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Chapter 6 - The Last Warm Day: The End

'Holy…'

The metal dome had shattered.

Once pristine, it now lay in broken pieces—cracked and curled like the husk of a dead beetle. Shards of metal stuck out from the earth like splinters in a wound. The hum of protective shielding was gone—replaced now by a silence that buzzed with absence.

Simon stood among the wreckage, still holding Anya.

He couldn't speak. The world didn't make sense anymore. 

District 6 was gone.

Not damaged. Not wounded.

Gone.

Skyscrapers lay broken like snapped ribs.

Fires crackled in collapsed homes, devouring entire histories.

Blood painted the streets in strokes both accidental and intimate.

The air reeked of charred flesh, melted iron, and despair.

Ash fell like snow.

As he looked around—at the way the skyline had been sheared in half, at the scorched bodies, the screaming, the flickering flames—something sank deep into his gut and refused to leave.

Simon swallowed hard, the motion dry and useless.

"What in God's name happened…" he whispered, stumbling forward. His legs carried him numbly through the nightmare, each step weighted with disbelief.

Behind him Ren too was struggling to stay in place. When Ren regained his balance, Simon passed Anya—limp and fragile—into Ren's arms. He needed to clear the rubble for them. 

Ren stood still, as if gravity had doubled.

He didn't speak. His eyes, ocean-blue and raw, just stared ahead. Every breath felt like it scratched his lungs. Water dripped from his clothes, leaving wet prints behind. The earlier nausea had dulled, but in its place was something worse. A coldness that numbed from within. He had stopped wondering about anything. The more he wondered, the more questions came up. 

Simon placed a hand on Ren's shoulder. He tried to smile—but his lips wouldn't move.

"We have to find your mom…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Please, Lord… let her be okay."

Then he was gone again—clearing rubble with his bare hands. Slashing open his palms on jagged stone. Blood smeared the ruins as he dug through them, piece by piece, like he could rebuild time.

Ren followed. Silent.

Anya's soft breaths barely tickled his neck. Her weight felt small. Too small.

Then—he saw him.

At the heart of the destruction, a man stood alone in the clearing, breathing in the air. Calm. Quiet. Holding a severed head by the hair.

Ren's breath hitched.

A woman's body lay at his feet—limp, headless, still clothed in the same dress she'd worn that morning. Pale arms sprawled toward the sky, fingers stiff with death.

'Mom…?'

Simon froze.

And then…

His soul shattered.

"…No," he whispered at first.

It didn't sound like a protest. It sounded like a child begging the world to take it back.

"…No… you motherfucker!! I'll kill you!!"

He screamed.

Something primal broke loose inside him. He sprinted—lungs on fire, heart trying to escape his chest.

Anele turned.

Slowly.

Almost tired.

Like this wasn't worth the effort.

He raised a single finger.

A bead of blood floated from the severed head. Hung there, silent, weightless. Then—it fired.

A red streak.

It tore through Simon's skull like paper. A small, wet pop—and then silence.

Simon's body collapsed mid-stride.

Dead before it touched the ground. Like a puppet whose strings had been sliced.

"What?…"

Ren took a step back. His body felt too heavy, like it wasn't his. His arms locked tighter around Anya.

He had seen his mother's head.

A single green eye—open, glassy, lifeless.

He saw his father fall.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

And then—

His knees buckled.

Tears spilled from his eyes, hot and endless. His whole body began to shake. The ground was cold beneath him, wet from his own footprints. His arms trembled, locked around his sister like she was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Pain in his chest. Confusion in his mind.

There was pain—yes. His chest felt tight. His throat felt raw, like he'd screamed for hours even though no sound had come out.

But inside—nothing. No rage. No hate. No scream to rise with. Just a vast emptiness, like the space where his mother should've been had been scooped out of him with a dull knife. Only the tears fell. Only the shaking stayed. And he didn't understand any of it. Because this wasn't normal.

Anele exhaled. Not in anger. Not even satisfaction. Just… tired.

"Humans…" he muttered. "Always reaching above their place."

He raised another finger. Another orb of blood formed—this one aimed directly at Ren. It hovered there. Red. Silent. Ready.

But he didn't fire.

He stared at the boy kneeling in the ash—Anya's pale face tucked into his shoulder, Ren's arms locked in a death-hold, his tears soaking into her shirt, his body too numb to even flinch.

Anele paused. And then… he lowered his hand.

The orb of blood fell. It splashed softly into the ash.

Anele walked up to him. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. He stopped in front of Ren. Ren lifted his tear-streaked eyes to look at him.

Anele clicked his tongue.

"Tsk. So... you are like me. Born with affinity to water."

Ren didn't understand.

Didn't know who this man was—or why his voice sounded so calm, like none of this mattered.

'What the fuck is he rambling on about now?'

Anele tilted his head. As if reading Ren's thoughts.

Then, calmly, he reached forward and seized Ren by the hair. With one brutal motion, he slammed Ren's head into the ground.

CRACK.

"Kneel lower," Anele said.

Pain exploded through Ren's skull. White-hot. Blinding. His jaw clacked. Vision blurred. Something deep in his neck popped.

Then Anele yanked him upright by the same handful of hair. With his other hand, he closed his fingers around Ren's throat.

Ren's feet left the ground. Anya slipped from his arms. She fell gently, limp, into the ash.

Ren couldn't breathe. His mouth opened, gasping—nothing came. His ribs spasmed. His legs kicked. His throat burned. His chest caved. His eyes bulged.

A scream tried to rise but choked out into silence. His hands clawed at Anele's wrist—futile.

"You're Rhesa's spawn," Anele growled. "I should kill you right now."

Ren's body twitched. Red exploded behind his eyes. He felt something tearing inside.

Then Anele threw him.

Ren's body smashed into a mound of jagged debris.

CRACK.

His back arched. Pain carved down his spine. A shout rose—never made it out. His limbs seized. His ribs screamed.

'Anya…'

The thought was faint. Fragile.

His fingers stretched toward her but barely moved.

Then—darkness.

He didn't hear Anele's last words.

"It's no fun killing you now. Your life belongs to me anyway…"

He waved a hand, already turning away.

"I'll claim it when you're old enough to make it interesting."

Anele looked down at the girl in the ash. She lay crumpled, small and silent, her limbs curled inward like something discarded. His face twisted—not with pity, but with disgust. Like the very sight of her offended something in him. He said nothing. Just turned, and walked away from the ruins of District 6—the head still dripping blood in his hand.

***

Minutes later, the ash still drifted—not like snow anymore, but like dust shaken from something ancient.

Sirens howled in the distance—thin at first, but growing louder, sharper, real.

A soft blue light blinked through the smoke as the Department of Civil Recovery arrived—their armored vans skidding into the ruins, kicking up clouds of soot and bone dust. Behind them, two black patrol units rolled in, each marked with the sigil of District 4's emergency task force.

"Sweet god…" a voice murmured as the doors opened.

Boots crunched against scorched gravel. Uniformed responders fanned out, clutching scanners, med packs, and oxygen tanks. One of them—a woman with short black braids and a medic badge on her vest—stepped forward, hand to her comms.

"This can't be District 6. What the hell happened here?"

They didn't move quickly. No one did.

The wreckage didn't feel safe yet.

Buildings leaned like drunks on shattered knees. The roads were torn apart—veins of broken steel and melted glass spread like exposed nerves.

An officer in his thirties stared at the twisted remnants of a playground. His voice came out low, stunned. "No way anyone survived that…"

"Check anyway," the woman snapped. "Breathers, heat traces, anything. Just go."

They moved. Careful. Hesitant. Eyes wide with disbelief.

None of them had ever seen a disaster like this. In fact, none of them knew Virans could do this. Sure, a few of them had worked with Virans before—seen them move concrete, bend infrastructure. But this? This was beyond anything the world knew.

"Base, this is R-2," someone spoke into their mic. "Confirming total destruction. The eastern dome is obliterated—nothing left but cratered steel. Visual confirmation of at least twenty corpses in the immediate radius. Smoke is too thick to get an accurate count… but it's bad. Real bad."

A different officer—older, lean, with a streak of gray in his beard—stopped suddenly near a collapsed stairwell. "Over here!" he called.

The woman was already sprinting toward him.

And there—half-buried in ash and rubble—lay two figures.

A boy and a girl.

The girl was crumpled, pale as chalk, her limbs folded awkwardly beneath her.

But the boy… he was breathing.

Barely.

There was blood in his hair, smeared across his temple. His face was swollen, bruised. But his chest rose. His fingers twitched.

He was still alive.

"Get me a stretcher!" the woman barked. "I've got two juveniles—one conscious, one unconscious. Possible spinal trauma on the male."

Two responders rushed in with a collapsible stretcher and neck brace. As they lifted Ren, the girl was gently secured in a thermal wrap and placed beside him.

A moment passed. The woman crouched, peering at the boy's face.

His expression—

It wasn't just pain.

It was emptiness. Hollowed out.

His lips were parted like he'd tried to scream but forgot how. His lashes trembled. His skin was cold.

And his eyes, when they opened—just briefly—

Saw nothing.

Only the sky. The smoke. The light flashing across it.

And then—

He was out again.

"Where's the closest hospital?" one of the responders asked.

"District 4," the woman replied. "It's just across the ridge. The bridge to District 5 is still under quarantine—would take twice the time."

"But this is a District 6 case—shouldn't we—?"

"I said District 4." Her voice didn't waver. "If we wait, we'll lose them."

She placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder as the stretcher rose.

"He's got maybe minutes."

The responders moved fast now, urgency setting in. Ren and Anya were loaded into the back of the van. A technician applied a pulse patch to Ren's wrist, while another adjusted Anya's oxygen mask. Her chest rose, weak and slow, but steady.

The door shut.

The engine roared.

And just like that, the only survivors of District 6 vanished into the smoke, carried toward the Platinum City.

Toward District 4.

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