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It wasn’t fair.
They had won, hadn’t they?
Moments ago, she had nearly given up, ready to fight until her last ragged breath. Then Okarun burst out of nowhere and saved her yet again. For a brief, shining heartbeat, it had felt like they might actually win.
Then the others arrived. They fought as one. She had even flattened that space-warping bastard who'd taken down Okarun in the first place. And the pervert appeared just long enough to fight off Vamola’s stolen suit.
They had won.
They reclaimed Okarun’s family jewel. The gateway began to close. It was finally over.
Until it wasn’t.
The dark, empty sky flickers to life—thousands of blinking lights. Ships pour through in endless waves, a twisted imitation of the stars.
She feels the victory slip through her fingers, replaced by a chilling dread. It’s a sickening kind of cruelty—letting them believe they had won, only to snatch it away so completely. Her heart sinks deeper with each flickering light blooming in the sky.
Tokyo is being shredded to pieces around them, but it’s still just empty space, isn’t it? Just an illusion. No one can truly be hurt here.
Then the sky itself cracks.
Enormous gashes tear through the void, flooding the darkness with blinding streams of city light—neon signs, streetlamps, headlights from distant cars, all bleeding into the black. The world trembles. It feels as if the heavens themselves are tearing open and crashing down. The illusion fractures with a sound like glass shattering into a million shards.
She stumbles as the ground heaves violently beneath her, nearly losing her balance. Dust fills her lungs—sharp, choking, thick with the scent of ozone and burning metal—as screams erupt around her.
Her head whips back, heart hammering.
Suddenly, it’s real.
The sky has fallen, bringing reality crashing down with it.
Concrete crumbled, steel shrieked, asphalt split open. The sounds she'd grown numb to in that detached pocket space now fused with thousands of human screams. Pain. Panic. Real people.
They needed the robot. If they had the robot, they could smash through the ships, couldn't they? But there were too many, and Kinta was nowhere to be found.
Across the street, an apartment building folded inward, spilling terrified people out into the open. Men, women, seniors.
Children.
Down the street, they appeared—dozens of aliens, armored in the same strange suits they'd been fighting for what felt like hours, moving with eerie, unified precision. Patterns on their armor shimmered under the cold light, alien symbols shifting in ways her mind couldn't follow.
They advanced toward the crowd, calm and deliberate, weapons raised.
Hard-light beams sliced through the air, searing arcs of destruction. Some screams ended abruptly, cut off mid-breath.
Beside her, Okarun made a strangled sound.
She was empty, utterly spent, but there was no choice left. She clawed for the last scrap of her strength, braced herself, and hurled it forward.
Teal spirit-hands flared briefly into existence, just long enough to slam one alien across the avenue and through a storefront window. As soon as they struck, her powers dissolved into shimmering motes of light.
Another child screamed. Panic surged in her throat, choking off her shallow breaths.
One down. A hundred more coming.
Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the pavement.
She had to do more.
She raised a trembling hand toward the advancing line, only to be abruptly yanked off her feet.
Cold, wiry arms pull her tight against a rigid chest.
Okarun.
What was he doing? If he could still transform, why wasn't he helping them?
"Okarun!" She hammered weakly against his chest, tears stinging her eyes. "What are you doing? We can't leave them!"
"I'm sorry, Momo-chan," he rasped. The words were gurgling, thick with blood.
She looked up. Blood coated his jaw, seeping between blunt teeth as he fought desperately for breath. Crimson tears streaked down his face, staining the curse marks on his cheeks.
He was using every last ounce of his fading strength just to carry her away, every ragged breath a painful, gurgling effort that resonated through her own chest
An energy beam shrieked past, narrowly missing them. Another followed, invisible yet audible as it ripped through the air. Okarun staggered, groaning, but his grip only tightened as he forced himself upright again and kept running.
She reached inward once more, desperately seeking even a scrap of power to help him.
Nothing.
Instead, she curled closer, steadying his faltering balance.
They ran.
Behind them, the screams rose, sharp and frantic,then cut off, swallowed by silence. The sounds of the city faded, swallowed by distance. Even the ships seemed to vanish behind them, their rumble lost to the horizon.
They run. And keep running.
Behind them, the distant thunder of destruction rumbles—collapsing steel, screaming engines, the low, relentless hum of ships blotting out the sky. She risks a glance upward and instantly regrets it. The view is swallowed by dark, metallic hulls. The sky is gone.
She tries the communicator, but all that comes through is piercing static. No signal. No clue how the others are faring.
She doesn’t know where Okarun is heading.
Between shattered towers, the alien ships loom like sleeping giants, their dark hulls pulsing softly—malevolent heartbeats in the smoky twilight. Even miles away, their shapes ripple through the smoky air, casting long shadows across the ruined cityscape like claws.
The city blurs past—glass, concrete, flame—then gives way to suburbs, then trees, and finally a clearing she recognizes. The hospital is long gone, but the crater remains.
His steps falter. By the time they reach the entrance to the underground shelter, he’s barely moving—staggering, dragging one foot after the other. At the stairs, he nearly collapses.
“I’m sorry, Ayase-san,” he rasps. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“No,” she says, voice muffled against his chest. “It’s a good idea. They won’t find us here… I think.”
Rokuro had mentioned something about natural radio jamming, and there’s still some food, some water…
But Okarun sounds wrong. Strained.
She’d been so relieved to see him earlier, crashing into the fight like a miracle. She hadn’t questioned it.
How had he even been walking?
That morning, Mr. Shrimp had told her Okarun would need at least a few days to recover. She hadn’t really expected him to wake up so soon. The curry had been more of a prayer than a plan—a small, desperate hope that maybe it might help.
She gets her answer a moment later.
At the bottom of the stairs, his knees give out. He crumples, coughing violently, but keeps his mouth shut, jaw clenched tight. Even as he sinks, he refuses to let go of her.
Only when she scrambles free of his grip does he release her, bracing himself on the floor as the transformation unravels.
The mask dissolves—and blood gushes.
He doubles over, hacking, each cough sending fresh red splattering across the concrete.
He’s not healed. Not even close.
Shaking, she grabs his arm and hauls it over her shoulder, dragging him upright. Instinctively, she reaches for power to ease the weight—nothing. Not even a flicker.
“Let’s get you back on the machine, Okarun.”
He doesn’t answer. She guides him into the small room that’s been his makeshift medbay for the past week.
She, Mr. Shrimp, and Aira have rehearsed the setup a dozen times. Her hands tremble, but her movements stay sure. She eases him onto the cot, reattaches the tubing, checks the monitors. The routine grounds her.
“I’m sorry... Ayase-san...” he murmurs, voice ragged, barely audible, each syllable a struggle between shallow breaths. His eyes flutter shut as if the weight of his own words is too much to bear.
“Don’t,” she whispers, fitting the breathing tube in place.
The wheezing softens immediately. He exhales, shuddering, and goes limp—unconscious before she even finishes securing the straps.
She adjusts his pillows, gently eases off his jacket, doing her best to make him comfortable.
As she folds it, two things fall out: the golden ball, and a note—crumpled, creased, clutched too tightly for too long.
“Love ya — Momo.”
She presses it to her chest, as if it could anchor her to a world that no longer exists. Granny’s laughter. Okarun’s smile at school.
But that world feels impossibly far away now. The note is all she has left of it.
Only then do the tears come.
Quiet, aching tears spill down her face, unchecked and burning, each drop heavy with grief for the world she once knew, now reduced to distant memory.
She’s powerless. The aliens are tearing the city apart. Okarun is hurt. And she—
She forces a deep breath. Steadies herself, just as Granny taught her—one breath at a time, one heartbeat more.
There’s nothing she can do right now.
One step at a time. She tends to her own wounds, wrapping gashes with practiced hands. She’s had plenty of experience this past week.
Then a sudden noise startles her.
It buzzes inside her skull.
“kshh—kshh—Momo! Momo, are you there?!”
The shelter shudders.
She rushes to the door, shielding her eyes from the dust and wind. For a breathless moment, she thinks the sky is full of ships again—points of light crowding the horizon, cold and unblinking. Her stomach knots.
But no. They're stars.
With the city lights snuffed out, the sky has come alive—more vivid and crowded than she’s ever seen. Pinpricks of silver stretch across the heavens, unfamiliar and dazzling. It’s beautiful. And wrong. Too many stars. Too much sky. As if someone had torn back the curtain on a world she was never meant to see. She forces herself to look away as the ramshackle house lurches into view, slowing beside the shelter. Familiar faces lean out the windows.
They pile out before the doors fully open, and she runs to meet them.
Aira. Jiji. Kinta. Vamola. She wraps each of them in tight, desperate hugs. Their faces are hollowed with exhaustion, streaked with ash and blood—but there’s relief too. Overwhelming, unspoken relief.
“Takakura-san?” Aira asks, quiet and tight-lipped.
"He’s back on the machine," she says quietly. "He... he’s still hurt."
Aira’s mask falters, just for a second.
“I’m glad you’re all safe,” Mr. Shrimp says from behind, wringing his hands. “But I’m sorry—I have to go. I have to check on…”
“I understand,” Momo says, catching the look in his eyes. “Thank you. For everything.”
He bows once and tears off into the distance, a sliver of the nanoskin that makes up the house forming a small vehicle for him.
They stand there for a moment, the silence pressing in like a heavy blanket. Somewhere far off, she thinks she hears the distant rumble of destruction—collapsing steel, distant cries, the flicker of light blooming against the dark.
Then Aira turns, voice low but steady.
“We need to rest. Regroup. We’ll plan the next move once we’ve recovered.”
But no one rests.
They gather around the shelter’s old television and radio, bandaging wounds, clinging to the sound of any outside voice. The same emergency broadcast loops over and over—static-laced reassurances, clipped warnings, shaky voices telling them to stay indoors, to shelter in place. The government is responding. International aid from South Korea, the US, even distant Europe, is en route—but it's like throwing buckets of water at a wildfire. Tokyo burns, and the world watches, helpless.
Flashes of drone and helicopter footage fill the screen—buildings leveled, smoke curling into the sky, chaos on every street.
The static crackles like distant thunder. Occasionally, the camera cuts to a long shot—alien ships drifting through the smoke-choked sky, their cold metal shells reflecting the fires still burning across the city. They hover there, silent and immense, a reminder of the invasion’s weight pressing down on the world.
The anchor stumbles over her words.
Casualties may already be in the millions.
And still, nobody, neither the government nor the media, understands what’s really happening.
Only they do.
They try calling out, reaching for anyone, anywhere—family, friends, the government, rescue teams. Someone needs to know what’s really happening. But the lines are dead, choked by the flood of desperate calls jamming the networks. Phones, radios, everything—the air is thick with static, a cacophony of panic blocking every signal.
She knows it’s pointless. Knows she won’t get through. But she dials Granny’s number anyway, her hands trembling.
No signal.
Aira, Jiji, and Kinta try their own contacts, cycling through family, emergency hotlines, government offices—anyone who might listen.
Nothing.
Every line is jammed. Every voice is silent.
Vamola sits off to the side, staring blankly at the wall, her eyes dull, the fight drained from them. Momo sees in her expression a terrifying glimpse of resignation—the look of someone who’s already lived through this nightmare and knows exactly how much worse it can still get.
Momo wants to go to her. Wants to speak. But she can’t. She’s barely holding herself together. So instead, she moves slowly and numbly to Okarun’s side.
He’s still unconscious, hooked up to the life support machine. Pale. Still. The only sign he’s alive is the faint, rasping sound of his labored breathing, and the slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest.
She kneels beside him and takes his hand. Presses it gently to her forehead, letting her bangs fall forward to hide her face from the others.
And quietly, she cries.
She must have passed out at some point. The air in the shelter is still, heavy with exhaustion, and thick with the kind of silence that only follows grief.
But morning comes. And with it, choices.
“I have to find my parents,” Jiji says first, voice raw. “I can’t lose them again.”
Aira rounds on him. “You think I don’t want to run out there and find my father?”
Her throat tightens. She wants nothing more than to bolt north, to tear through the ruins of Japan until she finds her grandmother.
“But if we go now, injured, disorganized, out of power—” Aira’s voice breaks. “All we’ll do is die out there.”
Kinta backs her up, calm and cautious. Jiji snaps back, accusing him of cowardice. The bitterness in his voice is sharp—raw, like an edge she’s never heard from him before.
Vamola stays silent, staring at the floor, her face unreadable.
Momo wants to say something—anything—but her thoughts spiral, a tangle of helplessness and fear. What would Ken-san do? she thinks wildly, clinging to the image of her hero. But Ken Takakura never had to fight an alien invasion. He never had to watch the world fall apart.
The argument builds, voices rising and cutting across each other.
Then, a sharp hiss of escaping air breaks through it all.
Okarun stirs. His oxygen mask slips askew as he moves, his fingers weakly fumbling at the straps.
“Please... don’t fight.”
His voice is cracked, barely audible, but the quiet force of it stops everything cold.
Then, quietly:
“Takakura right,” Vamola says. “Please... don’t fight. Need to keep going. Please. Don’t let world...”
She trails off, either too tired to finish or unable to find the words. But the meaning is clear.
It’s enough.
The tension eases. They settle. Breathe. Talk in low voices, practical and focused.
They’re all hurt. The city is being torn apart. They don’t know what’s waiting beyond the door, let alone what’s left of the city.
Most of them have family out there, somewhere.
But right now, there’s nothing they can do for them.
The best they can do is survive.
With a new resolution to simply survive, they focus on healing.
But eventually, supplies run low. They have to venture out.
The first few trips are quiet. Small groups of two or three slip out to the nearest ruined store, grab whatever they can, and rush back before anyone—or anything—spots them. They don’t see any other people. The streets feel hollow, abandoned, like the world has emptied out except for them.
It’s on one of these runs that they encounter enemies. Stronger ones this time. The suits look different—sleeker, sharper, more advanced than the first ones that landed. Not like the grunts they fought before.
These ones speak.
They give themselves a name at last: the Space Globalists. Or the Kur, as they’re apparently known.
And they know Momo by name.
They know all of them, at least by appearance. They know Momo is the one who took down the entity called Hastur—their space-warping leader. She hadn’t known his name at the time, but now they make sure she does.
And they make one thing certain:
They will be hunted.
Any lingering thought of finding another resistance group—or even evacuating—dies right there.
They can’t risk it.
Together, they take the group down. It’s not easy, but no one is seriously hurt.
It still doesn’t feel like a victory.
Something Okarun is quickly learning:
An invasion doesn’t happen in a day.
He isn’t sure what he expected. Maybe a flash of light. One final battle. A city burned all at once, wiped clean like a drawing erased from a whiteboard.
But that’s not what happens.
The streets are a mess—shattered glass, crumbling concrete, buildings half-ruined—but they’re also mostly empty. The bulk of the Kur’s forces have moved on, spreading outward in coordinated waves. Tokyo is still technically occupied, but the immediate pressure has eased. The city is bleeding, but not yet dead. Abandoned by the invaders. And by the world trying to fight them.
They’ve been left behind.
Not out of malice. Just... triage. The world is wide, and resources are finite. Rescues, evacuations, aid convoys—those go elsewhere now. To the next disaster zone. To wherever the Kur strike next.
Apparently Rokuro once told Momo that a million more Kur would follow if they failed.
A million.
It sounded like an unfathomable amount at the time. But now?
Now it feels almost too small.
Japan alone has over a hundred million people.
The world? Eight billion.
This isn’t going to end in a single week. Or even a month. This is going to last.
Okarun wonders if this is the new normal: ash-choked skies, crumbling concrete, life-or-death battles, no one coming to help.
How long had Vamola’s people resisted?
Years? Decades?
He wonders if Earth can last that long. And if it does, what kind of world will be left in the aftermath.
Momo almost forgets about it—until she finds Okarun tucked away in a quiet corner of the shelter, hunched over, staring down at something in his hands.
The golden ball.
Without Granny or Turbo Granny, they have no way of returning it.
“Ayase-san,” he murmurs, glancing up as she approaches. His voice sounds tired, frayed at the edges.
She tries to smile, forcing a little lightness into her tone.
“If you’re gonna get weird with it, do it in private, dude.”
He grimaces, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So crass,” he mutters, the words flat, empty.
She lowers herself beside him, watching him in the dim light.
“What’s up?” she asks quietly.
His fingers tighten around the ball, knuckles whitening.
“I hate this thing,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.
“Okarun—” she starts, reaching out, but he cuts her off.
“I don’t even care about getting them back anymore,” he says, voice rising slightly, breath catching. His shoulders tremble. “Just knowing I had a part in causing all this... I...”
He exhales sharply, the sound harsh in the stillness. His grip on the ball slackens, fingers trembling.
“I don’t want it anymore,” he whispers.
Suddenly, he stands. His eyes flash with desperation, and before she can react, he hurls the ball across the shelter.
Instinct kicks in. A spirit-hand snaps into place and catches it mid-air.
Okarun slumps against the wall, sliding down until he’s seated, head buried in his hands.
She wants to say something, but no words feel right. She understands, maybe—not completely, but enough. Still, it’s dangerous. If the Kur got their hands on it again...
“How about I hold onto it for now, yeah?” she says gently. “Just until Granny and the hag come back. We’ll give it back properly then.”
“No matter how you phrase it, it sounds wrong,” he groans, but there’s a flicker of gratitude in his eyes.
“I mean, I could give it to the skank if you prefer. She probably misses her holy object.”
He pulls a face. “...You can keep it.”
She settles in beside him again. She shouldn’t have brought up Granny. Saying the name makes it all come rushing back, the thoughts she’s been trying to bury for days. Weeks.
“Neh, Okarun,” she asks quietly, tracing lazy circles in the dust. “Do you think... Granny’s okay?”
Her fingers still when his reach over—long, rough, steady.
She looks up. His eyes are warm and certain.
“I know she is,” he says without hesitation. “Seiko-san is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. And Turbo Granny’s with her too.”
He says it with such calm conviction that she can’t help but believe him.
“Yeah,” she nods, holding onto that spark. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t think much of it at first, the golden ball tucked safely into her pocket—until she and Vamola are ambushed while out scouting.
There are a lot of them. No grunts this time. All of them at least mid-level suits, moving in coordinated precision.
And they know their names.
This wasn’t random. It was a trap.
The fight is brutal. If someone had told her beforehand what they were walking into, she wouldn’t have been sure they’d make it out. And yet—as they battle, she feels it.
A charge. A low, steady thrum of energy radiating from her pocket.
She knows what it is immediately.
The yokai wanted the life locked inside it. The Kur had used it to power a warp gate, for goodness’ sake
Why wouldn’t they tap into that power too?
The thought burns in her chest as she fights.
Empowered by the ball’s energy, she and Vamola drive the enemy back, tearing through them side by side. The Kur suits—woven from the karma of their victims, stitched together by twisted beliefs—shatter under their blows. Each one they take down leaves another shell of broken armor, another tangle of stolen dreams.
By the end, not a single one is left standing. Another squad down.
When they return to the shelter, breathless, adrenaline still thrumming through her veins, she tells the others.
A new tool. A boon they hadn’t expected.
Okarun makes a face when he hears it. And honestly, she doesn’t blame him. But they don’t have the luxury of tact in the apocalypse.
The ball becomes something of a lucky charm. Whoever heads out next slips it into their pocket like a talisman. A boost.
It might have helped bring about the end of the world.
But that doesn’t mean it can’t be used to fight back.
And Okarun’s pained expression every time someone says they’re “taking the nut for luck” never fails to make her laugh.
The underground shelter is starting to feel like home for Okarun.
It’s rough around the edges, but they’ve made it work. The wide, empty space has been divided up—nanoskin barriers shaped by Sakata’s control into makeshift rooms where each of them can sleep. There’s a common area now. A kitchen space. A place to rest, to breathe.
During a recent supply run, he and Sakata found a large city map. They’ve been carefully marking it ever since: patrol routes, supply caches, survivor sightings. Pockets of resistance. Sparse, but growing.
Sakata even managed to rig up a few salvaged solar panels, wired into a battery array. It’s not much, but it’s enough for lights, charging equipment, cooking. Enough to keep them going.
They have power. They have food. They even have entertainment—an old TV and DVD player someone dug up from storage, hooked up to whatever discs they manage to scavenge.
Last week, someone brought back a few board games. They were all excited to play together.
Every Tuesday, he and Jiji head out far beyond the shelter. Away from anywhere they’ve even heard whispers of other survivors—and let loose. Their weekly battles. Clearing out as many Kur as they can in the process.
They’ve fallen into a rhythm. A shaky one, but a rhythm all the same.
Still, he knows how fragile it is.
They win the skirmishes they find. Cut down the smaller patrols. Save who they can. But every squad they defeat is just a drop in the ocean compared to the main force.
The main force—that’s being held at bay by the rest of the world. Humans and yokai alike.
When the air is clear enough, they catch scattered radio broadcasts. News of global forces converging on Japan. A temporary stalemate.
But the tone has shifted lately. Fewer victories. Grimmer tones from the broadcasters. More reports of enhanced alien suits—more of them every day.
They know from Vamola’s experience what that means.
There’s talk of evacuations too. Thousands rescued by air and sea, day by day. A narrow corridor carved out by the international forces, just long enough to get people out.
That, at least, is something.
He hopes everyone's families made it out.
The next supply run (medical this time, since Okarun and Jiji had gotten a bit reckless last Tuesday) leads to something unexpected.
It’s just her and Aira. They usually pair a close- and long-range fighter on these runs.
She’s scooping bandages into a backpack when a commotion echoes from outside.
Both snap to attention. A glance between them, and they sprint for the door.
They stumble into a strange scene.
She makes a mental note: Tell Okarun he was right.
The yokai really do defend Earth from aliens.
A group of grunts—low-level Kur in matching combat suits—are locked in battle with a small pack of fox spirits. Varying in size, tails ranging from one to five, they dart through the fray with uncanny speed, striking and corralling the aliens wherever they can.
They’re winning, but not unscathed. Scorch marks blacken tufts of fur. One fox limps, a torn flank bleeding faintly.
Kitsune.
She recognizes them from Granny’s stories. Tricky spirits. Rarely allies to humans.
But what was the saying? The enemy of my enemy...
Aira moves first, bursting forward in a blur of spiraling hair. Shots fly—she dodges them effortlessly, weaving through the gaps in her own veil of tendrils, drawing the aliens’ attention.
While they’re distracted, she strikes. Spectral hands burst into existence, teal and crackling, slamming down on the Kur from a distance—one by one, precise and brutal.
They’ve gotten terrifyingly efficient at handling the small fry.
Once the battle is over, the foxes watch them in silence. Their eyes are sharp, unreadable. Their posture shifts—cool, alert, ready for another fight.
Then the largest, a five-tailed fox, lowers its head.
The others follow.
She blinks, stunned, until Aira elbows her and gives a tiny nod downward. She ducks into a shallow bow.
The foxes drag the alien corpses away without a sound.
No words are exchanged.
And just like that, they leave each other in peace.
Watching them go, she felt something click into place—this wasn’t humanity’s war alone anymore. It belonged to everything that called Earth home.
It isn’t long after that when she starts to feel a shift in the air.
They run into more and more yokai fighting back. Each time, they lend a hand: a quick standoff, a few exchanged blows, then everyone goes their separate ways.
But the air feels different. Charged. The ground feels steadier beneath her feet, the air crackling with a quiet hum of energy. Her body feels lighter, almost buoyant, as if some invisible force is lifting her. It's impossible, of course (especially with their diet reduced to scraps) but the feeling lingers all the same.
She doesn’t dwell on it. Figures they’re finally adjusting to life under siege.
It doesn’t cross her mind that it could be something else until Vamola asks, almost in passing, what all the orbs are. Says her home planet didn’t have them.
She has no idea what Vamola is talking about.
It’s only after squeezing into the kaiju, pressed awkwardly together in the cockpit, that she sees the display. Vamola had been tracking some scout ships, but the signal faded the farther they got. Something about interference from the orbs.
In the tiny HUD, they appear as motes of light, fuzzy and indistinct.
They remind her of stories from childhood. Spirit orbs. The kind that showed up in ghost tales, glowing just out of reach.
She wants to test a theory.
She waits until nightfall, when spirits are strongest, and climbs the tallest tree she can find, with a little help from a transformed Okarun (who insists she needs it, like she didn’t grow up climbing trees every day).
She settles onto a thick branch, Okarun’s lanky arm wrapped around her as he grips the trunk with his claws. Closing her eyes, she centers herself and looks out across the city.
Along with the buzz in the air, there’s something else: a faint kaleidoscope aura draped over the world. It had been there all along, muted and easy to ignore. Now that she’s looking for it, it’s everywhere. And brighter than ever. Some spots shine more than others.
She thinks those might be where survivors are clustered.
But she still can’t see the orbs.
It’s Okarun who suggests the answer. When she vents her frustration, he reminds her that her grandmother couldn’t see his astral body at first either—not until she made that strange little gesture with her fingers.
There’s a pang at the mention of Granny, but she pushes it down.
She mimics the gesture as Okarun demonstrates, adjusting her fingers just so. Almost instinctively, she channels chi into the circuit they form and looks at him again.
What she sees feels like an optical illusion.
Okarun once gave her a magazine bookmark. Tilt it one way, and it showed a starry night sky. Shift it slightly, and a UFO appeared in the same space.
This is just like that.
In front of her is a gray-faced yokai with sharp red eyes, unsettling at first glance, yet softened by the quiet curiosity in his gaze.
Tilt her head slightly, and he’s a boy in worn clothes, brown eyes wide and wondering, just as curious.
Hold her focus at the right angle, and he’s both. One layered over the other.
It makes her head throb. She blinks and looks away.
Then she turns back to the city and repeats the gesture.
Hundreds of orbs. Maybe thousands.
White at first, but each flickers with a wisp of color—emotion, memory, a trace of who they were.
They blanket the city. Cluster in places.
She finds comfort in their glow.
In the days that follow, the buzz in the air grows stronger. It feels like the earth itself is urging them forward, a quiet heartbeat beneath their feet.
And a week later, the orbs glow bright enough for everyone to see—rising at night like fireflies across the ruins of Tokyo.
Okarun knows Momo felt it first. But soon, the change in the air starts affecting the rest of them, especially those who use yokai powers.
Honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing they didn’t notice sooner.
But they were in the middle of an alien invasion. Appearance hadn’t exactly been a top priority.
He bites his lip during dinner and pauses. His canines feel sharper—almost fang-like.
Once they start paying attention, the other changes become obvious. Or maybe they’d been there all along, getting worse while no one noticed.
In the mirror, his eyes look too red. His skin is a little ashier.
The sudden growth spurt he had experienced and written off as long overdue is sudden re-contextualized.
Momo tells him he’s hunching more than usual. He’s not sure if it’s true or if she’s just teasing him.
He’d say his shoes don’t fit anymore—but the truth is, he stopped wearing them weeks ago. No point keeping up appearances now. Besides, he feels better without them. His bare feet against the ground feels natural.
Shiratori-san is next.
One morning, after getting ready, she leans forward with an unusually serious look, arms crossed, and gestures sharply at her hair.
“What, getting split ends, skank?” Ayase-san asks, one eyebrow arching.
Shiratori-san shoots her a glare, though there’s no real heat behind it. “The roots, you morons.”
Jiji leans in, squinting. “What about them?” His voice is laced with genuine curiosity, the usual teasing edge absent.
Shiratori-san huffs, flicking the ends of her hair in frustration. “It’s not like I’m naturally pink, you know.”
It’s the end of the world. They had better things to worry about. But as she tilts her head, the truth becomes obvious.
Her roots aren’t bubblegum pink like the rest of her hair. They’re darker now—closer to magenta. The exact shade of her yokai form.
Her hair looks longer too. More than it should be, considering how little time has passed.
But then, predictably, Jiji starts to change as well.
His skin takes on a faint, unhealthy gray tint, similar to Okarun’s own. Subtle shadows creep along his throat—faint purple marks that don’t fade. His hair lightens at the crown, streaking into pale blond, but the color fades out halfway, as if stuck mid-transition.
His shirt strains across his back and chest, the seams puckering.
Eventually, they have to go on a supply run just to find him bigger shirts. His old ones stretch tight across new muscle, as if his body is being reshaped from the inside out.
Soon, everyone starts noticing the smaller things.
Their nails grow faster, thicker. The soft pink at the base fades to a dull gray, sharper at the tips.
Even Ayase-san isn’t spared. After a while, the ends of her hair take on a faint teal glow, as if dipped in starlight. Flecks of the same color shimmer in her irises, catching the low light of their shelter.
He tilts his head, watching her across the room one evening, and notices the same thing in himself—and in the others.
All of the yokai users’ eyes are changing.
Flecks of color—purple, magenta, crimson, gold—catch the light constantly, as if something inside them is beginning to leak out.
It’s not just their appearance
He feels faster, too. Each step sends a faint buzz up his legs, a low hum under his skin, like static building with every stride. He can hold his yokai form longer now. It’s starting to feel so natural, he sometimes forgets to drop it at all.
Shiratori-san’s hair grows longer, fuller, almost wild. Jiji’s cursed waves attacks seem sharper, more potent, as if they hum with something deeper than before.
Even Vamola and Sakata aren’t untouched.
Whether it’s from training or (more likely, he thinks) the same strange energy affecting the rest of them, Sakata barely needs to call on the nanoskin anymore. It lingers just beneath his skin, ready to snap into place and form the Great Kinta (smaller these days, but still formidable) whenever needed.
The markings running down the mech’s face glow faintly, pulsing with the same supernatural light that burns through his own curse marks.
Vamola’s suit has changed, too.
The crimson light flows across it like molten energy, flickering over the dull gray of her kaiju form. Even the horns (snapped off in that initial battle) seem to be reforming, slowly.
It’s odd, though, that the enemy’s suits don’t seem to be evolving the same way.
And Ayase-san…
Ayase-san has become a force of nature.
When it’s just the two of them—no friends to get caught in the crossfire, no humans to worry about shielding—and his lucky charm clutched tight in one hand—
She tears through the Kur like a wildfire.
And he is gladly the wind at her back, driving her forward as they streak, a teal-and-crimson comet, through the ruined streets, reveling in the destruction they leave in their wake.
The air hums, sharp and electric. The earth seems to rise with them, each step a drumbeat driving them forward.
It feels like the world itself is cheering them on.
Momo had thought there would be no more surprises, that they had settled into a steady rhythm. But she was wrong.
A week or two later, they make a startling discovery.
The scattered survivors left in Tokyo, the small, scattered pockets of resistance, are beginning to become spiritually aware.
That afternoon, a plea crackles across the radio. Their tactics are second nature by now: Okarun, Aira, and Vamola rush in to draw the Kur’s grunts away, while the rest shield civilians and provide long-range support.
They arrive just in time. A ragged squad of armed locals—soldiers, maybe, or desperate volunteers—holds the line until the forward trio sweeps in and drives the aliens back.
Not a single casualty. The relief is dizzying.
Then Okarun turns to the crowd, scanning for anyone who needs urgent transport—and someone screams.
“Monster!”
A pistol fires. The shot punches through his shoulder.
She freezes as Okarun stares down at the spreading bloom of blood, confusion scrawled across his face.
“Stay back!” another voice shouts.
Okarun raises both hands in surrender, willing the transformation to fade.
It jams halfway.
Spectral energy flares. He doubles over with a raw cry, clutching the wound as his yokai form surges again.
More barrels swing toward him.
Her spirit-hand barrier snaps up just in time. Bullets spark against translucent teal, each impact rattling her bones.
Chaos erupts. Shouts, curses, panicked screams from both sides. It’s not just Okarun they’re aiming at. Guns swing toward her too—and at Aira, the moment she dives in to help.
They have to run.
That night, she and Aira spend a harrowing hour prying twisted metal from Okarun’s shoulder. Aira holds the wound open with her hair while she carefully extracts each fragment with her powers.
Okarun stays locked in yokai form. They’ve learned it dulls the pain, speeds up healing. He sits rigid and silent, eyes fixed on the floorboards, while she murmurs soft reassurances and works.
Everyone is quiet. It might have been Okarun who was shot, but all of them were chased off like monsters.
They finish, wound packed and bound with what little they have, just in time for dinner.
Apparently, the rest of the group has decided the day warrants a treat. Curry, made with actual vegetables and meat, part of the precious stash of fresh food they managed to freeze in time.
And it works. Slowly, the weight lifts. Laughter returns. Jokes spark. The banter comes back, warm and easy, over the best meal they’ve had in weeks. Maybe longer.
Afterward, Okarun drops the transformation, though she knows he can hold it longer now.
But he’s quiet, fingers tracing the edges of his sharpened gray nails, absentmindedly.
So she reaches over, gently takes his hand, and tugs him toward the small, makeshift library they’ve cobbled together from scavenged books.
She asks which manga series he wants to start next.
And as she does, she twirls the ends of her own hair—bright, teal, and warm beneath her fingers—just within his line of sight.
They can be monsters together, after all.
Okarun would admit it: the encounter—and being shot at—shook him.
It’s one thing to choose to become a monster, to protect the people you care about. It’s another entirely to see real, living humans look at you with terror in their eyes.
But Ayase-san helps. She always does. And together, as a group, they keep going.
After that, they’re more cautious. They never refuse a call for help—never—but they’re careful now. More thoughtful about how they approach survivors, and how much they reveal.
Especially with the newest complication.
Spiritual awareness.
It doesn’t just let people see them for what they really are. It lets them see what else is hiding in the dark.
And the darkness stares back.
Yokai fighting their own battles. Spirits bound to the land. Creatures that don’t fit any name, all of them stirring in the shadows.
Monsters—at least, that’s what people are calling them now.
And while the yokai tend to leave their group alone (some strange camaraderie forming over time) the same can’t be said for the humans.
Now that everyone can see spirits, everyone becomes a target. Fear is everywhere.
An alien invasion from above, and now monsters crawling out of the shadows.
And even when not transformed, most of them don’t really pass for human anymore.
Quietly, Okarun thinks, maybe this is just the way it is now. An outcast. From society, such as it is. From humanity. But—
he’s proven overly pessimistic again.
It’s his and Jiji’s turn to do a run. This one’s farther out. He always tries to go far when it’s his turn, making the most of his speed. They’re running out of places nearby to scavenge.
That’s when they find him.
A lone human. A man, maybe in his thirties. People go solo sometimes, trying to avoid detection by traveling light and fast.
But this one’s surrounded. Grunts and a few lower-level suits, by the looks of it.
He nods at Jiji—no words needed.
He bursts forward in a blur. Before the Kur even register movement, he’s there—scooping the man into his arms and tearing across the broken landscape at full speed.
When he finally stops, they’re well out of danger. Okarun sets the man down gently, steadying him as he checks for injuries. Nothing—just shaken, wide-eyed.
In the distance, he hears Jiji finishing off the last of the enemies, the sharp crack of energy and faint bursts of movement. Jiji knows to call for backup if he needs it.
He steps back slowly, hands raised in a peaceful gesture. He watches the man warily, bracing for the reaction.
“You’re that electric guy!” the man blurts out, wide-eyed, his voice breaking with a mix of shock and recognition.
It’s not what Okarun was expecting.
“…Hah?” he says, caught off guard.
“My sister!” the man exclaims, his words tumbling out in a rush. “She said she was a goner, but some guy with red and white hair and way too many teeth burst out of a power line, took out a whole squad of aliens, and saved her.”
He blinks, the memory clicking into place—fuzzy at first, then sharp. A hazy moment from a past raid: a girl with hair the same color as this man’s, halfway to being dragged away.
“Yeah... last week,” Okarun says slowly, as it comes rushing back. “Is she okay? Her ankle was hurt...”
She hadn’t said a word while he patched her up, just stared at him like he was an animal in a zoo. He’d carried her on his back to the edge of her group’s base. They hadn’t attacked him, but they’d watched him like they were waiting for him to snap. He’d turned and bolted as soon as she was safe, not wanting to scare them any more than he already had.
“She’s fine. Thanks to you. I can’t thank you enough,” the man says, his voice breaking with emotion.
The man bows, deep and sincere, hands clenched tight at his sides.
Okarun stares, mouth opening as if to say something, but no words come. He shifts awkwardly, feeling overwhelmed.
“This is stressin’ me out...” he mutters under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away.
The man straightens, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “It’s you guys, right? The ones fighting back. They say... there’s a group of monsters. Teenagers, mostly.”
Okarun shrugs, scratching at the edge of a curse mark. “I... guess, yo?” He says uncertainly.
In the distance, Evil Eye lets out a delighted shriek. Okarun winces, eyes narrowing. Jiji must have hit a water line again.
“I need to go,” Okarun says quickly, urgency creeping into his voice. “Sorry.”
And he means it. He wants to help this man, get him somewhere safe, but he can’t leave Evil Eye unchecked.
“No, no—do what you gotta do, dude. I just...” The man trails off, exhaling slowly, gathering himself.
“There are a lot of rumors going around,” he says at last. His voice steadies, quiet but firm. “But after what my sister said—and what I saw today—I know you’re on our side. I’ll spread the word. Okay?”
Okarun blinks, caught off guard.
“...Thanks, yo,” he mumbles, voice softer than intended, a quiet awkwardness curling at the edges. Gratitude feels unfamiliar, strange in the middle of all this chaos—but it sparks a warmth, a flicker of something good.
The shrieks grow louder behind him. He’s grateful for the excuse to bolt.
“Good luck!” the man calls after him, voice fading into the distance.
Okarun runs.
The man keeps his word.
In the days that follow, the mood shifts. Most run-ins with survivor groups are no longer met with suspicion, but with exclamations of relief. Gratitude.
It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes the world feel a little less hopeless.
It’s been three months since the world ended.
Or maybe not.
There are still pockets of resistance—people banding together, sharing information. Not pushing back, exactly, but not being snuffed out either.
Between the yokai, the humans, and the very earth itself, they are fighting back.
And they’re still here. Even though the sky fell that day.
Doing what they can against overwhelming odds.
And living, too. As fully as they can manage.
Today is one of those days. Supplies are holding steady. They’re still sore from a skirmish yesterday—helping a location-bound spirit defend its territory—but for now, they’re huddled around a battered table, playing cards.
The radio crackles to life, tuned to the emergency frequency agreed on by local groups.
“Requesting aid—bzzzt—found base—bzzt—location is—bzzt—eight of the foot soldiers—”
Eight grunts. Small fry. She and Okarun can handle that alone.
They trade a look across the table and set their cards down at the same time.
She snorts when she sees how badly Okarun had been losing.
Aira sighs, but doesn’t try to stop them. Okarun is still the fastest. She herself is one of the hardest hitters. It’s always them for time critical missions like this.
“If you’re not back in an hour, we’ll follow,” Aira says, gathering the cards and shuffling them with practiced ease. “Try to be back in time for dinner.”
Okarun is already transformed by the time he stands. Smooth, seamless. Second nature now.
“If you eat my portion, I’ll end you, skank,” Momo mutters, grabbing her go-kit: medical supplies, a smoke grenade, a short-range radio. She takes the ball too. Every little bit helps.
“We’ll do our best, Aira-chan,” Okarun says (traitor that he is) as he kneels for her to climb on.
And then they’re gone, racing up the stairs. Cries of “Good luck!” echo behind them as Okarun bursts into the open and becomes a blur against the night.
“Hold on!” Momo says into the radio, shielding it with a spirit-hand against the rushing wind. “We’re on our way.”
The stars blaze overhead, sharp and countless, no longer drowned by the neon haze of the city. They glimmer like scattered shards of glass, as if the universe itself is watching with bated breath.
But above them, directly overhead, dozens of faintly glowing orbs drift through the night sky. Each one shimmers with a whisper of color, bobbing gently as if they’re leading the way.