Ukishiro floats like a miracle in the sky.
At least, that's what the pamphlets say. What the temples preach. What the sweet‑scented speeches of the Hakudama keep repeating.
A miracle.
If miracles smell like rust, sweat, and boiler smoke, then sure—maybe it is one.
But between you and me? I call it a joke. The kind you laugh at so you don't end up crying.
My shack is the perfect portrait of this so‑called "paradise."
Three different iron sheets for walls.
A door that looks more like a crooked crate nailed together.
And a roof that creaks every day like it's reminding me it could crash down on my skull any second.
The floor… oh, the floor's a patchwork of wood planks soaked in oil, so slick I could trip just by breathing too hard.
But that's what you get when you're a Kegaremono—an Impure.
I drag myself up from the bed, which is really just a board with some rags on top. My body still aches from yesterday's shift, and nothing helps except convincing myself I'm still breathing.
I push the door open with my shoulder—the hinge retired years ago—and I'm greeted by the familiar stench of steam mixed with cheap incense.
The temples around the slums puff out that perfumed smoke like it could cleanse our souls.
Me? I think it's just to mask the sweat that never leaves this place.
Our smell.
The underbelly streets of Ukishiro look like iron intestines.
Exposed pipes. Massive gears grinding nonstop.
Wires dangling like cobwebs.
Each step echoes on the metal, reminding me we're all trapped inside a floating box powered by a dead angel's heart.
Beautiful, huh? They call it the Caelestis.
The heart of an angel shot down in the Great Holy War.
They drain its energy to keep the city afloat, while we—the Kegaremono—feed the flames that stop it from falling.
Ten percent.
That's the number carved into my brain.
Only ten percent of humanity survived the war.
The rest? Ash.
And us, the wrong survivors, turned into the gears of a machine that never sleeps.
I walk slow, because running's for people with time to waste. And me? I never have any.
Today's shift is in the furnace, feeding the Caelestis.
Which means sweat burning my eyes, skin reeking of coal even after a bath—if you can call splashing cold water from a shared basin with five other guys a bath.
I pass a group of boys in spotless uniforms—Hakudama.
Little princes of high society. Descendants of the "Pure."
They look at me like I just crawled out of the sewer.
"Look, a Kegaremono!" one of them shouts.
The others burst into laughter.
I keep walking. Learned the hard way that answering back only brings more pain.
But I can't unhear it.
"Impure! Impure!"
They chant it like it's a song.
Impure. As if I chose to be born on the wrong side of history.
Up ahead, a giant mural of Alaric covers half a temple wall.
The legendary hero.
The only one to ever reach SS‑Rank. Level 549.
The savior. The man who "defeated Lucifer" and brought us the peace we live in today.
On the poster, he's smiling, sword in hand, wrapped in golden light so bright it makes my eyes sting just looking at it.
Beneath, a shining phrase: "Thanks to him, we live in the peace of the skies."
I almost gag.
If this is peace, I'll take the war.
The temple speakers crackle, flooding the street with a digital choir. Voices too perfect to be human.
"Praise the Seraphim. Praise the Council. Praise the peace of the skies."
I chuckle under my breath.
Praise. Work. Pay.
That's all they want from us.
And we, the good little Kegaremono, keep playing along—until we drop dead early.
Enough bitterness for one morning.
I push open the door of old man Takemura's shop.
It creaks, complaining at my presence.
The air smells of rice and cheap soup.
Takemura glances up, recognizes me, and his face sinks instantly.
"Well, look who crawled in," he mutters, no effort to hide the disgust. "Walking trash."
"Good morning to you too, old man," I say with a crooked smile, just to piss him off.
He doesn't laugh. He never does.
He just keeps counting coins, one by one, letting the clink echo like he wants me to feel it in my bones.
I grab a small bag of rice and two cans of soup.
Nothing more.
I pay with what's left from yesterday's shift: five Hokens.
The city's currency.
Each one a tiny triangular piece of metal, light as a lie, worth less than the sweat I spilled to earn them.
But enough to keep me from fainting today.
Takemura hands me the goods without meeting my eyes.
Like always.
To him, looking at a Kegaremono is like staring at the sun: it hurts.
I tuck the rice and cans into a makeshift bundle and turn away.
Behind me, the door slams shut with a dry snap.
I pause. Glance back from the corner of my eye.
And there it is—that look.
Quick, but sharp with disdain.
He doesn't need words. I already know what he thinks.
That I don't belong here.
That this place isn't for people like me.
I grin to myself.
The feeling's mutual, old man.
Back in the streets, the artificial sun drips weak orange light over the boilers, painting everything in rusted tones.
The coins in my pocket jingle, weighing less than my dignity.
Ukishiro might look like a miracle from above.
But I know better.
No miracle smells this rotten.