The room was quiet, heavy with anticipation. The atmosphere didn't just hum with tension—it vibrated. Elder Daizen stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, posture commanding. His long black robes bore the subtle crest of the syndicate stitched in gold thread—a lotus blooming over a pair of crossed blades. His eyes, calm yet cold, scanned every face before him: Ren, Kaede, Kenji, Akihiro… and Takeshi all bowed down
"Rise" he ordered.
They all stood silently near the back, arms crossed. Takeshi, unlike the others, knew exactly what was coming. And it showed in the quiet dread behind his eyes.
Daizen finally spoke.
"You all heard the name," he began, voice like gravel dragged across steel. "Tetsuma."
Even the walls seemed to flinch.
"Tetsuma," he repeated, slower this time. "A name that should have died with the man who bore it… but here we are. Let me tell you about the storm we once faced."
He took a step forward, and though his voice remained even, his words held a sharpened edge. "Seventeen years ago, before any of you were even old enough to hold a blade properly, Tetsuma was part of us. A Syndicate loyalist. A member of the Takeda bloodline, he was Takeshi and Akihiro's cousin—one of ours. But unlike anything we had ever seen."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"You've heard the stories. A boy, sixteen years old, who tore through the Syndicate's strongest like paper. Who slaughtered half of the Takeda clan in a single night and left the rest of us scrambling just to survive."
Daizen's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It was the way he looked at them that made it heavy. Unrelenting.
"There were ten Elders back then. The very peak of our power. Tetsuma killed five of them in under three minutes."
Everyone except Ren and Hiroshi shifted uncomfortably, but Daizen didn't stop.
"The remaining five—myself included—were the only reason he didn't burn this entire city to the ground. And even we could hardly stop him. We only survived him."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"He died that night," Daizen said finally. "We made sure of it. His body was burned until not even his bones remained."
Kaede blinked, frowning. "Then how—?"
Daizen held up a hand. "Tell me. Who said his name?"
Ren stepped forward. "A man… he called himself Arashi. He ambushed us out of nowhere. Took Kaede's gun before she could even react. He was in Vera helm g even for me" He stopped, remembering the pressure of that moment, the closest thing he had felt to fear but not quite it at the same time.
Kenji added, "He was a smug piece of shit in a uniform that screamed 'I'm up to something,' that's for sure."
Kaede took a breath. "His outfit was sleek, fitting around the waist and chest. Emphasized a lean, muscular build. Black and deep navy with streaks of muted silver along the seams. His pants were tobi pants, the kind worn by traditional Japanese construction workers. Waraji sandals on his feet. And long tails dragged behind his long-sleeved jacket—slashed at the edges. The material shimmered slightly under the streetlights. It wasn't flashy. Just sharp."
Daizen's face remained unreadable for a long moment. Then he muttered, almost to himself, "It's not just you."
He turned back toward the center of the room, facing a large map mounted on the far wall. "Similar descriptions have come in from other Syndicates. Other assassin factions. Scattered reports from underworld contacts—some reliable, some not. But they all describe outfits like that. The same overwhelming power."
He turned his head. "Find them. Find out who they are. And find the rat in this organization feeding them information. The name 'Tetsuma' being whispered by ghosts? It's not a coincidence."
Kaede asked carefully, "And… Y?"
Daizen's expression darkened. "Another problem. But maybe not separate. It will be easier to solve this if they're connected. But let's hope they're not connected. Because if they are then, this Y or whatever he calls himself is extremely..."
He didn't finish that thought. He didn't need to.
Daizen walked back toward the central table. "There's something else, the main reason I came here. A competition or rather a tournament. Hosted by the wealthiest degenerates in the underworld. The kind of people who build palaces from the bones of the poor. They want a show."
Kenji scoffed quietly.
Daizen ignored him. "Each faction will come with their best. Not just us. Other Syndicates. Assassins-for-hire. Mercenary outfits. The public doesn't know, but beneath the surface, all of us are watching. And now they want blood sport. For money. Prestige."
Kenji rolled his eyes. "A fucking tournament? Now? Seriously? You're telling me we've got cosplay freaks whispering old mythological names and your answer is to sign us up for a fucking game show?"
"You'll be briefed when the time comes," Daizen said with finality.
Without another word, he turned and left the room, his robes sweeping behind him like a black storm.
The room remained still for a moment before Kenji finally broke the silence.
"That guy's got a stick up his ass the size of Mt. Fuji."
Kaede elbowed him.
"Hey, I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."
Ren leaned against the wall silently. He didn't look like he was paying attention, but his eyes were focused—quietly burning.
Akihiro finally let out a breath. "A tournament. What seems to be a terrorist group. And a spy."
Kenji nodded. "Great. Just fucking great. Fuck my life."
Then—
BOOM.
The walls shook. Lights flickered. A deep alarm roared throughout the facility, followed by the crackle of an intercom:
"Warning: Intruder detected they have made their way to the Chamber of elders. Flee the building. This is not a drill."
The four of them were already moving before the message even finished. Footsteps thundered through the corridors, they weren't worried whoever this was one elder was more than enough to take care of them, the elders possessed unimaginable strength. But it would be expected of them to be there. The secured door to the Chamber of Elders was wide open—blown apart from the inside. They rushed in
And froze.
There, sitting on the steps of the raised stone platform, legs crossed, posture too casual, was a masked man. Carrying the corpse of a syndicate member on his shoulder.
His face was hidden behind a mask that was smooth, bone-white, no eyeholes—completely featureless except for three faint silver streaks that curved across the surface like claw marks.
The exact same outfit as Arashi.
Sleek, sharp, the long tails dragging behind him. The waraji sandals, the tobi pants, the silver-trimmed black fabric.
One leg lazily dangled off the platform while his elbow rested on his knee, hand holding his chin like he was bored.
The Elders were present. All of them. And four of the the Umbra Division members had surrounded him—but none of them moved.
The pressure in the air was unbearable.
"Yo, Barbie," the masked man said, voice low and drawling, tinged with mockery.
He tilted his head slightly.
"It's about time we had a chat."
Ren stared at the masked man for a good moment and then his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to murmur.
"What the fu-"