Rain was Tokyo's customary nighttime makeup. Cold silver threads descended from the pitch-black sky, its heights lost from view, and lashed against the hard, icy glass curtain walls of the skyscrapers. They shattered into a hazy mist, then were dyed by the city's never-ending neon into a bizarre scarlet and indigo. Light flowed over the rain-slick streets, twisting and breaking like spilled paint, or congealed blood, spreading thickly across the view.
Kazama In stood above that warped play of light and shadow.
Below him was the luxurious penthouse of Sato Kenzaburo, the nominal ruler of this part of the city. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows resembled a single pane of flawless black crystal, shutting out the clamor and chill of the rain outside. Inside, the air was as warm as spring. Expensive cigar smoke curled lazily upward, while the rich, peaty aroma of whiskey mingled with the cloying sweetness of a more secretive, rare perfume. A huge television played a mindless variety show without sound, its exaggerated smiling faces looking vaguely eerie beneath the flickering lights.
Sato Kenzaburo, the man who controlled the fate of several city blocks, sat with his back to the windows, sunk into a wide, soft Italian leather sofa. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand. The ice tapped gently against the glass, making a faint, crisp sound.
He had just finished a phone call, apparently about distributing some new "shipment." A self-satisfied curve still lingered at the corner of his mouth. He wore a silk dressing gown, his hair was perfectly combed, and his well-maintained face bore the ease and arrogance that came from years spent at the top. He was the master of this domain—or so he firmly believed.
He had no idea that death stood behind him.
Kazama In's presence was as faint as the rain drifting beyond the windows, yet as oppressive as the dark clouds hanging over the city. He hadn't broken in through the window; that would have been too crude and wouldn't have suited his "work aesthetic."
Like a shadow, he had somehow blended into a corner of the brightly lit but unusually empty room. He was utterly silent, as though he had always been part of its expensive furnishings. His perfectly tailored black suit was dark as midnight, outlining a lean, powerful frame coiled with explosive strength.
His face was uncovered, yet strangely impossible to remember, as though a veil of mist blurred its features. Only his eyes stood out. In the warm light, they were still as two bottomless, frigid pools. Neon from outside reflected in them, but there wasn't a trace of human warmth.
He moved.
There was no rush of wind, no sound of footsteps—only the faintest sense of air being compressed by an extreme burst of speed. One instant, he was in the shadows. The next, he was pressed against Sato's broad back like a wraith.
Something cold and hard touched the warm skin at the nape of Sato's neck. The chill could freeze the marrow in an instant, carrying the unmistakable deadliness of metal.
Every muscle in Sato Kenzaburo's body tensed at once, as if he had been struck by a high-voltage current. His ease and arrogance were crushed in an instant, leaving only the most primal, animal fear and rigidity. His hand jerked, spilling the expensive whiskey across the dark carpet. A deep stain spread as the sharp scent of alcohol instantly overwhelmed the cigar smoke. His Adam's apple struggled up and down. He tried to speak, but only a broken, hoarse whimper escaped, like air leaking from a bellows.
"Sato Kenzaburo," Kazama In said. His voice was low, almost calm, yet carried a strange force that easily drowned out the television's meaningless racket and entered Sato's ears with perfect clarity. There was no rise or fall of emotion in it. He sounded as though he were reading out a verdict already set in stone, cold and utterly devoid of human warmth.
"Three years and seven months," Kazama In continued at an even pace. Each word was like a cold iron nail, driven precisely into Sato's nerves. "Seven entertainment venues under your control. You trafficked a total of 137 people. Most were between fourteen and nineteen."
The blade at the nape of his neck shifted slightly, its cold edge pressed close to his skin, creating a faint but horrifying sensation of being cut. Sato's body began to shake like a leaf.
"Last April, in the basement of the Scarlet Dream bar in Shinjuku, two girls tried to resist a buyer's special request. You ordered them 'taken care of.' They were suffocated. Their bodies were encased in concrete and sunk into Tokyo Bay." Kazama In's voice remained utterly flat, as if he were talking about the weather. "Their families are still standing outside the Metropolitan Police Department, holding missing-person posters."
Neon light flowed across Kazama In's expressionless face, casting broken, shifting patches of color in his fathomless eyes and making him seem even more inhuman. Sato breathed in ragged gasps, like a broken bellows. Beads of cold sweat sprang across his forehead, mingled with expensive hair gel, and slid down his temples.
"Three months ago, you diverted 780 million yen from the municipal funds allocated for renovating the slums in South City. You used it to buy a private island and yacht in Hawaii." Kazama In's gaze seemed to pass through Sato's bulky body and fall on the distorted grin on the television screen before him. "That money was meant to repair the crumbling homes and buy fuel and food for the winter. Last winter, eleven elderly people and two children froze to death in South City. Would you like me to read out their names?"
"No... no..." Sato finally forced a faint sound from deep in his throat, a sob of despair. His obese body went limp with terror, and he nearly slid off the sofa. The glass had long since slipped from his hand and rolled a few times over the thick carpet. The remaining whiskey spread between the wool fibers.
"You abused your position to intimidate and frame your competitors, bankrupting three small companies. One owner jumped from a building, another was hospitalized after a mental breakdown, and the third fled Tokyo with his entire family." Kazama In's voice remained steady, like a perfectly precise clock. "You kept thugs on your payroll and extorted protection money. How many bones have you broken? How many shops have you burned down, shops people depended on to make a living? Shall I help you remember?"
Kazama In leaned forward slightly, his lips almost against Sato's ear as it trembled violently with fear. His breath was cold, like a wind blowing from hell. "Sato Kenzaburo, your crimes are beyond counting."
The final words rang out like a funeral bell.
Sato Kenzaburo's pupils shrank to pinpricks. The last trace of color drained from his face, leaving it the ashen gray of a corpse. Instinct overwhelmed everything else. A beastly howl burst from his throat, and his obese body surged with strength that seemed impossible for his size. He lunged forward, trying to escape the death clinging to him like a leech.
Too late.
Kazama In's wrist twitched ever so slightly.
The movement was faster than the eye could follow. A sliver of silver flashed through the warm light and vanished. Like the coldest shooting star streaking across the night sky, it lasted so briefly that it might have been an illusion.
Sato Kenzaburo's lunge froze in place. The sound that came from his throat was no longer a howl, but a teeth-grating "huh... huh..." as liquid gushed out. A hair-thin red line appeared precisely across his thick neck. The next moment, it split open. Warm liquid, heavy with the smell of iron, burst out in a fan-shaped spray like floodwater breaking through a dam.
Blood spattered onto the expensive wool carpet with dull, wet thuds, rapidly spreading into a broad, glaring patch of dark red. It splashed across the polished surface of the dark coffee table and ran down in winding rivulets, gathering into a small pool. A few scorching drops even landed on Kazama In's immaculate black sleeve, leaving marks that quickly spread and darkened until they were nearly black.
Sato Kenzaburo toppled forward like a rotten log felled with an axe, crashing heavily onto the carpet. His body twitched with nerve spasms. A few last, meaningless gurgles escaped his throat, and his staring eyes were frozen in a look of utter terror and disbelief. The light of life faded rapidly, like a candle snuffed out.
The sharp stench of blood instantly overwhelmed the complex blend of cigar smoke, whiskey, and perfume, filling the entire space with a cloying thickness that nearly choked the air from one's lungs.
Kazama In lowered his eyes and watched the pool of blood spreading at his feet with indifference. Beneath the bright indoor lights, it was a strange, dark red, reflecting the ornate crystal chandelier overhead and his own blurred, icy outline. He slowly raised his right hand. Somehow, a razor-thin blade had appeared between his fingers, its edge gleaming with a cold light. The tiny piece of metal was impossibly clean, gleaming like quicksilver beneath the lights, as if it had just been taken from a precision instrument rather than used to sever a man's carotid artery.
He curled his fingers slightly, and the blade vanished between them as if by magic, leaving no trace.
Without sparing the body on the floor another glance, Kazama In turned and walked toward the enormous windows. In their reflection, his figure looked both unusually upright and profoundly alone. Beyond the glass, the rain fell on the endless Tokyo night and the city jungle plunging away beneath it. Neon still flickered, dyeing the rain into flowing rivers of color. Inside, the judgment had just ended, and sin and death were already cooling.
He reached out and touched the cold glass with his fingertips. The next instant, the sturdy, priceless bulletproof window burst inward as if struck by an invisible force! Countless sharp fragments shot into the room like hail, accompanied by a deafening crash. The gale swept in with icy rain and the city's clamor, flooding the death trap that had been warm and luxurious only moments ago and now reeked of blood.
Amid the shower of breaking glass, Kazama In stepped out like a ghost merging with the night and disappeared into the rain and the empty space between the towering buildings. The cold rain instantly soaked his hair and suit, but it could not wash away the few near-black stains on his sleeve, or the darkness and death that had seeped into his bones. He fell toward the brilliantly lit city below, a vast nest of ants, and was soon swallowed by the boundless night and rain.
Behind him, only the shattered window remained, an open wound silently screaming at the cold world. Wind and rain poured in, stirring the expensive curtains and brushing over the body on the floor as it gradually lost its warmth. They scattered the overwhelming stench of blood, but could not disperse the eternal silence spreading through the luxurious prison.
Cold water poured from the showerhead above, striking Kazama In's head, face, and shoulders with force. It ran down the taut lines of his muscles, washing away any trace that might have clung to his skin—dust, moisture, or the lingering scent of blood that had long since vanished.
Steam filled the bathroom, blurring the gleaming tiled walls and the enormous mirror. Kazama In closed his eyes and let the scalding water wash over his head.
The water lashed at his nerves like countless fine, forceful whips, trying to wash away the images that kept flashing through his mind: the red line opening across Sato Kenzaburo's neck, the dark red blood spraying out, the stain rapidly spreading across the carpet, that ashen face frozen in utter terror...and countless other faces like it, twisted in despair, from much longer ago.
The water was scalding. His skin stung, but the pain brought a strange, almost masochistic clarity. He tilted his head back slightly, letting the water strike his forehead and tightly shut eyes more directly. In the darkness, the images grew even clearer. Seventy-nine. That was the number he had recorded under "The Arbiter." Each one represented a precise judgment, a cleanup of darkness in places beyond the rules, beyond the reach of the law's light.
But what came after the cleanup? Rain washed the blood from the ground, and new filth took root in the city's shadows. Like dirty water spiraling down the bathroom drain, it never ended.
"Ugh..."
A restrained, almost inaudible groan slipped from between his tightly pressed lips. Kazama In suddenly lowered his head and braced both hands against the slick tiled wall. His knuckles whitened with the force. Water ran down his bowed head, over the straight bridge of his nose and his tightly pressed lips, then dripped onto the floor and splashed into tiny droplets.
He was tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion, like cold vines winding around his heart and slowly tightening their grip. It wasn't the result of physical exertion, but the numbness and emptiness that came from immersing his soul in darkness and death day after day. He felt like a precision machine programmed to locate, judge, and eliminate, repeating the cycle endlessly. Machines didn't think or grow tired. But he did.
The scalding water continued to pour over him. Amid the haze of rushing water and rising steam, a thought—like a tender vine sprout quietly emerging from the dark, carrying an unfamiliar, faint yet stubborn vitality—suddenly struck his consciousness.
These hands...
He slowly raised his hands and spread them before his eyes. Water streamed between his fingers, and the hot water had turned his skin faintly red. They were the hands of a top assassin: long, strong, and defined, with enough explosive power to take a life in an instant. Calluses marked his fingertips and the web between his thumb and forefinger, the imprint of long years gripping cold weapons. They had ended lives cleanly countless times, then carefully scrubbed away every possible trace with special solvents after each mission, leaving them pristine.
But now, as he stared at them through the misting steam, another image came to Kazama In's mind.
Not gripping the cold handle of a knife. Not pulling a trigger. Not crushing someone's throat.
Instead...turning the pages of a book, gently? Holding a pen between his fingers and leaving the marks of thought on a blank page? Or even...simply resting his hands on the wooden surface of a desk?
These hands, stained with filthy blood—even if it couldn't be seen—and steeped in darkness...could they touch clean things, too? Things that symbolized order, knowledge, and even...an ordinary life?
A textbook... The simple word seemed so out of place in a mind crowded with memories of blood and death, yet it held an almost absurd allure. Like a stone dropped into stagnant water, it sent out ripples that refused to settle.
Live for myself...for once?
The thought itself brought a sharp sting, piercing the numb shell he had long used to protect himself. What was the meaning of his existence? Was it the cold codename "The Arbiter"? The heavy responsibilities he had to bear as the heir to the Kazama Clan? The secret about his mother, buried in his heart and driving him to grip the blade? Or...was it Kazama In himself?
The scalding water streamed over his head, roaring like a waterfall around him. An unprecedented confusion, like the heavy steam filling the bathroom, enveloped him. It left him more at a loss than the most cunning enemy or the most dangerous trap ever could.
He turned off the shower.
The abrupt silence left the bathroom in a strange stillness. Only the steady sound of water dripping from his body onto the floor remained. The thick steam began to settle. Kazama In drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with air scented with moisture and body wash. He grabbed the large, soft white towel beside him and vigorously dried his hair and body. Water rolled down the taut lines of his muscles, leaving dark marks on the tiled floor.
He walked to the enormous full-length mirror. A thick layer of steam blurred its surface, leaving only the vague outline of a tall figure. He took a corner of the towel and forcefully wiped at the mirror several times.
A clear patch appeared.
The mirror reflected a face far too young. Droplets trickled from his wet, short black hair, running over his smooth forehead and straight nose before disappearing along his sharply defined jawline. His skin was a cool white, pale from too little sunlight. Most striking were his eyes. His pupils were a deep, inky black, and now that he had shed the deliberately forgettable blur he wore on missions, they clearly reflected the bathroom lights like stars falling into the depths of a still, cold pool. Deep in his gaze, beyond the coldness and scrutiny of a man on the job, lingered a confusion stirred up by the hot water—and a search for something "unknown" he had yet to fully recognize even in himself.
He gazed at his reflection, at the eyes that seemed to see his own heart for the first time. After a moment, he looked away and picked up the neatly folded dark gray silk robe beside him, slipping it on with practiced ease. The soft fabric wrapped around him, a sensation utterly unlike that of cold weapons.
It was time to see his father.
Kazama In walked soundlessly and steadily down the long corridor, laid with a thick Persian carpet and lined with valuable classical oil paintings. An ancient, tranquil atmosphere filled the entire residence. Only his faint footsteps and the distant, indistinct ticking of an antique grandfather clock disturbed the silence.
At the end of the corridor stood a heavy black ebony door carved with intricate honeysuckle patterns. This was the study of the current head of the Kazama Clan, Kazama Ryunosuke. Kazama In paused briefly before it, raised his hand, and knocked three times, neither too softly nor too firmly.
"Come in," came a warm, steady voice from inside, carrying the ease of someone tempered by time.
Kazama In pushed open the door.
A warm, tranquil fragrance greeted him, instantly dispelling the corridor's chill and the last trace of steam clinging to his body. It was the fresh scent of top-grade gyokuro, mingled with the slightly sweet, woody fragrance of fine aloeswood burning slowly in the brazier. The rich scent soothed the mind.
The study was extremely spacious, but didn't feel empty. Bookshelves lined all four walls, reaching up to the ceiling. Their deep brown wood gleamed warmly, and they were filled with countless books, from weighty classics to modern hardcovers. Gilt lettering on their spines shimmered faintly beneath the lights. A vast Aubusson rug with an intricate pattern covered the center of the room, soft and silent underfoot. A wide rosewood desk occupied one side, simply furnished with a few documents and an old brass desk lamp. On the other side was a more comfortable sitting area, with two dark brown leather sofas and a low table.
Kazama Ryunosuke sat on one of the sofas. He looked to be around fifty, and a few strands of gray had appeared at his temples, where his hair was combed to perfection. His face had the Kazama Clan's distinctive strong features, but its lines weren't severe. The familiar warm smile at the corners of his mouth instead gave him a refined, approachable air. He wore a soft, dark gray kimono with a matching haori loosely draped over it. Most surprising of all, the head of the Kazama Clan, who controlled a vast business empire and held enormous influence in both political and commercial circles, was holding neither documents nor a seal. He was...knitting a sweater.
Yes, knitting. Long bamboo needles moved deftly between his slender, strong fingers. A ball of soft, warm tan yarn rested on his lap, rolling slightly with each movement. The embers in the brazier cast a steady heat, while water warmed in a red clay kettle on the low table beside him. Wisps of white steam rose from the spout of an antique purple clay teapot, carrying the fresh fragrance of gyokuro.
The scene stood in stark contrast to the blood and rain Kazama In had just experienced, like two entirely different worlds. An almost unreal warmth and serenity filled the room.
"Back already?" Kazama Ryunosuke looked up at his son with an unfeigned, warm smile. His gaze lingered for a moment on Kazama In's damp short hair and composed face. His eyes were much like Kazama In's, but held the accumulated wisdom of many more years. They reflected his son without the slightest trace of scrutiny or reproach, only genuine concern. "The rain was heavy, wasn't it? Come have some hot tea and warm up."
He set aside the yarn and bamboo needles, then naturally picked up the teapot warming by the brazier. He poured clear, bright tea, its liquid the characteristic green of gyokuro, into two small, equally elegant porcelain cups. Warm steam curled upward, carrying a stronger tea fragrance through the room.
Kazama In walked over and sat on the sofa opposite his father. His body still held the habitual uprightness of a man on guard, but the tranquil warmth of the study and his father's gentle gaze relaxed his taut nerves despite himself. He picked up the small cup his father had pushed toward him. Warmth passed through its fine porcelain walls. He took a small sip. The clean, faintly sweet tea slipped down his throat with a comforting warmth, seeming to dilute the intangible taste of blood that still lingered there.
"Yeah. It's done," Kazama In said, setting down his cup. His voice was low and calm, without a hint of emotion, as if he were describing an entirely ordinary task. "Sato Kenzaburo. Same old problem. I handled it cleanly."
The smile on Kazama Ryunosuke's face didn't change at all, as though his son had merely settled a routine business dispute rather than ended the life of a prominent man. He nodded, picked up the yarn and bamboo needles from his lap again, and deftly looped a stitch onto one of them. The needles made a faint, rhythmic clicking sound.
"Good work. With that position empty, the restless fellows underneath him will probably make trouble for a while. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. A little disorder shows who's more qualified—and who knows how to follow the rules." His tone was mild, as if discussing weeds that needed trimming in the garden. "The Arbiter's 'blade' always clears their heads."
"The Arbiter." The cold codename, dreaded throughout the underworld, sounded strangely calm and almost homely when his father said it, like a simple word of approval.
Kazama In remained silent, unconsciously rubbing the warm rim of his cup with a fingertip. The study held only the faint click of the bamboo needles, the soft crackling of the coals in the brazier, and the rain outside, which came through the thick walls and expensive windows as no more than a muted background sound. The scent of aloeswood and tea surrounded him.
This was the moment.
"Father," Kazama In said again. His voice was a little lower than before, but carried the clarity of a decision made. "I...want to take a break."
Kazama Ryunosuke's knitting didn't pause at all. He only raised his eyes slightly, his gentle gaze settling on his son through the bamboo needles. It held a question, but also the patience to encourage him to continue.
Kazama In met his father's gaze. The confusion that had settled in him over the course of the night and the faint longing that had taken root in the bathroom finally surfaced clearly in the depths of his dark eyes. He searched for words to express the thought he had only discovered beneath the pounding hot water, a notion that even felt unfamiliar to him. "I want to...go to school. Like an ordinary student."
He paused, seeming to weigh his words—or perhaps to confirm that this impulse was real. "...Read books, listen to lessons. Spend some time living a life that doesn't need 'The Arbiter.'" The final words were quiet, but unusually clear.
The faint click of the bamboo needles stopped for an instant.
Kazama Ryunosuke lifted his gaze from the yarn, focusing entirely on his son's face. The deep, gentle eyes first showed a trace of surprise, then quickly filled with something deeper—relief and understanding—as if a stone had been dropped into a still lake, setting tender ripples across its surface.
He didn't answer at once. Instead, he slowly set the yarn and bamboo needles aside, placing them carefully on the low table beside him. Then he leaned forward slightly and picked up the purple clay teapot, elegantly and steadily refilling the cup in front of Kazama In, which was still half full. Warm tea flowed into the white porcelain cup with a pleasant sound as steam curled upward.
Only after that did Kazama Ryunosuke lean back against the sofa. He folded his hands on his lap and smiled more deeply, more warmly.
"That boy Rokusuke..." he began, his voice carrying the fondness and nostalgia of an elder. "The other day, his father, the Head of the Koenji Family, told me the boy has been making a terrible fuss at home. He insists on transferring to that newly established Advanced Nurturing High School. Says he wants to experience 'the purest elite education.' The young lady from the Sakayanagi Family seems to have gone there, too." He smiled, his eyes full of indulgence toward the younger generation. "They're all energetic young people with high spirits."
He didn't directly answer Kazama In's request to go to school. Instead, he brought up those two names.
Rokusuke. Koenji Rokusuke. A figure immediately surfaced in Kazama In's mind: flashy blond hair, a face always wearing a carefree smile, and a way of speaking that was begging to be punched. Since childhood, he'd been like a piece of gum Kazama In couldn't shake off, and he was one of the few people Kazama In could call a "friend." The young lady from the Sakayanagi Family...Sakayanagi Arisu? The girl who looked like a delicate, fragile doll, but had an astonishingly cool and sharp gaze? They had both gone to that school?
His father's gentle voice continued. "In, your mother..." At the mention of her, Kazama Ryunosuke's voice lowered almost imperceptibly. A deep, aching pain flashed in his eyes, one that even the passage of time hadn't managed to erase completely. It vanished so quickly that it might have been an illusion, but Kazama In caught it.
His fingers tightened around the teacup without his realizing it. "...She always hoped you could enjoy the happy times of an ordinary child," Kazama Ryunosuke continued, his voice returning to its usual warmth, though it now carried a deeper weight. "She used to say the burden on our Kazama Family was too heavy, and you had too much placed on your shoulders, too soon."
It felt as though an invisible hand gently squeezed Kazama In's heart. His mother...the gentle figure deep in his memories, reduced to a blurry, warm outline and a faint scent of medicine. Her pale face before she passed away, her hand tightly clasping his when he was a child, her eyes gradually losing their light but still full of love...Those memories, which he had deliberately buried beneath the cold shell of "The Arbiter," surged up beyond his control. His throat tightened. He lowered his eyes to the clear tea trembling faintly in his cup.
"So," Kazama Ryunosuke said, his voice brightening again with unmistakable certainty, "you want to experience it for yourself. Good. Very good." Rather than pick up his teacup, he reached into a drawer of the rosewood desk and pulled out a thin, exquisitely textured document folder. He did it so casually that it seemed to have been waiting there all along.
He gently slid the folder onto the low table, pushing it toward Kazama In.
The folder was a dignified dark blue, without unnecessary decoration. A striking emblem was embossed on the seal. Golden ears of wheat encircled a sword pointing straight toward the sky, its tip piercing an open book. The design was simple yet powerful, conveying an air of ambition and progress. Below the emblem were several equally striking characters, stamped in gold with bold, forceful strokes:
Advanced Nurturing High School.
"The paperwork's already taken care of," Kazama Ryunosuke said lightly, as though arranging an ordinary vacation. "You can start next week. If that boy Rokusuke finds out you're going, he'll probably be over the moon." A teasing smile entered his eyes, as if he could already picture Koenji Rokusuke's exaggerated reaction.
Kazama In's gaze remained fixed on the golden school crest. Wheat. Books. A sword...Symbols completely unfamiliar to him, utterly unlike anything in the life he had lived for the past decade and more. Symbols of order, knowledge, competition beneath the sun, and the future.
The Arbiter's blade would be sheathed for a while.
He reached out, and his fingertips touched the smooth surface of the dark blue folder. It felt cool, yet somehow kindled a small, faint but genuine flame in his heart.
A new battlefield awaited him. One without gunpowder, blood, or smoke—but perhaps even more complicated.
And the secret, hidden deep in his mother's gentle eyes, left unspoken, seemed to rise quietly above the dark waters of fate along with the name of this school.
Before you continue