The new team of four heads toward Sango.
An awkward silence fills the open road.
Najo walks along, lazily levitating stones.
Aemon stays quiet, watching the fallout—curious what Moto will do next.
Grillet (in his head): Is that really the kind of person you want to put your faith in?
Tanaka groans, dragging her feet.
"I can't take this anymore. C'mon, guys—new journey, new chapter. Nothing's lost unless we act like it is."
Moto stays silent. The others wait to see what she'll do.
Tanaka claps her hands. "Okay, team building! I'm Tanaka, and I'm going to Sango to study the Hwange."
She strides ahead, then gestures at Najo. "Your turn."
Najo sighs. "I'm Najo. I had my power taken away, and I'm going to get it back—and make them regret throwing me aside."
Tanaka raises a brow. "Yikes. Okay. Aemon?"
"You all know who I am," Aemon mutters. "I'm here because someone wouldn't let me go home."
Najo snorts. "Couldn't be me."
"Yeah?" Aemon fires back. "And I couldn't be scared out of using my own powers."
Their banter draws a faint smirk from Moto.
Tanaka looks to him. "And you?"
Moto's voice steadies. "I'm Moto Amir—and I'm going to end war in this world."
A chilling laugh cuts through the air.
"Is that so?"
They freeze.
Moto's eyes widen. "Alicia?"
The voice drips from a cicada perched on a tree.
"What do you want?" Moto asks, guarded.
"Why so tense?" Alicia purrs. "Don't you care how I've been since you dismantled my little empire?"
Tanaka groans. "Alicia, stop eavesdropping on me."
"I can't help it," Alicia teases. "I've learned so much about the Hwange just from hearing you talk."
Najo frowns. "Wait—she can hear us?"
"Yes," Tanaka mutters. "Her power lets her tap into the hearing of blood relatives."
"It's simple," Alicia cuts in. "I'm just curious how long Moto lasts. I was wrong about him, though. Not the sunny upbringing I thought. Still—what a strange leap, protecting the world that took everything from you."
"I didn't lose everything," Moto says quietly. "And I won't let it take what's left."
Alicia laughs—cold, knowing.
"Is she gonna stalk us forever?" Najo grumbles.
"Oh, I won't harm you," Alicia says sweetly. "But I will be nearby. Rebuilding. Don't get in my way, okay?"
Moto's tone hardens. "If anyone dies because of you, we'll find you."
"Relax. The Kangetsu and his brothers already ran me out of business." She sighs, almost wistful. "But I'll stay tuned ❤️"
The cicada flits away.
Moto exhales hard. "I'll train a bit. Then we move."
He disappears into the trees—fists, fire, focus—until exhaustion claims him.
It's how he copes.
Najo follows suit while Aemon watches curiously. The idea of training feels foreign to him; all he's ever known is meditation.
Green Borders
The road narrows into stone order. Beyond it, Sango's border stands immaculate—lines, uniforms, horns glinting beneath the sun.
Moto's heart races. "Finally... Sango."
"Try not to look like a tourist," Najo mutters.
Aemon yawns. "Can't help it if he's filled with hope."
"Like you'd know," Najo fires back.
Tanaka nearly vibrates with excitement. "Hwange's impact site, the archives, hybrid studies, Sango's research is legendary!"
At the gate, an officer scans their passports. "Sixty days. Stay beyond that, and you'll be removed by force."
The stamp hits with a heavy thud.
Inside, the city crushes them in sound and color—crowds, vendors, neon signs, heat.
"Let's regroup," Najo says, pulling Tanaka out of the flow.
Moto cranes his neck. "Excuse me, where can we find the quee—"
"Stop wandering." Najo grabs his collar.
Grillet materializes briefly. "This way."
Moto sneezes—smoke curls out, drifting into the crowd.
Faces twist.
"Carbon!" someone shouts.
A boy passes—a serpent on his shoulder, eyes mismatched and cold.
"Day dwellers..." he murmurs, then vanishes.
Moto stares after him. "That was... so cool."
The crowd disagrees—
"Toxic!"
"Pollution!"—
And soon they're shoved out of the district.
"What was that?" Moto gasps.
Tanaka adjusts her glasses. "This is a green nation. Your smoke reads as carbon, pollution."
Moto blinks. "That's offensive."
"Sorry," she mumbles.
"Don't apologize," Najo mutters. "His power is gross."
Moto slumps. "..."
Aemon grins. "You gonna let that slide?"
Moto straightens. "I'm still stronger than you."
Tension sparks instantly.
"Enough," Tanaka snaps. "We need shelter."
They find a shopkeeper who warns, "Curfew's coming. East lodging house. Hurry."
A young boy with uneven horns tugs a poster off the wall.
Aemon tilts his head. "Why's he like that?"
Tanaka hushes him. "Hybrid-born. Traits from both parents. Evolution. Like Najo and me."
Moto glances at the wall—bounties, eight in total.
One looks like the snake-shouldered boy.
By sunset, the streets fall silent.
Then—green lights bloom, gold hums rise
The city transforms under nightfall.
The boys collapse into bed.
Tanaka stays by the window, glasses glinting, pen dancing—documenting everything.
Meanwhile, in Gehen
The Crimson Creed, following their humiliation, is now fueled by the rage that pushed them to escape home, a reignited resentment for the world. They are now training.
, reloading.
A small concrete room hums with motion—sweat, breath, metal.
Flint darts back and forth across the table, playing ping pong against himself, each return faster than the last, the paddle a blur.
Kangetsu sits at the corner, methodically filling small glass capsules with his own blood, fastening each one onto a black tactical vest.
Seven grunts beneath a stack of weights, shifting forms mid-rep—skin rippling, bones cracking—as if chasing limits that don't exist.
Shupi, calm as a surgeon, drizzles his poisonous blood along a heavy chain, watching it hiss and smoke before swinging it through the air to test its bite.
Liam leans against the wall, book in hand, murmuring lines under his breath as faint mirages ripple off the page—illusions training themselves.
Their youngest brothers cheer, clapping, laughing, adding rhythm to the chaos.
The camera pulls back.
The entire room is moving—up, down, up again—with a deep, thunderous rhythm.
Dust falls from the ceiling.
Weights tremble.
Then the view widens—
Beneath the building, Simba presses against the earth, muscles carved in shadow, doing push-ups with the entire complex on his back.
Each rep shakes the ground.
Each breath sounds like thunder.
The Crimson Creed keeps working, unfazed.
For them, this is just a warm-up.