Chapter 1: Universe 601
Tokyo — the city of light, of steel, and of solitude.
Beneath the skyline, endless streets stretch into infinity, illuminated by rivers of LED light that carve glowing veins through the dark asphalt. The glass and concrete walls on both sides reflect each other's light, turning the city into a shimmering, lifeless maze.
Ancient shrines still stand here and there, buried under the shadows of skyscrapers — lost fragments of an older world swallowed by steel. In the distance, Tokyo Tower and Tokyo Skytree pierce the clouds like colossal metal pillars, symbols of both pride and despair for a generation born after the war.
The sound of Tokyo at night isn't laughter.
It's the rhythm of typing keys.
Inside glass towers, office workers hunch over holographic screens, their pale faces bathed in the glow of cold blue light. The tapping of keyboards, the hum of air vents, the whir of servers — all blend into a monotonous symphony of exhaustion.
The districts that once overflowed with life and youth in the 2000s now stand hollow and silent.
LED billboards still play anime ads on loop, their cheerful voices echoing into empty streets.
Reflections of neon lights ripple across puddles from an old rain, shimmering on a Tokyo that no longer feels alive.
Inside a 7-Eleven, the shelves are nearly bare — only instant noodles and canned coffee remain.
Steam rises from paper cups, curling into the stale air mixed with the scent of plastic and fluorescent dust.
Office workers slurp their noodles in silence, eyes fixed on the clock, praying for morning — or perhaps, for another day just like the last.
And then the clock strikes 00:00 AM, July 7th, 2027.
At first, it's just a thin mist seeping up from the sewers.
It drifts gently across the black asphalt, weaving through alleys, slipping under doorways.
Then it thickens — white, heavy, cold.
The first person to breathe it in collapses within seconds.
Their body convulses, eyes rolling back.
Blood spills from mouth and nose, turning darker and thicker until it's black.
Their screams die in their throats as their skin blisters, cracks open, and peels away.
Bones snap. Flesh drips like melting wax.
And then — the corpse stands.
Trembling.
Jerked upright by something unseen.
It begins to walk, leaving a trail of black slime that gleams under the streetlights.
They are no longer human.
Only something between life and death, driven by pain and hunger, shambling through the ruins in search of anything still breathing.
The white fog spreads.
Into markets. Onto buses. Through apartment blocks.
Wherever it touches — life ends.
---
At the edge of Tokyo, a cluster of sixteen white towers still glows faintly, rising sixty to seventy stories high — like pillars holding up the night sky.
Thousands of windows shimmer like stars, but one by one, those lights begin to die as the mist climbs higher.
It has reached the fourth floor.
Fire alarms scream. Red strobes flash through blood-smeared hallways.
Inside Building 13, Room 1313, a girl trembles in the corner of her room.
Her long brown hair curls slightly at the ends, her bangs neatly trimmed.
Her skin is white as milk, her eyes the color of pale blue glass.
She's small — barely 152 centimeters tall — and still wearing her thin pajamas.
Her hands shake as she dials her family.
"Tuut… tuut…"
No one answers.
Outside, the sound of helicopters thunders through the rain.
Rescue choppers marked with red crosses hover between the towers, their spotlights cutting through the night.
Then — a piercing roar.
A sound that tears the air apart.
The window explodes inward.
Pressure knocks her to the floor.
Above the skyline — F-22 Raptors streak across the clouds, their hulls painted in the color of cold steel-blue.
Flames burst from their engines, their afterburners screaming as machine guns rain fire upon the rescue helicopters.
Explosions bloom like fiery flowers in the sky.
Helicopters ignite and spiral down like burning meteors.
Missiles launch a heartbeat later.
Streaks of red light cut through the rain.
Building 12 erupts in a single detonation — a thunderous bloom of dust and debris rising like a storm.
Concrete collapses, devouring the screams below.
Then silence.
Only the sound of rain.
The jets vanish into the night, leaving behind the acrid stench of smoke and metal.
The girl looks down — her pants are soaked.
Rainwater? Maybe. Or fear.
Outside, rain falls heavier now.
Each drop hits the street with a hiss, dissolving the white fog, washing over the blackened corpses below.
The city glimmers again under neon and thunder, a ghost of itself.
Down on the ground, the twisted things crawl through puddles, dragging their broken limbs, whispering metallic screeches that echo off the walls.
The girl picks up her phone.
No signal.
No police.
No one left.
Only her.
Alone in a dying world.
And then — a flicker in her eyes.
A memory. A thought.
The faintest spark of control.
> "...I still have my hounds."
Her trembling fingers tap the glowing green icon — LINE.
The white background loads slowly, flickering through static.
She types a single kanji: 「夫」.
Instantly, a list unfolds before her — endless names, endless numbers.
Her "hounds."
Waiting.
And somewhere deep beneath Tokyo, something stirs.
Something old.
Something awake.
[To be continued]