The Kashima Maru was a hovering hospital for a man who had become a living paradox. Ren Hanshin sat in a high-backed chair on the bridge, his eyes fixed on the grey horizon. He didn't move. He couldn't. Every time he shifted his weight, he felt the sickening grind of salt crystals against his joints. The salt bags, the collective grief of the Shinjuku porters he had absorbed was crystallizing inside his marrow. He was a man built of dirt and starlight, but the dirt was turning to stone, and the starlight was trying to burn its way out.
[Synchronization: 49.98% (CRITICAL LOCK)]
[Divine Mana: 0.05 / 150]
[Condition: Mana Burnout]
"Niisan, please, just take a sip," Haru whispered. She held a cup of warm broth to his lips, her hands trembling.
Ren tried to open his mouth, but the skin around his jaw felt brittle, like aged parchment. He managed a tiny sip before his body rejected it, a harsh cough racking his frame. He spat a mouthful of grey, salty phlegm onto the floor.
