The man’s expression softened briefly, though his gaze remained intense, a quiet strength in his bearing. “How long until he’s ready for release?”
“Week’s, maybe more,” the doctor replied. “We’ll monitor him closely, but his body is responding well.” the man nodded, his face resolute.
Inside his room, Arata lay in silence, his gaze unfocused, the memory of Sakura’s face lingering in the forefront of his mind. The ache in his heart was heavy and unyielding, each beat a reminder of what he had lost.
The man stood outside Arata’s room; his face set with quiet resolve. The recent conversation with the doctor had been sobering; he had seen this kind of pain before. Though he knew words alone couldn’t heal such wounds, he hoped his presence might offer some direction. After a soft knock, he turned the handle and stepped into the dimly lit room.
Arata lay in bed, pale and hollow-eyed, a ghost of the vibrant young man he once had been. His unfocused gaze slowly shifted toward the tall figure in the doorway. For a long moment, they simply glanced at each other, the silence heavy with shared loss.
The man cleared his throat gently and took a step forward. “Arata,” he began, his voice low yet steady, “my name is Hataro. We met once, when you first arrived in Japan.” His expression held firm, though a note of gentleness softened his gaze, offering a quiet assurance.
Recognition flickered in Arata’s eyes, a faint memory surfacing through the haze of grief. But the memory quickly gave way to a sharper, more immediate question. “Where… where is Sakura?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “They… they were putting her in a bag, but…” His voice trailed off as if unable to complete the thought, a glimmer of hope still clinging to the possibility that what he’d seen wasn’t true. Deep down, though, he knew.
Hataro’s face softened, and he nodded, taking a seat beside the bed. His voice was calm, steady, almost a balm to the aching chaos inside Arata. “I’m sorry, Arata,” he said softly. “She’s gone.” The words were simple, but they cut deep, each syllable settling heavily on Arata’s heart.
Arata stared at Hataro, the room closing in as reality crashed down around him. A hollow pain opened in his chest, a void that seemed endless. He shook his head slightly, his lips parting as if to protest, but no words came. He felt as if he were drowning, his world collapsing in on itself.
“I know this pain,” Hataro continued gently. “Losing someone you care about like this—it can feel unbearable. But you have a choice. If you want to channel this pain, if you want justice… or revenge,” he added, his voice taking on a firmer edge, “then join us. Join the Korrese. Become strong enough to make those who caused this pay.”
Arata’s gaze slowly shifted, meeting Hataro’s eyes. A flicker of something—anger, purpose, perhaps even a faint hope—began to kindle in his expression. Hataro reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmarked card, pressing it into Arata’s hand.
“When you’ve healed,” Hataro continued, “come to this location.” He gestured to the card. “We can help you find a way forward. But remember, this path won’t be easy.” He stood, giving Arata one last steady look.
Arata glanced down at the card, his fingers trembling as he held it. The address printed on it was simple, nothing more than coordinates and a name he didn’t recognize. But the weight of Hataro’s words settled over him, infusing him with something he hadn’t felt since the explosion—purpose. Even through the fog of his grief, a spark of determination took hold, a reason to keep going, if only to make Sakura’s death mean something.
Hataro turned and moved toward the door, leaving Arata in the quiet, his mind a mixture of raw pain and newfound resolve. As he exited into the hallway, his gaze met that of an elderly woman, her elegant yet frail figure flanked by two tall men in black suits. The guards stood with silent strength, their eyes forward, though a flicker of recognition passed between the woman and Hataro.
The old woman’s gaze lingered on him, a quiet gratitude flashing across her weathered features, and in Hataro’s eyes, a shadow of sadness surfaced, the faint trace of a shared, unspoken history.
With a respectful nod, he continued down the hallway, leaving the woman and her guards in silence. Behind him, Arata held the card tightly, his grief entwining with the possibility of vengeance, his mind fixed on the path that lay ahead.
The old lady watched as Hataro disappeared down the hallway, her gaze sharp with a quiet resolve. After a moment, she turned and walked slowly in the direction of Hataro’s room, her steps light but purposeful. Her guards trailed behind her with silent efficiency, their dark suits blending into the shadows of the hospital corridor.
Reaching Hataro’s door, she paused, glancing over her shoulder at the two imposing figures who flanked her. “Wait here,” she instructed softly. Her voice, though gentle, held a firmness that left no room for question.
With a respectful nod, the guards stepped back, positioning themselves on either side of the door. The old lady’s hand rested briefly on the door handle before she pushed it open, slipping inside as the door clicked shut behind her.

As Michiko entered the room, her gaze immediately found Arata’s, and in that instant, a wave of raw, uncontainable grief washed over him. Arata’s face twisted with anguish, and a heart-wrenching cry escaped him, filling the room with a palpable sorrow. The sound echoed through the quiet hospital hallway, a piercing reminder of the depth of his loss.
Michiko, Sakura’s grandmother—the woman Sakura had tenderly said goodbye to on that fateful morning—walked slowly toward him. Her steps were measured, and her face was etched with an age-old grief that mirrored his own. Reaching Arata, she wrapped her arms around him, her embrace firm yet gentle, as if trying to hold together the broken pieces of his soul.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” Arata’s voice was a choked whisper, but it carried the weight of his guilt and sorrow, each word tumbling out in a cascade of remorse. His pain seemed to grow louder, filling the room, reverberating through the walls and even spilling out into the hallway where the guards, usually unflinching, cast somber glances toward the closed door.
Michiko, Sakura’s grandmother, walked slowly toward Arata. Her steps were measured, her face etched with grief that mirrored his own. Reaching him, she wrapped her arms around him, her embrace firm yet tender, as if holding together the shattered pieces of his heart. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” Arata sobbed into her shoulder, his words heavy with guilt. Michiko’s tears glistened in the dim light, her quiet presence embodying the memory of Sakura.
With her voice barely above a whisper, she spoke through the tremor in her chest, “Oh, Arata…” The warmth in her tone was filled with understanding, the acceptance that both their hearts had been irreversibly shattered. She didn’t need to say more; her presence alone held the memories of Sakura, and in that moment, they mourned her together, a shared, unspoken bond forming between them amidst their profound loss.


The grand chamber exuded a sombre majesty, its high gothic arches and brutalist stone walls casting long shadows across the room. The architecture felt timeless yet imposing, the perfect setting for the weighty deliberations of the Council. Seven figures sat around a polished round table; their faces obscured in shadow, but their grave expressions reflected in the gleaming surface. The air was heavy with tension.
“How could this happen?” one man roared; his voice raw with anger. He slammed his fist on the table, the sharp crack reverberating through the vaulted room. “Six thousand years of protection—broken! Over one thousand six hundred lives lost! How does a Kaiju breach the anti-Ochi field? This isn’t chance; this is betrayal!”
His words cut through the uneasy silence like a blade. Across the table, another figure, her posture rigid, spoke with measured calm. “Betrayal is not a claim to be made lightly,” she said, her voice icy. “But let us consider the magnitude of what has happened. The pylons are no simple structures. Each one is constructed over decades by the Forgers, their sequence known only to one person in any generation.”
The tension in the room thickened as her words sank in. Another Council member, a lean man with a calculating demeanour, tapped his fingers against the table. “Precisely,” he murmured. “Forgers live in isolation to protect their work. And yet, every pylon within a 60-kilometer radius was destroyed in the exact sequence required to disable the field. Coincidence? I think not.”
The first man, his face flushed with fury, snapped back. “And what would you have us do? Blame the Forgers themselves? Point fingers at our own?”
The lean man didn’t flinch. “I am merely stating the facts. Without destroying the pylons in their precise order of construction, the anti-Ochi field should have held. That means someone had knowledge—knowledge they shouldn’t have.”
A hushed murmur rippled through the room. The accusation, unspoken but clear, left an ominous silence in its wake.
“And if the deaths weren’t catastrophic enough,” the first man continued, his voice dropping to a bitter growl, “Japan’s next high priestess is among them. The last descendant of the ancient line, gone.”
A collective intake of breath swept the table. The loss was more than a tragedy—it was an incalculable blow to the world’s spiritual balance.
From the shadows, a figure finally broke the silence. “The Kaiju is dead,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate. “The real question is: who killed it?”
The grizzled man straightened; his anger momentarily quelled. “Who else? Rank 1 of the Korrese. Thank Haru that Hataro was there. Without him, the devastation would have been total.”
The calm speaker tilted his head slightly, his tone now edged with scepticism. “How fortunate, then, that Rank 1 was already in Tokyo. So perfectly timed. Almost as if…”
“Watch your tone!” the grizzled man thundered, his fist hitting the table again. “Hataro has earned his rank and his place. Show some respect.”
“Enough.” The word was spoken softly, but its effect was immediate. All eyes turned to the head of the table, where the Council leader sat in a chair more ornate than the others. His expression was unreadable, his steepled fingers casting a long shadow on the polished surface before him.
“We are here to uncover the truth, not to make baseless accusations,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. “Prepare the reports. Summon the Forgers. And ensure that every angle of this disaster is thoroughly investigated.”
From the shadows behind him, his assistant stepped forward, a composed figure holding a stack of papers. He began to speak, his tone steady and professional. “At 12:56 PM, a Category 4 Kaiju breached Tokyo’s anti-Ochi field. The mechanism of the breach is currently unknown, but the Kaiju’s initial attack levelled much of the central Hajima district. This resulted in the confirmed loss of 1,678 lives, including Japan’s future high priestess, Sakura Raito.”
The room fell into a heavy silence.
“The attack lasted approximately seven minutes. Hataro, rank 1 of the Korrese, engaged the Kaiju within four minutes of the breach and neutralized the threat.”
The Council murmured amongst themselves, some in grim approval, others with unease. The assistant raised his voice slightly to continue. “Forensic analysis has confirmed that all pylons within a 60-kilometer radius were destroyed in sequence over the course of five hours prior to the breach. The precision of the attack indicates knowledge of the pylons’ construction order.”
A wiry man, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, his hawkish gaze piercing. “You’re suggesting insider knowledge. Are you saying the Forgers are involved?”
The assistant hesitated, then shook his head. “We are not drawing conclusions yet. But it is clear that whoever orchestrated this had access to information that is supposed to be impossible to obtain.”
The Council leader stood, his presence commanding absolute attention. “This meeting is adjourned. Investigate every lead. The truth will not remain hidden for long.”
As the Council rose, their faces still shadowed by doubt, the weight of the tragedy hung heavy in the room. Outside, the first rays of dawn broke through the clouds, casting faint light on a world forever changed.