One week after the sky over Tokyo stopped bleeding, the air in the city finally tasted of something other than ozone and wet copper.
The JNN morning broadcast played on a loop in every convenience store and train station. The anchor looked like she hadn't slept in a month, her makeup thick over dark circles, but her smile was wide.
"Good morning, Japan. It is official. Tokyo and Kyoto are now, finally, at peace. Every Gate has been stabilized."
She leaned into the camera, her voice dropping into something less rehearsed. "It has been a full week. We still don't know who they are—the people who stood in the breach. But whoever you are... thank you."
Inside the Iron Fang Guild office in Tokyo, the silence was broken by the rhythmic crunch of potato chips. Kenta was sprawled in a leather chair, his feet up on a mahogany desk that cost more than his apartment.
"I knew it," Kenta mumbled through a mouthful of salt and starch. "I told you, Boss. Renji isn't the type to let the world end while he's still breathing."
Hiroshi didn't answer. He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the traffic below. He looked at his reflection in the glass—the face of a man who had built a guild on the backs of E-rankers and scrap-hunters.
"Renji Kurozawa," Hiroshi said. The name felt heavy in his mouth. "He walked into this office looking for a paycheck. Now he's a ghost story."
He turned, his eyes sharp, fixing on Kenta. Kenta stopped mid-chew, a chip frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Pack your bags," Hiroshi said. "We're going to Kyoto."
Kenta didn't ask why. He didn't ask about the guild's standing or the politics of a Tokyo guild crossing into Kyoto territory. He just swallowed, wiped his salt-stained hands on his jeans, and stood up.
"I'll get the car," Kenta said, his goofy grin returning. He didn't care about the 'Savior' or the 'King.' He just wanted to see if his friend still liked cheap snacks.
The Kurozawa residence in Kyoto smelled of grilled mackerel and old wood. It was a domestic soundscape—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant chirp of cicadas, and the rhythmic, heavy breathing of a man who had spent his soul to buy a week of silence.
Renji was out cold on the sofa. His hair was a mess, and his face was pale, the jagged scars of the Catacombs still angry and red against his skin.
Hikari tiptoed across the tatami mats, her movements exaggerated and jerky. Behind her, Shinjo followed, his expensive suit jacket tossed over a chair, his sleeves rolled up. He looked remarkably like Renji, though the edges of his face were softer, less carved by desperation.
Hikari reached the sofa. She held a glass of ice water with both hands, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. She tilted the glass.
The water fell.
It hit the upholstery with a dull splat.
Renji wasn't there. He was sitting in the armchair three feet away, his legs crossed, his eyes open and bored. He didn't look like he had just woken up; he looked like he had been waiting for them for an hour.
"The floor is damp now," Renji said. His voice was flat, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
"You're no fun," Hikari huffed, setting the glass on the table.
Shinjo leaned against the doorframe, laughing softly. "Give him a break, kid. His instincts are probably still wired to think a drop of water is a demon's spit."
Renji looked at Shinjo. It had been seven days, and the reality of the man still felt like a splinter in his mind.
A week ago, in the Hall of Essence, the air had been thick with the smell of scorched mana. Renji had stood over the ruins of a god, his hands shaking with a power that wanted to tear his veins open. Then, a man in a tailored suit had walked through the dust, crying like a child.
Renji had moved on instinct—a void-step that cracked the floor, followed by a kick that sent the intruder through a stone pillar.
"Wait! Brother, it's me!" the man had screamed, coughing up grey dust.
Renji had closed the distance in a heartbeat, his fist pulled back, glowing with the sick green light of the Abyss. "Give me one reason."
"Diana! Kaelith! Kerry!"
The names hit Renji harder than a physical blow. He froze, the energy in his hand hissing as it dissipated. "Who are you?"
The man stood up, shaking stone grit from his hair. "I'm Shinjo. Your brother."
Renji had stared at him, then at the dead air of the Hall. "I have a brother?"
"Our father... he told me to find you. He never stopped talking about Diana. He was a mess, Renji. A powerful, heroic mess."
The anger had bubbled up then, cold and sharp. "So he cheated. Left my mother, found someone else, and had you?"
Shinjo had just smiled. It was a sad, tired expression. "Exactly."
Renji had punched him. Right in the bridge of the nose.
"Ouch! That's... that's fair," Shinjo had groaned, clutching his face.
Renji hadn't forgiven him then. He hadn't even liked him. But he had pat the man on the shoulder, felt the resonance of the same Draconic blood humming in Shinjo's veins, and realized he was tired of being the only one left.
"A-Rank," Renji had muttered, looking at his brother. "Not bad. But hold onto my shirt, little brother. I'm the one doing the protecting now."
In the luminous, airless caverns of Aetheria, there was no grilled mackerel. There was only the sound of crystalline light fracturing.
Three Sages stood around a rift. They didn't look like men; they looked like statues carved from frozen lightning. They watched Renji on the sofa. They watched Hikari laugh.
"He hasn't fully integrated the soul," one Sage remarked. His voice didn't come from a throat; it was a vibration in the crystal. "The anchor is weak."
"We dismantle him," the second replied. "We strip the Mortal King. We take the Abyss. Then we deal with the Demon King."
They didn't reach for swords. They reached for the threads of the world. On a celestial calendar that didn't mark hours or days, they circled a single point in time. An execution date.
Renji knew.
He felt the prickle on his skin every time the sun set. He spent his nights on the roof of the house, staring at the moon until his eyes burned. He practiced the Voidmancer arts in the silence, feeling the way the shadows in the yard responded to his breath.
The power of the Abyss Lord was a heavy coat. It was warm, but it was suffocating.
He spent his days at the hospital. Kaelith was stable, his breathing assisted by machines but his heart steady. They sat by his bed—Renji, Shinjo, and Hikari. They played cards. They talked about nothing.
They tried to build a decade of memories in a few afternoons.
But the peace was a thin sheet of glass.
On the seventh night, the temperature dropped forty degrees in three seconds.
Renji stood on the roof, his breath hitching in his throat. He looked up. The sky wasn't black or blue. It was a bruised, sickly purple.
Deep in the void of space, beyond the reach of human voices, six massive shadows shifted. City-sized shards of rock, cold and ancient, turned their jagged faces toward Earth.
But it wasn't the rocks that mattered.
Spectral chains, thicker than skyscrapers and glowing with a dull, malevolent light, materialized in the orbital belt. They whipped through the vacuum, shattering satellites like glass beads.
In an instant, the world went dark.
In Tokyo, the neon signs flickered and died. In Kyoto, the streetlamps vanished. The internet, the cellular bars, the humming life of the 21st century—snuffed out.
Renji gripped the hilt of his sword. The weight of the Abyss flared in his chest, a cold sun to match the darkness above.
"They're here," he whispered.
He didn't look back at the house. He didn't need to. He could feel Hikari and Shinjo waking up in the dark, the fear a sharp scent in the air.
The wait was over. The King had arrived, but the Gods had come to collect the debt.