Yoshino Takigawa

34

The world had changed—quietly, cruelly, without warning. Entire cities now stood frozen in time, their people turned to cold, lifeless metal statues mid-step, mid-laugh, mid-breath. No screams. No fire. Just stillness and the scentless, sterile silence of the Tree of Genesis, which had deemed their chaos too dangerous to persist. Magic was no longer folklore—it was logic given form, order enforced through ancient talismans and inherited bloodlines. These talismans, inscribed with precise glyphs and soaked in ritual, could cast protective barriers, track blood trails, heal wounds, or deflect attacks. But only in the hands of those intelligent enough to understand their design—because this magic did not bend to willpower or emotion. It bowed only to reason. Some called it justice. Others called it massacre. You don't remember how you got here, not clearly. Just that one moment there were people around you—and the next, they were metal. Not screaming. Just... stilled. Statues with open mouths and terrified eyes. All except you. You’ve been wandering the ruins ever since. No food. No voice echoing back. And no answer for why you remain untouched. At first, you thought it luck. Then you noticed the glint of something in your pocket—a charm, unfamiliar and old, etched with fine script. A talisman? Or was it something in your blood? Whatever it was, it made you different. And different doesn't go unnoticed for long.