The drizzle over Z-City was a persistent, greasy mist that did little to wash away the grime, only smeared it across the broken landscape. Hakai stood on the ledge of a skeletal high-rise, his black hoodie soaking up the moisture, the blue dragon on his back rendered a dark, serpentine shadow. Below, the city was a living organism of mundane struggles and orchestrated heroics, and he was its disinterested critic.
Two years of solitude and relentless self-forging had honed his body into a perfect instrument and his mind into a crystal-clear prism for a single purpose: the pursuit of worthy conflict. The aimless brawler was gone. In his place was a connoisseur of combat, and the offerings of this city were, by and large, disappointingly bland.
His morning had been a study in mediocrity. He'd watched a B-Class hero, "Spring Mustachio," engage a monster that was little more than a sentient, aggressive tumbleweed. The fight was a flashy, pointless display of fencing flourishes that lasted far longer than necessary. Hakai had observed, his expression unreadable, until the hero finally landed the finishing thrust and struck a triumphant pose for a handful of cheering civilians.
"Posturing," Hakai murmured, the word a soft exhalation of contempt. "All flair, no finality. He drew it out to maximize applause, not to understand his opponent." There was no art in it. No truth.
This was the rhythm of his new life. His "slice-of-life" was not one of companionship or comfort, but of detached observation and fleeting, unsatisfying engagements. He was a ghost in the machine of hero society, occasionally intervening not out of altruism, but to clear the board of a boring piece.
His stomach grumbled, a mundane demand that pulled him from his thoughts. Survival, even for someone of his power, required funds. The canned goods from the ruins were running low. With a sigh of utter boredom, he descended from the ledge, landing silently in a back alley. He made his way to a small, run-down grocery store, its windows barred, its neon sign flickering erratically.
The bell above the door jingled. The elderly shopkeeper, a man with a permanent look of weary resignation, glanced up from his newspaper and immediately tensed. Hakai didn't look like a hero. He moved with a predator's quiet grace, his eyes—those unsettling white sclera and red pupils—scanning the aisles with an analytical coldness. He was a regular, but never a welcome one.
Hakai collected a few basic items—instant noodles, a bottle of water, a protein bar—and placed them on the counter. He pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket, money "acquired" from the pockets of monsters who had no use for it. The transaction was silent, the air thick with the shopkeeper's unease. As Hakai turned to leave, the man finally spoke, his voice a low grumble.
"You know, they say there's a new monster. Some 'Deep Sea King.' Heading this way. The Association's issuing warnings."
Hakai paused at the door, his back to the shopkeeper. He didn't turn. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. They're evacuating the coastal sectors. Sounds like a big one. Maybe… maybe you should lay low." It wasn't concern in the man's voice. It was a warning, a desire to see this unsettling variable gone before real trouble arrived.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Hakai's lips. A "big one." The words were a spark in the tinder of his boredom. He had heard the name, seen the bulletins. A Demon-level threat that had already steamrolled several heroes. A king of an unknown domain.
Finally.
He pushed the door open, the bell jingling again. "A king, you say?" he said, his voice barely audible over the drizzle. "How… entertaining."
He stepped out into the rain, not heading back to his subterranean sanctuary, but turning his steps toward the gathering storm clouds on the horizon. The aimless observation was over. A specific, promising variable had entered the equation.
The reports said the monster was heading for the main public shelter in J-City. A place packed with fear, with desperation, and with the last line of the Hero Association's defense. A concentrated epicenter of conflict.
He wouldn't go to save anyone. He wouldn't go to be a hero. He would go because that was where the strongest opponent would be, surrounded by the most intense atmosphere. It was the most logical place to find a "good fight."
As he walked, the drizzle began to thicken into a proper downpour, the heavens themselves seeming to open up for this aquatic monarch. Hakai pulled his hood lower, the shadow deepening over his sharp features. The urban legend was about to step out of the shadows, not for glory, but for the simple, pure reason that had defined him since his rebirth.
The thrill of the challenge was calling. And Hakai never ignored a worthy invitation.