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There were no streets. There were only riverbeds carved through the cooling ash. There were no houses. There were only blackened, charred skeletons, lifting their dead limbs toward the heavens. His city was gone. His home. His Yuki. His Ayame. Nothing. Only the wind, chasing scraps of what had once been life across the wasteland. And the smell. That same sweetish, nauseating stench he knew so intimately from Nanjing →