Perched atop a mound of lifeless bodies, Akihiro exhaled a plume of smoke from his cigarette. His brown long coat, emblazoned with the Takeda crest, was splattered with blood, yet he remained unscathed. His eyes, cold and unyielding, scanned the horizon for his next challenge.
The bodies beneath him were a mix of seasoned warriors and overconfident novices, all of whom had underestimated the silent fury of Akihiro. Each corpse bore the mark of his blade—a precise, singular strike that ended their lives swiftly.
He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly against the overcast sky. The wind howled around him, carrying the distant sounds of battle and death. Yet, in this moment, Akihiro was the eye of the storm—calm, composed, and deadly.
The Blind Executioner
In a clearing surrounded by twisted, barren trees, a blindfolded man stood with a simple wooden cane in hand. His posture was relaxed, almost serene, as if he were merely out for a stroll.
Ten adversaries encircled him, their weapons drawn and eyes filled with murderous intent. They moved in unison, a coordinated attack meant to overwhelm.
The blindfolded man tilted his head slightly, listening to the subtle shifts in the air, the crunch of snow beneath boots, the faintest intake of breath.
With a calm voice, he whispered,
"While you unravel, I endure. You may howl through storms and scatter stars, but I—Order—am the reason the sun rises where it should, and not where you please."
He took a single step forward. In that instant, the ten attackers collapsed, their bodies lifeless before they hit the ground. No one saw the movement, no one heard the strike. It was as if death itself had passed through them.
Kenji: The Unleashed Beast
Kenji trudged through the deep snow, the cold biting at his exposed skin, but it did little to deter him. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air, each exhale coming out in heavy bursts as he moved through the thick forest. The weight on his back was undeniable, but he didn't seem to care. His focus was elsewhere, his eyes locked on the figures ahead—enemies waiting to be annihilated.
The sound of crunching snow filled the air as he moved steadily forward, his boots sinking into the white landscape. The enemies, scattered in small groups, barely noticed his approach, too focused on their own positions to realize the predator stalking them from the shadows.
Kenji's gaze never wavered. He could feel the tension in the air, the faintest shift in the atmosphere before the storm. He knew the exact moment when the first of them saw him. The figure froze, eyes wide with realization.
Without warning, Kenji moved.
In a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance between them. His fist slammed into the first man's chest, sending him reeling back with bone-shattering force. The impact left a deep indent in his target's body, and before the man could even groan in pain, Kenji grabbed him by the collar and lifted him effortlessly. There was a moment of stunned silence before the man's eyes filled with terror.
Kenji didn't care. He tossed the man aside with a casual flick of his wrist, his expression blank as if the destruction was nothing but routine. His eyes burned with something darker now—feral, unstoppable. He had entered a state of raw, brutal focus.
The rest of the group reacted quickly, weapons drawn. One tried to rush at him with a knife, but Kenji sidestepped the attack with a lazy ease, before twisting the assailant's arm and snapping it with a single, fluid motion. The man fell to the ground with a sickening crack. Another swung a sword, but Kenji's foot connected with the blade-wielder's chest, sending him flying backward, his body crashing through a patch of trees with a crash.
Kenji paused for a brief moment, his chest heaving as he took in the scene. Blood had already begun to stain the pristine snow around him. His heart pounded in his ears, the adrenaline coursing through him like wildfire. There was no strategy. No planning. Just unfiltered violence.
Steam rose from his body, the contrast of heat against the cold air making him seem almost… alive. The berserker within him roared, pushing him to move forward once more.
Another assailant lunged at him from behind, but Kenji was already gone. He moved like a blur, his speed almost inhuman. A brutal backhand slammed the attacker into the ground, the force of the blow cracking the earth beneath him. The enemy struggled to breathe, unable to comprehend the sheer power behind the strike.
Kenji stood over him, towering, the predatory glint in his eyes like that of a beast stalking its prey. He didn't wait for the man to beg or plead; there was no mercy in Kenji's world. His hand reached for the object on his back, and without even looking, he swung his fist forward with unrelenting force. The man's body was sent flying, crashing into the snow as his lifeless form was discarded with little more than an afterthought.
The others began to retreat, but it was too late. Kenji didn't give chase—he didn't need to. Instead, he just stood there, his body covered in blood, the final enemy slowly backing away, terror etched into his face.
Kenji's smile was a feral grin, almost savage in nature, but it was brief—fading almost as quickly as it came. He didn't feel the need to revel in the violence. There was always more to do.
With a deep breath, Kenji stood tall, cracking his neck with a casual ease. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The battle was over, and there was nothing left but the quiet aftermath.
The Twin Terrors
Elsewhere, two young men carved a path of destruction. The first, a narcissist with a manic grin, danced through his foes, his movements theatrical yet lethal. Each kill was a performance, each strike a flourish.
The second, his melancholic counterpart, moved with a detached efficiency, dispatching enemies with a single strike. His eyes held a deep sadness, a void that seemed to consume all light.
Together, they were an unstoppable force, their contrasting styles creating a symphony of death. Where one brought chaos, the other brought silence. Where one laughed, the other mourned.
They moved in perfect harmony, their bond forged in blood and battle. No one could stand against them; those who tried were swiftly and mercilessly cut down.
Kaede and Mai: The Deadly Duo
Kaede and Mai moved in tandem, their synergy honed through countless missions. Kaede's pistols barked, each shot finding its mark with deadly precision. She moved with grace and confidence, her every action calculated and efficient.
Mai's miniature weapons incapacitated foes with surgical precision. Her movements were fluid and swift, a blur of motion that left enemies disoriented and defeated.
Their path was littered with the bodies of those foolish enough to challenge them. They communicated without words, their bond so strong that a mere glance was enough to convey intent.
In the chaos of the tournament, they were a beacon of control and mastery, their every action a testament to their skill and partnership.
Ren: The Observer
Ren stood atop the ruined structure, his black-dyed hair a blur against the ever-darkening sky. The wind whispered through the cracked stone, carrying the faintest scent of salt and blood. Beneath him, the island stretched out—desolate, untouched by time but scarred by violence. It was as if the earth itself had forgotten what once stood here, leaving only fragments of something ancient and lost.
A cold silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft crunch of Ren's boots in the snow. He moved like a wraith, his eyes scanning the horizon, the sharpness of his gaze cutting through the blanket of white. The environment was alien, its stark emptiness speaking volumes. No trees here, only twisted stumps, the remnants of life long passed. What had once been proud walls were now jagged fragments, sharp and dangerous, their edges worn and broken. Yet, the ruin was subtle, tucked just beneath the surface. Here and there, strange carvings peeked out from the snow—faint symbols, weathered and unreadable.
Ren's katana was quiet, his hand brushing lightly along the hilt, but his mind was elsewhere. He had no desire to engage—not yet. Instead, he studied his surroundings with careful deliberation, waiting for something… someone. The island was vast and deadly, but it was also his to command.
It wasn't long before the silence was shattered.
A figure stumbled into view, moving through the snow in a desperate, clumsy gait. Ren's eyes flicked to the man's posture—panicked, unsteady. He was armed, but the trembling grip on his weapon betrayed his fear. Ren's lips curled into a slight, imperceptible smile. He stepped forward.
The man saw him, his eyes wide with terror. A scream started to form, but Ren was faster. His blade was already in motion, unsheathing in a blur.
The sword danced through the air, a streak of silver. It caught the man's throat, a clean slice, and the spray of blood was immediate—red against white. The man's scream was cut short, his body crumpling to the snow in a lifeless heap. Ren didn't pause. He didn't even look down as the blood pooled around him. His gaze remained focused ahead, where another figure appeared in the distance.
Two more emerged from the shadows of the twisted trees, their weapons raised, their faces masked in determination. Ren felt no urgency. He was patient. He waited.
They closed the distance.
Ren struck first. The tip of his katana caught the first man's wrist, severing the arm with a sickening snap. The man howled in agony as he dropped his weapon, clutching the stump where his arm used to be. Before he could react, Ren was upon him, his blade thrusting forward like lightning. The sword pierced through his ribcage with a wet, satisfying sound, the man's eyes wide in disbelief as his breath faltered.
Ren withdrew the blade, moving smoothly, as if it were a natural extension of his body. The second man attempted to lunge, but Ren was already behind him. His katana slashed across the man's back in a diagonal cut, and the flesh parted like butter. The man stumbled forward, gasping for breath, only to collapse onto the cold ground, his spine exposed in the gruesome aftermath.
Ren wiped the blade on the snow, cleaning it with a single swipe. He didn't need to look back at the bodies; the cold would take care of them. He didn't linger, either—there were others still out there, waiting to die.
Another movement in the distance, but this one was different. Smaller, more nimble. He moved with purpose. Ren's eyes narrowed, and he sprinted toward the next target. The silhouette took form, a young assassin, likely in his twenties, holding a curved blade in both hands. His stance was defensive, but it lacked the calm of a seasoned fighter.
Ren adjusted his posture as he neared. A flash of steel, and the young assassin lashed out with a horizontal strike. Ren sidestepped effortlessly, his katana catching the blade mid-air and knocking it aside. Without hesitation, Ren pivoted, and with a single movement, he slammed the hilt of his katana into the assassin's stomach, sending him reeling backward.
Before the young man could regain his balance, Ren was already behind him. He reached around, grabbing the assassin by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The man struggled, gasping for breath, but Ren held him effortlessly. He pulled the assassin closer, staring into his wide, panic-stricken eyes.
"There's no escape," Ren murmured, his voice a whisper in the chaos of the island. With a swift motion, he brought his blade across the man's throat, severing the jugular with such precision that the blood splattered across Ren's face in a cold spray.
The assassin's body went limp, lifeless in his grip, and Ren dropped him to the snow with a dull thud. He took a moment, the only sound the wind rustling the bare branches of the twisted trees. Another body added to the growing count.
Ren's eyes scanned the horizon once more, his mind cold and calculating. He wasn't here for the spectacle. He wasn't here for the blood. No—he was here for something more. His movements were deliberate, methodical. He knew the time would come when he would make his mark. But for now, he remained a shadow in the distance, a predator biding his time.
Another figure entered the scene, this one larger, more heavily armed. Ren didn't hesitate. He darted forward, his katana flashing in a deadly arc as he sliced through the man's defenses. The fight was short—swift and brutal. Ren's blade cut through armor and flesh alike, carving his way to victory with a deadly grace. The man's screams echoed as he fell, his last breath choked off by the steel in Ren's hands.
A pattern began to form in Ren's mind. The survivors would be few, scattered, desperate. The game had begun, but Ren had no interest in playing by their rules. He would let them think they had a chance. Let them believe they were winning.
When it was time, he would make them all see—there was no winning when Ren was the hunter. And they were nothing more than prey.
The war room beneath the country was no ordinary meeting hall. It was a fortress—a sanctuary of shadows and power where only the most untouchable figures in the underworld dared to gather. Black marble floors, velvet-curtained walls, and pillars carved with forgotten clan crests gave the space a sense of dread permanence. The air was cold, not from lack of heat, but from the presence of those who had long since shed the burden of conscience.
At the center of the room stood a massive obsidian table, shaped like a broken ring—a symbol that unity, if it had ever existed, had been shattered long ago.
Around it sat three factions:
•The bloated, ancient Yakuza Elders, dressed in ceremonial robes laced with arrogance and decay.
•The cold and disciplined Syndicate Elders, each a god in the world of assassins—Daizen, Kaito, Masaru, Shion, and Tsukasa.
•And finally, lounging in a chair he'd moved away from the table, sat Riku Enjō, the enigmatic and uncontested leader of Kuroi Kage.
He sat as if the meeting were an afterthought—one leg slung over the armrest, head resting against his fist, his gaze half-lidded in apparent boredom. But no one mistook it for weakness.
Riku Enjō was a presence, not a man.
His red hair was windswept and uncombed, his long black coat torn at the hems from battle yet worn like royal silk. Around his neck hung an old, burned rope—rumored to be the remains of a noose used on someone who once tried to kill him.
But it was his eyes that marked him as something else entirely.
They were unlike anything human.
Circular and deep-set, his irises shimmered like volcanic glass fractured under pressure—concentric rings of glowing ember-red and ink-black, constantly rotating like clockwork gears under a microscope. When he blinked, they didn't close so much as dim, as if his body had to manually suppress something lethal.
He had spoken no words.
He didn't need to.
"Three lieutenants dead," spat Elder Tokugawa of the Yakuza, the veins in his neck bulging. "Y and his terrorist group Kuragari is a cancer. And we're debating ethics while it metastasizes."
"They hit our Osaka node too," grunted another Elder. "Blew the armory, took nothing. It was a message."
Elder Daizen sat with his arms folded, eyes like twin razors beneath a stone brow. He was a man whose silence weighed more than most men's words.
"They're not random," he said flatly. "They're methodical. They're testing the reach of our response."
Elder Shion narrowed her eyes at the Yakuza table. "Or perhaps someone in this room is testing it for them."
Gasps. Tension coiled.
Elder Masaru scoffed, cracking the bones in his massive knuckles. "Cowards feeding wolves hoping to leash them later. That never ends well."
As the voices clashed, Riku remained still.
He barely blinked. His eyes traced the speakers in sequence, as if recording each word—not to remember, but to judge.
Only once did he move—he reached into his coat and slowly lit a match against his boot, watching the flame curl before flicking it out with a snap of his fingers.
Daizen's gaze shifted to him. "You've been silent, Riku."
Riku didn't answer. His eyes met Daizen's, and the room grew colder.
It wasn't defiance. It was domination.
The kind of look that didn't beg permission.
The kind that said, You asked me here. I didn't come for you.
Elder Kaito Takeda—refined, calculating, and unnervingly calm—tapped a finger on the obsidian surface.
"We know your assassins have clashed with Kuragari before," he said. "You've stayed silent. Too silent."
Still, Riku didn't reply.
Elder Tsukasa leaned in. "Either they're your enemy or your distraction. Which is it?"
No response.
But then—a voice, low, dry, almost dismissive.
"…Neither."
That single word, spoken like a verdict, cut through the room like a guillotine.
It wasn't whispered. It wasn't angry. It was final.
The room fell silent. No one dared press him further.
Daizen exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring.
"You're a dangerous man, Riku Enjō."
Riku stood, slowly. His coat fell open, revealing the faint glow beneath his shirt—burn scars that had healed wrong, intentionally left untouched. Symbols branded into flesh.
Without ceremony, he walked past the table toward the exit.
No farewell. No explanation.
But just before the reinforced doors slid open, he paused.
Without turning, he spoke again—two final words
"This was a waste of time."
And then he was gone.
The air was heavy with incense and tension, as one of the elders switched on the TV.
The live tournament feed flickered to life on a colossal screen embedded into the far wall. A hush fell over the room.
Elder Tokugawa, the oldest and most revered of the Yakuza council, sat at the head of the table, flanked by other prominent Yakuza representatives. His face was weathered like ancient bark, his hair white and swept back, his hands clasped over a cane shaped like a serpent's fang.
As the camera panned over the battlefield, revealing glimpses of the island, the underworld's elite leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
Elder Tokugawa broke the silence with a voice like gravel over steel.
"So… they've sent the Ghost to the island."
One of the younger Yakuza representatives frowned.
"Ghost?"
Tokugawa's dark eyes glinted.
"Ren. The one your generation pretends to understand. The boy without a soul."
Elder Marasu grunted.
"He's not a ghost. He's a weapon."
Yakuza Elder Haneda, sharp-jawed and younger than Tokugawa but no less deadly, leaned back with a smirk.
"They call him the Silent Reaper in Osaka. Left an entire Korean trafficking ring gutted in under six minutes. Surveillance didn't even catch him entering the compound."
Elder Daizen nodded slowly.
"He doesn't miss. Doesn't talk. Doesn't ask why."
Elder Shion sipped from a ceramic cup, watching the screen as Ren emerged from the misted cliffside. Her voice was quiet but pointed.
"And yet, he's not the most dangerous thing on that island."
A new face appeared on the screen—Akihiro Takeda, his calm expression framed by the ancestral Takeda insignia on his jacket.
Whispers rippled through the room.
Yakuza Elder Sugimoto, ever the traditionalist, scoffed.
"So the Takeda finally unleash one of their children. Let's see if the bloodline was worth preserving."
Elder Kaito's tone was low and final.
"Watch closely, Sugimoto. You're about to witness the Inverted Eyes."
Tokugawa's stare didn't leave the screen.
"Hmph. If the old legends are true… then this boy sees the world as a puzzle. Every angle, every breath, every heartbeat—accounted for before it happens. It would be a blessing to see the inverted eyes work as hardly anyone outside your clan has seen this power."
The crowd chuckled, but the tension was thickening.
The broadcast shifted, showing Cole Madoxx—the tall, unshaven American mercenary stretching his neck before a fight, dog tags clinking against his chest. Beside him stood Andrew Maddox who looked exactly like him but a little shorter.
Elder Tsukasa muttered, unimpressed.
"The dogs from the West. The twins and youngest sons of the Maddox family."
Haneda nodded.
"Skilled mutts, though. They've been collecting bounties across five continents. One Cocky, the other reserved. But both have no fear."
Then came the question.
A host, offscreen, turned to the Yakuza table:
"And who is your representative for this tournament?"
Tokugawa gave a faint grin and gestured with one withered hand.
The camera shifted to a lone woman standing in a clearing, her back to the audience. Her long, black hair was tied in a traditional braid. Her presence was commanding without effort.
Gasps broke across the room.
Yakuza Elder Sugimoto raised a brow.
"You sent her?"
Tokugawa's eyes narrowed slightly.
"She volunteered."
Marasu chuckled darkly.
"You send a flower into a storm?"
Tokugawa replied without flinching.
"She is no flower. She is the storm."
But before anyone could retort, the feed jumped again.
A man in a blindfold stood still among corpses, smoke curling around his boots. He wore a loose martial gi, tied carelessly at the waist. His bandaged hands were red. It's the same man who took out the ten men at once.
The silence returned, suffocating and heavy.
One of the Yakuza representatives whispered, "It can't be…"
"Is that Park Woo?" another hissed.
Elder Daizen rose slightly from his chair, the rare gesture drawing eyes.
"So the rumors were true."
Shion exhaled slowly.
"The Blind Ghost. Death's Emissary. I thought he vanished into China."
Elder Kaito's hands were tight on his armrest.
"You mean… you knew?"
Tokugawa shook his head.
"We heard whispers. That he joined Riku's syndicate years ago. We thought it was nonsense. No man like him would serve another."
Tsukasa's expression hardened.
" When he serves he does anything he is ordered to do. That's what makes him dangerous."
Marasu muttered,
"He's even more infamous than Ren or Akihiro. That man doesn't leave trails—he leaves legacies of silence."
And now every elder in the room understood the gravity of their mistake.
Daizen, for the first time in decades, looked genuinely troubled.
"Had we known… Hiroshi would have been deployed. This is no longer a proving ground. It's a slaughterhouse."
Even Tokugawa grimaced.
"We've dishonored ourselves by underestimating this."
Kaito, ever cold, added:
"I do not care about the Umbra Division. But the name of the Syndicate will bleed on that island."
Suddenly, the feed changed again.
Hiroshi, sitting in his private quarters, watching the same broadcast. His face, usually calm and unreadable, was strained. Sweat traced down his temple. His jaw was tight.
He muttered to himself, nearly breathless.
"It's him. That's really him… Woo."
The voice cracked—not in fear, but something deeper. Helplessness.
"Ren… Akihiro… kenji…..Kaede, Mai they're not ready. They can't kill that man. They'll die… and for what? A game?"
He gripped the edge of the desk until the wood cracked beneath his hand.
"Akihiro…my little brother is on the island. Dammit. What was I thinking?"
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly—
"When he makes it off that island… I'll kill him myself."