The grand curtain slowly rises.

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When Arthur saw Oda Koyōgari again, it was on an utterly ordinary afternoon. Arthur was packing his bags to leave the hotel when a frantic knock sounded at the door. He opened it.

Oda Koyōgari appeared disheveled, her crimson trench coat stained unevenly. From the moment she entered, Arthur caught the faint scent of blood.

It seemed she had arrived here in panic, fleeing blindly. She paused upon seeing Arthur; among all the hotels in this city, she had stepped into this one.

"Ya-ya." The child in Oda Koyōgari's arms seemed unaware of their dire predicament, only wanting to call for her mother as usual.

Oda Koyōgari kissed the child's forehead, gently nuzzling her cheek. The little one giggled, and Oda Koyōgari softly placed her on the sofa, then turned to Arthur. "We meet again, Mr. Arthur."

Arthur was silent for a moment. "Ms. Oda Koyōgari, you know, I too am a GOC agent."

She nodded, her tone calm. "I am aware that every supernatural organization in Japan has issued a warrant for me. But could you wait until Shiori falls asleep before we deal with our business?"

The child named Shiori could only utter "ya-ya," clumsily crawling across the sofa, reaching for the sparkling ornaments, laughing gleefully each time she touched them. She delighted endlessly in this simple game. The joy of a child is always simple; though adults were once children, they rarely reclaim that pure happiness.

Five days before, Arthur had received the Japanese GOC branch's warrant for all agents in the country. The bounty was so high that he couldn't help but fantasize, but he ultimately chose to leave Japan, knowing the competition for such a prize would be fierce, and attempting it alone was as futile as searching for a pearl in the sea. He missed the vibrant colors of Brano Island; with Masakawa Hisakazu's hush money, he could enjoy a time of ordinary peace.

Arthur nodded. "Would you like something to drink?"

Oda Koyōgari shook her head, leaning back against the sofa, cradling her restless child. Her lips curved slightly as she softly sang:

"In the autumn sunset, the mountains blaze with crimson leaves
Some deep, some pale, countless among them
Maples and ivy adorn the pines
Patterns along the mountain’s hem
Leaves drift and float on the stream
Swayed by waves, parting and reuniting
Crimson and yellow, colors myriad
Woven brocade atop the water"

Shiori lay in her mother's arms, drifting into sleep as Oda Koyōgari gently rocked her, finally settling her on the sofa.

Arthur watched as the mother laid her coat over the child. He was unsure what to do; in the paper bag beside his suitcase was a gun, and a knife hidden in the heel of his boot. The wounds on Oda Koyōgari were inflicted by GOC enchanted weapons; she was not so powerful as to ignore their harm. Arthur had known, from the moment she entered, that he could kill her, but the presence of her child made him choose to wait.

He was not a devout believer, but he could not bring himself to kill a mother before her child.

"You can sense it too, can't you?" Oda Koyōgari spoke softly.

Arthur fell silent.

"I am a GOC agent. I have my own mission." Arthur had noticed Oda Koyōgari’s weakness; as time passed, her wounds showed, and she could no longer conceal her frailty.

"I have lived for a long time, but her arrival changed everything." Oda Koyōgari gazed at her sleeping child, her eyes full of unhidden tenderness.

"I love seeing the world through her eyes—bright, vibrant. I remember her first steps, her first laughter, her first call of 'Mama.' I remember every moment, because I know I won’t have many more." Oda Koyōgari had foreseen her fate the moment she conceived this new life; it was no longer the era of monsters. Humanity, proud and arrogant, would never willingly compromise, never accept the return of monsters to dominance, but instead use all means to prevent it. Violence and slaughter are the deepest marks within this race.

She knew humans would come for her, but not so soon—not before she could see her child grow. Though a year was but a fissure in her long life, it was enough to let her forget all that came before, willing to trade everything for companionship.

Arthur did not know what to say. He was but a minor agent, bound to obey orders, yet now gripped by hesitation.

"I don’t know what wrong I’ve done. I just want her to live in this world. What fault is there in that?" Oda Koyōgari looked at Arthur, posing an unanswerable question.

All things in this world are built on bloody struggle: wolves eat rabbits, lions hunt antelope, plants draw nourishment from earth—life thrives by taking. Humans and monsters once maintained a fragile balance; when it breaks, the outcome is always the same. Monsters cannot abide human order, and humans cannot accept monster chaos; a war for racial prosperity is inevitable, and morality is meaningless in the face of survival.

"You should leave. I never saw you." Arthur turned away to resume packing, choosing avoidance when unable to choose.

"Mr. Arthur, I hope you can take her away, to a place unknown, let her grow up as a human." Oda Koyōgari bent down, her instinct telling her she had no other choice. She could not live with her child in Japan; this land was pervaded by humanity, and soon a war between humans and monsters may erupt. Only by leaving could Shiori grow up safely.

"You can take her and leave Japan." Arthur grew flustered—he was only twenty-seven, not yet prepared for such a responsibility.

"I cannot." Oda Koyōgari was forlorn; if she could, how could a mother abandon her child?

"A child without a mother cannot grow up normally." Arthur sighed, overwhelmed by memory.

"Bastard! Bastard!" "He has neither mother nor father!" "I heard he lives in an orphanage; kids from there grow up bad!"

The frail Arthur clenched his fists, but said nothing; meaningless resistance only worsened his suffering. He met malice with silence. Children’s emotions, even their cruelty, are pure.

Only when the leader found a new toy did they leave; Arthur quietly retrieved his bag from the mud, returning to the orphanage and explaining he slipped, enduring a scolding before peeling potatoes in the kitchen.

His time in the orphanage was monotonous, sunlight warming his body but never his heart. The fierce director only cared whether they could earn the pity of wealthy patrons for money. In such a place, to speak of love was a luxury. So, when Arthur grew up, he wandered the world, always claiming in reports that he loved travel, but only he knew he was chasing what he lacked as a child—the empty loneliness that drove him endlessly. Yet, all these years, whether before Rome’s Trevi Fountain or beneath Svalbard’s aurora, he always stopped and turned, as if a dejected, tearless boy followed him.

"I beg you, the child is blameless. I offer my life as ransom." Oda Koyōgari did not know this man, but had to stake everything on him. Fifteen minutes had passed since she entered; GOC agents might be on their way.

Arthur wanted to speak, but Oda Koyōgari already picked up her sleeping child. "Please look at her and answer me."

Arthur was moved by the child’s innocent, unblemished sleeping face; he could not take away her right to live, even knowing she was not human.

"Betrey, I need your help." Arthur put on his communicator, speaking to Betrey in a tone he'd never used, surprising her; they had known each other since graduating from Alexylva University, partners for years.

"Whatever it takes, I need you to get a mother and infant onto the passenger list at Narita Airport."

Betrey quickly understood. "Oda Koyōgari and her child are with you? God, do you know their worth? Japan sees them as the origin of monsters in the Heisei era; some say killing them would halt the millennium tide. They’ve become symbols—both the Foundation and GOC have issued massive bounties. Even the remnants of the Imperial Japanese Anomalous Affairs Bureau, the ‘Hidden General’ and ‘Jirai,’ claim anyone who catches them will earn Japan’s deepest gratitude. This is a walking goldmine!" Betrey’s breath quickened.

"Betrey, you know what would happen if they’re caught, right? As far as I know, they’ve done nothing wrong."

"All right, all right, my kind Arthur, always at odds with everyone. I’ll arrange the flight, but it’ll take time—things are tense now." Betrey sighed; her old classmate had always been so unconventional.

"Okay." Arthur hung up, turning to Oda Koyōgari.

He didn’t know if he was right or wrong—perhaps he would regret this—but for now, he felt a rare tranquility.

Oda Koyōgari could no longer hold on, collapsing beside her daughter in unconsciousness. Arthur moved to the paper bag containing weapons, pulling out the Beretta 92F. The barrel wavered, then aimed at the door.

Arthur stared at the lacquered solid wood door; diligent cleaners had polished it, reflecting his blurred outline. A corner of a "Seven Star" cigarette poked from his breast pocket. He chuckled to himself. "A lit cigarette turns to ash; aren’t people the same?"

He had no lighter, but knew that soon, the hot barrel would be enough to ignite a cigarette.

Tokyo Peninsula Hotel. Catherine and her team were grim-faced; Jin Ning stared, bewildered, at the waste processing plant on her phone screen.

Catherine adjusted her glasses, opened her laptop, and traced the signal of the communicator given to Minami Junka, then switched to the hotel surveillance footage. Calmly, she spoke, "Jin Ning, come back first."

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Combining the signal track and the surveillance footage, it was clear Minami Junka threw the communicator into the trash before leaving the hotel.

“Why?” Qin Mo murmured. Minami Junka and Zhao Tianxing had known each other for a long time; she wasn’t a member of the Flesh Cult, nor opposed to them. So why had she done this—and she evidently hadn’t lied.

Catherine was about to speak when she noticed Chu Chaoyan and Afra sketching on paper with their phones. She approached, realizing they were working from a screenshot of Jin Ning’s video call.

“What are you doing?” Catherine couldn’t help but ask.

Afra looked up, her expression complicated. “Chu Chaoyan and I noticed the unusual script in Jin Ning’s footage of the waste plant. It’s a composite of ancient Uralic, Indo-European, and γλῶσσαχάος, but mainly ancient Uralic—the Flesh Cult’s language.”

Chu Chaoyan finished her sketch, holding up a sheet with three serpent marks, her tone disgusted. “This is the mark of Saen, one of the four Klavigars of the Flesh Cult.”

Her phone rang again. Jin Ning, preparing to leave the plant, answered the video call, regretting it as soon as he did.

Catherine decided Jin Ning should investigate further, so he began an overnight exploration of the waste plant, holding his nose against the stench.

Not until midnight did Jin Ning finish exploring, satisfied he'd photographed enough. He hurried back, his lingering odor earning odd looks.

Feeling aggrieved, Jin Ning knocked on Catherine’s door without even showering. At first glance, Catherine decided to commandeer his room as their meeting space.

Jin Ning, full of complaints, hadn’t time to speak before Qin Mo’s deadly glare sent him straight to bathe. He was sure if he delayed, she’d drag him to the tub, scrub him clean, and powder him. After he finished, Catherine and the others arrived with laptops and files.

After briefly explaining the communicator issue, Catherine projected Jin Ning’s photos.

Afra began, “These symbols all belong to the Flesh Cult. The waste plant is now, in a sense, part of the ritual altar. The script suggests the ritual is meant to awaken and summon—Saen, one of the four Klavigars.”

“She is associated with darkness, secrecy, deception, poison, and justice. Her titles include: the Whisperer, the Twisted Shadow, the Innocent, and the Judgment of Yaan. She was once a young house servant, silently enduring the Daeva clan’s abuse. When she could bear no more, she calmly murdered the entire family with poison, garrote, and knife. After capture, she was imprisoned in the fortress city.”

“During her execution, she first met Yaan, who ‘passed through the dungeon walls like summer snow melting in mist.’ He said, ‘The wind whispers your deeds. There is no evil in judgment. You did not choose to be the vessel for our purpose. Many intentions die today, but you must survive.’ The prophet’s hand became ‘the jaws of a wolf,’ tearing open the prison walls to free Saen.”

“Using her abilities, Saen built a network of spies and assassins. Daevite inscriptions depict her actions in pictographs—men and women dismembered on the streets, Daevite infants strangled by ‘rebellious servants’ in cradles. Saen is usually portrayed as a ragged girl, or a purely black, half-human, half-serpent being. Sometimes both forms appear, the latter—a phantom entity—serves as the girl’s shadow. Her symbols include snakes (the venomous kind), a ritual dagger, a balance scale, and a bound statue—this is Saen’s gift.” Afra handed Chu Chaoyan’s drawing to Jin Ning.

Jin Ning thought for a moment. “What about Zhao Tianxing?”

Chu Chaoyan spoke calmly. “Your companion may already be in the Flesh Cult’s hands.”

Catherine shook her head. “No evidence yet that Zhao Tianxing has fallen to them. If Minami Junka were a member, she would not have discarded the communicator—the Cult would use it to lure us into a trap. Since she isn’t, and given her relationship with Zhao Tianxing, we can conclude he trusts her, otherwise he wouldn’t tell her our location. Our challenge now is understanding why she threw away the communicator.”

“Could it be like in romance novels—Minami Junka threw it away to elope with Zhao Tianxing?” Afra tentatively suggested.

Jin Ning scoffed. “What are you thinking? That would never happen in real life.”

Afra pouted, but Catherine nodded, still calm. “Though unlikely, it’s still a possibility.”

Chu Chaoyan didn’t pursue the matter. “Whatever the case, we must stop the ritual.”

Catherine quickly made a decision. Compared to the missing Zhao Tianxing, a city serving as a Flesh Cult altar was more urgent. Most casualties among Deer Academy students happened to first-year rookies; seniors had learned to survive, especially Zhao Tianxing, Deer Academy’s rising star. Professors called him a future prodigy, if only fate didn’t take him too soon.

From the moment they entered Deer Academy, whether or not they made vows, they became flames in the darkness, their only choices to bring light or burn in destruction. For now, they still loved this imperfect world—not because the Flesh Cult offered immediate credits, at least not mainly.

SCP Foundation Tokyo Branch. Two Foundation doctors devised tactical plans. One, middle-aged with a white lab coat, golden glasses, and hair beginning to gray, brought up a map of Tokyo. A massive hologram appeared before them; in black gloves, he waved, narrowing the map to Shibuya, Yoyogi Park.

Miyazaki Tsukasa smiled. “Yoyogi Park—those Flesh Cult people chose well, coinciding with the ‘Night Sakura’ festival. It’s an ideal spot.”

Opposite him, Fujii Chizakura, also in a lab coat and black-rimmed glasses, ignored his banter, scrutinizing the park’s holographic layout. After a moment, she spoke coldly. “I can’t judge if this is the main altar, but it doesn’t affect our deployment of Mobile Task Force.”

Miyazaki Tsukasa waved. “Do as you say.”

Fujii Chizakura was used to her superior’s laxness. She nodded and began drafting a report. Soon she looked up. “Which MTF should we send?”

Miyazaki Tsukasa stroked his chin. “Rage Bridge.”

In Nara City, Nara Prefecture, at 2-1 Horenzaho Mountain, the last rays of the setting sun cast light on ivy-covered, abandoned walls. The rusted sign above the entrance barely revealed the words “Dreamland.”

Time’s hurricane had swept the theme park; the towering Ferris wheel no longer turned, and always ended where it began.

Four young people, filming a video, explored this overgrown wasteland.

“This park was built in the seventies, closed in 2006, abandoned for decades.” The boy in a baseball cap spoke to the camera.

“Has anyone wondered why, in Nara, there’s thirty-three hectares left idle?” The chubby boy continued.

Then, the cap-wearing boy grinned menacingly, speaking in a spooky tone. “Maybe after today, you’ll know.”

The girl, posing beside them, suddenly shrieked. “A snake!”

The boy grabbed the snake slithering through the weeds, intending to show his courage on camera—but the snake, gripped behind its head, suddenly opened its mouth and sprayed scarlet fluid.

His scream startled the crows on the Ferris wheel, black rats scurrying through debris.

The three, panicked, ran to his side. The snake had burrowed into his arm, its slender outline visible beneath the skin.

The cameraman, unable to bear the terror, dropped his camera and fled. The chubby boy, too pale to call him back, watched as the cap-wearer writhed like ice melting on fire, his screams fading. The boy’s skin turned transparent, like a springy jelly; as the snake emerged again, the jelly deflated like a burst balloon.

The girl fainted, the chubby boy trembling, ready to flee, but then gritted his teeth and hoisted her over his shoulder.

Suddenly, applause sounded behind him. “What a kind soul.” He turned, nearly dropping the girl.

A man in a trench coat applauded, his hair meticulously combed, eyes full of inscrutable emotion, like a white-naped crane ready to dissect a frog.

The chubby boy tried to call for help, but seeing the man’s eyes, he could not speak. The trench-coated man seemed a cultured young doctor; his eyes, though elegant, betrayed an indifference to life and death, accustomed to watching farewells.

Staring into those eyes, you realize they stare back, and a primal fear scurries through you like a startled rat.

“Who are you?” The boy mustered courage, his voice barely audible.

“Who I am doesn’t matter—what matters is what I intend to do.”

The man gave no chance for questions, strolling over as casually as picking flowers, but there were no flowers here.

The sound of bones breaking sent crows into flight once more, but this time they were drawn by blood, their scarlet eyes hungry for flesh.

The barren earth welcomed a sacrificial rite thousands of years late. Those who once prayed for harvest with rice had long turned to dust; now, blood and flesh mingled with the soil, leaving only silence as night receded.

Run. Escape quickly. Shiina Koji, pale-faced, ignored scratches on his glasses, fleeing the deadly serpent and the red-eyed man—creatures from urban legends. He must survive.

He locked himself in his apartment, turned on the light, and regained composure. While everyone focused on Kudo Kazu’s screams, only he had seen the strange man in the distance. He hadn’t even warned his companions before fleeing, leaving the camera behind. Would Takashima Okawa and Miki Yoshiko die? He felt a pang of regret, but quickly dismissed it. What would he tell police? Was there a curse—everyone who visited died? Maybe he should visit the Jade Buddha Temple to ward off evil.

Fear made him tremble, but hunger gave him courage. He cooked noodles, eating as he pondered—what’s the use in fearing? Whatever must come, will.

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He paused while washing dishes, realizing the rented camera could never be returned, and the compensation would be costly.

Tokyo’s Skytree, 634 meters tall, white with a hint of green, inspired by dyeing techniques, shone softly at night. Its top, usually inaccessible, hosted a striking figure.

Humans are strange creatures; they fear heights yet strive to build towers piercing the sky. Not only with architecture—humans turn their fears into extremes. Some worship, placing them on pedestals; others seek to pull them down.

Irina sat at the edge of the observation deck. Girls always strive for elegance, and she was no exception. A small mechanical table was attached to her left, holding a bottle of Chivas whisky and nothing more.

Irina gazed softly at the bright moon. “The moon here isn’t as round as they say.”

A playful female voice came through the communicator. “Dear Irina, did you have me hack Skytree’s security just to look at the moon?”

Irina’s lips curled in a dreamy smile. “What else?”

The voice sounded unsurprised. “Whatever you want, as long as you don’t forget your mission—even if you streak, it’s fine.”

Irina sipped whisky. “With your attitude, you’ll never find a man to love you.”

“With you to dote on me, who needs men?”

Irina laughed, letting the topic go. “How’s Amanuma Yari?”

“Still in the burial site. The monsters are trying to break the seal. Don’t worry—I’ll notify you as soon as they succeed.”

“How’s the fusion of Fragarach in the forge?”

“The intelligence unit borrowed the sword. They’re interrogating a malfunctioning machine servant. You know, truth serums for silicon-based life are still in development, so they’re using the sword instead.”

“Fragarach has that function?”

“Sis, don’t always focus on fighting; before stealing, understand all its functions. In Irish myth, Fragarach is the deadliest sword, forged by the gods. It was given to Manannán mac Lir and later to his foster son, the sun god Lugh. Fragarach is called ‘the Avenger’ because it tears armor and leaves incurable wounds; it’s also ‘the Answerer,’ forcing the wounded to tell the truth—a causal power, even for silicon-based beings.”

“Don’t delay the forging plan. I’ll bring back Amanuma Yari. Try to fuse Fragarach with the prototype before that.” Irina finished her whisky, ending the conversation and her moonlit vigil.

She rose and walked toward the moon; gravity was not a shackle but an embrace. Her figure drifted from the 634-meter height and vanished.

At night, the twenty-four-hour convenience store remained bright. Beneath the ginkgo trees, a man chewing a cigarette walked slowly back to his office with instant noodles. His steps were slow but steady; he had to work late, missing the last subway.

Just like these 37 million ordinary people, living in darkness from six to midnight, striving to break free of fate.

They had no idea their city faced its greatest challenge since rising from the dust. The world is absurd—many historic events slip away between ordinary fingers, and even the most tumultuous days in human history are often just another mundane day for most.

The night will pass. On the eastern horizon, a particularly bright "morning star" appears. In Greek and Roman myth, she is Venus; to the Maya and Aztecs, she signifies both death and rebirth. She is Quetzalcoatl, who revives the extinct by stealing bones from the land of the dead and renewing them with divine blood. Ancient Phoenicians and Jews saw her as a demon, an evil star. In ancient Mexico, people feared her, closing doors at dawn to block her light, believing it brought disease.

Millions of kilometers from Earth, Venus, known as the "morning star" in China, knows nothing of the confusion and ignorance of its neighboring planet’s tiny inhabitants. It moves along its cold, elliptical path, endlessly repeating.

Sun, moon, stars, and small creatures—all equal before time, possessing only tomorrow. Yesterday is gone forever; all they can do is live their own long, small, humble, yet shining lives.

As the morning star disappears into the bright sky, the city sheds its enchanting night, replaced by daytime bustle. Zhao Tianxing presses the Infiniti’s accelerator, Jin Ning opens his apartment door, Arthur dons sunglasses, Kaga Ryuunosuke throws on a coat, the SCP Foundation’s task force leaves the training base, Irina pours wine in the sunlight.

Planes from Haneda Airport fly east into the rising sun. It’s Sunday morning; schools across Japan held graduation ceremonies the previous day. The bands fall silent, seniors begin a new day, Shibuya youths board the JR subway as usual, Shinjuku citizens cross the post-festival Kabukicho, and Chiyoda remains in eternal daylight.

At this moment, the curtain rises.

A black Infiniti glided along Tokyo’s expressway. Zhao Tianxing watched ahead, while Minami Junka, in the passenger seat, regretfully remarked, “If we were driving from Kagoshima to Tokyo, we could follow the cherry blossom front’s schedule.”

Zhao Tianxing paused. “What’s the cherry blossom front?”

“Japan is a long, narrow island nation. The southern tip, Okinawa, is like the tropics; the north, Hokkaido, still gets snow after spring begins. Cherry blossoms bloom as spring warms, but in such a country with huge climatic differences, their blooming times vary greatly. The line of blossoms opening from south to north is called the ‘cherry blossom front.’” Minami Junka carefully recited from Google, her eyelashes fluttering in the sunlight like sakura petals drifting at five centimeters a second.

"Oh," Zhao Tianxing replied, continuing to drive. He said nothing more, his dark eyes deep and unreadable, as if allergic to cherry blossoms, continuing someone else’s escape.

Minami Junka didn’t speak further. She didn’t know how to face this boy she liked; perhaps after this journey, she’d never see him again, the one who tolerated her whims.

She knew Zhao Tianxing could have left her behind, but he hadn’t—perhaps for a promise, though "happiness" was never defined, and the request was so casual it hardly seemed real.

She was unsure whether her concern for Zhao Tianxing stemmed from loneliness, or if his presence made her feel lonely, her gaze deep in the cherry blossom season sky.

There was little scenery beside Tokyo’s expressway, like every expressway in the world. Passengers could only gaze far ahead; the horizon always swallowed the view.

“Skyline-kun, how long until we stop for a break?”

“Fifteen hundred kilometers.”

“What does that mean?”

“The shortest route from Tokyo to Kagoshima is fifteen hundred kilometers. When we get there, we’ll switch to a boat.”

Minami Junka glanced at the speedometer: 80 km/h. She opened her phone’s calculator—maintaining this speed, it would take twenty hours. That’s fast; just sleep a whole day and you’re there. Sounds fine, but then she realized—it’s a huge problem, bigger than the ancient sakura she saw at Jissoji.

“Skyline-kun, we’d need to drive twenty hours straight at this speed to reach Kagoshima.”

“Mm.”

Minami Junka waited, but after a minute, Zhao Tianxing said nothing more.

“Skyline-kun, can you drive twenty hours without eating or drinking?”

Zhao Tianxing looked at the rearview mirror and shook his head. “You can think of me as an agent, but even agents aren’t superhuman. Hungry, I eat; tired, I rest.”

“So, I’m asking, when will we stop for a break?” Minami Junka opened a bottle of juice and licked her pink lips.

“When I’m tired,” Zhao Tianxing decided, thinking it reasonable.

Minami Junka was exasperated and amused. “Skyline-kun, have you never traveled far before? If you wait until you’re tired, we’ll still be on the expressway. If we miss the rest area, will we stop on the highway? Didn’t you plan last night?”

Zhao Tianxing nodded. “No.”

His forthrightness almost made Minami Junka doubt her ears. “Why are you so calm about having no plan?”

Zhao Tianxing’s tone was slightly apologetic. “Rationally, even now, it’s hard to believe I chose to take you home. It’s all so sudden—you can say I acted on impulse. So please forgive me for not considering everything.”

Minami Junka’s heart suddenly calmed, and joy surged like Mount Fuji’s eruption three centuries ago. She couldn’t help but smile. “If you’d thought it through, Skyline-kun would have left me behind, right? So I’m lucky. Anyway, I’m happy now.”