The air cracked. Sparks flew. The moment the machete came down, Arata Kurosawa didn't move to dodge. He wanted the impact. The heavy blow landed directly on the metal box strapped to his back, splitting the latch and sending a storm of banknotes fluttering into the air like snow.
The thug's eyes widened. "Kill him!"
Blinded by a sky of falling cash, the man roared and swung his machetes to either side. Arcs of lightning surged from his body, blue and violent, leaping in every direction.
Arata recognized the Quirk instantly.
"So it's you," he muttered.
The voice struck the man like a whip. He froze.
The scene from a year ago reappeared vividly in his mind—a crowded underground arena, the roar of gamblers, and a masked boy in a black robe. That boy wasn't known as Number Seven yet. The man had gone by the ring name Electric Blast, and he'd prided himself on never losing to a coward who hid his face.
But that fight changed everything. The robed figure had vanished mid-combat, and in the next second, Electric Blast had felt a pain so deep it scarred him for life.
A whip kick exploded from the shadows.
The man's body twisted as Arata's heel slammed into his lower back. He flew backward, struck the alley wall with a sickening thud, and dropped to his knees, coughing blood. Bits of pink came up with it—organ damage.
Still, he looked up at the approaching figure with fury burning in his eyes.
"It was the forty-second fight, wasn't it?" Arata asked casually. "Electric-type Quirk. That was you."
"You remember now, you bastard!" the man spat, rage distorting his face.
Arata stopped a few feet away. "Could've just settled it in the arena."
"This isn't about settling," the man growled. "You destroyed me. I lost my name. My title. My... manhood. Even if I die here, I'll take something from you."
Arata's expression darkened under his hood. His gaze dropped to the man's lower half. Ah. So that was the injury. The electric-powered thug had been turned into an invalid that night.
Noticing the direction of his glance, the man screamed and lunged. His right arm, hidden until now, snapped forward.
"Die!"
A bolt of lightning shrieked from his hand, forming a crackling spear nearly three meters long. It surged forward like a hunting hawk—straight for Arata's chest.
But it stopped short.
The man blinked.
The tip of the spear hovered just inches from Arata's robe. But the thrower could no longer move his arm.
He looked down.
A blade as thin as a whisper and gleaming like fresh snow had pierced clean through his forearm. It pinned him to the alley wall, trembling with the impact. A soft, musical hum rang from the steel.
Arata stepped into view, his hood casting a shadow over his eyes. "Your reaction slows when you activate your Quirk. Sensory feedback delay. Makes you sluggish."
The man snarled. "That sword...!"
"It's called a shindachi," Arata said, tone polite and clinical. "Blade length: 76 centimeters. Width: 3.5. A flexible steel composition allows it to be worn as a belt. Popular among covert swordsmen."
He placed a hand on the hilt, pulled it free with a twist, and flicked the blood away. The blade bent slightly, then straightened again with a twang like a zither string.
"Soft but deadly. Loud if it wants to be. A good sword."
He admired it for a breath, then turned his attention back to the man. Electric Blast was crumpled now, sagging against the wall, his Quirk flickering and unstable. The earlier kick had shattered his mobility. The sword had destroyed his ability to fight back.
Arata showed no pity. He reached out and grabbed the man by the throat with his right hand, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.
The alley was silent. Only the sound of blood dripping onto moss and asphalt broke the stillness.
Drip. Drip.
The crimson beads pooled at Arata's feet. He raised his eyes and locked gazes with the man hanging from his grip. There was no rage in Arata's face. Only focus.
"You shouldn't have followed me," he said flatly.
The man tried to speak, but the pressure on his throat was relentless. His limbs twitched.
"You tried to kill me for something that happened in a legal arena. You brought weapons. You tried to use a lethal Quirk outside the ring. Do you understand what that means?"
The man made a choking sound.
Arata's voice dropped into a whisper. "I could kill you right now and no one would say a word."
A long silence passed. Then Arata threw the man to the ground like trash.
The thug coughed and wheezed, clutching his neck. He didn't dare move.
Arata wiped his blade clean on the man's coat and sheathed it around his waist. In one smooth motion, the weapon vanished into a coil of leather.
He crouched beside the man.
"But I won't. Not because you deserve mercy," he said, his voice cold. "But because you already lost everything. And I don't need to take anything more."
The man trembled. His breath came in broken gasps.
Arata stood. The sound of sirens echoed faintly in the distance—not close yet, but getting there. Someone might've seen the lightning.
He grabbed the scattered money from the street, reloaded it into the dented metal box, and slung it over his shoulder.
Then, without looking back, he melted into the shadows of the alley.
The next day, in a hidden sublevel beneath Tokyo's Shibuya district, murmurs spread across the underground arena network.
The Electric Blast Man had been found in an alley, barely breathing.
Crippled.
His attacker was never found. The only clue left behind was a faint scuff on the wall, shaped like a belt buckle, and the faintest trail of blood that led nowhere.
Number Seven had fought again.
And Number Seven had won.