat... but fear. Not for herself—but for him.
The kid remained still, his small body framed by the flickering firelight of the destruction around them. He didn't blink. Didn't look away. Just stared with wide eyes—not of fear or shock, but of something deeper.
Respect.
And then came the others.
From the alleys, from behind broken carts and shattered stone, they emerged. The poor. The dirty. The bloodied. The forgotten.
They stared at Seko as if they'd never seen a man before. His figure silhouetted in red. The severed head of the rich tyrant resting against his leg like a broken crown. His hands still raised in surrender—because this wasn't a moment of victory.
It was sacrifice.
But in their eyes… something shifted.
Awe.
Confusion.
Respect.
Relief.
And… Hope.
For the first time, in what felt like a lifetime... the hunted had a symbol. Not of mercy, not of peace. But of defiance. Of strength. Of fire.
And somewhere in that crowd, a mother whispered to her crying son, "He's one of us…"
And the boy—silent until now—gripped her sleeve and asked, "Then why is he the only one standing?"