The train slowed to a shuddering halt as it entered Shinshigan. The city looked nothing like the vibrant images Jonathan remembered from the few pictures his family had sent. The entire skyline, once alive with the promise of commerce and light, now sank completely beneath a dull, heavy mist that hung over the rooftops like suffocating smoke. The tall buildings leaned at strange, unnatural angles, their structures seemingly warped by the crushing weight of the fog. Streetlights flickered weakly, their feeble glow bending and fracturing through the thick vapor as if the very air itself actively resisted the light.
He pressed his hand against the windowpane. The glass was cold, clammy with a film of dampness and settled dust. In that imperfect reflection, he saw his own wide, worried eyes, and beneath them, a faint golden shimmer that pulsed softly. It was a thin, steady light that beat in a perfect, quiet rhythm with his own frantic heartbeat.
He whispered, the sound barely audible against the train's hissing steam, "Thecla… can you hear me?"
The voice that answered wasn't exactly hers—not the sound he remembered, but something deeper. It was a whisper carried not by his ears, but by the very air that flowed into his lungs, a sound that felt both soft and intensely warm, filling the vast emptiness around him.
"You are close, Jonathan. Follow the light that guides you."
He clutched the folded, blank letter tight in his jacket pocket. His sister's name was etched onto the envelope in his own hurried handwriting, even though he knew she would never truly read it now. He hadn't consciously meant to bring it—it was just a reflex—yet something told him it was necessary.
He stepped off the train platform. His shoes splashed heavily against shallow puddles that shimmered with an unnatural, sickly sheen, reflecting the weak light like oil. The city was unnervingly quiet. Too quiet.
As he began to walk away from the station, the silence deepened, becoming heavy and aggressive. No footsteps echoed back his own. There were no voices, no distant traffic, not even the sound of running water. Stranger still, the rain seemed to actively avoid certain patches of the street, leaving bizarrely dry concrete in the distinct shape of long, crooked hands and claw marks.
Then he saw it—the huge, distant sign of the Shomon Hotel looming in the distance. But it wasn't solid. It wavered and distorted, like heat rising from asphalt, before it broke apart like smoke. He blinked hard, and the haunting image was gone.
His chest tightened painfully around the golden pulse. "What is happening here?" he muttered, the hair rising on the back of his neck.
A sudden, chilling breeze swept past him, carrying the distinct scent of ash and salt—the smell of decay mixed with something ancient and maritime. He turned a corner and watched in horror as the few potted plants lining the road seemed to wilt in seconds before his eyes. Their vibrant green leaves curled inward, instantly turning black, then crumbling into a fine, black dust at the base of the pot. The light from the nearest streetlamp flickered violently, then burst with a small, sharp pop, sending a spray of pathetic sparks across the wet ground.
He stumbled back a step. The golden pulse from his chest grew visibly stronger, pushing back the immediate darkness and the smell for a single, powerful heartbeat before fading back to a gentle warmth. In that brief moment of clarity, he could almost hear Thecla's own distinct voice—calm, filled with an overwhelming sense of peace.
"The light will purge anything that stains His sacred will."
Jonathan closed his eyes and inhaled the toxic air. "Then lead me," he whispered, his own voice now steady with a quiet faith. "Show me where to go."
Across the silent, dying city, Marcus and Elias were driving slowly through the same fog-covered streets. The intricate map Father Ilyas had given them was spread across Marcus's lap, the pale ink glowing faintly where the light from Marcus's pendant touched its surface. Lila sat quietly in the back seat, her hands resting by her side, staring out the window with an expression of deep unease.
"The closer we get to the old quarter," Elias said, his voice low and strained, "the colder it feels inside the car. The city isn't just dead—it feels like a tomb."
Marcus nodded, his eyes scanning the map. "It's not dying, Elias. It's being drained."
They turned onto an old, forgotten avenue. The road here was deeply cracked, filled with shallow pools of still water that reflected distorted shapes. For a second, Marcus saw faces in the water's surface: Griff's skeletal grin, the monstrous, formless shadow of the Host, and even his own face, all flickering in and out of place, too clear, too alive. The city was struggling to maintain its own reality.
Then Elias slammed on the brakes, tires screeching briefly on the wet pavement. "Someone's on the road," he hissed.
Marcus looked up through the damp windshield—and froze.
A young man stood dead center in the middle of the street, soaked from the steady rain, his face pale and exhausted but utterly determined. His eyes caught in the faint gleam of Marcus's pendant, reflecting the same soft light Thecla once carried — not his own, but something that recognized him. He held a folded letter in his hand, pressed tight against his chest.
Marcus opened his car door and stepped out slowly, the pendant at his neck pulsing harder, faster, as if it recognized something vital in the figure before them. The air around the newcomer trembled.
"Jonathan?" he called out, the name escaping before he realized it.
The young man turned, startled, his eyes wide with shock. "How do you know my name?"
Marcus took a few careful steps forward, holding up the glowing pendant so Jonathan could see the golden light. "Because your sister sent me," Marcus said softly, his voice full of sudden, painful understanding. "She's alive… in a way we need to understand."
Jonathan's face crumpled. His voice broke into a desperate whisper. "You've seen her? Thecla?"
"Yes," Marcus confirmed. "She's the reason any of us are still breathing. She gave us the light to follow."
Behind them, the very air rippled as if a massive hand had disturbed the mist. The fog instantly thickened, condensing into an opaque, churning wall that pulsed with shadow. From within it came a sound—faint, chilling whispers, quickly followed by slow, heavy, dragging footsteps. The Host was near. The ground under their feet suddenly quivered, and the car's alarm system gave a muffled, frightened chirp.
Lila got out of the car, ,joining Marcus's. "Marcus, we have to move. Now. That thing is tracking the light."
Jonathan stared at the twisting mist, then back at them, confused. "What's happening to this city? What is that?"
"It's being consumed by a spirit of decay and malice," Marcus answered, his attention fixed on the growing fog. "But we can still stop it—if we reach the heart of its power before the Host finishes its work."
Elias, without being told, jumped back into the driver's seat and started the engine. "Then get in! Before that thing decides to swallow us all whole!"
Jonathan hesitated for only a second, his faith overcoming his fear, before running toward them. As he reached Marcus, the pendant at Marcus's neck and the golden shimmer in Jonathan's chest flared up at once—merging in a blinding burst of pure light. The air cracked with the energy of the union.
For an instant, Marcus saw a vivid, immediate vision: Thecla standing in a sea of radiant gold, smiling at him, her voice perfectly clear and bright in his mind.
"He carries what you lack, Marcus. The bond of blood. The true key of uncorrupted faith."
The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Marcus disoriented but with a sudden, sharp clarity. He stumbled into the back seat, pulling Jonathan in beside him.
The mist outside seemed to scream in fury as Elias floored the car, speeding them away. The fog twisted into massive, claw-like shapes, chasing them like a living storm.
Elias gripped the wheel hard, his knuckles white. "Where to, Marcus? The map!"
Marcus unfolded the damp, glowing map. The ink had begun to flow, reshaping itself into a completely new, singular pattern—one clear mark, pulsing deep within the oldest quarter of Shinshigan. The mark was no longer the path; it was the destination.
"There," he said, pointing a steady finger. "That's where it ends. The only place it can."
Jonathan, catching his breath and staring at the map with wide eyes, whispered, "And where it began."
Outside, the mist momentarily parted, revealing a faint golden glow on the horizon—the same exact color as Thecla's light. The city wasn't gone yet. The convergence was complete. They had their final target. There was still a chance.