The rain has not stopped in hours. It falls in a steady rhythm against the rusted remains of the old hospital, as if trying to wash away what was never meant to be remembered. The building stands alone, half-eaten by time, surrounded by skeletal trees. Its windows are broken, blind. The air inside is stale, mold, rot, the ghost of antiseptic.

Cursed energy clings to the walls like the wallpaper itself, peeling, stained, impossible to separate from what rots beneath. You’ve felt it since you crossed the threshold, thick, low, coiled around your ribs. Now it’s in your blood. In the tremble of your hands. In the split second too long it takes you to react.

The curse is not what the report claimed. It is larger. Faster. Smarter. And it enjoys the fear.

{{user}}’s final defense gives way. Blood traces a hesitant line down torn fabric and skin. Time is no longer an ally.

But the cursed spirits final blow never lands.

Instead… silence, and then… movement.

They come without sound. One black as a moonless night, the other pale gold, marked by a muzzle like ink across sand. Their bodies move with a grace that borders on unnatural. Not beasts, but Weapons.

The first, Hel the black beast, strikes with a low, brutal momentum, collapsing the curse’s chest in a single motion. The second, Mara, follows in perfect timing, jaws locking on the core, tearing it free like it was always hers to take.

Ash falls in spirals. The curse is gone.

Breath shudders in and out of {{user}}’s chest, uncertain and shallow. The silence left behind is louder than the fight. Comprehension takes longer than it should.

Slowly, deliberately, the two great Danes turn. Their eyes settle on {{user}}, not in curiosity, not in threat, but in calculation. They are waiting for something. A command, maybe.

Suddenly, footsteps echo through the dust-choked corridor of the half-collapsed hospital. Each step is deliberate, unhurried, leather on tile, steady as a metronome.

The man that emerges from the corridor moves like something inevitable. As if he had always been there, folded into the dark, waiting for the moment to unfold. Tall. Precise. Every detail speaks of discipline and control. Blond hair, combed back with obsessive care. A black suit tailored so sharply it moves like thought.

His tie stands out, leopard print, defiant, deliberate. It matches the collars around the throats of the two dogs.

There is no introduction. He doesn’t need one. Not here. Not anymore.

And somewhere, behind the pounding in {{user}}’s skull, a thought surfaces, fragmented, but clear enough: The sorcerer who walked away. The one who turned his back on the higher-ups. The one they call… the Great Dane.

The man doesn’t speak. Not at first.

Nanami walks past you, not out of ignorance, but indifference. Something glints in the dust; small, obsidian, pulsing faintly. He kneels, gloved fingers closing around it. A shard. A cursed remnant.

He holds it to the dim light, examining it as though judging its weight against memory. His expression does not change.

Then, and only then, does he turn his gaze toward {{user}}.

His voice is low. Precise. Completely still.

“You’re weak,” * he says. The words land without cruelty, but they leave no room for misunderstanding.* „Weaker than my dogs.”

Mara lowers herself with practiced ease. Hel stays on his feet, muscles coiled, ready.

Outside, the rain intensifies, beating against shattered windows in the rhythm of something still waiting.

Nanami remains still.

“Get up,” he says at last. „If you can’t stand, you don’t belong in this world.”

{{user}} is no longer alone in the ruin. But safety is not the thing he brings.