The warehouse was no longer a shrine. It was a battlefield.
Light and shadow tore the air apart. Every clash between Hikari no Ame and Kurohane sent shockwaves that rattled the wooden beams, snapping them like bones. The ground split under Renji's feet, jagged cracks spreading like veins of fire and ink.
Renji pressed against the wall, his ears ringing. He could barely follow what was happening—only the flashes:
Hikari's naginata carving arcs of searing white light that melted the shadows like wax.
Kurohane's jagged sword dragging darkness that hissed like boiling oil, splitting the floor into rotting void.
And between each strike, the sound. Not steel. Not wood. But something alive tearing apart, like flesh ripping.
A feather—white, glowing—was torn from Hikari's wings. It drifted down, cracked, and burst in a spray of golden fire that burned into Renji's arm. He screamed, the scent of cooked skin rising from him.
"Move!" Hikari's voice sliced through the chaos. "Do not stay in the middle!"
But his legs refused him. The mark on his hand pulsed, glowing brighter, crawling up his veins. It felt like knives were threading through his blood.
Kurohane noticed. His grin widened, revealing teeth like splintered bone.
"The Crest gnaws at him already. Soon, boy, you won't know where you end and it begins."
He slashed his blade. Darkness erupted from the floor, spears of shadow ripping toward Renji.
"NO!" Hikari roared, intercepting. Her naginata cleaved through the darkness, but the impact hurled her body against the wall. Wood shattered, blood spraying from her mouth.
Renji's breath hitched. Her blood was not red—it glowed faintly, like liquid sunlight, but it steamed as it touched the ground, eating into the wood. The smell was sweet and sickening.
Kurohane laughed, stepping closer. His wings unfurled, massive, each feather dripping with black sparks that hissed as they touched the floor.
"Do you see, boy? Even Heaven bleeds. And when I tear her open, you'll understand which side holds true power."
He raised his sword. Its jagged edge dragged sparks, leaving scorch marks across the floor.
Renji's body moved before his brain. He stumbled forward, hand clutching his burning crest. "S-stop…!"
The mark flared. White and black light exploded from his palm, searing the air. His scream twisted into something inhuman, echoing like a thousand voices overlapping.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Kurohane stopped, eyes narrowing. Hikari's golden gaze locked on Renji, widening with recognition—and fear.
The air split. Between his fingers, the light condensed into a distorted shape—neither sword nor shield, but something raw, shifting, alive. It pulsed, like it wanted to bite.
Renji gasped, his veins bulging, skin splitting in thin cracks where the glow leaked. Blood mixed with light, dripping down his arm.
Kurohane's grin faltered into something darker. "Ah… so the Crest doesn't slumber after all."
The warehouse shook violently. The rafters gave way. Splinters rained like arrows, slicing Renji's cheek open. Warm blood slid down his face.
Hikari forced herself to stand, naginata trembling in her grip. She shouted, voice hoarse but commanding:
"Renji! Do not give it control!"
But the Crest surged, hungering, burning his nerves raw. Renji clutched his head, howling as the voices returned—one whispering promises of salvation, the other of annihilation. Both demanding his obedience.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard one thing clearly:
"Sacrifice… or be consumed."
Renji's knees buckled. His vision swam in light and shadow. His body was tearing itself apart, and all he could do was wonder if this was how his life ended—shredded in a war he didn't understand.
The clash of wings, white and black, roared again. But Renji was no longer just watching.
He was the battlefield.