Ren stopped walking.
It wasn't sudden—no sharp instinct, no dramatic surge of power. Just a small, uncomfortable pause in his step, like his body had moved a fraction of a second before his mind.
"…That's weird," he muttered.
The alley behind the abandoned station was empty, the night calm in a way that felt rehearsed. Neon signs buzzed lazily in the distance. Somewhere, a train horn echoed and faded.
Ren pressed a hand to his chest.
There it was again.
Not pain.
Not fear.
A pull.
Like something had tugged on a thread tied deep inside him and then let go.
He exhaled slowly and leaned against the wall, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. Clouds drifted lazily across the moon, but for just a moment—just a blink—he thought he saw the shadow of something massive slide behind them.
Gone as soon as he noticed it.
"Tch… I'm losing it," he said, forcing a crooked smile.
But his hand stayed clenched.
Ren had felt strange things before. Whispers in dreams. That heavy silence before disaster. The kind of quiet that came after a scream rather than before one.
This was different.
This felt like recognition.
Somewhere far away—farther than distance should allow—something had moved.
And whatever it was…
…had noticed someone else first.
Ren's smile faded.
His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to Tobi.
He hadn't seen him since the chaos. Hadn't heard anything concrete. Just rumors, broken reports, half-truths passed between survivors who refused to meet each other's eyes.
Still alive, they said. Probably.
Ren pushed off the wall and started walking again, slower this time.
"With your luck," he murmured, "you're right in the middle of it, aren't you?"
The streetlight ahead flickered.
Ren stopped again.
This time, the feeling hit harder.
Not pressure.
Weight.
His breath caught as something cold brushed the edge of his awareness—like a presence turning its head in his direction and deciding not to look any closer.
A warning.
Or mercy.
Ren swallowed.
"…So that's how it's gonna be," he said quietly.
For the first time in a long while, his instincts didn't tell him to run.
They told him to prepare.
He tightened the strap on his glove, eyes hardening just a little, the faintest spark of something dangerous stirring behind them.
"Guess I don't get to stay normal," he said, half to himself.
The streetlight steadied.
The night resumed its ordinary sounds.
But Ren kept walking with purpose now—
toward answers he didn't yet understand,
toward a past that was beginning to stir,
toward a future that had just shifted course.
And far away, unseen by either of them—
Two shadows moved again.
The city hummed below him, unaware of the weight pressing down from above. Streets curved like veins, carrying the rhythms of life: the footsteps of workers, the laughter of children, the faint echo of music from a distant festival. Everything felt normal. But Ren knew better. Something had shifted. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Yet even the air seemed hesitant, as if it were holding its breath.
Ren's feet carried him slowly along the cracked stone path. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. It was heavy—heavier than it had any right to be—and yet familiar, like a limb he had never grown into but had always known existed. The weight tugged at his spine, pulling him toward a place he did not consciously choose.
A shrine appeared ahead, half-buried in ivy and shadow. Its wood had grayed, its doors hung unevenly on rusted hinges. The air smelled faintly of earth and smoke, a lingering scent that made Ren's chest tighten.
He stepped closer. And that's when he felt it.
A vibration along the blade, subtle at first, like a heartbeat echoing through steel. The sword hummed against his palm, a resonance he could feel in his bones. He hadn't moved it. The sword had. It was guiding him, pulling him toward the shrine without asking.
Ren swallowed. "What… are you trying to show me?"
No answer came. Only the weight of something unseen pressing against his senses. He noticed, then, that the shadows along the shrine walls did not move in sync with the sunlight. They twisted slightly, lagging behind. Distorted. Wrong. And yet… familiar.
A sound whispered in the silence. Not a voice. Not a footstep. Just a pressure, like the air itself had grown denser. Ren's fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles whitening.
I am not alone.
He stepped into the shrine courtyard. The ground beneath him was cracked, scars of battles long forgotten cutting through moss and stone. The sword trembled faintly, almost impatiently, as if recognizing a memory buried in the earth itself. Ren knelt briefly, pressing a hand against the cracked stone. Symbols etched into the surface—a circle of ancient runes and faded kanji—glowed faintly where the sunlight struck, almost invisible unless he looked closely.
Ren's heart began to pound. The symbols… they remembered. His chest tightened with an awareness he could not explain: the sword, the shrine, the echoes of lives he had never lived.
"Why… am I feeling this?" he murmured.
A shadow flickered in the corner of his vision. He turned sharply, but nothing was there. Only the distorted reflection of himself in a shard of broken tile, his figure bending unnaturally, shifting as though reality itself struggled to hold him.
The pressure increased. The sword in his hand responded, weight settling differently, balanced yet demanding. It remembered battles, victories, and pain he had never experienced. It remembered more than he did.
Ren closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the wind carry away the noise of the world. And then he heard it—not with his ears, but with his mind.
A whisper of inevitability.
You are not the last… You are the next.
Cold certainty slithered down his spine. The enemy had not tried to kill him. Had never tried. Every threat, every shadow, every fragment of danger that had brushed against his life—they were not meant to end him. They were meant to awaken him.
Ren's hand lifted to the sword, feeling the fine vibration of memory coursing through it. He had a fleeting image: a battlefield long forgotten, flames curling around fallen warriors, a figure standing above them, cloaked in darkness, watching him awaken for the first time. It was familiar. And yet, he had never been there.
Fear coiled in his chest. A fear heavier than any physical pain he had ever known. Not of death. Not of loss. But of destiny. The weight of inevitability. The fear that his choices, his thoughts, even his very self, might not truly belong to him.
If this path is laid before me… if everything I am has already been written… then what is left for me to choose?
Ren's eyes opened slowly. The sword pulsed lightly, as if aware of his thoughts, reassuring him without a word. The echoes of the past, the weight of the blade, the twisted shadows—they did not demand obedience. They demanded recognition.
A step echoed in the courtyard. Ren stiffened, muscles tensing. But it was not a threat. Not yet.
The space near the broken torii gate shimmered slightly, like heat over asphalt, and Ren felt the presence of something waiting. The Shadow Character—they were not here. Not physically. But every movement, every echo, every flicker of light carried the unmistakable signature of someone who observed without touching, tested without speaking.
Ren swallowed hard. "I understand," he whispered.
The weight in his chest did not leave. It did not ease. But he accepted it.
The sword throbbed in his hand once, and he felt its memory intertwine with his own. A flicker of motion: the blade adjusted itself in his grip, balanced perfectly, waiting.
The sun sank lower behind the mountains, casting long, distorted shadows across the shrine. Ren turned toward the horizon, the wind tugging at his hair and robes. For a moment, the world was quiet. A silence that pressed against every nerve.
Then a single thought settled in his mind:
The enemy is not here to kill me.
They are here to awaken me.
Ren exhaled slowly. A faint smile touched his lips—not of joy, not of arrogance, but of understanding. The road ahead was unknown. Terrifying. Heavy. And yet… it was his.
The echoes would not fade.
And neither would he.