A five-story fall.
That's what it looked like.
From the top of the building, the man descended in a blur of silent velocity, cape flaring behind him like wings of blackened shadow. His boots hit the cracked concrete with a thunderous impact—not an explosion, but a sudden implosion of sound and pressure, like the very air bent in submission around him.
A crater bloomed at his feet, dust and rubble launching outward in rings. Time felt like it paused. Streetlights flickered. Neon signs dimmed.
Kaede's breath caught.
The other silhouette remained high above—watching, saying nothing.
But this man stood alone at ground level now, rising from the dust
The silence following the crater's formation was deafening.
The smoke had barely cleared, and the street—the narrow, cracked side road off an old alley in Osaka's Namba district—was already trembling with something wrong. It was the kind of weight you felt in your spine, that primal whisper of danger older than words.
Kaede instinctively took a step back.
No need to hide anything. His face was a fucking statement.
The man stood there, centered in the crater, jacket fluttering slightly from the impact's aftershock. His outfit was sleek, fitting around the waist and chest, emphasizing a lean, muscular build. Black and deep navy with streaks of muted silver trimmed along the seams, and his pants were tobi pants" (鳶ズボン). Long tails dragged behind him from the back of his long sleeve black jacket, slashed at the edges. The outfit's material shimmered faintly under the streetlights—not flashy, just sharp. He also wore waraji sandals.
Piercing eyes the color of molten gold. A feral grin curled up his lips as he stared at them—not with interest, not with hatred. But with pure, effortless condescension, like they were ants on a chessboard. His dark-blue hair was spiked and wild, a bit unkempt, but it worked. Too well. The scar across his nose and cheekbone added an edge of violence, but it was his posture—loose, cocky, deliberately open—that screamed "I want you to try me."
Kaede moved first, fingers going to the gun at her hip.
The moment she touched the handle—
He disappeared.
A gust of air exploded behind her.
Then—
CLANK.
Her gun skidded across the concrete behind the man, bouncing off the curb before clattering to a stop.
Kaede blinked.
He was already standing where she had just been.
She hadn't even seen him move.
The bastard had teleported—or it felt like he did—but it wasn't teleportation. It was just speed. Disgusting, refined, casual speed.
He leaned toward her, almost mockingly, his breath a whisper beside her ear.
"Oops. Was that yours?"
Kaede turned to strike him—bare-handed, no hesitation.
But he caught her wrist without looking. No effort. Just fingers clamping down like a vice.
Her knees buckled slightly from the force.
"You flinched before you even threw the punch," he said lazily.
He flung her backward like trash.
She crashed into a dumpster ten feet away, metal denting inward as her back slammed into it with a loud crunch. She groaned, biting back a scream.
Kenji, eyes wide, took a step forward—pure reflex—but the man turned slightly and gave him a look. Just a look.
"You thinking of playing hero, pretty boy?"
Kenji froze.
It wasn't just arrogance. It was the way the man tilted his head, like he was choosing which bone to break first.
"Who the fuck are you?" Akihiro said, stepping in front of Kenji, his voice low, calm, but sharp.
The man's grin widened.
"Oh? The infamous Akihiro Takeda. Heard a lot about you. Play full, careless, cocky. But also controlled and deadly. Even the rats in the underworld whisper your name."
He started walking toward him.
Ren moved.
He stepped forward, silent as always, his face blank. His hand brushed the edge of the tanto at his side. He usually kept small weapons on him incase of situation like this.
The man stopped mid-step—and for the first time, his grin faltered into something colder. He studied Ren.
"And you must be Ren."
His voice shifted slightly. No more amusement. Just focus.
"They say you don't speak much. That you don't leave survivors. You're like a rumor carved into corpses."
Silence.
"I like that."
He leaned forward, pointing a finger at both of them.
"You two. You're the only ones who seem interesting."
He glanced at Kenji, then Kaede—who was still getting to her feet, spitting blood.
"The rest of you? Background noise."
Ren didn't react.
But his grip on the hilt tightened.
Something in the air shifted. Tension cracked like lightning behind the clouds.
Then—
Ren moved.
A blur. A flash of steel aimed at the man's throat.
Blocked. With two fingers.
Two fingers. That was all he used.
He stopped Ren's blade in mid-swing, casually holding the edge of the blade like it was made of paper.
Then—
CRACK.
With a flick, he snapped the blade in half and kicked Ren square in the chest. Ren barely managed to block with his forearm.
Ren flew back five meters and rolled, coughing up blood. For a moment, the emotionless assassin lay stunned on the pavement. He felt he could only block the attack because the man wanted him to, not because he could.
For the first time ever—Ren felt overwhelmed when it came to strength.
That presence. That power. It wasn't just stronger.
It was in a different realm.
The man exhaled slowly. He stomped his feet on the ground.
The buildings creaked.
The windows cracked.
Everyone was shook except him.
"You feel that?" he asked, his voice now ice and fire. "That's what a real apex predator feels like."
Kenji's ears rang. Kaede couldn't breathe. Akihiro clenched his fists hard enough to draw blood—but even he couldn't deny the power of this man in front of them.
The man turned, as if bored.
From the rooftop above, the second figure called down.
"Arashi. That's enough."
Arashi.
He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck, and gave the four of them one final glance—deadly calm.
"Tch. Killjoy."
He turned, jacket fluttering behind him. Then he stopped, as if remembering something, and looked over his shoulder.
"Oh yeah—almost forgot."
"Tell your boss the name Tetsuma."
He grinned wide again—this time, something darker. Something wrong.
"Tell him the syndicates past's come crawling out of hell."
And with that—
They vanished.
No smoke. No flash.
Just gone.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The four were left standing in the street—silent, shaken, breathing hard.
Akihiro pulled out his phone and hit a number on speed dial. His voice, when it came, was sharp. Urgent.
"Hiroshi. Meet us in the Umbra Division briefing room. Now. We have a situation."
The room was dimly lit, Hiroshi arrived moments later, shoulders broad, posture perfect. He always looked in control. Untouchable.
"Report," he said, arms crossed.
Akihiro relayed everything. Every detail. The rooftop. The cloaks. The symbol. The pressure.
Kaede added what she felt—how fast he moved, how calculated. How impersonal.
Ren remained silent the entire time, seated in the corner, still processing what he'd felt.
Then came the name.
Akihiro's voice lowered.
"He said a name before he left. 'Tetsuma.'"
Silence.
Hiroshi blinked.
Then his eyes widened.
Truly widened.
For the first time any of them had ever seen, Hiroshi froze.
His fingers stopped tapping. His body went still.
"Are you sure?" he asked. Not loudly. Almost in disbelief.
Kenji spoke this time. "All of us heard it."
Kaede nodded. "Clear as day."
Even Ren broke his silence, voice low. "He said it with weight."
Hiroshi's jaw tightened. A shadow passed behind his eyes.
Kaede frowned. "What is it? Who's Tetsuma?"
Before Hiroshi could answer…
A voice came from the door.
Old. Weathered. Deep.
"Tetsuma…"
They turned.
A man stood there.
Elder Daizen.
One of the Syndicate's most revered.
He stepped into the room slowly, eyes distant.
"That's a name I haven't heard in a long time."