The glare of the spotlights at the District 6 gate lacked the golden elegance of District 7’s celebratory lights; it was an industrial light, raw and invasive, designed to strip the soul of anyone crossing the border. Riku felt the visual impact like a physical blow. He instinctively raised his arm, trembling fingers trying to filter the brightness that burned his exhausted retinas.

  Behind that barrier of light, the metallic sound of rifles being chambered echoed like a verdict.

  Three men emerged from the shadows, moving with the brute confidence of those who had survived decades of government neglect. They weren’t the sterile, demonic soldiers of the government, but mercenaries for hire—the kind of men who wear oil-stained cargo pants, ballistic vests patched with electrical tape, and stares that had seen everything except what stood before them now.

  — STAY RIGHT THERE, CARCASS! — the one who appeared to be the leader shouted, his voice hoarse from cigarettes and dust. — One false step and I’ll scatter what’s left of you across this asphalt!

  Riku remained motionless, his breath hitching in short spasms. Through the gap between his fingers, he saw the cold barrel of an assault rifle pointed directly at his chest. The young man’s state was deplorable: his silk suit, which would cost a year’s salary for those men, was reduced to burnt rags. Blood—a viscous mixture of his own red and the red of his enemies—covered his skin like a second suit of armor, now dried and cracked.

  — Look at this... — whispered the second mercenary, a fellow with a deep scar crossing his eyebrow. He took a step forward, narrowing his eyes. — The kid looks like he came out of an industrial meat grinder. Hey, you! Are you deaf? Where did you come from with that morgue smell?

  Riku lowered his arm slowly. His eyes, red from the dust, met the mercenary's. There was no fear in them. There was only a frigid darkness, a void that seemed to suck the surrounding light.

  — Riku... — Kael’Zhorun’s voice vibrated in the depths of his consciousness, like the snarl of a chained dog smelling fresh meat. — These vermin smell of fear and cheap greed. They think the iron they carry in their hands makes them predators. Do you want me to show them what true terror is?

  Riku didn’t answer the demon, but he felt the ring on his finger pulse in a glowing onyx tone.

  — I need to get in — Riku said. His voice was a hoarse whisper, yet it carried an authority that made the mercenary leader hesitate for a millisecond. — And you are not going to stop me.

  The scarred mercenary let out a nervous, aggressive laugh, stepping close enough for the gun barrel to touch Riku’s sternum.

  — "Not going to stop us"? Listen here, corpse-in-the-making, nothing in District 6 comes for free. Either you have money, or you have something worth stealing. And from the look of you, the only thing you have is a one-way ticket to the morgue.

  He shoved the weapon against Riku’s chest, a test of dominance that, on any other day, would be the end of an ordinary man. But Riku was no longer an ordinary man. He was the vessel of Ruin, and his patience had died along with Ayane at the Central Tower.

  The sound of crushing metal echoed like a bone snapping in the tense silence of the gate. In a movement the mercenaries' eyes could barely process, Riku’s right hand was enveloped by a black mist that instantly solidified into Kael’Zhorun’s Gauntlet. The living metal closed over the barrel of the assault rifle.

  With a dry, effortless snap, the tempered steel of the weapon bent and broke as if it were made of cheap plastic. Before the scarred mercenary could pull the useless trigger, Riku’s claw shot up, closing around his neck.

  Riku lifted the man off the ground with a single arm. The mercenary’s feet kicked frantically in the air, and the muffled sound of his attempt to pull oxygen through a crushed trachea was the only audible noise. The other two guards recoiled, their hands shaking so hard they could barely keep their aim on Riku.

  — I WILL REPEAT THIS ONLY ONCE — Riku’s voice came out in a dual tone, a human frequency overlaid by the demon’s muffled roar. — You will let me in, or I will turn this gate into the night’s first morgue.

  He tightened his grip, and the metal of the gauntlet creaked against the man’s skin.

  — I didn’t come here to waste time on pawns who sell their lives for money. I need to speak with whoever runs this district. Now. — Riku tilted his head, and the scarlet glow in his eyes seemed to pierce through the remaining guards' souls. — Choose: take me to your leader, or die trying to stop me from finding him myself.

  The only one still able to reason through the primal terror emanating from Riku lowered his gun barrel slowly. Cold sweat ran down his face.

  — P-put him down... please — the man stammered, his voice failing. — Old Silas... he’s the one who calls the shots around here. He’s at the Cargo Hub, in Sector 0. I... I’ll take you there. Just don’t kill him!

  Riku released the mercenary, who collapsed onto the asphalt like a sandbag, clutching his neck and coughing violently, his face turning purple from lack of air. Kael’s gauntlet did not disappear; it remained materialized, releasing small sparks of fire that danced around it.

  — Move — Riku ordered, his gaze fixed on the man. — And if you try any kind of signal, I promise your head will be the first thing Silas sees when I enter his warehouse.

  District 6 was not the abyss of twisted metal Riku had imagined. As they walked, he saw paved streets, though cracked, lit by neon signs advertising precision munitions and everyday items. It was a middle-class place, where the profit from blood bought a comfortable life for mercenaries and arms dealers. Civilians walked hurriedly, avoiding the gaze of the "corpse-man" passing by with a demonic claw.

  Arriving at the entrance of the massive Sector 0 warehouse, the door guards—equipped with urban combat armor far superior to those at the gates—hesitated at the sight of Riku’s condition.

  — OPEN UP! — shouted the guide, his voice still weak from the grip on his neck. — It’s urgent! He wants to see the Old Man!

  The hydraulic doors groaned as they opened, revealing a cavernous interior filled with crates of military supplies and heavy weapons. At the back, in a reinforced glass room that smelled of strong tobacco and engine oil, was the man who commanded that chaos.

  Old Silas sat in a worn leather armchair. His face was furrowed by scars from a thousand battles, with a grey beard and a black leather eyepatch over his right eye. His hand rested on a heavy metal cane, its pommel glowing with a bluish light—clearly a disguised weapon.

  Silas released a dense cloud of smoke from his cigar, looking Riku up and down. His left eye, sharp as a blade, stopped at Kael’s gauntlet.

  — What does a dead piece of meat like you want here in my office? — Silas’s voice was like gravel being crushed. — You smell of incinerator fire. If you came here to die, the morgue is two blocks away. If you came to negotiate, I hope you have something more valuable than that torn suit and that iron hand.

  Riku took a step forward, the metal of the gauntlet creaking. The dried blood on his face began to peel, revealing the paleness of someone losing the fight against exhaustion.

  — I didn’t come to negotiate, Silas — Riku replied, his voice cold and cutting. — I need a doctor, a place to close my eyes for a few hours, and the information that only an old rat like you possesses regarding Morozumi’s whereabouts.

  Silas arched a grey eyebrow, releasing another puff of smoke.

  — "Old rat"? — He let out a dry laugh that ended in a raspy cough. — You’ve got nerve, kid. You’re either very stupid or you’ve already accepted you’re going to hell today. What makes you think I’d help someone carrying the mark of Ruin on their arm?

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  The silence in the glass room was suddenly shattered by a wet, hollow sound, the hydrodynamic snap of extreme pressure meeting bone resistance.

  Riku didn’t hesitate. Before the mercenary who had guided him could let out a sigh of relief for being "safe" before his master, Kael’Zhorun’s Gauntlet acted. The black metal fingers, articulated like the claws of a colossal insect, closed over the soldier’s skull. There was a millisecond where the man’s eyes widened, realizing that death was but a squeeze away.

  The pressure was instantaneous. The guard’s tactical helmet crumpled like aluminum foil, and the sound of the skull splitting echoed through the glass walls like dry branches being snapped in a fire. A jet of hot blood and brain matter sprayed violently forward, dirtying Silas’s oak desk, staining cargo reports, and hitting the side of the old leader's face. The mercenary’s body collapsed like a ragdoll, his limp neck supporting only what remained of a hanging jaw.

  Riku stood still, the gauntlet dripping a thick crimson onto the expensive rug. He didn’t wipe away the blood that splashed onto his own face; he only fixed his frigid gaze, devoid of any spark of humanity, on Silas.

  — I DID NOT COME TO NEGOTIATE, OLD MAN — Riku’s voice vibrated with a metallic timbre, Kael’s influence distorting every syllable. — I have no money, I have no time, and as you can see, I no longer have a single drop of mercy.

  He took a step forward, crushing the helmet fragments under his boot. The smell of gunpowder from Silas’s cigar was replaced by the metallic, raw scent of recent death.

  — You are going to give me what I need: a trusted doctor who asks no questions, a bed where I can regenerate this body, and Morozumi’s exact location. If you hesitate, if you look away, or if you try to trigger that cane... I will rip out your spinal cord inch by inch and decorate this warehouse with what’s left of your authority.

  Riku leaned over the blood-stained table, the heat emanating from the gauntlet making the whiskey in Silas’s glass begin to evaporate.

  — Cooperating with me is the only reason your heart is still beating. Now... I will be the last nightmare you see before hell. Understood?

  Old Silas did not flinch. On the contrary, the sound that escaped his throat was a dry, loud laugh, a cacophony of phlegm and smoke that vibrled against the room's tempered glass. He wiped the warm blood that had trickled down his face with the back of his calloused hand, staring at the brain matter scattered across his reports with a sadistic, nostalgic pleasure.

  — That’s it! — Silas exclaimed, thumping his metal cane against the floor, producing an electric chime. — Finally, someone who doesn’t waste breath on useless etiquette. You aren’t a man, kid. You’re a catastrophe with legs. And I love the sound of a good catastrophe happening.

  Silas stood up with effort, his left eye shining with renewed greed. He didn’t seem the least bit disturbed by the headless corpse at his feet; in District 6, life was the cheapest currency, and Riku had just proven he was the central bank of that hell.

  — I’m going to help you, Ruin. Not out of charity—I buried my charity along with my right leg twenty years ago—but because I believe that when the time comes, you’ll be the hammer I use to crack the skulls of certain people. Consider this a venture investment.

  Silas signaled for Riku to follow him. They left through the back of the warehouse, crossing narrow alleys where steam from the pipes hid them from curious eyes. A few blocks ahead was Dr. Vane’s clinic—the most talented butcher in the district.

  The place was poorly lit, smelling of ozone and cheap antiseptic. Vane, a man of steady hands and tired eyes, was cleaning a scalpel when he saw Riku’s deplorable figure enter, sustained only by hate and the still-fuming gauntlet.

  — Vane, this here is my new... friend — Silas announced, tossing a metallic key onto the surgical table. The key had a worn tag that read: "203 - MARKET" — Patch up what’s left of his flesh. Stitch the organs, clean the blood, and make sure he doesn’t die. When you’re finished, take him to the East Apartments, room 203. It’s my personal sanctuary; no one enters there without my permission.

  The doctor looked at Kael’s gauntlet and then at Riku. He didn’t ask the patient’s name, didn’t question the origin of that forbidden "technology," and didn’t even blink at the young man’s catatonic state of fury.

  — Lie on the table, kid — Vane said, his voice devoid of emotion as he prepared a syringe with a luminescent blue liquid. — If you want to stay alive, first I need to make sure your engine doesn’t stop beating.

  Silas gave Riku’s shoulder—or what remained of his suit—one last pat and turned to leave, the sound of his cane echoing in the metallic hallway.

  — Rest, Ruin. District 6 will look after you for now. But remember: sleep is short.

  The sound of the electronic latch echoing in the empty hallway of the East Apartments was the first sign that Riku was, technically, alive. Dr. Vane had performed a miracle, or perhaps it was just Kael’s corrupt biology forcing the cells to close under the command of hatred. Riku now displayed fresh scars, sealed with polymer surgical staples and covered by synthetic bandages that smelled of ozone.

  He gave a slight nod to the doctor—a dry gesture, devoid of gratitude, merely an acknowledgment of services rendered. Vane, without a word, turned around and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

  Riku inserted the metal key into the lock of unit 203. The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing Silas’s sanctuary.

  The apartment was the opposite of District 7’s sterile luxury. It was a place of concrete and steel, with reinforced windows overlooking the weapons market below. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil and old dust. In the center of the room, an oak table held a holographic monitor blinking red, transmitting coded data that Silas likely used to monitor local smuggling.

  Riku entered and closed the door behind him, sealing out the outside world.

  He walked to the center of the room, feeling every inch of his skin pull against the bandages.

  — *Finally... a moment of silence for Ruin* — Kael’Zhorun’s voice whispered, echoing in the walls of Riku’s mind like distant thunder. — *Feel your heart, vessel. It beats slower now, but each beat carries the weight of a thousand souls you have yet to harvest. Silas was useful, but make no mistake... this place is a cage, and you are a predator not meant for captivity.*

  Riku didn’t answer. He walked to the window and watched the neon lights of District 6. Down below, life went on: mercenaries drinking, civilians bargaining.

  His eyes then landed on a metal briefcase left on the bed. It had the emblem of Ayane’s old Aquila unit engraved on the clasp, but it was covered in a layer of dust. Beside it sat a small, old voice recorder.

  Riku felt a tightness in his chest that none of Vane’s sedatives could erase.

  His hands trembled as he held the plastic device. The name "Ayane" on the briefcase seemed to glow under the room’s amber light, an open wound that no black-market doctor could close.

  He pressed the play button. The hiss of the old tape filled the silence of apartment 203 before her voice emerged.

  — I miss you... every day... — Ayane’s voice was different from the stern, focused tone Riku knew. It was soft, brittle, laden with vulnerability. — After you and the others were gone... Aquila fell. The sky went empty. I came back to District 6, to Silas. He welcomed me well, in his blunt way, but it still hurts to look at the places where we used to celebrate our victories.

  Riku closed his eyes, his forehead leaning against the cold metal of the briefcase. He could visualize Ayane sitting in that very room years ago, recording those words for a man who would never hear them.

  — I’ll stay here for a while, but I need to move on. I need to know... what that was. That "being" that tore us apart. It wasn't a man. It was something... unusual. I will find it, my love. I promise. I love you always.

  — *She was hunting something beyond the understanding of this weak flesh...* — Kael’s voice resonated, cold and calculating. — *She saw the Void, vessel. And the Void looked back at her.*

  Riku squeezed the recorder tightly, the surgical staples in his shoulders throbbing. The physical pain was a reminder that he was still alive, but Ayane’s message was the fuel that transformed his exhaustion into purpose.

  He opened the briefcase.

  Inside the case was a uniform; the fabric of the Aquila uniform slid through Riku’s fingers with smoothness. It was a garment of superior engineering: a high-density combat mesh, reinforced with flexible Kevlar plates and finished in deep black synthetic leather, adorned with golden insignias that now looked like relics of an era of heroes the world had forgotten to bury.

  Riku brought the clothes to his face, closing his eyes. Ayane’s scent was still there, embedded in the fibers—a subtle perfume. For a brief second, room 203 ceased to be a mercenary hideout and became a sanctuary. The pain of his wounds seemed to recede before that sensory connection.

  He stripped off the bloodied rags that remained from the District 7 massacre. His ribs were marked by scars. The clothing fit his body perfectly, designed for absolute mobility and to withstand the impact of combat. However, he would not wear it with the honor and discipline of its former owner. He would transform it into a shroud of vengeance.

  — *You dress yourself in the colors of the dead, vessel* — Kael’Zhorun murmured, his voice vibrating like a satisfied purr inside Riku’s skull. — *But the blood that will stain this uniform will be very much alive. A poetic tribute, I’d say.*

  At the bottom of the briefcase, beneath the weight of the clothes, Riku found a piece of paper. It was a sketch, hastily made by hands that clearly trembled while drawing.

  The drawing depicted a figure that defied logic. It wasn't government armor. It was something organic and fluid, armor in deep bluish tones that seemed to have been forged in the abyssal trenches of the ocean, where pressure crushes even steel. The plates overlapped like the scales of a prehistoric creature, and the helmet’s visor did not emit light but a vague, unsettling glow, like the bioluminescence of the deep.

  Riku felt a cold shiver run down his spine. There was something in that image that made the Ruin within him stir—not with hatred, but with a strange form of recognition. Ayane had spent her last years hunting that blue apparition—the "being" that had obliterated her companions and destroyed her heart even before Morozumi finished the job.

  He folded the drawing carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his suit.

  — So that’s what you saw, Master... — Riku whispered, looking at himself in the broken bathroom mirror.

  The image staring back at him was that of a specter. A warrior dressed in the military luxury of the Aquila, but with the eyes of a demon and the soul of an executioner. He was no longer the orphaned student. He was the extension of the fury from losing Ayane, from losing Ayaka, and the armed wing of a justice that accepted no surrender.

  Riku slept for hours, but his slumber was disturbed. He was ripped from this torpor not by an alarm clock, but by a violent tremor that shook the building's foundations. The sound of shattering glass and the characteristic roar of heavy combustion engines filled the room.

  Riku sprang from the bed, the Aquila uniform snapping against his body. He ran to the window, and what he saw was a scene of total war. The government was no longer playing around; the Infernal Containment Unit had besieged the eastern sector. Colossal war tanks, with reactive armor and 120mm cannons, crushed the market stalls as if they were made of cardboard. Armored trucks discharged entire platoons of brainwashed soldiers, while rotary machine guns mounted on the vehicle roofs spat continuous lines of fire, illuminating the black smoke with flashes of death.

  Down below, Silas's men fought bravely, but it was a losing battle. Grenades exploded against the Infernal Armors, which advanced while ignoring shots from ordinary rifles.

  The door to room 203 was kicked open with a crash. Old Silas entered, his breathing heavy, his face smeared with soot, and his left eye glowing with desperate fury. He leaned on his metal cane, which emitted clicks of blue electricity.

  — WAKE UP, RUIN! — Silas roared, drowning out the sound of a nearby explosion that caused the hallway ceiling to partially cave in. — Those bastards didn't wait for breakfast. They tracked you! They’re tearing my district apart until they find you!

  Silas spat a remnant of blood onto the floor and pointed toward the window with his cane.

  Riku looked at Silas, and Kael’s Gauntlet awakened; the organic metal plates expanded and emitted a feverish heat that caused the air around his arm to distort. The pain from his recently closed wounds was still there, a sharp throb, but adrenaline and hatred transformed it into pure kinetic energy.

  — They came looking for me? — Riku asked, his voice sounding like metal being dragged across asphalt. He adjusted the collar of the Aquila uniform, the golden emblem shining under the light of the fires outside. — Great. I was starting to get bored just sleeping.

  He didn't use the door. Riku walked toward the reinforced glass window.

  — Silas, stay here and don't leave — Riku said without looking back. — I’ll take care of what’s down there.

  With a punch from the gauntlet, Riku shattered the tempered glass and leaped into the chaos of District 6, using the gauntlet against the building wall to control his fall, landing in the middle of the mayhem.

  — Kael, let’s begin the massacre — Riku said, cracking his knuckles.