The air in the ruined plaza tasted of dust and decay, a flavor Hakai had grown accustomed to. He was tracing the fine edge of a shattered concrete slab with his fingertip, not out of curiosity, but as a exercise in tactile focus. The mundane activity was a buffer against the pervasive boredom. So when the distinct, sharp click-clack of heels on broken pavement echoed behind him, it was an unwelcome interruption.
He didn't need to turn. His energy sense, a constant, low-grade radar, had already painted her picture. A concentrated core of psychic power, tightly controlled, brimming with a ambition that felt like static electricity. It was… small.
"Hey, you."
The voice was crisp, commanding, expecting immediate attention.
Hakai finished his tracing and slowly straightened, turning to face the newcomer. The woman was impeccably dressed in a sleek black dress, her green eyes sharp and assessing. The Blizzard Group flanked her in a practiced semi-circle, their postures trying for intimidation but achieving only awkwardness. He knew who she was. Fubuki, the Blizzard of Hell. Leader of her little fiefdom.
"I've been looking for you," Fubuki stated, crossing her arms. "The one they call the 'Phantom Cutter.' The HA has a file on you, you know. Full of question marks."
Hakai remained silent, his white sclera and red pupils offering no more reaction than if she'd commented on the weather.
His indifference pricked at her. She was used to a different kind of response—fear, respect, negotiation. "I'm Fubuki, leader of the Blizzard Group. I make it a point to gather strong individuals under my banner. It's the only way to survive and gain influence in this world. Your… unique skills have not gone unnoticed."
She gestured vaguely, a green psychic aura flickering around her fingertips for emphasis. "Alone, you're just a variable. A rogue element the Association doesn't trust. But with the backing of my group, you gain resources, information, protection from bureaucratic nonsense. You can stop lurking in ruins and take your proper place."
Hakai's gaze drifted from her, over the heads of her subordinates, to the dilapidated office building behind them. It was a shell, twenty stories of broken windows and structural regret. He found the building more interesting than her offer.
Fubuki misread his silence as consideration. "I'm not without generosity. Prove your loyalty, and you'll find me a valuable ally. The alternative is to remain an outsider. A nobody."
The word "nobody" finally drew a reaction. Not offense, but a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. His eyes slid back to her.
"Your group," he said, his voice flat, devoid of mockery, which made it cut deeper. "This is your 'strength'? A collection of mediocrities, huddled together for warmth?" He shook his head, a gesture of genuine pity. "Your ambition is so small it's pathetic. You play at being a queen in a sandbox."
Fubuki's composure cracked. A wave of green energy flared around her, lifting chunks of rubble into the air. "You dare—!"
"You talk of influence. Survival," Hakai continued, as if she hadn't spoken. He turned his body fully away from her, presenting his back—the ultimate dismissal. "You understand nothing of real strength. It isn't found in a group. It's found in the moment when everything else has been stripped away, and only the fight remains."
He raised his right hand, index finger extended, pointing not at her, but at the massive office building behind her and her entire group.
"You see your kingdom," he said, his tone conversational. "I see a distraction."
He flicked his finger.
SHHHH-KT!
There was no beam of light, no roar of energy. Just a sound like the universe itself taking a sharp, deep breath. A razor-thin line appeared across the center of the building, from the foundation to the roof. For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened.
Then, with a groaning, tectonic shudder, the entire top half of the building began to slide. It grated down the face of the lower half, a slow-motion avalanche of steel and concrete, before crashing to the ground in a cataclysmic wave of dust and debris that rolled outwards, swallowing the far end of the plaza.
The Blizzard Group stumbled back, coughing and shielding their faces. Fubuki stood frozen, her psychic aura sputtering out, the rubble she had been levitating dropping to the ground with a series of dull thuds. The entire display of her power had been rendered utterly, laughably insignificant.
The dust cloud washed over Hakai, but he didn't flinch. He didn't even turn to look at his handiwork. He simply started to walk away, his form already beginning to fade into the settling dust.
Fubuki could only stare, her mind reeling. Fury warred with a cold, chilling awe. He hadn't even looked. He had dismissed her, her group, her entire life's work, with a gesture so casual it was an insult in itself.
"Wait!" she demanded, her voice losing its commanding edge, betraying a tremor of something raw. "Who are you?!"
From the dissipating cloud, his voice floated back, calm and final. "I am Hakai. Remember the name. You witnessed a fraction of its meaning today."
And then he was gone.
Fubuki stood amidst the wreckage, not just of the building, but of her certainty. Her fists were clenched, her body trembling with humiliation. But beneath the fury, a treacherous thought took root. She had come to recruit a useful asset. She had instead encountered a force of nature. He was an impossibility. And for Fubuki, who lived and breathed hierarchies and power, an impossibility was the most dangerous, and intriguing, thing of all.