In the Culling Game, nothing was holy. Everything was a weapon. A light this bright was just a lure for an ambush.
The reaction from the ground was immediate and lethal. There was no hesitation, no awe, no pause to admire the beauty of the descending figure.
Maki shifted her grip on the Dragon-Bone sword. The cursed tool, ugly and mechanical, hummed with anticipation. The engine mounted on the back of the blade revved, expelling a jet of exhaust that swirled the dust around her boots. Her eyes narrowed into predatory slits. She assessed the target in the air: trajectory, speed, potential blind spots. She was calculating the exact angle needed to sever a wing.
Shin spun Playful Cloud. The Special Grade Cursed Tool, a heavy three-section staff painted in aggressive red, cut the air with a low, menacing whoosh. He stepped in front of Megumi, shielding the unconscious boy with his body. His muscles coiled like springs, ready to launch him into the air to intercept the target before she touched the ground.
To them, this wasn't a savior. This wasn't divine intervention. This was just another player. This was another vulture coming to pick the bones of the weakened victor. They had seen it happen a dozen times already—players waiting in the shadows for a fight to end, then jumping the survivor.
Shin's mind raced through tactical options. If she uses light-based attacks, she has range. We need to close the distance immediately. Maki takes the left, I take the frontal assault. We ground her, we break the wings, we neutralize the threat.
But the woman didn't attack.
She didn't ready a weapon. She didn't flare her aura with killing intent. She didn't chant an incantation or form a hand sign.
She landed softly on a pile of rubble twenty feet away, the light form of her wings dissipating into glittering particles that faded before they hit the floor. As the light died down, she looked less like a deity and more like a confused teenager in a strange outfit.
She held up her hands in a frantic gesture of peace, palms open, fingers splayed. Her eyes were wide, trembling as she took in the terrifying sight before her.
From her perspective, she had landed in front of two demons. Shin and Maki, covered in the dust of the ruins, their weapons drawn, possessing zero Cursed Energy yet exuding an overwhelming physical pressure, looked like monsters standing guard over their prey.
Hana: "Wait! Please! I'm not an enemy!"
Her voice cracked with genuine fear. It echoed off the high walls of the gym. She took a hesitant step forward, her gaze bypassing the terrifying weapons and fixing solely on the unconscious boy in their arms.
Hana: "I'm... I'm a friend of Megumi! I'm here to help!"
Shin didn't lower his staff. He kept the heavy red section poised to strike.
Shin: "A friend? Fushiguro doesn't have friends that look like Christmas ornaments. Talk fast, or I break your legs."
A Hotel Room in Tokyo Colony 1.
The safehouse was a relic of the old world—a luxury hotel suite that had been abandoned when the barriers went up. It was a ghost of opulence. The wallpaper was peeling in the humidity, the electricity was spotty at best, and the air smelled of stale carpet, dust, and disuse. But the walls were thick concrete, the windows were high up, and the door was barricaded with heavy furniture.
Hours had passed since the extraction at the gymnasium. The group had successfully rendezvoused with Yuji Itadori and the eccentric, baffingly powerful comedian, Takaba.
The room presented a strange tableau of domesticity amidst a war zone. It was jarring. Outside, people were murdering each other for points. Inside, there was an awkward stillness.
Megumi was unconscious, resting on a velvet couch that had seen better days. He had been stripped of his tattered uniform, his wounds cleaned and bandaged with supplies raided from a nearby pharmacy. His chest rose and fell in a steady, healing rhythm. His head was pillowed softly on the lap of the winged girl, Hana Kurusu.
On the other side of the room, Yuji and Takaba were raiding the mini-bar.
Takaba: "Check this out! Peanuts from 2018! Do you think they age like wine or like milk?"
Yuji squinted at the packet, holding it up to the flickering light of a battery-powered lantern.
Yuji: "I think peanuts just... exist, Takaba-san. They don't have souls. Eat them if you want, but don't blame me if you get a stomach ache."
Takaba: "A stomach ache is just the gut's way of applauding a brave meal!"
Shin stood leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed, Playful Cloud resting within arm's reach. He ignored the comedy routine in the corner, his focus entirely on the couch. He watched the scene with a critical, cynical eye.
He observed the strange girl, Hana. She was meticulously fussing over Megumi. She brushed a stray lock of black hair from his feverish forehead. She checked the tightness of his bandages. She adjusted the blanket every time he shifted in his sleep. Her expression was soft, unguarded, and filled with a worry that went far beyond simple camaraderie or alliance debts.
It was intimate. It was the kind of look you gave someone you were terrified of losing.
Shin nudged Maki with his elbow. She was sitting on the floor nearby, legs crossed, methodically cleaning the dried blood and gore from Dragon-Bone with an oil rag. She was completely uninterested in the romantic subtext playing out on the couch, her focus solely on weapon maintenance.
Shin: "Hey, Hana."
Shin's voice cut through the quiet room. Hana jumped slightly, her hand freezing mid-motion over Megumi's hair.
Shin: "Are you Fushiguro's girlfriend or something? You're treating him like he's made of glass. The guy just killed a ancient sorcerer, he's tougher than he looks."
Maki didn't look up from her blade, but Shin saw her left ear twitch. She was listening. Even the Zenin demon enjoyed a bit of gossip, apparently.
Hana flinched violently. Her face erupted in a bright shade of crimson that reached the tips of her ears. She waved her hands frantically in front of her face, the motion creating a small breeze that nearly woke the sleeping sorcerer.
Hana: "N-no! It's not like that! Not at all!"
She stammered, her voice pitching up an octave, cracking under the pressure of the accusation. She glanced down at Megumi's sleeping face, then back at Shin, her composure crumbling into teenage embarrassment.
Hana: "I'm just... someone who owes him a debt. A great debt. Fate brought us together! That's all! It's purely... karmic!"
Shin kept his gaze level, unblinking. He watched as she turned back to Megumi. The moment she thought Shin had lost interest, her hand drifted back to Megumi's hair, stroking it with a tenderness that completely contradicted her denial.
Shin: "Right. 'Fate.'"
He let out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head.
Shin: "Lucky little fucker. Even in a death game, he pulls. I guess being the sullen, silent type really does work."
Yuji looked over from the mini-bar, his mouth full of stale peanuts.
Yuji: "Megumi's always been popular. It's the eyelashes."
Shin rolled his eyes. The levity was nice, but it felt fragile. Like a soap bubble waiting to pop.
Voice: "Jealous?"
The word cut through the room, resonating with a strange, hollow timbre. It wasn't Yuji. It wasn't Takaba.