[Chapter Header]
ARC: Back Attack Land
Inside the rising elevator, the air was surprisingly casual, a jarring contrast to the inferno raging outside the shaft.
The muffled sounds of secondary explosions thudded against the metal cage, but the three men inside acted as if they were on a Sunday stroll.
Vsoko leaned his massive frame against the mirrored wall, his oversized hammer resting heavily by his feet, leaving small scuffs on the polished floor.
Beside him, Asoka was busy picking something out of his teeth with a nonchalant focus, his sniper rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder as if it were a common backpack.
"I'm telling you, real ramen needs that thick, creamy broth. The kind where the pork just melts on your tongue," Vsoko said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as if he could still taste the salt.
"Anything else is just flavored water for the weak. You can't call yourself a warrior if you're eating that instant trash."
Asoka shook his head, his mouth half-full of a dry snack he'd scavenged earlier from a vending machine.
"I disagree, man. Nothing beats a well-seasoned BBQ. Spices that kick back at you. That's the food of champions! It gives you the energy to keep moving when the world is burning down."
A brief silence followed, broken only by the hum of the elevator's motor. Asoka's expression suddenly turned uncharacteristically dreamy, his eyes losing their sharp focus.
"But honestly... more than food, I just want a woman. A beautiful girl to look after me, love me, and eventually marry me... Is that too much to ask for in this hellscape?"
Vsoko looked him up and down—taking in the dusty gear and the messy hair—then burst into a guttural laugh that shook the small space.
"Who's gonna take you in, man? Look at that gut you're growing. Only your food would marry a face like that! You're a walking disaster."
He laughed harder, elbowing the third figure standing silently in the corner. "Right, Yizuri? Tell him. Who's ever going to marry this loser?"
Yizuri didn't laugh. He didn't even flinch. He slowly turned his head, his eyes like twin shards of ice cutting through Vsoko's humor.
The silence he projected was heavy, more terrifying than the explosions rocking the foundation of the building.
OUTSIDE THE ELEVATOR
On the landing, seven enemy soldiers were unraveling in a fit of pure, unadulterated panic.
The hallway was thick with acrid smoke, and the heat from the fires below was becoming unbearable, making their tactical gear feel like lead weights.
"Stay in your positions, damn it!" the leader screamed, his voice cracking as he wiped sweat and soot from his eyes. "We have orders! We protect this floor until the building falls or we are relieved! Do you hear me?"
A man clutching a shotgun stepped forward, his face flushed with a mix of rage and terror.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he spat, his hands trembling. "I'm not throwing my life away for a pile of burning concrete! The building is coming down and you want us to stay here and become mincemeat? To hell with you and your orders! I have a family!"
The leader grabbed him by the collar, shoving a pistol under his chin with a desperate force. "Sit down, worm, before I blow your brains out! If you take one step toward those stairs, you're a dead man!"
"Get off me, you disgraced piece of filth!" the man with the shotgun roared, shoving him back violently. "You stay here and die like a dog! I'm out!"
To their side, a third soldier unsheathed his katana with a cold, metallic hiss. He said nothing. He watched the argument with pure contempt, his eyes darting toward the shadows, planning his own escape into the ruins.
DING.
The elevator doors slid open with a calm, melodic chime.
Before the soldiers could even turn their heads, Yizuri blurred into motion. He didn't just walk; he erupted like a coiled spring released.
His katana flashed in a silver arc, catching the flickering light of the fire. The leader's head spun into the air, a look of confusion frozen on his face before his body even realized it was dead.
Without breaking his deadly stride, Yizuri pivoted. His blade severed the shotgun wielder's arm at the shoulder in a spray of crimson. Before the man could even open his mouth to scream, the steel was buried deep into his heart.
Yizuri moved with a terrifying, god-like speed that defied the human eye. Two more heads hit the floor in a single, horizontal slash so precise it seemed effort-less.
One soldier shrieked in terror, falling backward into the soot, only to watch in horror as Yizuri sliced the man next to him completely in half.
The upper torso fell with a wet, sickening thud. The survivor tried to scramble away on all fours, but Yizuri didn't give him the chance.
He lunged forward, driving the katana straight through the man's skull, pinning him to the floor like a specimen. The screaming stopped instantly.
Yizuri stood amidst the pile of corpses, his breathing shallow and controlled. His blade dripped crimson onto the polished floor, the blood hissing as it hit the hot tiles.
Vsoko and Asoka approached Yizuri, the uncertainty etched deep into their faces.
The lighthearted banter about ramen and BBQ had vanished, replaced by the heavy, metallic scent of fresh blood filling the hallway.
"Yizuri, tell us already... what are we even doing here? Why did we come to this godforsaken place in the middle of a war?" Vsoko asked, tightening his grip on his massive hammer as he surveyed the carnage.
Yizuri took a slow, deep breath, his eyes fixed on the flickering shadows ahead. He didn't turn to face them, his silhouette framed by the orange glow of the fires.
"This is a matter much heavier than you realize. It's something we have to take into our own hands," he answered, his voice low and dangerously steady.
"Look around you. Why do you think not a single cop or government agent has dared to step foot inside this building all this time? Does that not strike you as odd?"
Asoka blinked, glancing out through the jagged remains of a shattered window at the chaos and the empty streets below. "Why?"
Yizuri finally turned his head. He didn't speak immediately; instead, he pierced Asoka with a gaze so filled with pure, unadulterated contempt that it felt like a physical blow to the chest.
It was the look one gave to a fool who couldn't see the obvious—a silence more insulting than any curse word could ever be.
"Well? Are you going to answer?" Asoka pressed, shifting uncomfortably under that frozen, judgmental stare.
Yizuri didn't bother to explain further. He simply turned his back on them and began walking toward the dark end of the corridor, his boots crunching on broken glass and spent shell casings.
"Do whatever you want," he tossed over his shoulder, his figure dissolving into the thick smoke.
Yizuri walked alone through the blackened corridors, his eyes gleaming as they drank in the destruction. For him, the crumbling concrete was not a tragedy; it was a masterpiece in progress, a necessary pruning of the old world.
"It's only a matter of time," he whispered to the shadows, his voice echoing. "Soon, this chaos will breach these walls and drown the world in its truth. Just as the Lord foretold... the war between the great intelligence agencies like the CIA and the hidden powers of this planet has finally begun."
He stopped abruptly. At his feet, lying in a pool of thickening blood, was the corpse of Kiro.
Yizuri knelt, his fingers tracing the jagged edges of a massive crater in the dead man's chest.
"This strike... it's no ordinary attack," he mused, his voice dropping to a low hum. "This is the weight of the Forbidden Ninjitsu techniques. I didn't think any practitioners were left in this godforsaken place. This changes things."
As he stood, a gust of wind through a shattered window swirled a piece of paper toward him. He caught it mid-air with two fingers. It was an ID card, the plastic cracked but the text still legible: Public High for Supernatural.
ON A DIFFERENT FLOOR
The boy from the photograph was moving through the smoke with practiced ease. He carried a katana, leading the last twelve survivors—the final remnants of the building's garrison.
They hurried through the flickering light of failing emergency lamps until one of them stopped dead in his tracks.
"What's wrong with you?" the leader barked, turning around with gritted teeth. "Move! We need to get out of here before the floor collapses!"
The man didn't move. He slowly turned his head, his eyes vacant and milky, reflecting a horror that had no name.
"No one..." the man whispered, his voice sounding like dry leaves grinding together. "...is leaving this place alive. She is already here."
In an instant, the man's body simply detonated. There was no fire, no smoke—just a violent, silent expansion of red.
Before the leader could even scream, the person next to him exploded. Then another. And another.
The leader stood frozen, paralyzed by a sight that defied reality. His men weren't just dying; they were being erased from existence.
There were no bodies left behind, no organs, no clothes. Just a mist of blood that vanished as soon as it hit the air, as if something were drinking it.
He was alone in seconds. The hallway was silent, save for the dripping of red mist.
"WHO IS SHE?!" the leader howled, his sanity snapping like glass. "I KNOW YOU'RE THERE! SHOW YOURSELF!"
Before the final word could leave his throat, his chest swelled unnaturally, his ribs snapping outward. A split second later, he too became nothing but a scarlet echo in the wind.
TOKYO: MAIN BUILDING OF PUBLIC HIGH FOR SUPERNATURAL
High above the neon veins of the city, inside a sterile, minimalist office, a young man stood stiffly before a woman whose presence seemed to drain the warmth from the room.
Amaya stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her silhouette sharp against the twilight.
On her desk lay a scattered array of dossiers—photographs of foreign agents, high-ranking officials, and three specific faces pinned at the center: Akos, Ronika, and Jin.
"Miss Amaya... did you need me for something?" the boy, Goro, asked, his voice echoing slightly in the oppressive silence.
Amaya didn't turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the faint glow of the burning skyscraper was just a tiny, dying speck in the distance.
"Goro... this world is so hideous, isn't it? Everyone is filled with malice, and they all hate one another. Tell me, what is the solution to such a thing?"
Goro hesitated, shifting his weight. "Ehh... to find a way to stop the hatred? To end the violence, I suppose. Through peace?"
Amaya slowly turned her head. Her eyes were red light that didn't belong to a human.
"There is no solution in this world, Goro. We live in a cycle of violence and hatred. The only thing that ever changes are the faces of the people involved. Peace is just a pause before the next strike."
Goro remained silent, his breath hitching in his throat. The air felt heavy, as if the very walls were closing in under her gaze.
"I have seen many forms of hate," Amaya continued, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "But I can tell you this: the era we are entering now will be the most violent of them all."
Goro swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet office. "You may leave now, Goro."
Goro didn't wait. He bowed quickly and exited the room, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft click.
Amaya reached down and picked up the photograph of Akos. She traced the edges of his face with her fingernail, her eyes narrowing with a dark, calculated interest.
"Whoever controls you," she whispered to the empty room, "will be the winner of this era."