The morning after Shinonome's fall was too quiet.
The wind swept cold air through the valley, carrying the scent of burnt steel and sulfur. The dam had been reduced to ruins—its broken carcass stretched for miles, a scar of concrete and twisted rebar cutting across what was once a river of life. The water that had burst through the floodgates now flowed freely, carving a new channel through the rubble below. Steam still hissed from the cracks in the earth, and the occasional groan of shifting metal echoed through the silence.
Riku stood on the bank, his rifle slung across his back, watching the horizon where the sun climbed weakly through the mist. His clothes were still damp and caked in soot. He hadn't slept—not that he could. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the face of that thing again. The twisted mockery of a human skull fused with steel and wires, its voice whispering preservation requires cleansing.
