Lyrics

The sky is remembering. And I still walk this world. Asriel. The Cerulean Vow.
And I will remain, unfortunately regardless of what I lose or have lost.

Chapter 2 . The soulstorm vs The Silent Ascended**
Reiki no Machi breathed beneath a dying sun. The city shimmered in hues of red-gold and violet, caught between the spiritual and the synthetic. Obsidian towers loomed like monuments to forgotten promises, their glass faces alive with flickering ghosts and prayer-coded advertisements. Below, sakura blossoms drifted through arcs of souls' current-fed wind, brushing against ancient temple ruins now laced with neon wiring. The very pulse of the city and its soulstream faltered beneath the streets, humming a tune that no one dared call music. The world was quiet. Not peaceful. Just... holding its breath. And above it all, in the northern watchtower of Ryōshi Seishin Daigaku, six legends stood in silence gathered for what would be the last time. They were known in whispers as The Silent Ascended.once mortals, now more. Not chosen by gods, but forged in rebellion against them. Two centuries ago, they had each faced down the divine hands that tried to manipulate their fate by putting the gods,who ruled over their lives, into deep sleep that could not be broken or so they thought. But the act had changed them. They had become godlike themselves. Not through ascension, but through atonement. Through the weight of choice. And yet, they had chosen to walk among mortals still to guard, to guide, to remember. Not one of them claimed divinity, yet none could deny it either. Now they stood on the precipice of another catastrophe, cloaked in wind and memory. Azriel stood at the edge of the stone balcony, his long coat fluttering in the dusk wind. Crimson eyes scanned the city below like a blade testing its edge. His silver hair, loosely tied, caught the last light of day, and the shadows behind him pooled like oil around his boots. He was silent—but not withdrawn. He was listening to the rhythm of the world beneath him.Behind him, the others stirred. Clarissa perched on a half-collapsed solar collector, her fingers weaving glowing strands of timeline silk through the air. Threads of golden probability shimmered and collapsed between her fingers, flickering with unread futures. Her face was focused, but her eyes betrayed her the shimmer of dread behind every blink. Destiny leaned against a cracked archway, her silhouette backlit by the neon pulse of the lower city. She flipped her fate coin into the air with practiced indifference. “So, Clarissa,” she murmured, “are we fated to die horrifically, or just dramatically?” Clarissa’s voice was level. “The timelines are frayed. I see twenty-seven endings.”“Any good ones?”“Two,” she said. “But they both require a miracle.” Destiny caught her coin midair and tucked it into her glove. “Then I’ll bet double.”