Six years. Six years had bled by since the day Kyoto crumbled, taking everything with it. Six years of clawing through the wreckage of life, walking a tightrope strung between survival and oblivion.
Now, Yokohama was my hunting ground, a sprawling labyrinth of criminals, lost souls adrift in the neon glow, and those who had learned the brutal calculus of adaptation or death. I moved through the cracked streets, the collar of my worn coat pulled high, hands buried deep in the pockets. The air hung thick with the stench of gasoline and the dampness of a recent rain, the garish neon signs above flickering like dying stars in the murky night.
As I passed the gaping maw of an alleyway, a flicker of movement snagged my attention. A struggle.
I turned my head, the ingrained habit of vigilance kicking in.
A girl – barely more than a teenager – was pinned beneath the weight of two older men.
Their laughter, raw and ugly, echoed off the brick walls, grating on my already frayed nerves. Her muffled screams were a desperate clawing at the silence.
For a heartbeat, I simply watched. Not from indecision, but from a cold, calculating assessment of the situation.
Then, I stepped forward, breaking the tableau of violence.
One of the men whipped his head around, his eyes burning with a possessive aggression. "WHO THE F*** ARE YOU!?" he snarled, pushing himself up, fists clenching.
I didn't waste breath on a reply. Instead, my hand snaked into my coat, retrieving the familiar weight of my rusty metal dagger. Old, chipped, a relic of a life that no longer existed, yet still sharp enough for the grim tasks it often performed.
I turned the blade slowly in my hand, letting the weak light catch its dull surface. Then, in a voice so low it seemed to slither through the damp air, I spoke.
"Now… who's up first?"
The man in front of me bared his teeth in a snarl, a cheap glint of steel flashing in his own hand. "You're a dead man." Without hesitation, he lunged, the blade arcing towards me with clumsy fury.
I moved without thought, years of brutal necessity honing my reflexes.
I ducked beneath his wild swing, my movements swift and fluid as water.
My own dagger flashed – once, twice, precise and deadly. His knees buckled as deep slashes tore through his kneecaps, severing tendons.
A strangled cry barely escaped his lips before my blade found its mark, slicing cleanly across his throat. Blood erupted, a dark fountain in the dim light, as he collapsed, choking on his own life force.
The second man froze, his bravado dissolving into the stark terror that now mirrored my own so many years ago. He stumbled backward, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, his survival instinct finally kicked in, and he turned and bolted down the alley, a desperate shadow fleeing into the darkness.
I didn't let him run.
My eyes flicked to the side, assessing my surroundings with practiced efficiency. A length of frayed, sturdy string dangled from a broken section of the brick wall.
In one swift motion, I snatched it, knotting it quickly to the hilt of my dagger. With pinpoint precision, I hurled the makeshift projectile forward.
The dagger whistled through the air, a silent messenger of death cutting through the darkness.
It struck with a sickening thud.
The man gasped, his body jolting as the blade pierced the back of his neck, the force of the impact sending him tumbling forward. His limbs twitched once, then stilled. A dark pool of blood spread beneath his head, soaking into the grimy pavement.
I stepped over their lifeless bodies without a second glance, the grim tableau a familiar sight in this broken world.
Turning towards the girl, I saw her huddled against the alley wall, trembling violently. Tears streaked her face, reflecting the faint light. She looked so young, barely a woman. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Something in her wide, frightened eyes reminded me of the faces I used to see in Nagayo.
I gave her a single, curt nod. "Stay safe."
She swallowed hard, her small frame trembling. Despite her fear, she bowed deeply, a gesture of ingrained respect. "T-thank you…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, before she scrambled to her feet and fled into the night.
I didn't watch her go. My mind was already drifting elsewhere, the echoes of violence fading into the constant hum of survival.
I needed a place to lay low, if only for a few hours.
After wandering through the labyrinthine streets for what felt like an eternity, I found a rundown hotel. The neon sign above buzzed with a dying energy, some of the letters flickering erratically, half-dead.
The lobby reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol, the receptionist barely acknowledging my existence as I paid for a room.
That night, sleep was a distant luxury.
I lay on the stiff, lumpy mattress, staring up at the cracked and peeling ceiling. Minutes bled into hours, my mind a relentless carousel of memories.
That day in Kyoto…the crimson stain on the school floor…the vacant, lifeless eyes of my sister. They were ghosts that haunted the edges of my vision, always present, never truly gone.
Morning arrived in a dull, gray haze, mirroring the emptiness within me.
I left the hotel and made my way to a weapon shop on the other side of town, a place rumored to cater to the city's darker elements.
The shop was small and cluttered, every available space crammed with an unnerving array of deadly tools – gleaming blades, worn firearms, even ancient-looking relics from a forgotten past. My eyes scanned the collection, a detached appraisal of instruments of death, until they snagged on something…unusual.
A dagger.
But this was no ordinary blade.
Its design was sleek and elegant, the edges razor-sharp, almost mesmerizing in their deadly simplicity. Strange Chinese characters were intricately carved into the metal, glowing with a faint, internal luminescence under the dim shop lights. Something about it resonated deep within me, a silent pull I couldn't explain. It felt…different.
A faint smirk touched my lips, a rare flicker of something akin to interest in the desolate landscape of my soul.
In one smooth, practiced motion, I slipped the dagger from its display stand, the movement fluid and silent.
I tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat and walked out onto the sidewalk, melting back into the anonymity of the city. The shopkeeper, lost in his own world of shadows and steel, never even noticed its absence.
I stopped outside, the cool morning air brushing against my face. Pulling the dagger out, I examined it closely.
The weight was perfect in my hand, balanced and deadly.
The blade, though it held the subtle patina of age, was pristine, the etched characters pulsing with a faint, otherworldly light.
A quiet satisfaction, a feeling I hadn't experienced in years, settled over me.
I smirked, a genuine curve of my lips this time, then continued walking, the new dagger a comforting weight against my side.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the grimy cityscape in hues of orange and fading gold, a single tear escaped and rolled down my cheek.
Maybe it was the weight of the past finally catching up, a delayed reaction to the constant brutality I had endured.
Maybe it was the crushing weight of everything I had lost, a sudden, sharp pang of grief in the midst of my hardened existence.
Or maybe…just maybe…
It was the unsettling feeling that, despite all the blood spilled and the years lost, this desolate path I walked was far from over. This was only the beginning of another chapter in a story etched in violence and loss.