"Can't believe it." A young boy's voice was a rough whisper, absorbed instantly by the dead street.
His boots crunched on the sidewalk, the only sound that dared to exist.
"So, just like that, huh?" His hands were swallowed by the deep pockets of his coat, the sheathed blade a cold pressure against his hip.
The street was a sheet of obsidian, where the stars were too thin to pierce the smog. The only movement was detritus, scraps of paper and plastic bags skittering across the pavement like lost, brittle insects.
The late autumn air was a chilling, wet blanket, snapping at his exposed skin. He felt the fine hairs on his arms prickle beneath the heavy black coat.
"Gonna be a cold winter." He shivered, his long coat, thick as a shroud, doing little to stave off the penetrating cold.
The single yellow lion crest on his shoulder, a bold, gilded emblem and a lone white star---all was a useless splash of color in this forsaken place.
They said the Mera District was truly empty.
So it was true.
The young boy, Danto halted, his gaze sinking into the massive, darkened buildings. They held their silence like a collective, stifling burden.
There was no faint television hum, no distant cry of children, not even the soft, metallic groan of old pipes daring to defy the oppressive quiet. The emptiness pressed down so heavily, it felt as if this district had been erased from memory rather than merely just disappearing.
How could an entire district vanish in one night?
Without a word. Without a single sign.
The question was a sharp flint scratching the back of his throat.
He approached a random door and slammed his shoulder into the metal. It bucked. Solid. Locked.
Didn't budge.
A strange, fugal relief settled in his chest.
At least the looters hadn't arrived yet.
Why am I checking for burglars though? Danto didn't know; it was an ingrained, professional reflex, the ghost of a duty that refused to die.
He resumed his patrol, risking his new post in Cabonari---the global organization that handled everything the military and police wouldn't touch, from wildlings to the supernatural.
When he was younger, he originally didn't intend of joining them in the first but as time went on and a certain something happened.
He had no other choice.
How times change a man.
He exhaled a mist of air that vanished instantly.
This was his first week on the job, and already he was risking the post he'd battled for, all because curiosity refused to be staved off.
"Let's see…"
"I've already circled the main grid. Time to head back. I don't have much time." A lone bead of sweat, cold as a raindrop, tracked down the side of his temple.
He looked at the small leather watch. He had barely an hour or so before he was due at headquarters.
The thought of the clock ignited his legs. He lunged forward, the blade sheath buckling with each hurried stride. His snow-white hair whipped across his vision like a banner of speed.
I wonder if Maki has eaten…
The worry was a tight, unpleasant knot in his stomach.
I hope I left enough food for her.
He lowered his head in self-reprimand, the nervousness leaking out as a dry, humourless chuckle.
Then, his ears snared a sound.
It was a protracted groaning of tortured metal, close by, echoing against the dense silence.
What the…?
Danto's eyes snapped wide. The shock was burned off instantly, replaced by a cold, hyper-focused awareness as the noise persisted.
That sound…
He stopped his run, his focus absolute.
It shouldn't be possible.
The police and the Cabonari had scrubbed this sector clean to search if anyone was still around or just for clues---There was no one left.
So just how…
His brain instantly triangulated the direction. It wasn't far. Giving himself over to pure instinct, he focused his intent.
A faint white aura then snapped to life, gripping him like a shell from shoulders to feet. "Bushi Arts Number Thirty-One (31): Furrowed Dash!" He enunciated, the conviction in his throat cutting through the air.
The aura pulsed once, beating against the atmosphere itself, launching him forward at an inhumane velocity. He blasted through empty streets and alleyways, planting his feet and forcing himself ahead as the glacial wind whipped his face raw.
The metallic groaning snapped to a sudden, wrenching halt, making Danto immediately disperse the aura and slow to a jog.
His muscles screamed---a deep, burning ache from shoulder to heel. He felt momentarily light-headed, the effort having wrung him dry. He stretched to relieve the tenacious ache, but the pain refused to yield.
Shaking his head for focus, Danto turned a corner, entering a narrow, shadowed alleyway.
His eyes caught two figures standing casually in the pooled darkness.
Instinctively and viscerally, he recoiled back to press himself against the rough cement edge of the wall.
Were they the source of the noise?
Who are these people?
What are they doing here?
He peered around the edge, his view tightening.
They were both men. The taller one wore a long brown leather coat, which looked thick and heavy, like something salvaged from a battlefield. The shorter man wore a thick scarf and a jacket over denim jeans.
"Can't find a soul…" The tall man, Lerni, sighed, delivering a frustrated kick to an overfilled trashcan.
Its contents exploded onto the damp pavement, releasing a putrid, humid stench that clawed at the air. Flies, undisturbed by the disaster, danced merrily around the fresh ruin.
"Hey, take it easy. What did the trash can ever do to you, Lerni?" The short man, Michael, pointed at the mess.
"It doesn't matter. Look where we are. In a bloody alley with no one to gobble up in sight," Lerni said, spreading his wide arms in an exasperated gesture.
"All because of some stupid hope and a promise of free meals. And I was dumb enough to follow some turd called Michael." He grunted.
No one to gobble up? Free meals?
Danto's mind flared, and he clamped a fold of his coat tight against his nose---not just against the putrid stench of refuse, but against the rising, terrible tang that accompanied the word 'meals.'
That means…
A faint, sickening idea of who these men were started to congeal in his thoughts.
Just who are these people?
His brows furrowed into a tight knot of apprehension.
He gently reached to his hip, his index finger resting upon the chilling metallic hilt of his blade.
"Yeah, I know, but it's the smell, man," Michael said, plugging his nose.
"I can barely even use my nose. Can't even sniff up anyone even if I wanted to." He gave a futile sniff, the effort breaking out into a disgusted grimace.
He began walking slowly in Danto's direction.
Shit! What are these freaking Beast Art Users doing here?!
Danto's face grew slick with a sudden sweat, his muscles contracting and quivering.
He was a wire coiled, ready to fight or flee with a single thought.
Just my luck!
Meeting one on my first patrol.
I don't even know if I should be feeling happy or terrified right now!
But one thought was clear, clean, and cold. He swallowed.
I am not fighting them.
His body still screamed its refusal, cementing the fact that running away was out of the question for now...
---The End of Chapter 1---