Somewhere deep in the heart of Africa, where the land rolled into endless savannah and the air shimmered with dry heat, a shrine lay hidden among weather-worn boulders. Inside, the air was thick — not with dust alone, but with time itself.

The chamber was dim, lit only by thin shafts of sunlight filtering through high, narrow windows. They landed upon a sacred rack that had stood in the same place for centuries. Resting upon it were seven ancient swords — each a relic from a forgotten age, their stories etched into metal now dulled with time. Their once-proud blades lay smothered in a blanket of dust.

No one dared touch them.

Not since the elders had declared that these were weapons that chose their masters. Until then, they were nothing but silent watchers, sleeping through generations.

Until today.

A tremor, faint at first, rippled through the chamber. Incense smoke curled strangely in the air. The shrine’s priests froze, turning toward the rack.

One sword stirred.

Its hilt twitched as if breathing, and then the entire blade began to hum — a deep, resonant tone that vibrated through the stones beneath their feet. A glow crept along the metal, slow as sunrise, until the sword erupted in a deep, unnatural blue light that pushed back every shadow. Dust lifted from its surface in a lazy spiral.

Gasps filled the shrine.

The blade rose from its resting place, suspended in midair. It rotated slowly, deliberately, as though considering something unseen. The air thickened; the priests felt their lungs tighten.

Then, without warning, the blade snapped toward the east. It hung there for a heartbeat. And then —

A streak of light. A burst of wind. The sword shot from the shrine like a thunderbolt, vanishing into the distance.

The room fell silent.

One priest’s voice trembled as he whispered, “It has chosen.”

Morning spilled over Tokyo, painting the city in gold. The rhythm of life was relentless — businessmen in crisp black suits rushing toward the station, schoolchildren in neat uniforms darting between crossings, the staccato honk of impatient drivers. Metal shutters clattered open as shopkeepers began their day.

But not all was normal.

On one particular street, police tape snapped in the wind. Residents were being herded away from the block, some muttering under their breath, others peering curiously over their shoulders.

“Rev camp,” a middle-aged woman whispered to another.

“You mean another Experiment 2.0?” her friend replied.

The words hung in the air, uncomfortably loud despite being spoken in hushed tones.

Renji Takashiro, twenty years old, recent graduate, stared at the ceiling of his cramped apartment with an expression that could only be described as existential dread.

“Uurgh…”

The sunlight knifed through the blinds, stabbing him directly in the eyes. He rolled to the side and sat up slowly, rubbing his face like a man twice his age.

Is it going to be bad as usual? I’m already tired.

His college counselor’s words replayed in his head: Life after graduation — that’s when the real struggle begins.

“She was mad,” he mumbled to himself, “but she was right. If it was back then, Mama would’ve sent me money for upkeep.”

A sigh. “I miss my old life.”

For a long, luxurious second, he lay back down, wrapping himself in his anime-themed bedsheet. But reality — persistent and merciless — tapped him on the shoulder.

Bills.

“For the bills,” he told himself, dragging his unwilling body out of bed.

His slippers slapped against the messy floor — ramen cups stacked like miniature towers, laundry colonizing every available surface.

Then he froze.

The toothpaste was finished.

Renji stared at it as if confronted by a cosmic horror. “It’s either toothpaste or today’s food,” he muttered darkly.

He grabbed a knife, slit the tube open, and peered inside. Almost nothing. He closed his eyes and chanted, “It’s what you believe you will see…”

Opening them again, he nodded sagely. “Knew it.” He scraped out the last microscopic portion, setting some aside for tomorrow.

Towel in hand, Renji shuffled to the bathroom. Sponge ready. Soap… not ready. A tiny, brittle sliver sat in the holder, mocking him.

No one’s gonna know, he thought.

But a cruel reminder hit him: he hadn’t bathed last night either. His neighbor had caught him smelling twice already. One more and the legend would spread.

His eyes landed on the corner. Kaira detergent. “So effective, you could even bathe with it.”

A pause.

“Nobody’s gonna know.”

Ten minutes later, he emerged smelling faintly of lemon-scented laundry powder.

He pulled on his only suit — slightly too tight, worn at the elbows — and his stomach growled like an angry beast.

“How did I forget the most important thing about human life?”

He raided every cupboard. Empty. Pots? Empty.

The fridge was a wasteland. He opened the freezer; mist swirled around his face, and for a blissful second, he imagined heaps of food inside. Then the mist cleared. Empty.

He hadn’t gone shopping in four months.

“I’m just broke…” he whispered, and the universe agreed in silence.

Then — hope. A ramen packet. “Finally!” He ripped it open. Empty.

“Nooooo!”

He searched harder. Empty cups. Broken dreams.

Then — salvation rolled out from behind a pot: an extra-large ramen, sealed and heavy.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I won’t fall for that twice. Nice try, universe.”

It was real.

Minutes later, he sat on the couch with a steaming bowl. “Thank you for this food,” he muttered before devouring it.

The TV flickered. “The public is advised to stay indoors after dark. Revenant activity is on the rise. The Blackout Division urges citizens to join the fight.”

Renji snorted. “That’s their problem. They created them — they can fix it.”

His gaze shifted to the pile of unpaid bills: electricity, water, tax. Not that it worried him — he’d already tapped into his neighbor’s power.

Then his phone buzzed. Landlord.

Twenty-nine unread messages: “It’s due.” “Pay up.” “Thinking of renovating — what’s up?”

The latest: It’s been two weeks. Stop avoiding me.

Renji scrolled through his arsenal of excuses.

Sick? Used that last month.

Uncle passed away? Used that two months ago.

Decision made: total avoidance.

He stepped outside. His thirty-year-old neighbor was holding a yellow flyer: “Protecting Lives — Call Us.”

“The landlord’s looking for you,” the man said.

“I’ve been around,” Renji replied, eyes narrowing at the flyer. “Where’d you get that?”

“The heroes were handing them out.”

“They’re not heroes. Just pawns. The government’s lying to us.”

Renji drifted through the streets, scanning every bulletin board and shop window. Nothing.

He passed the memorial for the Chiba disaster. The air here felt heavier, his steps slower.

Then — a wall painted with fresh graffiti.

Flashback:

Fifteen-year-old Renji and Ryoma slipped away from class. Ryoma sprayed the word Redemption.

“Why just that?” Renji asked.

“It’s a mistake I made,” Ryoma said quietly.

Renji painted a broken watch beside it.

“Why a broken watch?” Ryoma asked.

“It was the watch my dad wore when the government ‘accidentally’ killed a million people fifty years ago. Bullshit accident.”

Back in the present, Renji’s job hunt ended abruptly when the sky… broke.

A swirling black portal ripped open above the district. The air pressure shifted; sounds seemed muted. A child’s voice broke the silence:

“Mummy… is the sky broken?”

Then — the scream: “It’s a Rev attack!”

Phones scrambled for signal. None came.

From the portal descended a Revenant — a monstrous black silhouette with ember eyes that burned like hellfire.

Panic exploded. People ran.

Parents grabbed their children and bolted, feet pounding the pavement in a blur.

Renji froze.

And then he saw it — an ancient sword leaning against a wall, its blade shimmering with a faint blue aura.

The Revenant advanced. The sword’s shadow stretched toward him unnaturally, like a living thing.

He glanced from the monster to the blade, unsure what to do.

The Rev monster came closer.

Fear gripped Renji’s entire body. His spine shivered at what could happen.

The monster loomed close. Renji turned back to the sword, his face full of desperation…