The rain hadn't stopped since morning.
Tokyo skies were heavy, gray, and merciless - like the whole city was holding its breath. Inside the Konohagure Estate, it was worse. The quiet wasn't peaceful; it was judgmental. Every drop of rain that hit the tiled roof was another reminder that a full year had passed... and the Ghost was still gone.
The great hall was lit only by hanging paper lanterns. Shadows danced across the lacquered walls, and cigarette smoke lingered thick enough to choke the air. Around the black glass table sat the heads of the most powerful Yakuza families still loyal to the Konohagure Clan.
At the far end sat Daizo Konohagure, patriarch of the clan, fifth of his name, and the man who had been bleeding reputation ever since that cursed night. He was older now - lines deeper, patience thinner - but his presence still carried the same cold weight.
He tapped his cane against the floor once.
Everyone shut up instantly.
"Gentlemen. It's been a year. One long, humiliating year since Ghost was taken." Daigo said.
No one spoke. The shame was heavy in the room - the kind of silence that made even the cigarette embers feel loud.
"You all remember what that blade means. Forged in the Meiji era by Emperor Kabuto himself. Bound to our ancestors' souls. A symbol of our name. A symbol of power. And we lost it... to a nobody."
The word nobody came out like venom.
Across the table, Kenta Moroboshi - loud as ever, his gold chain glinting under the light - exhaled smoke through his nose.
"We've been chasing shadows for twelve damn months, boss. Every lead's cold. Every rumor's garbage. You really think we're gonna find the guy now?" Kenta questioned.
"We're not chasing shadows anymore." Daizo answered.
He nodded to the man beside him - Hajime Oro, the clan's Intelligence Chief. The man stepped forward, placing a thick folder on the table. The cover read 'ARCHIVE 9: INCIDENT GHOST' in red letters.
"Three nights ago, we got access to an off-grid server dump from the Kyoto Rail Authority. Data that was archived - hidden from official access. These contain the final surveillance recordings from 2034." Hajime inspected.
He spread several photos across the table.
The room leaned in.
The first picture was grainy - an underground corridor, dimly lit, smoke billowing through the air. The second one showed a tall figure running with a sheathed sword wrapped in cloth.
The third - a still frame of a young man's face turning toward the camera for just half a second.
His expression unreadable.
Eyes cold.
Rain falling across his hair.
"This was our thief." Hajime said.
"...That kid?" He laughs under his breath. "You're joking. He looks like some broke college dropout, not someone who'd take a blade worth billions." Kenta exclaimed.
"His name surfaced once in an old registry. Hydro Undergrove. No confirmed address, no parents, no criminal record. Nothing. He's... a ghost." Hajime corrected.
The irony stung.
Everyone glanced at each other.
Takeshi, the oldest in the room, leaned forward with a quiet scoff.
"You're saying we've been chasing a kid? After all this time?" Takeshi questioned.
"Not just a kid. Someone smart enough to bypass biometric locks, steal a sealed relic, and vanish from the entire country without a single trace. He left no prints, no DNA, no trail. Like he never existed." Hajime answered.
Daizo, gritting his teeth "I don't care if he's a kid or a goddamn ghost. He made a fool out of this clan. Out of me." He said.
He slammed his cane against the table - a sharp crack that made a few of the men flinch.
"You all know what the other families are saying. They think we're finished. They think the Konohagure name died the night Ghost was stolen. That's why we're here tonight - to take it back." Daizo explains.
He paused, breathing heavy through his nose, eyes locked on the photos.
"For twelve months, we kept this quiet. We let the world think the blade was being 'restored,' that it was still in our vaults. But the truth? It's been gone. And now that we know who has it, we move."
"Where's this... Hydro now?" Kenta questioned.
"Not in Japan. 1 year ago he left the country two weeks after the theft. Traveled under a fake passport through Busan, then Manila. Last confirmed sighting was in Canada, 2035. Since then, nothing. He's off-grid." Daizo questioned.
"So the bastard's running scared." Kento mocks Hydro.
"Or he's just hiding smart." Hajime said.
Daizo mutters. "Every man hides. Until you take away what he hides for."
The table fell silent again. The rain outside was louder now - hard, fast, relentless.
"So what's the play, Patriarch?" Takeshi asks Daizo.
Daizo straightened up. The tension in his shoulders looked like it had been building for an entire year.
"We rebuild our network. Every contact, every fixer, every informant from here to Europe. We'll smoke him out. If he so much as breathes near a weapon dealer, a shipyard, a hotel - we'll know." Daizo said.
He turned toward Hajime.
"And you. Keep watching. He's got the Ghost, which means he'll draw attention. A relic like that doesn't stay quiet. Eventually, someone's gonna see it - or feel it." Daizo said.
Hajime nodded.
Daizo, calm but rageful. "When that happens, we act. Fast. Clean. No police, no news. We take the sword back, and we erase whoever touched it."
Kenta smirked, grinding his cigar into the ashtray.
"So we're bringing him in alive?" Kenta asked.
Daizo responds coldly. "Alive or dead, I don't care. As long as Ghost returns to its rightful home."
A murmur went through the room - quiet affirmations, some nervous, some eager. You could feel the old hunger stirring again, that criminal instinct buried under shame for too long.
Daizo speaks in a low voice. "We waited a year because we thought we were cursed. Now I see - the curse is letting this boy breathe for one more day. That ends now."
He stood slowly, every movement deliberate, cane tapping against the marble floor like a ticking bomb.
"To the world, this 'Hydro' is a thief. To us, he's a message. Someone out there thinks they can take from the Konohagure name and live." He said.
He glanced at the rain-slick window - his reflection fractured in the glass.
"We'll show them what happens to thieves."
He turned his back to the table.
"Meeting adjourned." Daizo dismissed the meeting.
Chairs pushed back. Suits rustled. The men bowed low and started filing out. No one said another word. The tension followed them out the door like a ghost.
When it was only Daizo and Hajime left, the old man lit a cigarette and stared at the last photo again - Hydro's blurry face caught in the corner of a camera lens.
"You think it's really just a kid?" Hajime asked.
Daizo says quietly. "Maybe. But every thief bleeds. And when I find him... I'll make sure he remembers who he stole from."
LATER
The night in Shinjuku was damp, humid, and loud with the sound of engines and arguments. But deep in the Konohagure Estate, beneath that chaos, something colder was brewing.
A heavy iron door slid open, leading into the Konohagure Clan's underground operations room - a dim-lit basement lined with screens, maps, and stacks of old archives.
Hajime Oro stood in front of the largest monitor, its glow washing over his face. His fingers danced over a holographic keyboard, pulling up files, encrypted databases, and message boards from across the net.
Then he froze.
A name popped up.
OHARA COMMUNITY.
He blinked, scrolling down. Dozens of posts, comments, and tags filled the page - photos of people posing with swords, armor, robes, and historical Japanese outfits. But one picture hit him like a gut punch: a man dressed in black, holding a long blade with a blue tint across its edge. The caption read:
"Cosplay practice at Ohara Community HQ. Sword model: 'Ghost' replica. Handmade!"
Hajime's cigarette almost dropped from his mouth.
He saved the image, zoomed in.
The handle pattern was identical.
The hilt engraving - exact.
Even the faint glow looked like the same ethereal shimmer caught in the old surveillance shot from Kyoto.
He slammed his palm on the desk and shouted.
"Patriarch! I found something!"
Two Hours Later
In the upper hall, the clan gathered again - this time smaller, but sharper. The inner circle only.
Daizo Konohagure sat at the head of the table, cane across his lap.
His eyes were locked on the projected photo of the Ohara Community.
"Explain." Daizo said.
"It's called the Ohara Community. A collective based in Manila. They've been posting about a sword named Ghost since last month. Every picture they upload features a near-perfect match to our relic." Hajime explained.
leaned forward, chewing his gum obnoxiously loud. "So this is where our thief dumped the blade? Some foreign clan?"
Takeshi frowns. "Never heard of them. Ohara Clan fell centuries ago after Kabuto Rokuhira's line ended."
Daizo taps his cane. "Then maybe it's not the old Ohara. Maybe it's the new one. A sleeper cell."
"That's what I thought too. I dug deeper. They're organizing a major gathering in Japan next month - Nagashima Spa Land, Mie Prefecture. The event's called-" Hajime he squints at the translation. "-Otakufest 2035." he continued.
Kenta snorts. "Otakufest? What the hell is that? Some kind of cult?"
Takeshi struggles to speak. "Ota...ku?" he slowly pronounces it. "Sounds Kansai. Maybe a code name."
"Whatever it is, they're gathering. Which means our sword will be there." Daizo said.
He turned his gaze to Hajime.
"Do we have confirmation that the thief is with them?" Daizo asked.
"No visual yet, but based on digital traces - Hydro Undergrove's old network pings near the same subnet used by the Ohara Community. It's possible he passed the weapon to them, or he's using them as cover." Hajime responded.
Daizo said quietly. "A coward hiding behind a clan's name."
He stood, slowly pacing to the window. Rain trickled down the glass, city lights warping into streaks of red and gold.
"If he gave the sword to them... then he's trying to erase us. Trying to hand our bloodline to another family." Daizo exclaims.
The table stayed dead silent. You could almost hear the pulse of everyone's anger syncing up.
Kenta cracks knuckles. "So, we go in and take it back. Easy. If they're stupid enough to bring it to Japan, we end it there."
"We don't even know how many they've got." Takeshi, spoke in concern.
Daizo turns his head. "Doesn't matter. Once an Ohara, always an Ohara."
That line dropped like a death sentence.
Everyone knew what it meant - eradication order.
The Next Morning
A gray dawn settled over the Konohagure docks. Cargo containers, black vans, and armed men moved in quiet coordination. Weapons were packed in unmarked crates labeled as "Construction Materials."
Hajime oversaw the operation, issuing assignments.
"Team One, you'll head to Mie Prefecture under civilian cover. Team Two, intercept transport routes. If you see any crates labeled Ohara, you check them. No hesitation." Hajims ordered.
A younger soldier raised his hand, hesitant. "Sir... are we sure this isn't... uh... a misunderstanding? The posts-some of them look like, uh, costumes. Like movie stuff."
Hajime glared, voice low.
Hajime is pressured. "You think I don't know that? You think I can't tell a sword from a toy? That blade's not fake. The aura matches Ghost's frequency. I've run the scans myself. It's the real thing."
The soldier swallowed his words and nodded quickly.
"Remember, these people might act harmless, but don't let that fool you. No one calls themselves Ohara unless they mean it. And if they do, they're claiming heritage that doesn't belong to them." Hajime said.
He turned, cigarette between his lips, eyes locked on the sea.
"The Patriarch wants this clean. No witnesses. No police."
The younger men nodded, faces set like stone, not realizing how wrong this whole thing was.
That Night - At the Estate
Daizo sat alone in his office. The rain had finally stopped, but the air was still heavy with tension. He watched a recording Hajime sent him - a video of the Ohara Community rehearsing for their performance. Bright costumes, laughter, stage lights, upbeat music. It was harmless.
But Daizo didn't see harmless.
He saw mockery.
Daizo mutters. "You wear our symbols like decoration... our name like a joke."
He tightened his grip on the cane.
To him, this was no festival - this was an insult to his ancestors.
The phone buzzed on his desk.
Hajime is through phone. "Patriarch, our intel confirms they'll arrive in Nagashima next week. Full group, around thirty members." he said.
"Good. We'll send fifty." Daizo said.
"Understood. Should I inform the Omi Alliance about our move?" Hajime asks.
"No. This stays between us. The fewer who know, the better. If the media hears about this, we lose face." Daizo responded with clear decline.
He hangs up, eyes drifting back to the paused video - one frame showing a smiling girl holding up the "Ghost" sword prop. The blue shimmer glowed faintly in the lens flare.
Daizo whispered under his breath:
"The sword doesn't shine for strangers."
He stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside. The courtyard lamps flickered as the night wind carried the faint sound of city traffic.
"Hydro Undergrove... wherever you're hiding..."
He looked toward the horizon, jaw tight.
"...You just dragged the wrong people into your mess."
And so, the Konohagure Clan prepared for war -
against a cosplay community.
They thought they were reclaiming a sacred relic.
They didn't realize they were walking straight into a stage built for lights, laughter, and cameras - not blood.
But pride blinded them.
And in the underworld, pride always draws blood first.
IN THE EVENING
The sun was dipping low, painting the desert sky in molten orange and violet streaks. Hydro sat cross-legged on top of his trailer truck, his tent flaps open to let the cool wind roll through. His laptop hummed quietly beside a half-empty can of coffee, while soft synth music played from his phone - the kind that made time feel slower, heavier, but kind of peaceful.
He hadn't had a call in weeks. Maybe months. He liked it that way. But then his phone buzzed - hard enough to make the coffee tremble.
Hydro groaned, reaching over. The caller ID flashed in blue. Unknown number.
He almost ignored it. But something in his gut - that weird, nostalgic pull - made him tap accept.
The video call opened. His camera was off, but the other person's wasn't.
A face appeared - a familiar one.
Her short blonde hair had streaks of pink now. Same grin. Same mischievous look in her eyes that hadn't changed even a bit since the last time he saw her.
"Atlarus Quinn," Hydro breathed, almost in disbelief.
"Hydro freaking Undergrove!" she yelled through the screen, voice crackling with laughter. "No way. You actually picked up! Ten years later and you finally answer your phone?!"
Hydro couldn't help but laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to smile too wide. "I was... uh, focusing on myself," he said, leaning back on his camp chair. "Didn't think you'd still have my number after all this time."
"Oh, I didn't," Quinn shot back with a smirk. "I found it through your old cosplay server archives. You should really delete your digital footprints, man."
Hydro chuckled, shaking his head. "You stalking me now?"
"Researching. Big difference."
They both laughed - that same easy, dumb laughter that came naturally when old friends reconnected. For a moment, the desert felt warmer.
"So..." Hydro said, adjusting the camera so his face showed half in the dim light. "What's up with you? Still doing con stuff? I thought your group disbanded after the whole 2025 Cosmania chaos."
Quinn leaned closer to her webcam, eyes gleaming. "Oh, you don't even know, bro. Cosplay's gone wild since then. Like, I mean literally - we're part of something called the Ohara Community now. It's not just costumes anymore. Full sets, props, lore connections, charity drives - it's a whole movement."
Hydro blinked. "The Ohara Community? Sounds like a startup that sells samurai keychains."
Quinn giggled. "Nah, it's legit! You remember the Ohara Clan lore we used to talk about for that old project? The one you wrote that crazy story about - the sword that absorbs memories?"
"Yeah," Hydro said quietly. "Ghost."
"Well, these guys made it their theme. They even do historical cosplay tie-ins. Like, we've got actual historians consulting us now. You'd love it. It's all dramatic and edgy - your thing."
Hydro's smile faded just a bit. "Heh. Yeah. Guess the community moved on without me."
"Dude, don't say that," Quinn said softly, frowning. "You were like, the heart of the group. Everyone still talks about your old camera work. The way you'd make a five-dollar prop look like a Hollywood weapon."
Hydro looked away, eyes tracing the horizon. "Yeah, well... hearts fade. People grow. Communities turn into ghost towns." He chuckled, but it didn't sound all that light.
Quinn's expression softened. "You disappeared, Hydro. No messages. No updates. Nothing. You can't expect people not to drift."
He nodded. "Yeah. I get that. I just needed to fix my own head. A lot happened."
The screen went silent for a second. Only the sound of wind filled the space between them.
Then Quinn scratched her neck - a casual, quick motion. But Hydro caught it instantly. On her skin, just below her jawline, was a tattoo. A black spider web - and in the center, a spider with the number 1 inked across its back.
Hydro blinked. "Hold up," he said, leaning closer. "Is that a tattoo?"
Quinn froze, eyes darting down. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, kinda forgot that's visible."
Hydro's jaw dropped. "No way. You? The girl who used to call tattoos 'skin stickers for overthinkers'? What happened to you, huh?"
She burst out laughing, holding her hands up in defense. "Okay, okay! First of all, rude. Second, I lost a bet during a cosplay challenge last year. The loser had to get a small tattoo. It was supposed to be a fake one - but the artist misunderstood and just went full needle."
Hydro laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. "You let it happen? You could've stopped him!"
"Oh yeah, I totally tried," Quinn said sarcastically, making a dramatic gesture. "But then the guy said, 'It's already outlined!' and I panicked! So now I got this ugly-ass spider on my neck. Everyone calls me Spider Queen now."
Hydro was still laughing, tears in his eyes. "Spider Queen Quinn. God, that's-"
"Shut up," she said, grinning despite herself. "You still have that stupid scar on your chin?"
Hydro touched his chin. "I don't know. It vanish."
"I was thinking about being even hehe," Quinn said, smirking.
For a while, it was just them - swapping old stories, bringing up the dumbest memories from conventions past. Like the time Hydro dressed as a gender-bent Valkyrie because of a dare, or the time Quinn broke a prop sword mid-performance and just improvised by turning it into a slapstick routine.
The laughter felt real again. Like ten years hadn't even passed.
Then Quinn leaned forward, voice softening. "Hey, Hydro?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you... maybe wanna come to Japan next week?"
Hydro blinked. "Wait, Japan? Why?"
She grinned, wide and bright. "We're going to Otakufest 2035! It's happening in Nagashima Spa Land this time. Two-week event, massive cosplay expo. We're all going - the whole old gang. You should totally come, dude. Everyone would lose it if they saw you."
Hydro stared for a second, processing. "Otakufest? In Japan? That's... that's wild. It used to be a Cebu-only thing."
"Yeah, it went global this year! Some partnership deal with Japanese organizers. We got invited as the Ohara Community's rep group. Like, full access, booths, media coverage, everything."
Hydro leaned back, laughing in disbelief. "That's insane. From small conventions in humid basements to Japan. You guys really leveled up."
"You're coming, right?" Quinn's eyes gleamed through the pixelated video. "Don't tell me the legendary Hydro Undergrove's gonna miss this."
Hydro smiled, looking down at his phone. The desert wind carried a faint whistle through his tent. "If they're still selling tickets," he said quietly, "I'll think about it."
"You better. We're all waiting to see your face again."
"Yeah... it's been too long," Hydro said softly. "Feels like a second life."
Quinn smiled - that same nostalgic grin. "Then make it count, second-lifer. I'll send you the event link. Don't ghost us again."
Hydro chuckled. "No promises."
They said their goodbyes - awkwardly, but warm. Quinn waved at the camera before hanging up.
Hydro sat there for a while, the blue light of the screen fading from his face. He looked out at the horizon - the world quiet except for the wind.
Then, a rare smile curved across his lips.
Maybe... it was time to stop running.
He leaned back on the tent floor, phone still in his hand, stars starting to blink into the evening sky. The call replayed in his head - Quinn's laugh, her tattoo, the name "Ohara Community."
He didn't know what waited in Japan, but for the first time in years, the thought didn't scare him.
It excited him.
JAPAN - EVENING
Tokyo was never quiet.
Even at midnight, the city pulsed - red neon, rumbling traffic, cigarette smoke rising like ghosts. But tonight, it wasn't just nightlife echoing through the alleys of Shinjuku. It was footsteps. Small, frantic, uneven ones.
A girl was running.
Her name - or at least what people whispered - was The Five Million Dollar Girl. No one knew her real one. Some said she was American-born. Some said she was the daughter of a dead politician. Others said she carried a secret worth more than gold. But tonight, none of that mattered.
Only survival did.
Her sneakers slapped against wet asphalt, splashing through puddles. Her breath came in sharp, shaking bursts. Every step echoed between narrow buildings lined with flickering signs. She glanced behind - six men in black suits, tattoos creeping up their necks, closing in fast.
"Stop runnin', kid!" one shouted, his voice rasping with smoke and anger. "You think you can hide from the Konohagure Clan?!"
The girl didn't answer. She couldn't. She was too busy breathing, too busy not dying. Her hair stuck to her face from rain and sweat. Her heart felt like it was trying to punch out of her chest.
One of the men barked into his earpiece. "She's heading east! Block the damn alley!"
The girl turned sharply, almost slipping on a wet corner, and bolted down another street. Trash bags tore as she brushed past them. Dogs barked in the distance. A red paper lantern swung violently in her wake.
"Oh no," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. They were faster. Older, but faster.
She stumbled over a loose brick and hit her knees hard. Pain shot through her legs. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. She crawled behind a metal dumpster, clutching her small backpack to her chest. Her hands shook uncontrollably.
The sound of footsteps drew closer. Muffled voices.
"She can't have gone far."
"Check behind the dumpsters."
"No, wait-she's smart. She's not hiding in the open."
"Boss said bring her alive. Don't mess it up this time."
Rain started again - light at first, then heavier, hammering on tin roofs and pavement. The water washed over her face, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to silence her breathing. Her small frame trembled in the cold.
A shadow passed the dumpster. A boot stopped inches from her fingers.
She froze.
"Nothing here," the man muttered, and turned away.
The girl exhaled, barely audible.
She waited. One second. Two. Thirty. Until the footsteps faded down the alley. Then she pushed herself up slowly, her knees still aching.
Her clothes were soaked. Her hair, tangled and dripping. But she didn't stop. She couldn't.
She ran again.
Past shuttered shops and rusted vending machines. Past a blinking sign that read Karaoke Dreamland. Past a cat perched on a windowsill, watching her like it knew she didn't belong here.
The city felt endless. Like a maze built to swallow her whole.
She found another alley - darker, narrower. The kind where light didn't reach and silence had weight. Her small hands brushed the cold walls as she moved deeper, looking for any door, any hole, any space to crawl into.
At the end, she found it.
A small metal staircase led down to an old door, half-covered in graffiti. Above it, a faded sign read "REFUGE."
She blinked, unsure if her mind was playing tricks. But then thunder cracked somewhere behind her - and she didn't think twice. She ran down the stairs, grabbed the rusty handle, and pushed.
The door creaked open.
Inside was dim light, warm and yellow, leaking from a few candles on a table. The air smelled like dust and tea. A narrow room stretched out - old furniture, bookshelves, a couch with torn cushions.
And sitting on that couch was an old woman, her gray hair tied back, glasses perched low on her nose. She was reading.
The girl froze in the doorway, dripping rainwater all over the floor.
The woman looked up slowly.
"...You're not from here, are you?" she asked softly, her voice calm, almost kind.
The girl shook her head, still gasping. "Please... I-I just need a place to hide. Please."
The woman studied her face. The cuts, the fear, the desperation. Then, with a sigh, she gestured toward the couch.
"Close the door. You'll catch a cold."
The girl hesitated, then did as told, locking it behind her.
"Who are you running from?" the woman asked, setting her book aside.
"Men," the girl whispered. "They... they want me for something. I don't know why. I didn't do anything."
The woman stood slowly and walked to a cupboard. She poured hot tea into a chipped cup and handed it to the girl.
"Drink. It'll calm your hands."
The girl took it, though hers trembled so badly that tea sloshed over the rim.
"Thank you..." she murmured. "I... I don't even know where I am."
The woman smiled faintly. "Tokyo has a way of hiding the lost. You can rest here, for now. But by morning, you'll need to move. They'll keep looking."
The girl nodded weakly. "They called me something. The 'Five Million Dollar Girl.' I don't even know what that means."
The woman's expression shifted - just slightly. "Five million dollars, you say?"
"That's what they said. I don't have money. I don't even have a home."
"Then it's not about money," the woman murmured. She looked toward the window - rain streaking down the glass. "It's about you."
The girl's eyes widened. "What... what do you mean?"
The woman turned back to her. Her voice was low, almost like a secret.
"People like that don't chase after nothing. You must carry something - something they want. Maybe something you don't even know you have."
The girl's fingers tightened around the cup. "I just want them to stop."
"They won't," the woman said simply. "But you can make them lose you. For good."
The girl stared down at the tea, her reflection shaking in the surface. "How?"
The woman gave a small, knowing smile. "By becoming a ghost."
Outside, the sound of engines roared in the distance.
The yakuza were still searching.
But for now, the little girl - the so-called Five Million Dollar Girl - had found a shadow of safety, a whisper of peace in a city built on chaos.