But, Honestly

March 31st 2102

21:47

Maybe days have passed. Maybe just a few hours. Honestly it could've been weeks.

The moment the collapse hit, Cogtonn drowned beneath the scraps of the Old World. Towers folded in on themselves like tin cans. The sky dimmed under a storm of dust and ash.

Awake.

Alone.

Ukira lies — not sure if it's exhaustion or just the kind of sorrow that freezes you solid, realistically what could he do?

What would anyone even do in this situation? He's pratically buried in from all sides with the rubble of the building acting like an igloo.

The only sounds other then his own thoughts is the wind. It whistles through broken beams and twisted signs, playing the ruins like some cruel instrument.

March 25th 2102

19:06

Explosions.

Not one, not two, hundreds.

They erupted from every corner of Cogtonn. The walls, the streets, the rooftops — every inch of the city screamed in fire and fury. The air itself seemed to shatter under the sound.

Screams cut through the chaos. Panic flooded the alleys.

Cogtonn wasn't under attack by bandits. Not the Cinderjacks either.

No — this was something far greater.

A coordinated strike.

Through the haze, engines roared — vicious, mechanical, fast.

The kind of revs that could gut the silence of a warzone.

"Stay here, Aoi. I'll be right back, I promise."

There was no time to argue. No time for a proper goodbye. Just the hollow echo of urgency.

Aoi nodded silently. Ukira didn't wait.

He bolted down the stairs and kicked open the door — and hell opened in front of him.

Houses burning. People screaming. The ground itself heaving under waves of molten debris. The Heaps had burst through — torrents of twisted scrap and broken brick pouring in like a flood.

The Inn trembled behind him.

Ukira spun, eyes darting through smoke and flame, scanning for anything — anyone — worth saving or stealing. In disaster, survival meant opportunity. And right now, he needed every scrap of luck and cash he could get.

But it was too much.

The destruction swallowed everything.

A skyscraper groaned above — then collapsed, folding in half and slamming into the Inn like a titan's fist.

"AOI!"

Ukira ran, climbed, clawed through rubble — his body moving faster than his thoughts. That's when he saw it: a figure tearing through the smoke on a modified chopper bike.

A stranger.

Ukira waved, shouting, pointing toward the crushed Inn.

"HEY! OVER THERE! MY SISTERS INSIDE!"

To his shock — the man didn't hesitate. He skidded to a stop, tossed his bike aside, and sprinted straight into the inferno.

For a split second, Ukira felt hope.

Three minutes later, the man burst out of the wreckage — Aoi limp in his arms.

But instead of handing her over...

He ran.

"HEY! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, ASSHOLE!?"

It was in this moment something broke inside Ukira.

In this very instant his soul.

Ignited,

The air warped around him.

He wasn't just Ukira anymore. He was the 11th Zodiac. Sagittarius. The Archer.

Flames roared to life, swallowing his body whole. This wasn't Pyrone — this was something deeper. A full-blown manifestation, a whole ass Jojo Stand searing will. His aura took shape, the silhouette of a blazing archer aiming straight towards the torso of the biker.

Without even moving a muscle using nothing but his mind to control his manifestation, the fire gathered — curled — and launched forward like a cannonball, scorching the ground as it tore through the smoke.

The blast grazed the biker's shoulder, ripping through his jacket.

"I'M NOT PLAYING AROUND! GIVE HER BACK TO ME!"

Each of Ukira's steps set the rubble ablaze. The ground hissed under his boots, his footprints glowing like molten brands marking his fury.

"GIVE ME BACK MY SISTER!"

He pulled every ounce of heat, rage, and life left in him — and fired.

Not a dart. Not a flicker.

A true arrow.

A spear of inferno, pure and absolute, screaming across the street toward the biker's skull.

And then — it stopped.

Frozen midair.

The biker slid the chopper sideways — a clean, perfect Akira slide — keeping Aoi steady with one hand while stepping off the bike with the other.

He raised his wrist, and a crackling streak of violet lightning burst forth, colliding with Ukira's arrow. The impact shattered the air — heat and static splitting the street in half.

Ukira's inferno quivered, locked in place, caged by electric veins.

"Not bad for a Crownrot,"

The biker called out, his voice calm, cocky. And yet filled with spite, the type of spite that only be described at black bile. With the kind of tone that made you want to break the talkers jaw.

"Especially one so weak."

Ukira's eyes burned hotter.

The man laughed — the type of smug, handsome kind of laugh an executive does when there employee suggests something that would cost more then a dime.

"Sorry, kid... actually, scratch that i think it's unfair to lie to the weak.I'm not sorry at all. Considering everything's going exactly according to Jupiter's manuscripts."

He tossed a lazy salute, from his right hand the same hand that moments ago countered Iteza current strongest attack with ease, with his grin widening as he flicked his hand away.

"It was nice meeting you though, Eleven. Ciao."

He aimed his wrist again — and tiny bolts of lightning erupted from his gauntlet, like a Spider-Man web-shooter, daggers firing into the ruins above.

The shattered tower above Ukira groaned — then collapsed.

Chunks of brick and rebar rained down.

Ukira screamed, throwing up his arms, fire bursting uselessly around him.

Rubble pinned his leg. Blood trickled down his temple, as Ukira's head fell back and glimpsed at the sky he saw a giant figure in the atmosphere, marked out by its many eyes, many, many eyes. Its body seemed humanoid and yet reeked of something far stronger.

He crashed into the floor rubble in closing around him working as a barrier between his body and the trash aswell as falling onto his leg making it consumed by the Heap.

Ukira was in hell, staring up at the sky, staring up at heaven, with the angel or god or whatever looking down at him. Mocking him.

Aoi was gone,

His home was gone,

His shackles were gone.

March 31st 2102

21:57

Another blackout, makes sense considering his lack of blood. All that's rushing through his head is the hatred for that man, replaying the events over and over again. The most important thing is figuring out how to kill that man, then comes saving Aoi.

Ukira lies there: not sure if it's exhaustion or just the kind of sorrow that freezes you solid.

What would anyone even do in this situation?

The only thing that answers him is the wind. It whistles through broken beams and twisted signs, playing the ruins like some cruel instrument.

Then, from the distance — the low, mechanical roar of an engine.

'Is it that fucking biker who's come back to finish him off?' Thoughts rush back through Iteza's mind.

The sound cuts through the wasteland like a chainsaw. Ukira forces himself upright, wobbling as pain flares up his side. Two ribs — probably broken. Left leg — definitely fractured. But standing feels better than lying down to die.

He scans the horizon.

Amid the fog and rubble, a patch of clear ground glows with soft- light. Tents. Makeshift lamps. The muffled thump of music — actual music — drifting through the haze.

Civilization. Or something pretending to be it.

Ukira limps toward it, each step grinding against the cracked pavement until the blur of color sharpens into something real:

A van.

Not just any van — a beast. Turquoise, armored with welded metal sheets, four heavy tires made for chewing through the Heaps. The doors slide out on old rail hinges, and a rusted ladder climbs to a camper roof-tent. A makeshift pole juts from the side, draped with rags — probably a clothesline.

It looks like it shouldn't run... yet somehow it purrs.

The kind of ride you'd dream about if you planned to outlive the world.

The camp surrounding it buzzes with life — laughter, chatter, a few lights flickering inside the tents.

Ukira takes another shaky step forward. His voice cracks as he tries to call out.

"H-hey... hey... I—"

Nothing. Just dry breath. Pain steals whatever words were left.

His vision tunnels. The van's glow blurs.

Then, darkness