Tokyo – Midnight.The city wept.
Rain slid down steel towers, pooling in gutters and dancing on the chrome skin of a black Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine, idling at the end of a narrow alley.
Its headlights bathed the scene in pale white, slicing through the mist and smoke. The air was thick with the stink of gasoline, blood, and regret.
Akushi Yami stood still in the rain — 25 years old, calm as death.A jet-black dagger rested loosely in his right hand, glinting beneath the streetlight like an old memory.
His back leaned lightly against the hood of the Phantom.
In front of him stood three men.
One gripped a dented metal bat, knuckles white.Another trembled with a pistol, finger twitching on the trigger.The last — dressed too well for an alley — held a katana, blade freshly unsheathed, rain trailing down its edge.
None of them spoke. The silence screamed louder than gunshots.
"Three of you?" Akushi said softly, his voice barely louder than the rain.
His eyes were half-closed. Not lazy — calculating. Remembering. Accepting.
"You came to bury your boss with a bat and a borrowed blade. Cute."
No one laughed.
The man with the katana stepped forward.
"Times change, Aniki. You're old blood. Kurokawa offered us real power."
Yami tilted his head.
"You want to kill me... for scraps under another man's table?"
The man with the gun swallowed hard. "We didn't want to. But you're in the way. You always were."
Yami closed his eyes.
The sound of rain.
Distant sirens.
His heartbeat — slow, steady, silent.
He wasn't afraid.
Not of them. Not of dying. He'd already died once, the day he rose to power in the underworld. This was just… part two.
"Then do it," he said finally.
The pistol fired.
Once. Twice.
Yami staggered a step, breath catching. Warmth spread through his chest. He looked down.
Blood.
Another shot.
The dagger dropped from his fingers, clattering against the concrete.
He fell to his knees.
The man with the bat stepped forward and struck his side — once, twice — but Yami didn't flinch.
He simply looked up at the grey sky, letting the rain wash over him like a final cleansing.
His last breath came quiet.
No rage. No screams. No tears.
Just a whisper in his head:
"I wonder… if this world will miss me at all."
Somewhere else... far from Tokyo.
There was no pain. Only warmth. And light.
Akushi Yami opened his eyes slowly.
He was lying on rough soil. The scent of grass, wood, and ash lingered in the air.
A breeze brushed against his skin. His fingers curled into damp earth.
...I'm alive?
But not in Tokyo.
Not even close.
He sat up. The world was different — the sky bluer than he'd ever seen, clouds like soft cotton.
The buildings nearby were small. Wooden. Poor. Beyond them, wide fields of golden grain stretched out to the horizon.
He looked down at his body.
No bullet holes. No scars. Just a lean, youthful form — unfamiliar, but strong.
Footsteps approached.
"Yami!" a rough voice barked. "If you're awake, stop lying around and help with the firewood!"
Yami turned slowly.
A man in simple farming clothes stood nearby, axe in one hand, scowl on his face.
The man didn't wait for a reply.
Yami stared at him. Then at his own hands. Then at the sky.
He didn't speak.
But deep inside, he understood what had happened.
I died… and woke up here.
He lowered his gaze.
...Alright then.