The night was heavy with silence, but it was not the silence of peace—it was the suffocating stillness of anticipation. Shinomiya Reiji stood upon the shattered balcony of a ruined cathedral, his gaze fixed on the crimson horizon where the remnants of the Veil still shimmered like broken glass. The war had carved its scars into the world, but the true battle—the one that gnawed at the marrow of existence—had yet to begin.
Around him, the remnants of his companions prepared themselves in quiet determination. Some bandaged wounds that would never fully heal, others sharpened blades already dulled from endless clashes. Yet, beyond the fatigue and despair, there was something more haunting: the awareness that every breath taken from now on might be their last. The cathedral had once been a sanctuary, a place of faith. Now it was only a grave waiting to be filled.
Reiji tightened his grip on his blade, his knuckles white against the steel. His reflection in the weapon's edge looked less like a warrior and more like a shadow—eyes darkened with grief, expression hollowed by choices that had left blood and betrayal in their wake. He whispered quietly, not for his allies, but for himself:
"Every step forward… is another sacrifice I must accept."
The sound of footsteps echoed in the chamber. A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in black, carrying with them the aura of death itself. It was not an enemy, but one of the Veil's forsaken—an informant who had abandoned their own kind for reasons still unclear. Their voice was low, like a dirge:
"The Veil sings tonight. The choir of the lost has awakened. If you march forward, their song will consume you all."
Reiji did not flinch. His silence was heavier than any reply. He had long accepted that prophecy and warning were meaningless; fate had already carved his path. Yet his allies glanced at one another, uncertainty blooming like rot in their hearts. Doubt was a weapon sharper than any blade, and the enemy knew how to wield it well.
The night deepened, and with it, the whispers grew louder. Those who closed their eyes to rest heard voices calling them—voices of lovers, of children, of friends long dead. One soldier awoke screaming, his eyes bloodied as though gouged by invisible hands. Another began humming a melody no one else recognized, until his throat split from the strain and silence reclaimed him. The cathedral was no sanctuary—it was the first strike of the Silent Dirge.
Reiji remained unmoved, though inside, fragments of memory clawed at him. The melody found its way into his mind, weaving itself with faces he had buried deep within: his mother's fading smile, his father's disappointment, the hollow eyes of those who had fallen beside him. The Dirge was not merely a song. It was a weapon forged from grief.
He steadied his breath. If this song seeks to strip me of my will, then I will answer with silence stronger than their dirge.
As dawn threatened to break, the crimson horizon shattered with a thunderous sound. Figures cloaked in shadow descended, their movements inhuman, their faces covered by veils that rippled like liquid night. The choir had come—not as specters, but as soldiers. Their chant rose in unison, each note a blade that cut through the air. Walls trembled, the cathedral cracked, and men fell to their knees, clutching their heads as if their skulls were splitting apart.
But Reiji did not kneel. He stood tall, his blade raised, eyes burning with defiance. Around him, his remaining companions looked to him as though he were the last thread holding them to reality. He spoke at last, his voice cutting through the haunting melody like steel through flesh:
"If the world demands silence… then I will carve my own voice from its throat."
And with that, the battle began—not of steel alone, but of will against despair, of defiance against the Silent Dirge.