Arc 3: The Veil of War
The night was unnaturally silent. The city of Kurohara, once a restless hive of neon lights and muffled footsteps, now carried a suffocating stillness. Shinomiya Reiji walked through the deserted streets, his boots pressing against broken glass scattered like fallen stars. His shadow, elongated by the flickering lamps, seemed heavier than his own body—an omen of the burden he carried.
The war had not begun in gunfire or roaring armies. It had begun with whispers. Small disappearances, sudden silences in once-crowded districts, and rumors of "purges" carried out by unseen hands. And Reiji knew—this was no longer the war of hidden assassins in alleys; this was something larger, systemic. A war against memory itself.
He stopped at a crossing where the stench of iron hung thick in the air. The asphalt was painted dark with blood, though no bodies remained. Reiji knelt, his hand hovering over the stain. The warmth was gone, but the cruelty was fresh.
They don't even bother hiding it anymore.
Behind him, faint footsteps echoed. A familiar voice broke the silence.
"You look like a ghost wandering his own grave."
Reiji turned. Standing under the fractured neon sign was Kurogane Arata, once his enemy, now his reluctant ally. The man's cold eyes reflected the dim red light, his blade resting casually on his shoulder.
"You're late," Reiji muttered.
"And yet, I still found you lost in your thoughts," Arata replied, his lips curling into a thin smirk. "The purge has begun, Shinomiya. The Council no longer moves in shadows—they are shadows. Entire districts are being erased."
Reiji's hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger. "Then we strike first."
Arata tilted his head, amused at Reiji's bluntness. "Always so eager to burn bridges. But this isn't about striking. This is about survival. You've seen it yourself—this city is not preparing for war. It's being fed to it."
The words lingered, as heavy as the suffocating night.
From the rooftops above, a faint glimmer caught Reiji's eye. He reacted instinctively, shoving Arata aside just as a blade of light sliced through the air, tearing into the ground where they stood. The explosion of stone and sparks illuminated the darkness, revealing a figure standing high above.
Cloaked in obsidian armor, with a mask carved into the expression of a hollow smile, the assassin looked down upon them. His voice, distorted through the mask, carried across the street.
"Shinomiya Reiji. Your existence is an error that must be corrected."
Reiji's grip tightened. His shadow writhed like a living creature behind him. "Another pawn," he spat.
The assassin leapt from the rooftop, landing with an impact that shattered the pavement. The ground trembled. Reiji moved first, his dagger flashing in the neon glow, while Arata's blade swept in a silver arc. Yet the assassin's movements were mechanical, inhumanly precise, as if guided by something beyond human instinct. Every strike they delivered was answered, countered, anticipated.
Reiji's thoughts sharpened in the chaos. Not a man… a weapon.
The assassin's mask cracked as Reiji's blade grazed it, revealing a fragment of pale, lifeless skin beneath. The sight froze him momentarily. Arata snarled, thrusting forward to cover Reiji's pause, sparks screaming as steel clashed.
"Focus, Shinomiya!" Arata barked.
The assassin's hand shot forward, seizing Reiji by the throat. The grip was ice-cold, unyielding. As Reiji struggled, he felt it—the absence of heartbeat, the hollow echo of something not alive. A construct. A puppet of war.
His vision blurred until, in desperation, his shadow surged upward like black fire, stabbing into the assassin's chest. The construct shuddered violently, its mask splintering into shards before collapsing into silence.
The street returned to stillness.
Reiji gasped for breath, his hand trembling. Arata sheathed his blade, his gaze sharp. "They've begun manufacturing soldiers. Not men, not assassins—machines in flesh. You understand what this means?"
Reiji wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes burning with a grim realization. "This isn't just war. It's annihilation."
Above them, the fractured neon finally died, plunging the street into darkness. The first sparks of war had already been lit, and the shadows would no longer hide them.