The End of The World

The hike to Sekikyo felt endless.

They had left Minakasa over four months ago, Toma’s wound took half that time to heal decently, and that slowed their journey considerably. In truth, Arata didn’t mind that. He was in no rush. There was no one on the planet he’d rather spend his last four months with than these two.

Nobunaga's countryside was vast, and now, with the world coming apart, every step was harder than the last.

They traveled mostly at night, sticking to back roads and forest trails. The day had become too risky. The cult’s reach had spread far and rumors of roving gangs and looters made them play things cautiously. The shadows were safer.

The days blended into one long march. Sometimes they would stumble across dead animals, racoons, birds, once they even found a bear. Their cause of death was a mystery, but the three teens didn’t let their carcasses go to waste. Arata was becoming a decent chef for the group.

They hunted when they could, Toma specialized in catching fish, he did it quite efficiently. When they were lucky, they were able to scavenge from abandoned homes they found on the road.

Their days often ended with them huddled together around a fire, sharing stories and jokes under a cracking sky.

Some nights they did nothing but laugh, others they could only cry. They were there for each other either way.

Arata found that the quiet moments were often the most haunting. Long stretches of walking without a word, each of them lost in their own heads. Sometimes the silence pressed down so hard it felt like they were the last three people alive on Earth.

One time, after a particularly hard evening trek, they set up camp in a clearing near a dried-up stream. The stars were surprisingly bright so near far from the countryside. Toma laid on his back, hands behind his head to stare up at them. Hana joined him.

Arata joined too, but he looked more at them than the stars above. “Do you think… if none of this had happened… we would’ve been this close?” he asked quietly.

Toma laughed softly, “You’re kidding, right? I was too cool for you losers.”

Hana threw a twig at him. “Get over yourself .”

Arata smiled but didn’t push the question further. It didn’t matter how it started. He was just glad they had each other during all this.

After a few hours, when the fire had burned to mere embers, Arata told them about his only positive memory of his father. How he once took him to see fireworks on new years, and held him on his shoulders. Deep down, Arata wasn’t sure he had truly let go of all feelings for his father, no matter what the other said, there was a seed of love there, but Toma was right about him poisoning himself all the same. He let his father’s bitterness become his own.

They sat there for a long time, watching the embers fade, until one by one, they fell from consciousness, wrapped in their blankets. Dozens of nights ended just like that.

Hana was the strongest willed of them, but she sometimes pushed herself far harder than her body could handle. On one of those evenings, Arata glanced over to see her swaying on her feet, stubbornly pushing on at the brink of collapse.

“Come on,” he said gently, crouching in front of her.

“I’m fine,” she protested, even as her legs gave out.

Toma chimed in with a grin, “Consider this piggy-back a tactical move. Save your strength.”

Grumbling, Hana would finally give in, climbing onto Arata’s back and wrapping her arms around his neck. Arata always hated being touched, but he found it less bad ever since she got rid of his dad’s ring.

The walk was pleasant for both of them. Arata had learned to pretend not to notice how her breath would quicken when she leaned close.

He was catching her staring at him more often than the other way around these days. He just wished they had more time.

Toma, for his part, was a constant source of encouragement. He’d smirk knowingly at their awkward flirting, never saying much, but his eyes always seemed to shine with unspoken teasing.

One evening, after weeks of endless road and ash, they finally caught sight of the Sekiyo’s skyline in the distance. It sprawled wide beneath them, its towering buildings now dark and silent.

They made camp near the base of the hill that night. Hana sat close to the fire, arms encompassing her knees, eyes flicking between Arata and Toma.

“You’re nervous,” she said quietly, her gaze settling on Toma.

Toma nodded as he stared into the blaze.

“You don’t have to be,” Arata said softly.

Toma gave a dry laugh. “I love my dad. I know I complain about him, but I do. He... he wasn’t always like this. Cold. Distant. He used to be warm. He taught me how to fish. Stuff like that.”

His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued. “ When my mom left us... and moved overseas, everything changed. He threw himself into work. Politics. His image. He stopped talking to me the same way. Started treating me like... like a project.”

Toma smiled nostalgically. “He was born rich, but he used to be a cop, y’know? Before all this. People used to talk about how good he was. Talking people down, you know? He once convinced a guy to let a whole building of hostages go. Another time, he talked someone out of jumping from a bridge. I always admired that about him. It’s why I read into those techniques. That’s how I talked Okasei down.”

He shook his head, his mouth twisting. “I miss that version of him. The one who cared.”

Hana spoke his hidden fear aloud, “You’re worried he’s still going to be cold when we find him.”

Toma’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. I mean... he didn’t even come looking for me. Not once, during all this.”

“He had a job to do,” Arata said, voice low but firm. “And after that... communication broke down. Transport stopped. You know that. Maybe he wanted to come but couldn’t.”

Toma didn’t answer right away. He just breathed slowly.

“Maybe,” he said softly. “I don’t know.”

Arata gave his shoulder a squeeze, then pulled him into a quick, awkward hug.

Toma blinked in surprise. “What’s this about?”

Arata felt a little shy but replied earnestly, “An exception. I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I hated being touched, but I think your need trumps mine tonight.”

Toma laughed, wiping at his eyes quickly. “You softie.”

They sat there in silence, the fire crackling, the distant city waiting for them like a sleeping giant. If Hana had kept count correctly, Tomorrow was it, the last day the voice promised.

They woke at dawn. As always, the air tasted of ash, but it was stronger here in the city. Sekikyo loomed just ahead, a jagged jungle of glass and steel. The Vanguard building rose up at its heart, a beautiful dark facade glowing in the dawn.

They broke camp quickly, not bothering to pack the tent. Their footsteps gave a satisfying crunch over the brittle dead fall leaves. No one spoke much. Every step was a step closer to the end of their journey, a step closer to their final breath. Oddly, Arata felt at peace with that notion.

As they neared the city outskirts, Hana slowed down, eyeing Toma carefully.

“You okay?” she asked.

Toma shrugged. “Yeah. Just... feels weird. Seeing it up close again.”

Arata placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, then let it drop. “You’ve got this.”

They reached the edge of the city by mid-morning. It was a ruin of deserted buildings. The streets were empty, their usual bustle replaced by an oppressive silence. Signs of the collapse were everywhere. Windows were broken. Graffiti was everywhere, most of it was about the coming end. Graffiti was a once rare sight in Sekikyo, but Arata counted dozens of tags by artists desperate to leave some mark on the world before they perished. Makeshift campsites lay about, long since deserted.

As they crested a hill overlooking the heart of Sekikyo, they finally got a clear view of the Vanguard building. It stood tall and proud. A relic of the old order.

Toma stared up at it, mauve eyes shining, Arata couldn’t tell if he was anxious or hopeful.

“Whatever happens... we’re with you.” Hana said.

Toma gave a short nod, swallowing hard. “Thanks.”

The wind howled around them as they made their way up the paved road, imprints on the ash being left on every step. It caught on their clothes and started stinging their eyes.

Behind them, Sekikyo sprawled wide and broken, coated in a layer of gray. Arata could see why he assumed it was snow in his vision. The city shuddered, these were no ordinary tremors, Arata knew, but the trio didn’t mention them. They just kept walking.

High above, the sky itself was unraveling.

Arata looked around regarding the final landscape he’d ever see.

It was happening.

The clouds were splitting, peeling apart in huge, swirling rings—perfect, eerie loops, concentric and vast, spreading wider and wider like ripples in water. They glowed faintly in the dim light, forming patterns. Arata felt a calm acceptance. The Minakasa emblem was a fair approximation.

If Arata had to guess, maybe Minakasa herself saw this inevitable end during one of her visions, and drew it. Then that symbol got caught up in her legend.

Birds started to fall from the sky in lifeless and broken, their tiny bodies making tiny thuds as they landed at their feet.

The end. Just like in his vision.

Arata’s fingers reached into his pocket, and his hand found Yukari’s old pocket timekeeper. He held hard. Too hard, he felt his hand cut on the cracked face. Blood oozed down the antique and over the edge. A broken and bleeding pocket watch… what a fitting metaphor, Arata thought to himself as he surveyed the dying world.

He felt Hana move closer, her shoulder brushing his, his eye met hers, lime to gray. They just looked, said nothing. There was nothing left to say. They turned and kept walking even as the quakes worsened. Toma leading the pack.

They finally saw a crowd gathering at the base of the building, they made their way over, forcing their way through. Hundreds of people were there already, looking up, their eyes wide with terror and wonder. Some were praying aloud, others crying, most were hugging their neighbors.

Arata scanned the crowd, heart hammering. Toma was beside him, tense and pale, eyes darting left and right.

“No sign of him,” Toma muttered, voice tight.

They swam through the crowd, skirting between desperate stragglers. The ground trembled again, a commanding rumble beneath their feet. Arata caught sight of a woman clutching a child, both of them hanging on with all they had.

“Come on,” Toma whispered, his breath quickening. “Where are you?”

They reached the front steps of the Vanguard building and stood there, panting, eyes scanning the crowd again.

Nothing.

Toma hung his head. “He’s not here,” he said hoarsely. “We’re too late.”

Arata opened his mouth, unsure what to say. Hana stepped closer, laying a hand on Toma’s back, her eyes shining with tears.

And then—

“Toma!”

The voice rang out sharp and clear over the noise. Toma’s head jerked up, and the crowd seemed to part like water as a tall figure pushed his way through.

Toma’s father, Minister Kintaga.

He looked thinner than Arata remembered from the newcast feeds Toma had once shown them of his father being interviewed. His eye bags were probably worse than Arata’s now. He moved energetically though, and when he reached them, he grabbed Toma in a bone crushing hug, burying his face in his son’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I should have come. By the Creator... I should have spent this last year with you.”

Toma grabbed him, his whole body trembling, tears streaking from his mauve eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You had to help people here. I get it. I had family with me anyway.”

He looked back at Hana and Arata, his tears giving way to a wide smile. Hana let out a sob and grasped Arata’s fingers, squeezing it hard. Arata grinned back at Toma. Glad his friend got this closure. If anyone deserved it, it was him.

A deep groan echoed through the air, louder than ever. The earth shook hard beneath them, and they heard rupturing sounds as cracks broke out, racing along the sides of the building above. The crowd sobbed.

Arata returned Hana’s squeeze on his hand as they took in the doomed city. He turned to her, meeting her eye.

“It’s happening,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “Everything you saw. That vision... it came true.”

She gave a short breathless laugh that left Arata confused. “My hair…” she explained. “After all those months of hiking, it grew back.”

She let go of Arata’s hand briefly to l fish in her pocket for something. A moment later, she produced a small hairband. With a grimace, she raised it to the back of her head and tied the loose strands into a neat ponytail.

Ash danced around the two of them. Arata smiled back at her.She had finally accepted the inevitable. They were both at peace with the end.

Arata stared at her as she stepped near. “I fought for so long to define my own life,” she said softly, “Things didn’t work out how I wanted, but at least we can define our last moments together.”

She leaned in and kissed him.

It was tender and warm, a feeling that felt like it should last forever. Her hands gripped his and her lips were all that mattered. Arata wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as the world shattered around them.

The final vision had come to pass.

They broke apart slowly, forehead to forehead, tears down both pairs of cheeks.

“I love you,” Hana said, her voice cracking. “I always have.”

Arata held her tightly, and tried to sound strong as he replied. “Me too.”

Toma smiled back at them, his father’s arms around his shoulders. “Took you two long enough.”

They huddled together, Hana and Arata wrapped in each other’s arms, Toma and his father, shoulder to shoulder. The ground shook fiercely now, the noise was beyond description, the sky dissolved as the vacuum of space started to take the world.

The heat dropped fast, a chill beyond imagination started to take them. Arata held his breath and turned away from the dying horizon, thanking the heavens he didn't have to face this alone.  

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into Hana’s hair. He felt an arm on his back he knew must be Toma’s.

The last thing Arata felt was the burning in his chest and the crushing grip of their embrace as the world fell away.