Their footsteps were quiet, save for the occasional crunch of broken stone beneath their boots.
Fang led the way, an occasional prayer leaving his chapped lips. His robe stirred with each step, the incense tied to his belt softly trailing the scent of cypress and orange ash. Beside him, the Doctor walked with hands tucked in his coat, head lowered but eyes alert—still remembering how to move in a world that had long moved on without him.
Behind them came Burngear, who occasionally flicked a stone with his heel, and Kharon, silent as ever, polespears strapped against his back like crosses. Above, Kal'tsit's drone trailed behind in ghostly silence.
The city felt like a painting left in the rain—sharp lines smeared, vibrant colors dulled into a palette of gray and blood.
The wind passed them like it was fleeing something deeper in the streets.
"So," the Doctor finally said, voice quiet, tone clinical, "District A—where the advanced combat school was located—is locked down due to an active collapseal mutation outbreak."
He paused as Fang, still walking, whispered under his breath:
"...Father."
The Doctor's lips tightened. Then he continued.
"District B and District C are currently under control by Black Roots and… a second group we can't identify yet?"
Kal'tsit's voice crackled through the drone, distant but ever sharp.
"Correct. The perpetrators has yet to name their forward operatives. All we know is they were delivered in sealed arks, and the personnel with direct contact are either untraceable or dead."
"And District D?" the Doctor asked.
"Vacated, for now," Kal'tsit confirmed.
"Reunion's frontlines fell back, but they've left something behind."
"Hmph." Burngear scoffed from behind them. "Yeah. Are you deaf, or just slow at catching up, Doc?"
Fang raised a finger behind him in a gentle hush, and Burngear huffed but fell quiet, folding his arms.
Kharon's voice followed, calm but curious.
"Then why target District A first? With the school and its terrain on top of the number of assailants, isn't it the hardest?"
The Doctor stopped for a beat, gaze flickering forward at the broken skyline.
"Every district is difficult to tackle head on. Every one of them will cost us. But if we're lucky…"
He met Kharon's gaze.
"We'll find surviving students there. If we save them, we don't fight alone."
Kharon's brow furrowed. There was something unreadable in his expression—concern, maybe, or a sliver of regret.
"You're planning to arm children," he said slowly.
The Doctor's eyes narrowed—not in annoyance, but in weight.
" They're already armed."
He turned forward again.
"What they need is purpose. And what we need… is numbers. Them."
Burngear didn't answer. But his silence now felt less venomous. More thoughtful.
"This may be easier than you think," Fang finally said, voice light as falling ash. "They chose to walk this path. We only need to clear the thorns from it."
The four moved forward—into a world that had long since died, and had refused to stay that way.
As they walked, the heavy fog that had veiled their path began to thin, pulled apart like cloth unraveling at the seams.
The deeper they stepped into the heart of District A, the more the silence gave way—not to life, but to the echoes of what once was.
And then, the fog was gone.
What remained was a collapsed neighborhood.
Houses had folded into themselves like broken paper structures—crushed beneath some unseen force or simply abandoned to rot. Stone walls split in half. Roofs caved inward. Front doors hung from their hinges, swinging gently in the unnatural breeze.
Blood marked the ground—not pooled, not sprayed, but drawn. It trailed along the cracked streets like a map, leading the eye through intersections, over rubble, across shattered vehicles and broken fenceposts. The lines converged toward the district's center.
And there, towering like a lone bastion in a field of graves—
—was the school.
Still intact. Still upright. But barely.
It stood like a survivor on its last breath. Metal braces were welded haphazardly onto one of the main towers, the central dome fractured but holding. The gate, once white and proud, was dented inwards, bent from repeated strikes. Parts of the outer wall had been reinforced with desks, chairs, even chalkboards—whatever the survivors could find.
But it wasn't quiet.
The sound struck them as they came closer—a song. Pure. Harmonious. Beautiful.
It came from the wrong throats.
Across the streets, near the fences and half-collapsed pillars, the monsters waited. Stood. Crawled. Scraped.
Elongated limbs dragged behind them like flesh and cloth merged into one. Their skin was pale, waxen, stretched taut like melted candle wax shaped into robes. From a distance, they almost resembled choir members.
Until you saw their faces.
Or what used to be faces.
Eyes that no longer blinked. Mouths that stretched wide enough to swallow grief whole. Some wore pieces of civilian clothing—school jackets, teacher's scarves, aprons, belts. Remnants of the ordinary, clinging to monsters who didn't know they weren't human anymore.
They moved in stutters. Like broken film. And their arms… long, misshapen, twisted like bone sculpted into the tools of performance—arms turned into bows, fingertips sharp and brittle, holding taut invisible strings of pain.
When they struck the school's gate or walls, it rang like an orchestra, each blow a distorted note.
They were playing the school like an instrument. And still they sang.
One of them sat at the center of the gate, cradling a lifeless child in its arms.
The child's skin was gray. Her uniform torn. Her neck bent the wrong way.
And the monster holding her…
…it was smiling.
Its hands moved gently against her hair. The song it hummed grew louder, as if trying to lull her to sleep—unaware, or uncaring, that she would never wake again.
The Doctor stopped walking. His frown deepened, and his hand unconsciously gripped the edge of his coat.
"These things…" he muttered, voice low, "they think they're helping."
Fang lowered his head, stepping closer to the edge of the crumbled walkway.
"They are helping," he whispered. "In the only way they remember how."
Kharon didn't speak. His gaze had drifted down toward a nearby home—a child's drawing taped to the shattered door, fluttering in the wind. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. But he didn't look away.
Burngear, behind them, rubbed at his eyes quickly—too quickly.
"This is messed up," he said, voice brittle and cracking. "I don't even know if I'm supposed to be pissed or—"
"Both," Kharon finally said.
The monsters sang louder, now realizing something had changed. New prey. New instruments. The song bent into a minor key.
The Doctor looked back at the school—at the jagged windows, the barricaded doors. He could see movement inside. Shadows of young ones. Survivors.
"They're still alive," he said quietly.
"And calling," Fang added, his rods now gripped with both hands. "Let's answer them."
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Hello Everyone! HundredMasks-chan here! sorry for the lack of updates, Mister Author and I have been in a frenzy of ideas, and got too many ideas done, while my work load has given me little opportunity to update, so here's one, I'll be updating the Black flame book tomorrow! please look forward to it!
as for the Collapsals- please don't worry! they're like that for a reason! trust!