Even after the chains were broken—
they still looked down on us.
The sky continued to rain, as if the world itself could not forgive what it had allowed.
And then the rule of Daegmon Kira came.
We were denied our schools, our houses, our lands — forced to leave Velanon.
We refused.
And now—right in front of you—they're killing us until none of us exists, to prove their dominance.
I want to beat them to a pulp. Those tyrants—who do they think they are?
Orimo: "That's unforgivable."
A man on the street tried to steady himself, then pushed himself to his feet.
Man: "Come with me."
Orimo followed him down a narrow alley, rain pelting their faces, mud sucking at their boots. The city around them smelled of smoke and old blood. Then — a shape on the ground. A small, broken figure half-hidden beneath a sodden shawl.
He saw her.
A little girl. Emily.
Orimo's chest tore open in a soundless scream that became a raw, animal howl.
Man: "Aghhhhh— Emilyyyyy!"
The scream shredded the air. It echoed off stone and gutter and rooftops, a sound of grief turned to fury. Orimo and Ryuki stood frozen, rage kindling into something beyond words.
Two other black men stumbled out from a doorway, hauling the wounded man toward a nearby house — their faces hard as knives, eyes burning. They carried him inside and the door slammed shut behind them.
Orimo and Ryuki exchanged a look — one of those looks that required no words. They followed.
Inside, the room was cramped and warm with body heat. Men and women moved like a machine — loading rifles, cleaning scopes, checking ammunition. Their faces were streaked with rain and soot; their hands trembled but their eyes were iron.
Man (breathing fast): "They took everything. They killed families. Emily was… she was just a child." His voice broke, then hardened. "We won't die quietly."
Ryuki's jaw set. Orimo's fingers tightened around the strap of his jacket.
Around them, the hum of preparation grew — the clack of a bolt, the metallic scent of gun oil, the low murmur of plans no longer whispered. Fury had become purpose.
Outside, the rain fell harder, as if the heavens themselves were blessing the storm they were about to unleash.