The grey sky wept a persistent drizzle—cold, sharp, and indifferent.
In a makeshift evacuation camp thrown together on the outskirts of the city, the air was thick with the stench of death. Even the stinging tang of antiseptics failed to mask the copper odor of blood rising from crimson-soaked bandages. Dilapidated medical tents were scattered everywhere, housing the critically wounded who lay groaning on mud-stained stretchers. Not a single soul here was whole. Those lucky enough to survive moved like ghosts, their eyes hollow, vacant, and drowning in despair.
Arata, draped in a tattered grey blanket, navigated through the rows of tents. He walked with a heavy limp, dragging one leg with labored effort. But the truth was hidden beneath his waterlogged trousers: the legs once severed by the explosion now moved with unnatural strength. Every muscle fiber was impossibly firm, pulsing with a terrifying vigor. Arata was forced to fake his disability, concealing his grotesque recovery and the second heartbeat thumping wildly in his chest to avoid being branded a monster among men.
As he turned a dark corner of a tent, Arata's charade came to a sudden halt.
Beside a rusted iron military crate, a young boy around eight years old sat huddled with his knees pulled to his chest. His tiny face was a mess of mud and dried brown blood. The boy's head was buried in his knees, his scrawny shoulders heaving with every sob. His muffled cries pierced through the sound of the rain, a sound so heartbreaking it felt like a physical weight.
Arata approached slowly. He knelt beside the boy, pulling his blanket higher to shield the child from the lashing rain.
"Hey, kid..." Arata's voice was hoarse, his throat still burning. "Where is your family?"
The boy looked up. His eyes, swollen and bloodshot, met Arata's. His voice trembled, shattering in the wind:
"They're dead... all of them... those monsters... they crushed my home. My parents... they couldn't run fast enough..."
He squeezed his eyes shut, sobbing uncontrollably again. His small hands gripped each other so tightly that his fingernails dug into his skin, drawing blood, yet he seemed not to feel it. The sight was a jagged blade to Arata's mind. The horrific memories of his own severed limbs, the wet sound of crunching bones, and the pitch-black sludge sliding down his throat resurfaced with a vengeance.
But this time, fear was gone. In its place, a furnace of pure, unadulterated rage began to burn in the depths of the sixteen-year-old's eyes.
Arata knelt fully into the mud. He reached out, clenching his hand into a steady fist, and held it out before the boy.
"Stop crying," Arata's voice became unnaturally cold and sharp. "Tears won't kill them. Let's make a promise... One day, you and I will hunt them down—every last one of those monsters that took your family. No matter the cost."
The boy sniffled, his tear-filled eyes widening as he stared at the stranger's resolute fist. He bit his bloodied lip, lifting his small, trembling arm. His tiny hand balled into a fist and timidly bumped Arata's. A blood oath sealed in the freezing rain.
"Okay..." The boy wiped his tears, a sudden spark of defiance flickering in his gaze. "I'm Kaito. I promise. I'll kill them all."
A pact of blood and tears was forged amidst the ashes of destruction.
Meanwhile, not far away, inside the campaign's command tent, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
On the digital tactical map, radar screens flashed a violent crimson. Dozens of massive red dots were surging toward the evacuation zone. The commanding general stood frozen before the console, cold sweat drenching his uniform. His trembling hands slammed onto the table.
He grabbed the radio, his neck veins bulging as he roared with a mixture of resolve and sheer terror:
"The defense plan has failed completely! Those Kelyte-armored freaks are too strong! Direct orders from the Ministry of Defense: Activate Plan Zero. Evacuate all remaining personnel and civilians immediately!"
The other end of the line went dead for a second before the general screamed again:
"We only have three hours before the atomic bomb is dropped on Kurogawa. I repeat, ONLY THREE HOURS!"
The death sentence had been passed. Suddenly, sirens blared—a screeching, cacophonous sound that tore through the eardrums of every living thing in the camp. Red rotating lights on the watchtowers began to flash frantically, painting the rain in the brilliant, garish hues of blood and fire.
The loudspeakers crackled, their distorted voices drowning out the downpour:
"ALL PERSONNEL TO THE EVACUATION VEHICLES! IMMEDIATELY! LEAVE ALL BELONGINGS BEHIND! WE ARE PULLING OUT NOW!"
The camp erupted into absolute chaos. The wounded tried to crawl. Soldiers screamed, ruthlessly shoving civilians into the heavy military trucks that were already idling and roaring.
Amidst the mob of people trampling one another for a chance at survival, Arata braced himself, gripping Kaito's hand tightly. He used his scrawny frame as a shield, pushing through the crowd and hauling the boy onto the bed of the final truck just as the ramp retracted.
The convoy thundered forward. Tires ground into the mud, speeding down the highway like hunted animals. Behind them, the once-magnificent city of Kurogawa was nothing more than a towering inferno.
In the cramped, jolting truck bed, Arata huddled in a corner, wrapping his arms around Kaito, who had his eyes squeezed shut in terror.
And then, the moment arrived.
On the horizon of Kurogawa, the grey sky suddenly ignited. A blinding white light, more primal and cruel than the sun, bloomed in the heavens. The retinas of the unlucky few who looked directly at it were instantly scorched.
A massive mushroom cloud, burning with the fires of hell, billowed upward, swallowing the stratosphere. The horrific shockwave followed, slicing across the earth like a god's blade, leveling every ruin of the city, blowing away the black clouds, and rattling the chests of the survivors in the truck.
Kurogawa had been erased from the map of the world.
It was not just the dying roar of a city, but the death knell of the old world. The darkest age of humanity—the Guardian Era—had officially begun.