A whole night had passed since the explosion the Hanging Islands had witnessed, and the next day's sun had already risen.
That area was in a pitiful state, the magma had frozen into a huge mirror of black glass, while part of the forest had turned into a vast black stain, and at its edges fires burned, spreading into the parts the explosion hadn't reached... but the response teams soon put them out, afraid they'd destroy any evidence... even though it was obvious all the evidence had already been wiped away.
At the border of the black zone, where the waves crashed loudly against the stretch of obsidian, a man in his early thirties stood with his hands in the pockets of his dark pants, with a sculpted face and platinum hair carefully combed to the side, his dark eyes focused intently, trying to catch anything in the distance.
