Aoto's Detective Record
Chapter 3 — The Ambush
Well… Aoto couldn't help feeling that this "system" was incredibly easy to use.
Even the rules for using it were so clear and straightforward that he didn't have to think twice to understand them.
—Is this… the legendary cheat system from novels?
To make sure he wasn't dreaming, he slapped his cheek hard.
The sting that followed, along with the glowing screen that still floated before his eyes, told him everything—he wasn't dreaming.
He truly had a cheat.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. The fear and unease that had gnawed at him since his arrival in this alien time and place finally began to fade.
—Ten seconds of fighting to copy a talent… that matches the brawl with the Jingi-shū's second-in-command.
—And this "self-awakening" line… too vague. I'll figure it out later.
He turned his attention to the simple glowing display hovering in his vision.
[Current Talent: Night Vision]
The letters shimmered faintly in gold. Rule IV from the system's manual was already proving true—when a talent was active, its entry glowed.
Since it was night, Night Vision had automatically activated.
He only had one talent for now, copied from that man nicknamed Cat's Eye.
That meant this new body of his was originally just an ordinary man.
Still, Aoto didn't mind. Most people, the system said, were born without special gifts.
Having even one ability already placed him above the crowd.
And Night Vision was no small gift.
He raised his gaze to the narrow Edo street before him. The moon hung high, pale and cold. The faint paper lanterns outside the shops barely illuminated a few paces ahead.
But to Aoto, everything was sharp and clear—the frost glittering on roof tiles, the faint cracks in the stones, even the outline of a sleeping cat tucked under a fence.
The system's description hadn't exaggerated. This talent worked flawlessly.
A cold gust of wind slipped under his haori, chilling him to the bone.
"So cold…" he muttered, pulling the collar tighter around his neck. His breath escaped in a faint puff of white.
According to Tachibana Aoto's memories, today was January 12th—the dead of winter.
He rubbed his palms together, exhaled warm air onto them, then picked up his lantern.
With Night Vision active, he didn't really need it, but habit made him keep it lit.
He was just about to blow out the flame when—
Chachachachachacha—!
The rapid scrape of straw sandals shattered the stillness, coming fast from his right.
Aoto turned instantly.
Three figures burst from the darkness, straw hats pulled low over their faces.
In a single, smooth motion, all three drew their swords.
Three metallic clangs echoed in the empty street.
They came straight for him.
The killing intent rolling off them hit like a wave.
Before he could even react, the man in the lead—a broad, heavyset samurai—had already closed the distance.
"Tachibana!" the man bellowed, his eyes blazing. "You traitor who worships barbarians! Die!"
The man's sword flashed down, aiming straight for Aoto's head.
There was no time to draw.
An ordinary person would have frozen, but Aoto's instincts—honed by years of training—took over before his thoughts could catch up.
He threw aside the lantern and lunged forward, stepping into the man's reach instead of back.
His left hand clamped down on the attacker's sword wrist; his right hand gripped the man's shoulder. He twisted his hips, ready to use the grappling technique that had never failed him in his previous life.
It should have been effortless. He had done this move a thousand times.
But it failed.
The fat man barely shifted.
Too weak!
Aoto's mind screamed. His new body—though taller than average—lacked the muscle he once had. In his past life, he'd been a fitness fanatic, his physique solid from years of strength training and drills.
But this body, though nimble, was thin and underpowered. The move that once could drop a man twice his size now felt like wrestling a wall.
The two locked together, muscles straining. Aoto could feel the man's raw power pressing down on him, his wrists trembling under the force.
Then the other two attackers arrived.
Aoto's teeth clenched.
He had no choice. He shoved the fat man aside with all his might, breaking free.
Pain exploded in his left thigh. A blade grazed him, slicing through fabric and skin. He hissed sharply but ignored it, stumbling back several steps before raising his short sword.
The metal hissed as it cleared its sheath.
He steadied his breathing, adjusting his stance.
In that heartbeat, a flood of memories came back—his years at the police academy.
He had been the model student—the one everyone expected to succeed.
Top of his class in both academics and physical training, known across campus for his discipline and calm.
He remembered his instructors' voices: "Never let panic control your body. In combat, the mind leads the hands."
And his classmates whispering, half in awe, half in envy—"Tachibana always scores perfect in judo and baton drills."
He remembered the sting of bamboo sticks in sparring, the aching muscles after long nights at the gym.
In his spare time, he had lived for fitness and hand-to-hand combat.
Boxing, wrestling, free fighting—he'd studied them all. His specialty had been grappling, and during practical exams, even the instructors had trouble pinning him.
That life had shaped his instincts—his calm under pressure, his perfect control.
But here, in this body, those instincts were trapped inside fragile muscle.
He could fight—but not like before.
Blood trickled down his thigh as he faced the three enemies circling like wolves.
He remembered the advice of a senior officer at the academy:
"If the suspect is armed, you draw your weapon. Always use the stronger one. Don't play fair, and don't waste time with honor when your life's on the line."
That rule was survival itself.
If only he had his modern baton—or better, a gun.
He muttered bitterly, "If only I had an armored truck right now…"
The attackers tightened their circle, but the memory of his clean movements seemed to have shaken them. His footwork, his stance, the confident grip on his sword—it wasn't that of a low-ranking official.
So they waited.
Neither side moved.
The fat man's breath came in heavy, steaming clouds. His companions shifted uneasily behind him.
Aoto's heartbeat slowed. His eyes scanned every flicker of motion.
Three opponents. If I rush, I'll die. But if I hold position, maybe…
The silence grew heavy.
Then, a faint sound broke it.
"Hey! What's going on out there?"
The voice came from down the street.
Another joined in.
"Samurai are fighting! They've drawn their swords!"
"Fighting? In the middle of the road?!"
Lanterns flared to life in nearby houses. Shoji doors slid open.
People peered out, whispering to each other.
The noise spread fast, echoing from every side.
The three attackers froze, exchanging glances.
The fat man's teeth clicked in anger. He spat to the ground, then barked, "Retreat!"
The trio began backing away, step by step, still facing him. Their blades reflected the dim light, their shadows flickering against the walls.
Then, before vanishing into the dark alley, the fat man raised his sword, pointed it at Aoto, and shouted one last time—
"Tachibana! You traitor who worships barbarians just you wait! One day we will surely kill you!"
Their footsteps faded into the distance, leaving the street eerily quiet once more.
Aoto stood frozen, sword trembling in his hand. His leg throbbed. His breath came in shallow bursts. The night wind cut through his haori again, carrying the last echo of the man's voice.
He exhaled, his heart still pounding, realizing he was alive.