Sirens blared in the distance, their ominous call echoing between the giant structures. The streets dividing them seemed empty, desolate. The light seeping from above spoke of the sun rising, but no one came out to greet it.

A storm had swept the area, one not of wind and rain, but of bullet and fire. The chaos it brought could be seen in the destruction it left behind, the still burning embers, and the motionless bodies lying behind makeshift barricades.

The stench of death mixed with the stale city air, discouraging anyone from lying their eyes on the gruesome sight.

The only ones who dared to roam were those tasked with bringing back order. They went around, moving from one street to the other, the target of their search being the dogs who caused the mayhem.

The sounds of their sirens gradually grew distant, hinting at their vehicles moving in a different direction. Though the thought brought some relief to the youth, darkness soon swallowed that feeling, and despair swallowed continued to eat at him.

He walked with slow steps, his trembling legs threatening to give in at any moment. His clothes were torn, burned, and stained. His face was covered with bruises and cuts, colored red not by his own blood, but with that of people the name of whom he never bothered to ask.

The youth looked like a walking corpse, the look in his eyes was empty and distant. He didn't seem to have a destination in mind, nor did he have a goal. He kept on walking, one hand on the wall to his right, leaving a bloody print behind whenever he move a single step. His left hung limp by his side, slowly dripping crimson drops.

A faint sound reached his ear, bringing his slow advance to a halt. It was a dry, scratchy sound, one that seemed out of place for a land that had just witnessed the fires of war. Listening to it, the youth slowly raised his gaze. No sooner had he caught sight of its source than the sound stopped.

Some distance away, an old woman stood with a broom in hand. She was as short as a little girl, and the way she dressed made it clear she wasn't a native of this land. The old woman met his gaze with a frown, the folds of her wrinkled face growing deeper. As the silence between them dragged on, her lips parted, and the most unexpected words came out of her mouth.

"You look like shit."

The youth did not known the woman, and neither did she. Despite that, when he heard her speak that sentence, the urge to laugh came to him. His weak body didn't allow it however, and all he could manage was raspy chuckle.

"If you aren't here to eat, get out of my sight already." The woman said. "Last thing I need is some punk bleeding at my front door."

Her words were a clear as they could get, but that didn't stop confusion from striking the bloodied youth. As he attempted to understand, his gaze wandered upward, and his eyes caught sight of the sign hanging above his head. The words seemed to be written in using a giant old brush dipped in jet black ink, but a second thought made him realize it might just be a font. There was a drawing of a large bowl of noodles to the side. Staring at it for a moment, the youth turned his sight to the words.

"Bowl of… Fortune?"

As the words left his mouth in a whisper, he noticed the darkness slowly seeping through the edge of his sight. It soon consumed every part of his vision. The last thing he felt was his skin meeting the cold concrete, and the last thing he heard was an annoyed voice cursing him staining the place with his blood.

~[ ]~

Flames crackled, slowly eating at the old dry wood. Smoke came out in droves, twisting like a dark serpent as it climbed the walls of the giant building.

A short distance away, a young man stood motionless. He watched as the fire grew stronger still. Orange sparks and flickers of ash passed him by, but his gaze remained on a single point—on an old sign the sight of which had saved him many times over the last year.

That sign was gradually being devoured by the rising flames. Though his his body was sedated and could barely feel any pain, watching as the words left by a brush disappeared left him unable to breathe and filled him with the urge to scream.

'It's okay…' He told himself. 'The old hag is a Sorceress. There is no way she would be done in by done in by something like this…'

Faces flashed in his mind. First it was the old cook, then it was a blonde child. Three men followed, one had dark skin and white hair, another thin with slanted eyes, and a third one with a square faced.

The faces kept coming on after the other, and in his mind, the youth couldn't help but divide them. Some were able to take care of themselves, others were helpless in a fight. He focused on the latter, trying to spur himself into action. That was when he caught movement in the corner of his eye, and when he turned to look, he saw someone with a rifle trained on him, his head turned away, his mouth spread wide as he shouted.

"I found hi-"

Before he could finish, a hand clasped his jaw, and another his scalp. He felt a strange weight suddenly fall on his shoulders, and before he could wonder what it was, the world around his turned upside down.

A group of three had been rushing toward him, each one with a gun in hand. The excited grins they wore faltered at the sight of something mounting the shoulders of their friend, and when it snapped his head so his jaw would replace his forehead, horror unlike anything they had ever felt fastened its grasp on their hearts, and they suddenly realized this might be the end for them.

One of the three snapped, screaming his fear out as he took the gun in his hand and fired very bullet it had loaded in its magazine. The only thing he shot ended up being his head-twisted friend. The one who put him in that state was nowhere to be seen.

Just as his mind processed that realization, a hand grasped him by the wrist of is outstretched arm, and another one fell on his elbow. Just as he saw the mutilated burns left in place of four fingers, the hand moved, and his arm bent. His stomach dropped, and a jolt of unbelievable pain shot through him. Before he could understand what had happened, his back hit the hard ground, the cloudy sky met him.

The other two watched as one of their own of their was slammed into the hard concrete with enough force for his body to bounce, and just when it was about to settle down, a foot caught him in the jaw, snapping it with an audible crack.

When the pair of blue eyes shifted in their direction, an indescribable pressure fell on them, a pressure that stunned everyone close enough to catch a glimpse of the red haired demon.

As they watched him disarm and break enemies that outmatched him both in arms and numbers, a certain rumor surfaced in the minds of those who had spent their lived in the corridors of Hollowgrid's giant structures.

A year ago, during the war that had brought an end to the district's largest gangs, there had been talk about someone going around ending people using nothing but his bare hands. Some say he ran out of ammo, others say he was a cyborg primed to fight with his fists.

Many shrugged it off as a baseless rumor, but even those who took it seriously believed that the guy had already met his end. People loaded to the teeth with weapons and bionics didn't survive that war, so how could anyone who fought with no weapon make it out of hell?

Whether its one side or the other, people soon forget all about that rumor. The gangs were gone, and peaceful days were ahead of them. Unfortunately, peace couldn't last forever, and it was only a matter of time before another gang rose to take the place of the others. Chaos returned to Hollowgrid only a year after it had seen its bloodiest war yet, and it all erupted thanks to a wanted poster promising 20000 Gold to anyone who brings down a certain red haired Diver.

Many made the same mistake as those who fought in the previous war. What could a lone kid do when faced with the barrels of their guns? A lot, they soon came to learn, but they learned that lesson far too late, and they wouldn't even get the chance to voice their regret.

~[ ]~

Dante had long lost count. Was it thirty? Or maybe forty? Before he knew it, he had left a trail of bodies in his wake. The world had gone silent around him. Gone was the shouting and rattling of gunfire. Only his breathing remained, and the ever present noise of the city in the background.

Looking down, he saw that he was still holding on to an arm the owner of which was motionless on the floor. Letting go of it, he turned in a random direction, and without a thought in his mind, he began to walk.

What was he doing again? Dante didn't know. He knew he had an enemy to fight, but no one was around to fill that role. Someone appeared just in time, and going by the way he shouted, Dante knew that guy was the one he had to kill next. He tried to gather his focus, and he enhanced his perception. He right leg moved forward, but the instant it touched the road, a sharp pain cut through his chest.

The pain didn't come from a bullet, nor did it come from a knife. As he clutched at his shirt, Dante realized the source was within him, and the pain wasn't something he could fight. The fact that it passed the sedation of the medicine he previously took should have been enough of a warning, but the weakness that spread through him said the final word. This was the end for him, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

Someone came rushing toward him, a rifle in his hand. He stared at him as if to check for something, and in the next moment he took aim. His head jerked back before he could pull the trigger. Dante watched him fall as his vision darkened, but as the pain continued to spread, he couldn't find the will to care. As his consciousness slipped away, he caught a glimpse of a strange girl with neon green. Soon after, another one followed. This one's hair was light blue in color, and unlike her friend, she looked to be far more distressed.