Holy light is upon the world again. Not of god, but angels. Thousands of them. Falling like dead stars, yet their light continue to burn as they crash without upsetting even a single grain of dust, their invisible light harsh to those who can see, their blood and open wound fragrant yet revolting.
Naoya cuts them open and pulls out their souls. Keeps them in a little basket. Harvest.
Not all angels fall on earth. Some fall farther, into other worlds. Some fall into the netherworld.
Most, if not all of them, are still alive.
“Brother,” Naoya sighs, muttering to himself, “you have been too merciful.”
Next to him, Atsuro and Amane are preparing the souls for their next life.