Shojiro's chest still burned from exertion, crimson Vythra flickering faintly beneath his skin as he approached the broken remains of Artaxion.
The orb — glowing, pulsating like a captive heart — rested among the wreckage of limbs and shattered bone. He raised his boot and crushed it, the light within splintering and imploding into nothingness. The sound was muffled, but the reverberation rattled the tower itself.
The world swirled violently. The ground seemed to vanish beneath him, the air distorting, and before he could brace himself, a sharp pull dragged him downward. His vision blurred, colors bleeding and twisting, and then — snap. He was back.
The cityscape stretched before him, eerily silent. The rubble from the blast still smoldered where he had detonated his muscle shell, smoke curling from the cracked asphalt and twisted steel. The acrid stench of blood and burned flesh lingered, mixing with the metallic tang of shattered concrete.
Shojiro opened his eyes to see the shattered cityscape he had left behind. The street where he had detonated his second muscle layer was scarred, cracked, and littered with the twisted corpses of demons, black ichor pooling into the fissures.
Among the wreckage, something caught his eye. A single piece of paper, pristine and stark white, lay atop a heap of corpses as though untouched by the destruction. It fluttered slightly in the faint breeze, an odd beacon amid the chaos.
Shojiro crouched, wiping blood from his brow as he approached. He reached down and picked it up, squinting at the crisp lettering.
The city was silent, the only sound the faint hiss of settling debris and his own ragged breathing. He held the paper up, the crimson veins along his arms pulsing with Vythra as he prepared for whatever message — or instruction — awaited him next.
The paper felt impossibly important, like a key to what would come. Around him, the piles of corpses were a grim reminder of just how far he had pushed himself — and how much more he might have to endure.
Shojiro's gaze hardened. Whatever was written there… it wasn't going to be easy.
To the Chosen of Kaiser,
"If you are reading this, you have shattered the orb of the guardian. You are not alone. The demons are relentless, and they will hunt you without mercy. I am taking refuge somewhere in the Providence Headquarters. Introductions are due."
by the Chosen of Hephaestus.
Shojiro knelt beside the tattered sheet, his fingers brushing over the jagged ink. The words burned into his mind like acid. Shattered the orb… not alone… Providence Headquarters… Chosen of Hephaestus.
He glanced at the surrounding carnage. Piles of demon corpses littered the cracked streets, black ichor seeping into the broken asphalt. The smell of death was thick, but strangely… quiet. Too quiet. Every instinct screamed that more were lurking, waiting for a misstep.
Shojiro folded the paper carefully, tucking it into his bloodied pants. His Life Point throbbed beneath his skin, the shard within still humming faintly, a reminder of everything he had endured in the Tower of Flesh and Bone.
He rose, dusting crimson-stained ash from his shoulders. His eyes swept the horizon — the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, the hollow shells of homes, the tangled vines claiming what humanity had left. The world had rotted, yet somewhere inside him, a spark remained.
"Providence Headquarters…" he muttered. His voice carried on the wind, ragged but steady. "Looks like that's the next stop."
He started moving, each step deliberate. The terrain was treacherous, littered with debris and corpses, but he didn't falter. Muscle reconfiguration hummed in the background, a latent power waiting to be unleashed again.
Shojiro's eyes narrowed as he assessed the ruined cityscape. The piles of corpses, twisted metal, and shattered concrete were nothing compared to the distance he needed to cover.
He flexed his arms, recalling the sensation of ligament drift — the fluid, almost unnatural way his body could stretch and shift without tearing. A nearby crumbling wall caught his gaze. He extended his hands, hooked them onto the jagged remnants, and felt the familiar tension in his shoulders and back.
"Alright… let's see how far this goes," he muttered.
With a deep breath, he stepped back ten feet, feeling the stretch in his ligaments and the elasticity in his joints. The air whistled as his body coiled, like a spring ready to release. Then he stepped back another ten — twenty feet in total. His muscles throbbed, dense and taut, while his skeleton seemed to hum with stored energy.
Shojiro's mind flicked east, recalling the location of Providence Headquarters. Every ruined street, collapsed overpass, and skeletal spire passed in his memory, and his body adjusted in perfect synch.
Muscle reconfiguration followed instinctively. His body swelled four times its normal size, every fiber compacted like molten steel being forged. The extra mass shifted down into his legs, and he exhaled sharply.
In a heartbeat, he launched. The air ripped around him like a blade, and the world blurred as he flew over the ruined city, a crimson cannonball tearing through rubble and dust.
A building loomed directly in his path — the skeletal frame of a high-rise, leaning at a precarious angle. Shojiro's muscles surged instinctively into his right arm. In a single motion, he swung like a battering ram. Concrete splintered, steel rebar bent and twisted, and the building shattered into debris that rained behind him.
He continued, his body slicing through the air like a living projectile. The cityscape barely slowed him, and the ground beneath trembled in the wake of his passage.
Then, finally, he arrived. He slammed into the asphalt just in front of the massive entrance to Providence Headquarters. Dust and rubble exploded around him, and for a moment, the world was silent. His legs bore the imprint of his own impact, trembling but unbroken.
Shojiro stood, brushing debris from his shoulders. His crimson Vythra pulsed faintly beneath his skin, synchronized with the rhythm of his compacted muscles, still humming from the flight.
He stepped forward, voice low but steady. "Anyone… here?"
The shadows shifted. In the corner of the vast, ruined entry hall, a silhouette flickered. Tall, silent… observing.
Shojiro's hand twitched, instinctively flexing. He crouched slightly, muscles ready. "Well… someone's awake," he said, voice calm but carrying the weight of his battles.
The silhouette did not move. But a faint shimmer of light traced its edges, almost like energy pulsing beneath its form. Shojiro's instincts screamed — this was no ordinary survivor.
And for the first time since stepping into this post-apocalyptic wasteland, Shojiro felt a challenge — a real one — waiting.