CHAPTER 1: THE BORROWED DAWN
PAGE 1
The storm was a living thing. It wrapped the safe house in its wet, roaring grasp, shaking the timbers and drowning the world in a torrent of silver needles. Inside, the only light was the sporadic, stark white of lightning, carving Yokushi's still form into sharp relief on the narrow bed.
Sleep was a traitor. It brought no rest, only the relentless replay of a single moment: the bloom of blood on Hanzuri's temple, the impossible defiance of gravity as he stood again.
How?
The question was a cold stone in her gut. She had seen death take men for less. Yet for him, a bullet to the brain was a momentary inconvenience.
What am I tied to?
PAGE 2
With a sigh that was half a shudder, she sat up. The chill was deeper than the draft. On the crude desk, a single can of preserved beef sat like an accusation of her barren reality. She opened it with a dull snick and ate, the meat tasting of tin and salt.
Her thoughts, no longer just fear, began to crystallize into a grim liturgy.
"Journey," she muttered to the rhythm of the rain. A step into the unknown.
"Hope."A fragile, flickering thing, born from a monster's offer.
"I don't trust him."The words were not spoken, but carved in the silent space between her ribs. He is a weapon, not a guardian. He will use me as a spark… or as bait.
"Threat."The truth. The constant. The air she now breathed.
A thunderclap detonated directly overhead, shaking the room. In the instant of blinding light, her eyes were hard.
"Everything will become a threat…" she whispered to the returning dark, finishing the canned lie of a meal.
"…when the world sees what walks beside me."
PAGE 3
5:30 AM.
Dawn was a myth. The world was a study in grey water and darker shadows. Yokushi awoke not to light, but to a deep, bone-aching cold that had seeped through the old blanket. The fire in the hearth was dead ash.
Shivering, she pushed herself up. Her thigh protested, a hot knot of pain from the previous day's fall, but it was a manageable ghost. The real chill came from the window. A fierce draft snaked through its ill-fitting frame.
Hobbling over, she peered out into the weeping dawn.
And there he was.
PAGE 4
Hanzuri stood in the small, muddy clearing behind the house, shirtless in the biting cold. The air was a damp, grey veil, the ground a sodden quilt from the night's storm. He was not simply enduring the chill; he was using it. His body moved through a complex, vicious kata—every punch, kick, and pivot precise, controlled, powerful. A thin sheen of exertion glossed his skin, highlighting the stark topography of muscle and old, silvery scars. His breath plumed in the frigid air, a steady rhythm against the morning's silent grief.
This was not exercise. It was ritual. A honing. A reminder to flesh and bone of their purpose.
Yokushi watched, a strange tightness in her chest. It was awe, yes, for the sheer will it represented. But beneath it coiled a deeper unease.
Then she saw it. As he pivoted, the grim dawn light caught the side of his temple. There—where Jamikuro's bullet had struck—the same ghostly luminescence from the forest flickered once beneath his skin, a sickly pulse like a drowned star. It was visible for only a heartbeat before the movement and the grey light swallowed it.
It never healed, she realized, the truth a cold stone in her gut. It's just… hidden.
She closed the window softly, as if the sound might break the spell and draw his eyes—or stir the unnatural light she was now certain lived within him.
PAGE 5
Descending the stairs was a careful negotiation with pain. Each step sent a dull throb up her leg, a grounding counterpoint to the surreal vision outside.
She pushed the heavy front door open just as he completed a final, spinning kick that sent a spray of mud and loose gravel arcing through the air. He froze mid-motion, then straightened. In the space between heartbeats, he was before her, his skin gleaming with a fine sweat, his presence suddenly filling the small porch.
"Report," he said, his voice flat. "Is there an emergency?"
Yokushi blinked, momentarily stunned by his proximity and the raw physicality he radiated. "I… no. What are you doing… like this?" she managed, gesturing vaguely at his bare torso and the damp, cold clearing.
"Training," he replied, as if commenting on the weather. His gaze was already sliding past her, fixing on the distant mountains that were mere smudges in the fog. "The body is the primary weapon. It must not be permitted to dull. Comfort is the enemy of edge."
---
PAGE 6
"We depart for the city today," he stated, his decision final. "This shelter is known. We require intelligence, supplies, and context. The world has moved in my absence."
The city. Crowds. Posters. Soldiers. Yokushi's hand shot out on instinct, her fingers closing around his wet, corded forearm. The skin was cold, the muscle beneath like iron.
"You can't! It's a death sentence. Your face is on every bounty board from here to the capital. 'Hanzuri Kamado.' They'll recognize you in an instant!"
He looked down at her hand, then back to her eyes. There was no irritation, only a cold assessment. "Then we shall change the face they see. Perception is a shield as potent as any shadow."
Before she could formulate another argument, he was gone—not running, but simply not there, the air where he stood shimmering for a second.
PAGE 7
He returned not a minute later, emerging from the tree line with an armful of clothing scavenged from the old house's dusty wardrobes. Under the relative shelter of the porch roof, he dressed with efficient, unselfconscious speed.
When he turned to face her, Yokushi's breath caught.
Gone was the blood-stained coat and the aura of a sealed revenant. Before her stood a man in a stark white, high-collared shirt, tucked into tailored trousers of deep blue with subtle silver stripes. Black suspenders crossed his broad chest. A bandana of rich, wine-red silk was tied neatly over the lower half of his face, obscuring his mouth and jaw. The monocle remained, a single circle of glass that caught the weak light and made his focused gaze all the more piercing.
He was an impossible collision of eras—a fencer from a royal court crossed with the ruthless enforcer of a city's underworld.
"Does it suit me?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled by the silk.
PAGE 8
Yokushi was utterly overwhelmed. The transformation was too complete, too jarring. "You look… like a walking provocation. Like you're daring someone to question you." She shook her head, a reluctant honesty surfacing. "It suits you. Frighteningly well."
He gave a small, acknowledging nod. Then, without ceremony, he shrugged out of his own distinctive, long red coat—the one he'd worn from the coffin. He held it out to her. "Wear this. Your garments are torn and marked. This will draw less attention than bloodstains and rents."
The coat was heavy in her hands, still holding the residual warmth from his exertion. She slipped it on, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem brushing her calves. It smelled of old leather, ozone, and something uniquely him.
PAGE 9
Seeking to perfect the disguise, she stepped closer. "Your hair is a mess from the rain. And the monocle… it's too distinctive." She reached up to smooth his damp, unruly red locks and then towards the glass lens.
It was a mistake.
His hand snapped up, catching her wrist an inch from the monocle. His grip was not painful, but absolute, immovable as stone. In his eyes, a spark of something feral and alarmed flared.
A shockwave of pure, cold energy pulsed from him.
The world dimmed for a second.Behind Hanzuri, the air rippled and a form coalesced—a towering, jagged silhouette of concentrated shadow, all sharp angles and silent, screaming rage. It had no discernible features, only a palpable sense of ancient malice. It lashed out not at her, but at the space around her, a psychic shove of such intensity it physically threw her back a step, her back thudding against the rough bark of a pine.
As suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. The gloomy morning light returned.
PAGE 10
Yokushi stood pinned to the tree, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What," she breathed, each word a struggle, "was. That?"
Hanzuri had released her wrist. He stood perfectly still, his breath visibly quickened for the first time. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, a muscle ticking in his jaw. When he opened them, the feral light was banked, replaced by a weary frost.
"Nothing," he stated, the word final and hollow. "An old reflex. A guard that should have been lowered." His hand rose almost unconsciously to touch the monocle. "This does not come off. It is not a choice. It is a condition. We will speak of it no further."
The subject was sealed tighter than his coffin had been. He turned, his new clothes already settling into the persona they projected. "To the city. Stay close, and speak only when necessary."
(Continuing from Page 10)
PAGE 11
The city was a beast of industry and desperation. Chimneys belched black smoke that stained the low grey sky, and the cobblestone streets churned with a tide of humanity—workers in drab wool, merchants in finer (but worn) coats, and the ever-present shadows of beggars in alleys. The air smelled of coal, horse dung, and burning metal.
Hanzuri guided Lucy to a public hitching post, his movements relaxed in a way that felt more dangerous than any tension. He paid the urchin watching the row with a single, small coin.
"The bandana helps," Yokushi conceded, keeping her voice low. "But you still… radiate. You don't walk like a laborer. You scan the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield."
"Then let us dilute the signal," he said, his eyes never stopping their methodical sweep. They locked onto a storefront with a bolt of clean cloth in the window. "Follow my lead."
He offered his arm, an oddly formal gesture. She took it, feeling absurdly like a lady on an outing with a most peculiar gentleman.
PAGE 12
The bell above the clothier's door tinkled with false cheer.
"Welcome, Sir! Madam!"the proprietor said, his eyes immediately assessing the quality of Hanzuri's strange attire. "Seeking something for the season? We have fine wools, recently arrived cottons…"
"For the lady," Hanzuri said, his voice assuming a lighter, almost affable tone that unnerved Yokushi more than his coldness. "Something practical for travel. My cousin is visiting from the country."
He was performing. And he was frighteningly good at it.
As Yokushi browsed the shelves of fabric and simple pre-made dresses,she felt Hanzuri's attention shift. His affable posture remained, but his gaze sharpened, drawn to the shop's window. A faint, familiar pull—a cold, dark resonance like the faintest echo of his own power—tugged at his senses from somewhere outside.
"I see a newspaper stand," he murmured to her, still smiling slightly for the shopkeeper's benefit. "I will inquire about the weather ahead. Select what you need."
He was out the door before she could object, the bell chiming his exit.
PAGE 13
The newspaper stand was a ramshackle kiosk huddled against a brick wall. Hanzuri approached, his eyes skipping over the bold headlines about factory disputes and royal speeches. Then he saw it, tucked at the bottom of a pile: "CAMBRIYORD CAVE—UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA TERRORIZE LOCAL VILLAGE. Livestock Mutilated, Lights in the Deep."
He picked it up. The artist's rendering showed a jagged, tooth-like maw in a mountainside, with sinister, wavy lines emanating from it.
"Terrible business, that," the old shopkeeper muttered, noticing his interest. "Bad for trade. Superstitious nonsense, I say."
Hanzuri pointed to the cave illustration. "This place. Where is it?"
The man's casual demeanor evaporated. He paled. "Why d'you want to know? Ain't no place for decent folk."
PAGE 14
Hanzuri placed a coin on the counter, then another. "Curiosity. I am a student of geology." The lie was smooth, but his eyes offered no warmth.
The shopkeeper's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting. "East. Three days' hard ride into the Blackstone Peaks. But listen, mister… it's cursed. My brother's boy went up there hunting a lost goat. Came back… different. Said the rocks whispered. Said something with too many eyes watched him from the dark. The ground itself is wrong there. Cold when it should be warm. It's not geology. It's… it's alive."
A deep, confirming chill settled in Hanzuri's bones. The signature was faint in the newsprint, but it was there. A resonance that mirrored not the natural world, but the crafted, imprisoning power of the seal that had bound him. A place of power. A place of answers.
PAGE 15
Meanwhile, Yokushi had chosen a simple, sturdy grey dress and a practical wool cloak. She paid, her stomach knotting with Hanzuri's absence. Stepping back into the muddy street, she scanned the crowds.
No sign of him.
"Not again," she murmured, a familiar dread rising. She began to move, trying to retrace their steps, asking a flower-seller if she'd seen a tall man in a bandana.
Her search was abruptly truncated.
From a narrow alley mouth, seven men spilled into the street. Their clothes were a mix of grimy workwear and stolen finery, their faces marked by cruelty and cheap vice. The citizens around them didn't just step aside; they melted away, doors closing, eyes averted. This was The Grinders, the street gang that operated with the tacit fear of the district.
PAGE 16
The leader, a man called Cutter with a scar bisecting his lip, spotted her. A lone, well-dressed (if oddly coated) woman. Prey.
"Well, now," he drawled, his voice like grinding stones. "Look what the rain washed in. A little lost bird, all wrapped up in red."
He circled her, his cronies fanning out to block the street. His hand reached out, touching the sleeve of Hanzuri's coat. "Fine cloth. Too fine for you, sweet thing. Where'd you pinch it from?"
"Leave me be!" Yokushi protested, shoving his hand away.
His smile vanished. He caught her wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Feisty. I like that." He shoved her hard against the damp brick wall, knocking the wind from her. His face was inches from hers, his breath reeking of gin and rot. "Makes it more fun."
PAGE 17
Terror ignited a familiar fire in her core. As he leaned in, she twisted, yanking her revolver from the coat's deep pocket. She jammed the barrel under his chin.
"Step. Away." Her voice trembled, but her hand was steady.
The gang froze. Cutter's eyes widened, then crinkled with amusement. He laughed, a wet, ugly sound.
"Or what, darling? You gonna sing me a lullaby?"
"I'll pull the trigger."
"Go on, then."
She did.
Click.
The empty chamber echoed louder than a shot.
PAGE 18
The gang's laughter was a cold, sharp wave. Cutter snatched the gun from her nerveless fingers. "An empty threat. The worst kind." He backhanded her across the face. Stars exploded in her vision as she slumped against the wall.
Now, four pistols were leveled at her. The circle closed. Hope, that fragile spark, guttered and died, leaving only the cold ash of despair.
"Stop."
A single word. Not shouted. Not growled. Simply stated, with an absolute, bone-deep authority that cut through the laughter and the rain.
All heads turned.
Hanzuri stood at the entrance to the alley, the newspaper folded neatly in one hand. Rain dripped from the brim of an imagined hat, his bandana a slash of crimson in the gloom. His posture was calm, almost bored, but his eyes above the silk were the flat, dead grey of a winter sea before a storm.
PAGE 19
"Who the hell are you?" Cutter spat, turning his newly acquired revolver on Hanzuri.
"I am the consequence," Hanzuri replied, his voice still that eerily pleasant tone from the shop, now layered with an unmistakable threat. "You have something that belongs to my companion." He pointed at Yokushi with the folded paper. "The woman. And the gun. Return them. Now."
Cutter grinned, emboldened by his numbers. "You got a hearing problem, bandana? This is our street. We're the consequence here. Now, you turn around and walk, or you join your lady friend in the mud."
Hanzuri's eyes shifted from Cutter to Yokushi. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. An order.
"Run,"he said, the word solely for her.
Then he moved.
PAGE 20
It was not a brawl. It was a brutal, beautiful, and terrifyingly efficient dissection.
He didn't charge. He flowed. The first thug lunged; Hanzuri sidestepped, caught the outstretched arm, and used the man's momentum to hurl him into two others. As they went down in a tangle, a fourth fired. Hanzuri was already not there, the bullet pocking the brick where his head had been. He appeared beside the shooter, his hand a blur that struck not the face, but the side of the neck. The man dropped, gasping, paralyzed.
Shadows in the alley seemed to deepen, to become sticky. Two gang members who tried to flank him found their feet snared by tendrils of darkness that coiled from the ground, yanking them off their feet to be dragged, screaming, into the pitch-black recesses between buildings. The screams were cut short with sickening finality.
He was dismantling them. Systematically. Painfully. But Yokushi noticed, through her panic—he wasn't killing. Not the ones in the light. He broke arms, dislocated shoulders, targeted pressure points that induced unconsciousness. It was a message. The Shinja Code: eliminate the threat, protect the asset, leave no unnecessary corpses to invite larger inquiry.
PAGE 21
The last man standing, a wiry youth barely older than Yokushi, dropped his knife. His vision was swimming, the world tilting into a tunnel focused on Hanzuri's approaching form. "P-please! Mercy! I'm out! I'm done!"
Hanzuri stopped before him. "Mercy is a lesson. Remember this one." A precise, controlled strike to the temple, and the youth folded silently to the ground.
It was over in less than twenty seconds.
Hanzuri stood amidst the groaning bodies,his clothes barely rumpled. He brushed a speck of mud from his sleeve. He had let his guard down, believing Cutter—who had been knocked down in the initial throw—to be out of the fight.
It was a critical, nearly fatal mistake.
PAGE 22
BANG. BANG.
Two shots, close together. Not from the alley floor.
Hanzuri jerked as twin blossoms of crimson erupted on his left thigh and his right side, just below the ribs. He staggered, his knee hitting the cobblestones with a wet crack.
Cutter stood, leaning against the wall for support, a second, smaller pistol smoking in his hand. His nose was bleeding, his eyes wild with pain and triumph. "Think you're better than us, you fancy bastard?! Think you can dance with The Grinders?!"
He limped forward, kicking Hanzuri's leg, eliciting a grunt of pain. He placed his boot on the side of Hanzuri's head, grinding his face into the filthy, wet stones. He aimed the pistol point-blank at the back of Hanzuri's skull.
"Any. Last. Words?" he snarled, saliva and blood flecking his lips.
PAGE 23
Yokushi's mind, frozen in terror, snapped into a single, crystalline point of focus. A weapon. I need a weapon.
Her eyes darted, skipping over the mud, the bodies, the trash—and landed on a half-buried, loose brick in the wall beside her. Without a sound, she pried it free. It was heavy and cold in her hand.
Cutter's finger tightened on the trigger.
"YES"
The shout was a distraction. As Cutter's head twitched toward her voice, Yokushi threw.
It was not a graceful throw. It was all desperate, wiry strength. The brick spun once in the air and connected with a sickening CRUNCH against the side of Cutter's face.
He screamed, a wet, gurgling sound as his head snapped to the side. The pistol flew from his hand, skittering across the stones. He stumbled back, clutching his shattered cheekbone, blood pouring between his fingers.
Yokushi didn't hesitate. She charged.
She hit him like a small, enraged bull, knocking his staggering form completely off balance. They fell into the mud, a tangle of limbs and fury. She was on top of him now, her fists pounding at his good eye, her teeth bared in a silent snarl. This was not just for Hanzuri. This was for every mile run, every cold night, every traitor's face that haunted her.
"You Brat!" Cutter roared, blinded by pain and blood. He bucked, using his greater weight to roll them over, pinning her. He raised a fist, knuckles bloody. "You first! Then your knight in shitty armor!"
BANG.
A third gunshot.
But not from Cutter's lost pistol.
Cutter stiffened. A look of profound surprise crossed his ruined face. He looked down at the new, neat hole suddenly in the center of his chest. He crumpled, dead weight pressing down on Yokushi before rolling to the side.
Behind him, holding a still-smoking revolver with the steady grip of long practice, stood the town Sheriff.
PAGE 24
Silence, broken only by the rain and the ragged gasps of the wounded. Yokushi scrambled on hands and knees through the mud to Hanzuri. He was unconscious, his breathing shallow and wet. Blood, shockingly red, pooled beneath him, mixing with the rainwater.
She cradled his head, ignoring the mud and blood. "Hanzuri-san! Hanzuri! Look at me! Don't you dare! Don't you dare die on me! Not after all of this! You promised! You promised to help me!"
Her tears mixed with the rain on his still face. The Sheriff approached slowly, his face grim.
"He alive?"
"Barely," Yokushi sobbed. "Help him. Please."
PAGE 25
2:00 PM.
Hanzuri opened his eyes to the familiar, unpleasant sensation of healing flesh and the smell of strong antiseptic. He was on a cot in a small, cluttered room—the back office of the Sheriff's station. His side and thigh were tightly bandaged. The pain was a distant, throbbing fire.
The Sheriff, a man in his fifties with a face like worn leather and tired, intelligent eyes, sat in a wooden chair nearby, cleaning his revolver.
"Knew you'd make it," the Sheriff said without looking up. "Saw the whole thing from my window. The way you moved… wasn't like any brawling I've seen. That was military. Or something else." He finally met Hanzuri's gaze. "You saved this town a mighty headache. Cutter and his boys were a cancer. For that, you got my thanks, and my silence."
He gestured to a bundle on a nearby desk. "Your fancy clothes are ruined. Had my wife patch up an old suit of mine. It'll be tight in the shoulders, but it'll do. The coat's new. Consider it thanks."
PAGE 26
Outside, a small, hesitant crowd had gathered. Word had spread. They held offerings: loaves of bread, wrapped cheese, a bottle of homemade spirits, a length of good wool. Gratitude, and curiosity.
Hanzuri emerged, leaning lightly on a cane the Sheriff provided. He stood silently before them, an uncomfortable monument to violence and deliverance. He gave a short, stiff bow.
Yokushi, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward with a bright, practiced smile. "He's terribly shy! Thank you, thank you all! Your kindness is overwhelming!" She gracefully accepted the supplies, piling them into a sack. "He's a travelling medic, you see. Very modest about his… methods."
The Sheriff extended a calloused hand to Hanzuri. "Name's Bill Harlow. What do I call you, son?"
Hanzuri took the hand, his grip firm despite his wounds. He opened his mouth, the old identity rising automatically. "I am Han—"
Yokushi's hand clamped over his mouth, her smile never wavering. "—Hazuro! Hazuro Shoto! He stutters when he's tired! It's a family name, from… the eastern provinces! He's a healer!"
She leaned close to his ear, her whisper a furious, urgent hiss only he could hear. "You are a legend people want dead. A ghost. No more real names. Ever."
PAGE 27
They left as the afternoon sun broke through the clouds, painting the wet streets in gold. They rode double on Lucy, the sack of supplies between them. Sheriff Harlow waved from his steps.
"You're always welcome here, Hazuro! Safe travels!"
Once past the last town fence, the silence stretched. The only sounds were Lucy's hooves on the mud and Hanzuri's slightly labored breathing.
"…Hazuro?" he finally said, the name foreign on his tongue.
"It's a good name! Now, where is this 'beacon' you spoke of? Or are we just wandering?"
He didn't answer immediately. He was learning. He had failed once today by underestimating a foe and speaking too plainly. He would not fail her again by revealing a destination that would only feed her fear. She would see it soon enough.
PAGE 28
They made camp at sunset on a high, windswept cliff overlooking a vast, darkening valley. The air was clean and cold, scoured of city smells. Hanzuri dismounted with a slight grimace and walked to the very edge, staring east.
After a moment, he gestured for her to join him. He pointed.
There, in the side of a distant, brooding mountain that stood apart from the range like a forgotten sentinel, was a black slash—a cave entrance. Even from this distance, it looked wrong. The rock around it was a darker hue, and the setting sun seemed to shy away from it, leaving it in premature shadow.
"Our destination," he said, his voice flat.
Yokushi's blood seemed to freeze in her veins. She knew that name from the newspaper he'd bought. "Cambriyord Cave… You are utterly mad. That place is a tomb. People vanish there. The earth itself is said to be sick."
"It is not a tomb. It is a beacon," he corrected, his eyes fixed on the distant darkness. "The energy emanating from it… it is not geological. It is crafted. Controlled. Its signature…" He paused, choosing his words. "It shares a frequency with the power that bound me. That cave is not a natural formation. It is a locus. A focal point. Answers lie within. About the nature of my sealing. About the true scope of what hunts you."
PAGE 29
As Yokushi gathered wood and built a fire, her movements were stiff with dread. She cooked the gifted food—a simple stew of vegetables and the preserved meat. Hanzuri sat apart on a fallen log, his gaze locked not on the mesmerizing flames, but through them, into some private distance. A profound, heavy silence enveloped him, thicker than the mountain mist.
"What troubles you, Hanzuri-san?" she asked quietly, stirring the pot. "Is it the pain?"
"The pain is irrelevant," he said, the words leaving him like a slow exhalation. "It is regret. The Sheriff should never have had to intervene. My lapse in awareness, my failure to confirm the neutralization of the primary threat… it nearly got you killed. It was a failure of duty. A failure of the code."
She listened, hearing not the cold rebuke of a clan leader, but the stark, self-lacerating guilt of a protector who had fallen short. It was the most human she had ever heard him sound.
PAGE 30
When the stew was ready, she filled two bowls. She remembered, from his lack of interest in her canned meat days before. Carefully, she picked out every chunk of meat from his portion, leaving only the potatoes, carrots, and broth.
She walked over and knelt in the damp grass before him, holding out the bowl.
"Eat,"she said, her voice brooking no argument.
He looked from the bowl to her face, his expression unreadable.
"I am not hungry."
**"Your body needs fuel to heal. Open."
After a moment's hesitation,he obeyed. She fed him a spoonful.
"We are a team," she stated, her eyes holding his. "Your shadow. My fire. You watch the darkness for threats I cannot see. I watch your back for the consequences you are too… direct… to notice. We failed together today. We will not fail again. So you will eat. And tomorrow, we will face that cave. Together."
He chewed slowly, swallowed. Then, a sight more rare and disarming than any display of shadow or strength—a small, reluctant, but utterly genuine smile touched his lips, softening the harsh lines of his face.
"Your logic is… difficult to refute." He took the bowl from her hands. "This form is a vessel. It requires fuel," he said, his voice low. "Without a flame, even the hardest candle goes dark."
He fell silent, as if he'd said too much. "...Sometimes," he conceded, "a single, stubborn warmth is enough."
PAGE 31 – EPILOGUE
A vast, cavernous space. The only light comes from a single, swaying electric bulb far above, casting long, monstrous shadows. This is not a cottage industry; this is a modern printing factory, silent and dormant.
A figure enters, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. He is a silhouette in a long coat, his face obscured in the deep shadow of a hat brim. He walks with purpose to a massive control panel.
A gloved hand throws a heavy, brass lever.
With a groaning shudder, the factory awakens. Massive presses clank to life, rollers turn, and paper feeds through with a rhythmic hiss-thump. The smell of fresh ink and ozone fills the air.
Sheet after printed sheet cascades into a collecting bin.
The figure walks over,reaches down, and lifts one.
It is a new wanted poster. The printing is crisp, the details sharp. The bounty has been updated: 55,000,000 KEITH.
The face is Yokushi Kizumoto. The artist has captured her better now—the determined set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes hinted at by a subtle, glowing effect around her clenched fist. It reads: "WANTED FOR SEDITION, ARSON, AND ASSOCIATION WITH ENEMIES OF THE STATE. PRIME ELEMENTAL. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS."
The figure examines the poster for a long moment. Then, a distorted, metallic voice emits from him, a product of a vox-modulator or something less mechanical.
"Run a little longer, Spark. Shine a little brighter."
The gloved hand crumples the poster slowly into a tight ball.
"The stage requires its leading light."
He drops the ball of paper. It falls, bouncing once before coming to rest in a gutter soon to be flooded with more identical warnings. He turns and walks back into the darkness, the machines stamping out her doom in an endless, rolling rhythm behind him.