The wind was dead. Over the scorched, blackened earth hung the smell of ash and the faint, metallic aftertaste of char. In the darkness, where starlight was the only thing to rely on, Galen Vollhardt came to a halt, his short silver-gray hair stirring faintly. His right eye was a deep navy blue, and his left was covered by a black eyepatch—beneath it, the golden prosthetic eye implanted with Plant cells throbbed with a faint, tingling ache. This place had once been called the Seventh City. Now, it was nothing more than the Seventh Cradle. A colossal grave marker where a hundred and twenty thousand lives had burned to nothing. "...So it's here." Galen's voice was a hoarse murmur. The fused, glassy sand caught the moonlight, emitting a phosphorescent glow of almost venomous pale blue. The scene his left prosthetic eye perceived held far more than that. Strands of residual energy crawled across the earth like the lingering scent of the dead's souls. Every single one of them was being drawn into a single point—the particularly massive, fallen wreckage of a Plant. A hundred and twenty meters tall. It was the skeleton of a gigantic creature. The Plant Bulb Tower that had once soared at the center of the Seventh City. Now it lay on its side, crushed, torn, and dead. But at its core, something was still alive. Galen's golden prosthetic eye could feel it. He moved the index finger of his right hand, just slightly. A habit. A small ritual to maintain his identity as a cold, calculating operative. "We're going in." He gave the order to the three subordinates waiting behind him without turning around. "[serious] Understood." A short reply. The men, clad in black modified military uniforms with the Plant crest embroidered on the left shoulder, were all either former mercenaries or fanatics. Either way, to Galen, they were tools. Expendable assets. But he wouldn't waste them. That was his way. They slipped through a rent in the twisted steel. The interior was a horrific sight. The walls were charred black, the floor melted and sagging in places, and the skeletal remains of wiring lay exposed everywhere. The air was bone-dry, and every breath scraped his throat raw. Despite all that, Galen's left prosthetic eye was definitely capturing it. Something deep within this corpse, like a heart still beating. "Ah." He let out a breath. (So this is where... my brother killed a hundred and twenty thousand people.) He imagined it. The figure of Knives. The sight of that man standing in this very place, arms spread wide, manipulating the energy of the stars to incinerate human beings. It must have been beautiful. Galen thought so. Helplessly, he believed it. He had served directly under Knives. He had served as a technical officer and witnessed that madness-tinged ideal firsthand. To create a paradise for Plants alone. To exterminate the vermin that was humanity. Spoken aloud, it was a ridiculous fantasy. But Knives could have done it. That was precisely why Galen was drawn to him. He envied him. And—he was jealous. (It seemed like he only opened his heart to his younger brother, Vash.) Vash the Stampede. The "Humanoid Typhoon." A ridiculous gunman who clung to a vow of non-lethal force. Galen felt that Knives had looked at that younger brother with different eyes. That was something Galen couldn't forgive. He had to prove that he was the one worthy of inheriting Knives's will. "Lieutenant." One of his subordinates stopped. In front of a room where charred consoles lay in chaotic disarray. The remains of the old Plant control room. Galen entered alone. In the center of the room lay a massive, circular device. It must have once been an interface for communicating with the Plant. Now it was just scrap metal. But beneath it— His left prosthetic eye flashed sharply. What the golden pupil captured was a fragment of data glowing blue. Drifting in the empty air like fireflies. "So you were alive." Galen's mouth twisted. It was a smile. A distorted joy made his dry lips tremble. He knelt and touched a hand to the burned-out console. Even through his military glove, he could feel a faint heat. He pulled a small data retrieval device from inside his coat and pressed it against the point where the blue phosphorescence gathered. The device trembled slightly. Data flowed in. It was fragmentary, full of noise, and he couldn't even tell what was written. But there it was—the character string for 'Absolute Zero' flickered. (This is it.) The ultimate weapon Knives had left behind. The final trap to neutralize all of humanity. Galen stood up. The old burn scar running from his left temple to his forehead stung, perhaps reacting to the residual energy. But he paid the pain no mind. "We're pulling out. Returning to the mobile base." He gave the order and turned around. His three subordinates followed in silence. Behind them, the land of death was enveloped in silence once more. 　　□ The outer edge of the Seventh City ruins. A giant beast floated in the darkness. Total length, three hundred meters. An armored vehicle train refitted from the wreckage of an old-era large transport ship—the Caravane Noir. Twelve linked cars, covered in black steel, constantly moving through the desert, it was the home base of Grief. Its power source was a semi-perpetual engine utilizing Plant cells. It never came to a complete stop. As soon as Galen returned to the operations room, he shed his coat and sat down in a chair. There was a single coffee cup on the desk. Already cold. No one ever touched it. "Call Kestra." He said only that, then loaded the recovered data into the analysis terminal on the desk. Within minutes, the operations room door opened. The person who appeared was a woman. Her long, deep crimson hair was tied up high in a single ponytail. Sharp, narrow amber eyes held a light that seemed to be constantly appraising prey. Height, 174 centimeters. Clad in a black modified military uniform, the same Plant crest as Galen's was embroidered on her left shoulder. She was Kestra Vael. Twenty-eight years old. Grief's second-in-command, and a woman who had once been a Plant engineer in Duranport. "[cold] You called." Her voice was devoid of emotion. Loyalty to Galen, but a cold-hearted realism that took precedence over even that. That was always her stance. "Analyze this." Galen pointed at the terminal. Kestra nodded silently, took her seat, and began running her slender fingers over the keyboard. Her amber eyes chased the sequence of characters. She had once worked as a Plant engineer in Duranport, the planet's largest trading city. Her social status was above that of a doctor. A monthly salary of fifteen hundred double-dollars. A life without any material wants. But deep in her heart, there had always been anger. (Humans just exploit the Plants.) They produce water, supply power, and send out purified air. While receiving those blessings, no one treats the Plants as sacred. No one is even grateful. They treat them like mere machines. She couldn't forgive that. That was why she had resonated with Knives's ideology. And she knew better than anyone the history of the 150 years since 'The Fall'—how humanity had depended on the Plants ever since the移民 fleet crash-landed on this harsh planet, No Man's Land. "...This is." Kestra's fingers stopped. Her amber eyes widened slightly. "What is it?" Galen asked. "[serious] It's a fragment of an activation sequence. It's not complete. But—it describes an essential element for activation." She turned the display toward Galen. A fragmentary sequence of code. Within it, a character string appeared repeatedly. 'Biometric authentication required. Affinity threshold: 0.97 or higher. Dependent-type individuals from standard Plants are unsuitable. Independent-level resonance is required.' "[cold] In other words, a special human is needed for activation." Galen moved the index finger of his right hand. "Not necessarily a human. A life form with high affinity for Plants—it exists somewhere on this planet." "[serious] Most likely. But the planet's population is 3.8 million. We won't find it by searching blindly." "Then investigate." Galen rose from his chair and stared at the planetary map pinned to the wall. Continents, deserts, scattered cities. All of it was the canvas of Knives's dreams. "The planet-wide Plant output monitoring network. Cross-reference the past ten years of anomalous data from it. Which Plants are causing what kind of minute fluctuations—all of it." Kestra opened her mouth for a moment, then stopped. Her amber eyes stared at Galen's back. (This man intends to go all the way.) She thought. And at the same time, she already understood where that path would lead. While worshipping Plants as gods, while hating humanity—somewhere in her heart, she still felt a sympathy for the Plants themselves. Pity for beings that were merely exploited. But she would never voice that. "[cold] Understood. Cross-referencing the data will take several days." "One day." Galen didn't turn around. He just gave the order, shortly. 　　□ That night, the settlement of Elma was quiet. A hundred and twenty kilometers northeast of Kaled City. A small habitation with a population of only eight hundred. A poor land where a single, aging Plant was barely operational. Water was rationed, two liters per person per day. Even so, people lived here. Knowing that if the Plant died, they would die too. Near the Plant Bulb stood a humble dwelling. At its window, Arisa sat. Her long, straight, silver-white hair, reaching down to her waist, caught the pale light of the Plant and shone as if dusted with star powder. Her large, pale aquamarine eyes were turned toward the night sky. Sixteen years old. Her features still held a trace of childishness, but deep within her eyes, a profound loneliness unbefitting her age occasionally surfaced. "...He didn't come today, either." She murmured quietly. In her hand was a single dog tag. A metal identification tag. The engraved letters were faded, but they were definitely there—'Vash the Stampede'. It was a few years ago. She had been caught in a sandstorm near the settlement. A Grand Storm, which was only supposed to happen a few times a season, had suddenly occurred. Arisa, who had failed to escape, was nearly buried in the sand and was on the verge of losing consciousness. At that moment— A shadow appeared from within the wind. A red coat. Blond hair. And a gentle smile. 'Are you okay?' That man had picked Arisa up and carried her to a safe place. Then, he took off his own dog tag and pressed it into her hand. 'If you're ever in trouble, show them this. If you use my name, someone will surely help you.' Saying that, he left. All that remained was the desert wind—and the dog tag, and the pounding in her chest. Arisa had never forgotten him since. People called him the "Humanoid Typhoon" and feared him. The bounty was sixty billion double-dollars. But to Arisa, none of that mattered. (Vash...) She clutched the dog tag and closed her eyes. At that moment— The Plant Bulb pulsed, faintly. Just a tiny bit brighter than usual. And then, it immediately returned to normal. Arisa didn't notice. No, even if she had, she would have thought it was her imagination. She had no way of knowing that she was unconsciously resonating with the Plant. Her unique constitution was still unknown to anyone— That night, she dreamed. A dream of Vash. Hoping for the day she could see that gentle smile again. 　　□ The communications room of the Caravane Noir. It was past midnight. Still, Kestra Vael didn't move from in front of the terminal, her amber eyes continuing to chase the torrent of data. Her single ponytail of long, deep crimson hair swayed in the light of the screen. She was brilliant. The knowledge and skills she had cultivated as a former Plant engineer were now indispensable to Grief. She illegally accessed the