Incoming.
The first thing that broke the silence wasn't a scream, nor a tremor from the rift. It was a sound older than thunder — a name pronounced by a god who refused to die.
Dagon whispered.
And the world listened.
The name crawled through the blackened veins of the ruined earth, across ash plains and cities half-swallowed by moss that pulsed like organs. It sank into water that no longer reflected light, and echoed through bone-filled tunnels under Osaka. Even the wind recoiled.
The Aggressors near the temple froze mid-march. The devout fell to their knees. The zealots who had begun to worship Shitsubo stirred from their prayer and felt something colder, heavier, as if their devotion had summoned the wrong thing.
