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As far as Fujitora's eyes can see, there are corpses upon corpses scattered across the rubble. Some with thick shackles around their limbs, while others have their bodies mauled from what he knows is punishment for trying to remove them.
There are no cries. No labored breaths. No twitches of muscle. Only the sounds of the flames that are slowly dwindling, and the stomping of marine boots.
Fujitora watches in distress, as soldiers pick up bodies and fling them into the water. Some wear a blank face, while others chat as they each grapple two limbs, launching another body into the water with a splash. Acting as if they are simply cleaning driftwood off a beach after a storm.
Fujitora suddenly feels the weight of the cape hanging off his shoulders. The gravity of the words freshly stitched onto his back. The fear at the thought that he might never have the power to stop these massacres. Grief gnaws at his insides, slithering its way from the pit of his stomach up to his brain, creating a venomous fog.
He looks across the wreckage once more. Limbs protrude from the fallen buildings like wildflowers. Each belonged to someone who had once grown and flourished on their own–only to be brought here, held captive till they withered and died.
Fujitora is kicked in the back, face crashing against the ground. He has no time to wipe the dirt from his face before the spit of a Celestial Dragon finds its way onto his cheek to wash it away for him.
“Hurry up! What do you think you are here for!” The self-proclaimed God snaps at him. “Stupid slaves thought they could get away. What do you marines think you’re doing letting it get to this point! After that ridiculous war, all these thoughts of revolt in their heads. They needed to be taught a lesson!” The celestial dragon marches over towards a body, “You dare to go against your Gods?!” Several bullets tear through the already battered carcass.
The dragon struts back to the navy ship now that his anger is temporarily released. Fujitora stares at the ground and waits silently for him to pass, before he drifts to the body which was just assaulted by bullets.
It looks to be a young girl, no older than 10 years old. Her hair and clothes are burnt to a crisp, leaving only the chains wrapped around her arms and neck to cover her. There are five clean holes torn through the side of her body, but there is no longer any blood to be spilled from them. They just miss the center of her chest where—even with her skin charred from the flames—the claw of the false god melts through her skin, unmistakable. Fujitora removes his cloak, shielding her body from any more abuse. For this is all he can do now. The words that he has never had to face before, are now staring him in the eyes.
He unsheathes his sword from its smooth wooden sheath. What he sees in the reflection of the blade repulses him.
Two painless slashes is all it takes.