[Dawn, The 13th Street]

  When the first ray of true sunlight (thanks to the residual waves from the Tesla Tower dispersing part of the smog) spilled onto the scorched earth, the suffocating roar of gunfire finally ceased completely.

  On the distant horizon, the Guild's tide of steel was slowly receding.

  Massive Titan Mechs dragged their smoking, broken bodies, and heavy transport trucks, filled to the brim with corpses (mostly their own Corpse Puppets, but also a few unfortunate Scavengers), left the land they had ravaged all night in dead silence.

  There were no horns of victory, no cheers.

  Only the whoosh of wind blowing through the ruins, sounding like the city weeping.

  "Gone... they're gone..."

  Uncle Miller poked his head out from behind a bunker that was half-blown away. His goggles were shattered long ago, and a piece of shrapnel had cut a long, bloody gash on his face, but he didn't seem to feel the pain. He just stared blankly at the retreating enemy, then sat down heavily in the muddy water.

  "We... survived?"

  He asked the person next to him.

  Next to him was a kid, no older than a teenager, clutching a bent steel pipe. The boy's face was covered in soot, tears washing two white streaks down his cheeks.

  "We survived." The boy nodded, then suddenly burst into loud wails. "But... but Er Gou died... he was right next to me... he got blown up..."

  The crying spread through the crowd like a contagion.

  They had won the battle. The Guild had retreated. But at what cost?

  Looking around, the entire 13th Street was almost leveled.

  Half of the houses Lu Ban had reinforced were now rubble. The Ruins School, just established, had bullet holes riddling the classroom walls, and the blackboard with the character "Benevolence" (Ren) was shattered. Uncle George's hotdog cart was nothing but a charred wheel lying lonely by the roadside.

  Wounded people were everywhere.

  Although Nightingale was known as the "Angel of Iron," she was only one person, and her summoning time had expired. After she vanished, the pain that had been suppressed instantly erupted.

  "My leg! Where's my leg?!"

  "Doctor! Where's the doctor? Save my dad!"

  Screams rose and fell.

  Margaret pushed her wheelchair through the crowd, holding the last bit of gauze, bandaging one person, giving water to another. Her face was as pale as paper, but she didn't stop.

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  "Don't be afraid, child, don't be afraid. As long as you're not dead, there's hope."

  With her hand that had just regained a little sensation, she tremblingly stroked a wounded man's forehead.

  And in the center of the ruins.

  John Doe stood there.

  The space around him was empty. Leonidas was gone, the Spartans were gone, Li Bai was gone, even the embodiment of loyalty, Guan Yu, was gone.

  The Heroic Spirits had completed their mission and returned to the world of legends.

  Only he remained.

  A mortal covered in blood, exhausted, barely able to stand.

  "Bone..."

  John turned around and looked at the ruins behind him.

  In a pile of rubble, he saw that familiar figure.

  Bone was sitting there. Or rather, his head was sitting there.

  His body had been almost completely shattered in that final strike, leaving only that hard skull, a section of cervical vertebrae, and a left shoulder blade attached to it.

  But he wasn't dead.

  Before leaving, Guan Yu had used the last bit of his Green Dragon Sword Qi to forcibly protect Bone's Soul Fire and even repaired his skull to be sturdier (it looked rounder now).

  "Boss..." Bone's jaw clicked. His voice was weak but carried the relief of survival. "See, I told you I was tough."

  "My leg seems to be over there... can you pick it up for me? It was expensive." Bone pointed to a pile of debris not far away.

  John looked at him, wanting to laugh, but tears flowed first.

  He walked over and hugged Bone's head. Like holding a lost treasure that had been found.

  "I'll pick it up. I'll pick it all up."

  John's voice choked. "Even if it's smashed to dust, I'll piece you back together. If I can't, I'll buy you new ones. Titanium alloy. The best ones."

  Holding Bone, he looked around.

  At the devastated home, at the neighbors weeping in the ruins, at the people who survived but lost everything.

  Is this victory?

  If so, this victory was too bitter. Bitter enough to choke on.

  "We won..." John whispered. "But we lost everything."

  No house, no money, no medicine. Even the "hope" that had supported everyone was blown to pieces in the night's shelling.

  "No, Boss."

  Bone's muffled voice came from his embrace.

  "As long as you're here. As long as we're here. We haven't lost."

  "Look."

  Inside Bone's eye sockets, the ghostly blue Soul Fire was weak, but it was beating tenaciously.

  "The fire isn't out yet."

  John looked down at the fire.

  Yes. The fire wasn't out.

  As long as the fire remained, it could be rekindled. As long as people remained, homes could be rebuilt.

  A deep exhaustion finally surged up.

  The adrenaline that had kept him standing faded completely at that moment.

  Hemophobia, overdrawn Psionic Power, and the despair of mental exhaustion pressed down like a mountain.

  "Yeah... the fire isn't out..."

  John muttered.

  His vision began to blur, the world spinning before his eyes.

  Surrounding sounds became distant and ethereal.

  He saw Margaret pushing her wheelchair, rushing toward him, the wheels creaking over the gravel.

  He saw Grace's wristband flashing urgent red light, like a beating heart.

  He saw the neighbors—those who once wanted to sell him out, then were saved by him—reaching out to him.

  Some hands were covered in mud, some in blood, some were trembling.

  But every hand reached in the same direction—toward the teetering young man.

  "John!"

  "Boss!"

  In the last second before losing consciousness, John only felt that Bone in his arms was very hard, but also very reassuring.

  The clouds in the sky finally dispersed completely, revealing the long-lost red sun. The morning light was blood-red, dyeing the gray ruins a tragic golden-crimson.

  The broken walls cast long shadows under the sun, like nameless tombstones.

  At the intersection of light and shadow, John closed his eyes.

  His body fell backward.

  But he didn't hit the ground.

  Countless hands caught him.

  Old Harry's hands, Butcher Zhang's hands, Uncle Miller's hands, and the children's hands.

  They held him up. Just as they held up the last backbone of this street.

  Tonight, although the 13th Street had turned into ruins.

  Above these ruins, something was harder than steel, hotter than fire.

  It was... the human hearts that chose to embrace each other even in despair.

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