The survivors trudged north in uneasy silence, every step sinking into streets that no longer felt solid. Concrete flexed faintly beneath their boots, pulsing as though blood moved inside. Even the air changed; what should have been the sharp stink of rot and dust now carried a faint brine, salt-heavy, like an ocean trying to bleed through the city's skin.
Genji clutched his pipe-spear tighter, eyes darting between the ruined shops and hollowed windows above. "I don't like this. It's too quiet."
Daigo snorted. "You think quiet's worse than what we just saw?" His voice was harsh, but his chain rattled nervously in his hand. "I'll take quiet over those meat-worms any day."
Juro walked ahead of most of the survivors, posture steady, his bandaged face unreadable. His one good eye swept across the ruins, measuring, calculating. Every so often he'd mutter under his breath — directions, notes, small fragments of sense spoken as though to himself but loud enough for others to anchor their panic to.
Shitsubo felt every pulse of the ground in his bones. His curse thrummed, eager, hungry, whispering for more blood. But beneath that familiar hunger was something worse — a resonance. The rune in his flesh recognized the corruption spreading through Osaka. Dagon's work called to his own curse like kin calling kin. And though he sneered outwardly, some small part of him wondered how long before the line between them blurred.
They reached the river at dusk. What once had been a murky ribbon of water was now a black current, sluggish and thick, carrying fragments of flesh and bone downstream. The bridges were gone — or worse, they had become things. One span of concrete now writhed, its rebar tendons twitching as though the bridge itself breathed. Across the current, buildings leaned into each other like lovers, fused into grotesque shapes, their windows glowing faintly from within.
A woman among the survivors gagged at the sight. "This isn't a river anymore…"
"No," Juro said flatly. "It's a vein. And it's feeding something."
As if in answer, the water convulsed. A shape rose from the current, dripping sludge — a minion, but unlike the spiral-mawed horrors. This one was fused with the river itself, its body half-liquid, half-bone, its face nothing but a mass of writhing teeth. It dragged itself onto the shore with claws that dripped water, leaving trails that hissed against the ground.
"Positions!" Shitsubo barked, curse flaring. The rune glowed black under his skin, lines burning up his arm. "Do not scatter!"
More forms emerged from the river — humanoid outlines stitched from debris, broken pipes for spines, glass shards for teeth, skin rippling with currents beneath. Each step they took made the ground shudder.
Daigo swore and swung his chain. "Oh, hell, they're part of the city now!"
The first waterborn minion lunged. Shitsubo met it head-on, curse surging. His fist punched through its chest, but the blow splashed apart into water and reformed behind him. Its claws raked across his back, shallow but burning cold. He snarled, twisting and crushing its head between both hands. The curse devoured it greedily — but unlike before, it left behind a bitter aftertaste, as though water resisted being consumed.
Genji rammed his spear into another, the pipe sinking into liquid flesh, but when he pulled back, the spear came away corroded, hissing smoke. He stumbled, cursing under his breath. "I can't pierce them!"
"Target the bones!" Juro barked, his voice sharp, commanding. "The rest reforms — the bones are anchors. Break them, and they fall!" He hurled his concrete club at one of the minions, shattering its spine-pipe. The body collapsed into water, which seeped back into the river with a hiss.
The survivors followed his lead, scrambling for rocks and debris, striking wildly but with purpose. For once, they weren't just panicked mouths — they were fighters, clumsy but determined.
Shitsubo's curse lashed against his will. It wanted more. It wanted to flood him entirely, to let him consume every drop of this corrupted water and claim it. His vision darkened at the edges, his breath came ragged. Give in, the rune whispered. Become the vein. Become the hive.
He forced it down, snarling. "Not yet. Not yours."
Daigo swung his chain around one of the waterborn's limbs, yanking it off-balance before stomping its skull into fragments. "Not bad advice, Juro. Maybe losing an eye knocked some sense into you!"
Juro ignored him, his good eye fixed on Shitsubo. He spoke low, not for the group but for Shitsubo alone. "You're enjoying this too much. Every strike pulls you deeper. Don't pretend otherwise."
Shitsubo turned, ichor dripping from his hands, grin sharp as knives. "Maybe deeper is where I belong."
Genji froze at that, his grip faltering on his spear. Daigo's laughter choked in his throat. The survivors, too far to hear the words, only saw the look in Shitsubo's eyes — and some of them recoiled instinctively, even though he was the one keeping them alive.
The fight raged on. Waterborn rose and fell, some collapsing into sludge, others fleeing back into the current. At last, the river stilled again, though its surface rippled as if laughing at them. The survivors sagged against each other, panting, bleeding, but alive.
"North," Shitsubo said at last, voice rough. His body trembled, not with exhaustion, but with the effort of holding the curse in check. "We follow the river north. If there's a breach, it'll be there. If there's nothing…" He licked black ichor from his lips, smiling faintly. "…we carve one ourselves."
Juro stepped closer, his bandaged face expressionless, his voice quiet but cutting. "And if the breach leads only deeper into Dagon's gut?"
Shitsubo's grin widened. "Then we cut our way through its stomach and crawl out the other side."
The words unsettled everyone. But no one argued. Not even Juro — not aloud.
As they moved, the survivors whispered among themselves. Some clung to Shitsubo as their only hope, others to Juro's steady commands. But the truth had already sunk in: they weren't following a savior. They were following a curse wearing human skin.
And Osaka was no longer a city. It was a living altar, and the god it worshiped had begun to stir.