The Arbiter Says He's Had Enough

Rain was Tokyo's customary evening makeup. Cold silver threads fell from a pitch-black sky whose top was lost to sight, lashing against the cold, hard glass curtain walls of skyscrapers, shattering into hazy mist that the city's never-extinguished neon lights dyed into a grotesque patchwork of scarlet and indigo. Light flowed, twisted, and shattered on the wet streets, like spilled oil paint, like congealed blood, spreading thickly across the field of vision.

Kazama In stood atop that twisted play of light and shadow.

Beneath his feet was the lavish penthouse of Sato Kenzaburo—the nominal ruler of some district in this city. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows were like a single flawless sheet of black crystal, sealing out the clamorous rain and chill beyond. Inside, it was warm as spring; expensive cigar smoke coiled lazily upward, and the air carried the rich peat scent of whiskey mingled with a more secretive, cloying sweetness from some rare perfume. A giant television screen played a vapid variety show in silence, exaggerated smiles flickering eerily in the shifting light.

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, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, ice cubes clinking softly against the crystal.

He had just finished a phone call, apparently about the distribution of some new "merchandise," a smug curl still lingering at the corner of his mouth. Dressed in a silk robe, his hair meticulously combed, his well-maintained face bore the relaxed arrogance of one long accustomed to high position. He was the master of this domain—at least, he firmly believed so.

He had no idea that death stood behind him.

Kazama In's presence was as faint as the rain drifting past the window, yet as heavy as the storm clouds pressing down on the city. He hadn't broken in through the window—that would have been crude, beneath his "work aesthetic."

Like a shadow, he had merged into the corner of this brightly lit yet strangely empty room, silent and soundless, as if he had always been part of the expensive decor. A perfectly tailored black suit, dark as midnight, traced a lean, explosive silhouette.

His face was uncovered, yet strangely impossible to remember—as if a thin mist blurred its contours. Only his eyes, in the warm indoor light, were as still as two bottomless, icy pools, reflecting the neon outside but holding not a trace of human warmth.

He moved.

No rustle of wind, no sound of footsteps—only a faint, fleeting resistance as air was displaced by extreme speed. An instant ago, he was in the shadows; the next, he was pressed like a ghost against Sato's broad back.

A cold, hard touch pressed abruptly against the warm skin of Sato's nape. It was a chill that could freeze bone marrow in an instant, carrying the metallic death-scent unique to steel.

Sato Kenzaburo's entire body tensed, as if struck by a high-voltage current. Relaxation and arrogance shattered into dust, leaving only the raw, animal rigidity of terror. The hand holding his glass jerked violently, spilling expensive whiskey across the dark carpet in a spreading stain, the sharp alcohol scent instantly overpowering the cigar smoke. His Adam's apple bobbed painfully; he tried to make a sound, but only a broken, wheezing rasp escaped his throat, like a leaking bellows.

"Sato Kenzaburo." Kazama In spoke. His voice was not loud, even calm, but it carried a strange penetrating quality, easily overriding the meaningless noise from the television and drilling clearly into Sato's eardrums. There was no emotional fluctuation in that voice, as if he were reading a verdict long since finalized—cold, devoid of any human warmth.

"Three years and seven months," Kazama In said, his pace steady, each word like a cold iron nail driven precisely into Sato's nerves. "Under your name, seven entertainment venues have trafficked a total of one hundred and thirty-seven people. Ages mainly between fourteen and nineteen."

The blade against his nape shifted slightly, the icy edge pressed against his skin, bringing a faint but hair-raising sensation of cutting. Sato's body trembled like a sieve.

"Last April, in the basement of the 'Crimson Dream' bar in Shinjuku, because a buyer had special requirements, you ordered the 'disposal' of two girls who tried to resist. Method: suffocation. Their bodies were encased in concrete and sunk into Tokyo Bay." Kazama In's voice was utterly flat, as if stating the weather. "Their families still linger outside the Metropolitan Police Department, holding up missing-person notices."

The neon light outside flowed across Kazama In's expressionless face, casting broken, dancing patches of color into the depths of his pool-like eyes, adding to his inhuman eeriness. Sato's breathing grew ragged as a broken bellows; cold sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, mixing with expensive hair gel and trickling down his temples.

"Three months ago, you embezzled the special fund allocated by the city government for the renovation of the southern slums—a total of seven hundred and eighty million yen—to purchase a private island and yacht in Hawaii." Kazama In's gaze seemed to pierce through Sato's bulky body, landing on the distorted variety-show face on the TV screen before him. "That money was meant to repair crumbling, dangerous housing and buy fuel and food for the winter. Last winter, eleven old people and two children froze to death in the southern district. Do you need me to read you their names?"

"No... no..." Sato finally squeezed out a faint, breathy sound from deep in his throat, laced with desperate sobs. His obese body went limp with sheer terror, nearly sliding off the sofa. The glass in his hand had long since fallen, rolling a few times on the thick carpet, leaving trails of residual liquor in the wool fibers.

"You used your authority to coerce and frame competitors, driving three small companies into bankruptcy. One manager jumped to his death, one had a mental breakdown and was hospitalized, and one fled Tokyo with his family." Kazama In's voice remained steady, like the most precise clockwork. "You kept thugs, extorted exorbitant protection fees. How many bones have you broken? How many people's livelihoods—their shops—have you burned down? Do you need me to help you recall?"

Kazama In leaned slightly forward, his lips nearly touching Sato's ear, which trembled violently with fear. His breath was cold, like wind from the underworld: "Sato Kenzaburo, your crimes are too numerous to record."

Those final four words rang like a death knell.

Sato Kenzaburo's pupils shrank to pinpricks; the last trace of color drained from his face, leaving a corpse-like ashen gray. The instinct to survive overwhelmed everything else. A beastly roar burst from his throat, and his fat body erupted with a strength that belied its size, lunging forward in a desperate attempt to break free from the death that clung to him like a leech!

Too late.

Kazama In's wrist gave only a slight flick.

The motion was too fast for the retina to capture—only a faint, fleeting silver gleam flashed through the warm indoor light, like the coldest meteor streaking across the night sky, so brief one might doubt it was real.

Sato Kenzaburo's forward motion froze instantly. The roar from his throat turned into a sickening, liquid gurgle—a rapid, spurting "hah... hah..." sound. A hair-thin red line appeared precisely on his thick neck. In the next instant, the line burst open, and warm, iron-rich liquid erupted like a breached dam, spraying in a fan-shaped arc!

Blood splattered onto the expensive wool carpet with dull, wet thuds, spreading rapidly into large, glaring dark stains. It splashed across the mirror-polished dark wood of the coffee table, trickling down to pool in a small puddle. A few drops of hot liquid even landed on the flawless black sleeve of Kazama In's suit, leaving rapidly spreading, deep-black marks on the costly fabric.

Sato Kenzaburo toppled forward like a felled log, crashing heavily onto the carpet with a dull thud. His body twitched reflexively, his throat emitting a few final, meaningless gurgles. His wide eyes were frozen with ultimate terror and disbelief. The light of life dimmed swiftly, like a snuffed-out candle flame.

The thick smell of blood instantly overpowered the complex blend of cigar, whiskey, and perfume, dominating the entire space with a suffocating intensity.

Kazama In lowered his gaze, staring impassively at the rapidly expanding pool of blood at his feet. Under the bright indoor lights, the blood was an eerie dark red, reflecting the ornate crystal chandelier on the ceiling and his own blurred, cold silhouette. He slowly raised his right hand; between his fingers, a blade as thin as a cicada's wing, its edge gleaming with a cold, murderous light, had appeared from nowhere. The tiny piece of metal was impossibly clean, flowing with a mercury-like sheen under the light, as if just taken from the most precise instrument, rather than having just severed a man's carotid artery.

He curled his fingers slightly, and the blade vanished like magic into his slender digits, leaving no trace.

Without another glance at the corpse on the floor, Kazama In turned and walked toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. His reflection in the glass was strikingly upright, yet profoundly lonely. Outside, Tokyo's endless rainy night stretched on—a city jungle like an abyss, neon still flickering, dyeing the rain into a flowing river of colored light. Inside, the judgment had just concluded; sin and death were rapidly cooling.

He reached out, his fingertips touching the cold glass. The next second, the sturdy, bulletproof window—worth a fortune—shattered inward as if struck by an invisible force, exploding into countless sharp fragments that shot into the room like hail, accompanied by a deafening crash! Wind howled in, carrying icy rain and the noise of the city, flooding this death-cage that had just been warm and decadent but now reeked of blood!

Kazama In's silhouette, amid the rain of shattered glass, stepped out like a ghost merging into the night, vanishing into the vast curtain of rain and the void between the towering buildings. The cold rain instantly soaked his hair and suit, but it could not wash away the few dark bloodstains on his cuffs, nor the bone-deep aura of darkness and death that clung to him. He fell toward the city below, glittering with lights like a giant anthill, and his figure was soon swallowed entirely by the boundless night and rain.

Behind him, only the shattered window remained, like a silently screaming wound, open to the cold world. Wind and rain poured in, stirring the expensive curtains, brushing over the corpse slowly losing its warmth, dispersing the cloying scent of blood—but unable to dispel the eternal stillness spreading through this luxurious cage.

Cold water surged from the showerhead above, striking Kazama In's head, face, and shoulders with powerful force. The water streamed down his taut muscles, washing away any trace that might remain on his skin—dust, moisture, or the long-vanished scent of blood.

The bathroom was thick with steam, the rising heat blurring the clean tile walls and the massive mirror. Kazama In closed his eyes, letting the scalding water pound against his skull.

The water was like countless fine, powerful whips, lashing at his nerves, trying to wash away the images flashing through his mind: the red line blooming on Sato Kenzaburo's neck, the spurting dark red, the spreading stain on the carpet, the ashen face frozen in ultimate terror... and further back, countless similar faces, twisted in despair.

The water was hot, and 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 closed eyes more directly. In the darkness, the images grew sharper. Seventy-nine. That was the number recorded under his name, "The Arbiter." Each one represented a precise judgment, a cleansing of the dark corners beyond the reach of law and rules.

But after the cleansing? The blood at his feet was diluted by rain, but new filth would always breed in the city's shadows. Like the dirty water swirling down the bathroom drain—endless.

"Ngh..."

A suppressed, almost inaudible groan escaped his tightly pressed lips. Kazama In lowered his head abruptly, bracing both hands against the wet tile wall, his knuckles white from the strain. Water streamed down his bowed head, along the straight bridge of his nose and the tight line of his lips, dripping to the floor in fine splashes.

Fatigue. A deep, bone-soaking fatigue, like cold vines coiling around his heart, tightening slowly. This weariness didn't come from physical exhaustion, but from the numbness and emptiness of a soul steeped day after day in darkness and death. He was like a precision machine, programmed to locate, judge, and eliminate... in an endless loop. Gears didn't think, didn't tire—but he did.

The scalding water continued to pour down without pause. Amid the chaotic sound of water and the rising steam, a thought—like a tender vine sprouting quietly in the dark, carrying a strange, faint yet stubborn vitality—struck his consciousness without warning.

'These hands...'

He slowly raised his hands, spreading them before his eyes. Water rushed through the gaps between his fingers; his skin was flushed red from the heat. These were the hands of a top-tier assassin—knuckles distinct, long and powerful, holding the explosive force to end a life in an instant. Calluses on his fingertips and the web of his thumb were marks left by long years of gripping various cold weapons. They had ended lives cleanly countless times, and after each mission, they had been meticulously cleaned with special solvents to ensure they were spotless.

But now, staring at his hands through the misty steam, another image surfaced in Kazama In's mind.

Not gripping a cold knife handle. Not pulling a trigger. Not crushing a throat.

...but gently turning the pages of a book? Fingertips holding a pen, tracing the marks of thought across blank paper? Or even... simply resting quietly on the wooden surface of a desk?

These hands—stained with filthy blood (even if invisible to the eye), steeped in darkness—could they also touch those clean things, symbols of order, knowledge, even... ordinary life?

'Textbook...' This simple word, in a mind filled with memories of blood and death, felt so out of place, yet carried an almost absurd allure. Like a stone thrown into stagnant water, stirring ripples that refused to settle.

'Live... for myself?'

The thought itself carried a sharp sting, piercing the numb shell he had long used to protect himself. What was the meaning of his existence? The cold codename of "The Arbiter"? The heavy responsibility he must bear as heir to the Kazama family? The secret buried deep in his heart, the one about his mother that drove him to grip his blade? Or... was it him, Kazama In, as a person?

Scalding water cascaded over his head, the roar of the shower like standing beneath a waterfall. A unprecedented confusion, like the dense steam filling the bathroom, enveloped him. This confusion left him more at a loss than when facing the most cunning enemies or the most dangerous traps.

He turned off the showerhead.

The abrupt cessation of water plunged the bathroom into a strange silence, leaving only the monotonous sound of droplets sliding from his body and hitting the floor. The lingering steam began to settle. Kazama In took a deep breath, air mixed with moisture and the scent of body wash filling his lungs. He grabbed the wide, soft white towel nearby and vigorously dried his hair and body. Water droplets rolled down the lines of his taut muscles, leaving dark marks on the tiled floor.

He walked to the large floor-to-ceiling mirror. The surface was thickly fogged with steam, reflecting only a blurry outline of a tall figure. He reached out, wiping a corner of the towel hard across the mirror.

A clear patch emerged.

The mirror reflected a face that was startlingly young. Water droplets dripped from his wet black short hair, sliding over a full forehead, a straight nose bridge, and finally disappearing along the sharp line of his jaw. His skin was a cold pale, untouched by sunlight for too long. Most striking were his eyes—pupils a deep, ink-black. Now, stripped of the deliberate vagueness he cultivated during missions to make himself unforgettable, they clearly reflected the light of the bathroom ceiling lamp, like stars cast into the depths of a still, cold pool. Deep within those eyes was no longer just the cold scrutiny of executing tasks, but a lingering trace of confusion washed out by the hot water, and a search for some "unknown" that even he himself hadn't fully realized.

He stared at himself in the mirror, at those eyes that seemed to truly "see" his own heart for the first time. After a moment, he looked away, picked up the neatly folded dark gray silk robe beside him, and put it on with practiced ease. The soft fabric wrapped around his body, offering a sensation utterly different from cold weapons.

Time to see his father.

Walking through the long corridor covered in thick Persian carpets, with walls lined with priceless classical oil paintings, Kazama In's steps were silent and steady. The entire mansion was immersed in an ancient, tranquil atmosphere, broken only by his faint footsteps and the distant, occasional ticking of an antique pendulum clock.

At the end of the corridor was a heavy ebony door, intricately carved with honeysuckle patterns. This was the study of the current head of the Kazama family, Kazama Ryunosuke. Kazama In paused briefly before the door, raised his hand, and knocked three times with measured force.

"Come in." A gentle, steady voice came from within, carrying the calm of accumulated years.

Kazama In pushed the door open.

A warm, tranquil fragrance rushed out, instantly dispelling the cool air of the corridor and the last traces of bathroom moisture on him. It was the scent of premium Gyokuro tea, mixed with the slightly sweet, woody aroma of fine agarwood burning slowly in the hearth—heavy and soothing to the spirit.

The study was extremely spacious, yet not empty. All four walls were lined with towering bookshelves of dark brown wood with a warm luster, filled with countless books, from heavy ancient texts to modern hardcovers, their gold-stamped spines glimmering in the light. In the center of the room lay a huge Aubusson carpet with intricate patterns, soft and silent underfoot. A large rosewood desk occupied one side, its surface simple, holding only a few documents and an old brass desk lamp. On the other side was a more comfortable area, with two dark brown leather sofas and a low table.

At that moment, Kazama Ryunosuke was sitting on one of the sofas. He looked around fifty, with some frost at his temples, combed immaculately. His face bore the deep contours of the Kazama family, but the lines weren't harsh; instead, his habitual gentle smile made him appear refined and approachable. He wore a soft, dark gray casual kimono, loosely covered by a matching haori. Most surprisingly, this head of the Kazama family, who controlled a vast business empire and wielded immense influence in both politics and commerce, wasn't holding documents or a seal—he was knitting.

Yes, knitting. Several long bamboo needles moved nimbly between his long, powerful fingers. A ball of soft, warm light camel-colored yarn rested on his knee, rolling slightly with his movements. The dark red charcoal of the agarwood in the hearth radiated steady heat. A small red clay stove on the low table was warming water, and the spout of an antique purple clay teapot emitted wisps of white steam—the source of the Gyokuro fragrance.

This scene formed a stark contrast with the bloody storm Kazama In had just experienced, a clash of two extreme worlds. An almost surreal warmth and tranquility enveloped the entire space.

"Back?" Kazama Ryunosuke looked up, his gaze falling on his son, a genuine, gentle smile on his face. His eyes lingered for a moment on Kazama In's still-damp short hair and composed face. Those eyes, so similar to his son's but holding more wisdom from years passed, clearly reflected his son's image, without any scrutiny or interrogation, only pure concern. "The rain was heavy, wasn't it? Come, have some hot tea to warm up."

He put down the yarn and bamboo needles, naturally picked up the purple clay teapot warming on the stove, and poured the clear, bright tea, with its characteristic Gyokuro green hue, into two similarly antique and elegant small white porcelain cups. Warm steam rose, and the tea's fragrance spread even more richly.

Kazama In walked over and sat on the sofa opposite his father. His body still maintained a habitual upright posture, but his tense nerves did involuntarily relax a bit in the study's calm, warm atmosphere and his father's gentle gaze. He picked up the small teacup his father pushed toward him. The warmth seeped through the delicate porcelain. He took a light sip. The clear, slightly sweet tea slid down his throat, carrying a comforting power, as if it also washed away the lingering, invisible taste of blood.

"Mm, it's handled." Kazama In set down the cup, his voice low and calm, without inflection, as if reporting a routine matter. "Sato Kenzaburo. The old problem. Cleanly dealt with."

The smile on Kazama Ryunosuke's face didn't change at all, as if his son had merely handled an ordinary business dispute, not ended a prominent life. He nodded, picked up the yarn and needles again, and his fingers skillfully looped a stitch, producing a faint, rhythmic clicking sound.

"Mm, good work. With that position empty, the restless ones underneath will probably stir for a while. But that's fine. A little chaos helps us see who's more qualified and who follows the rules." His tone was calm, like discussing weeds in a garden that needed trimming. "The Arbiter's 'blade' always manages to sober them up a bit."

"The Arbiter." This cold codename, which made the underworld tremble, carried a strangely familiar, domestic acceptance when spoken by his father.

Kazama In was silent, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the warm cup. The study was filled only with the faint clicking of bamboo needles, the soft crackle of charcoal in the hearth, and the rain outside, which hadn't stopped, now reduced to a vague background hum by the thick walls and expensive glass. The scent of agarwood and tea intertwined, enveloping him.

Now.

"Father," Kazama In spoke again, his voice lower than before, carrying a clarity that came from a decision made. "I... want to take a break for a while."

Kazama Ryunosuke's knitting didn't pause at all. He merely raised his eyelids slightly, his gentle gaze passing through the gaps in the needles to rest on his son's face, carrying inquiry and the patience to encourage him to continue.

Meeting his father's gaze, the confusion that had settled in the depths of his ink-black pupils all night, and the faint desire born in the bathroom, now clearly surfaced. He organized his words, trying to express the thought that had startled him under the scalding water, a notion even he found somewhat unfamiliar: "I want... to go to school. Like an ordinary student."

He paused, as if weighing his words, or confirming to himself whether this impulsive thought was real enough: "...Read books, attend classes. Live a life... that doesn't need 'The Arbiter'." The last few words were spoken softly, but with exceptional clarity.

The faint clicking of the bamboo needles stopped, for an extremely brief moment.

Kazama Ryunosuke's gaze shifted from the yarn in his hands, fully focusing on his son's face. In those deep, gentle eyes, a faint trace of surprise flickered first. Then, a deeper light, almost one of relief and understanding, quickly replaced the surprise, like gentle ripples spreading across a calm lake after a stone is thrown.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he slowly put down the yarn and needles, carefully placing them on the low table beside his knee. Then, he leaned forward slightly, picked up the purple clay teapot, and with elegant, steady movements, refilled the cup in front of Kazama In, which was still a little less than half full. The warm tea poured into the white porcelain with a pleasant sound, steam rising.

After doing this, Kazama Ryunosuke leaned back against the sofa, folded his hands on his knee, and revealed a deeper, warmer smile.

"That boy, Rokusuke," he began, his voice carrying an elder's affectionate familiarity, "a few days ago, his father, the head of the Koenji family, mentioned to me that the kid was making a fuss at home, insisting on transferring to that newly established Advanced Nurturing High School, saying he wanted to experience 'the purest elite education.' That little princess of the Sakayanagi family seems to have gone there too." He chuckled, his eyes showing a trace of indulgence for the younger generation. "All energetic young people with high ambitions."

He didn't directly respond to Kazama In's request to go to school, but instead brought up these two names.

Rokusuke. Koenji Rokusuke. A figure instantly flashed through Kazama In's mind—flamboyant golden hair, a perpetually cynical smile, a tone of voice that always sounded like he was asking for a beating, and yet, since childhood, he'd been like an unshakable piece of sticky candy, one of the few people Kazama In could call a "friend." The little princess of the Sakayanagi family... Sakayanagi Arisu? That girl who looked like a delicate, fragile doll, but whose eyes were startlingly calm and sharp? They... had both gone to that school?

His father's gentle voice continued: "In, your mother..." When he mentioned this title, Kazama Ryunosuke's voice dipped almost imperceptibly, a deep pain flickering in the depths of his eyes, one that time couldn't fully erase. It was so fast it could have been mistaken for an illusion, but Kazama In caught it.

His fingers tightened around the teacup unconsciously. "...She always hoped you could have the happy times of an ordinary child." Kazama Ryunosuke's voice returned to its gentle tone, but carried a deeper weight. "She always said the burden of our Kazama family was too heavy, that too much was placed on you, too early."

Kazama In's chest felt as if an invisible hand had gently squeezed it. Mother... That gentle figure in the depths of his memory, now only a blurry, warm outline and the faint scent of medicine. Her pale face before she passed, her small hand tightly gripping his, her eyes gradually losing their light but still full of love... Those images, deliberately buried beneath the cold shell of "The Arbiter," now surged up uncontrollably. His throat tightened. He lowered his gaze, staring at the clear, gently swaying tea in his cup.

"So," Kazama Ryunosuke's voice became bright again, carrying an undeniable certainty, "you want to go experience it. Good. Very good." He reached out, not for the teacup, but directly to a drawer in the rosewood desk, pulling out a thin, high-quality document folder, his movements as casual as if it had been prepared and waiting there.

He gently pushed the folder across the low table, in front of Kazama In.

The folder was a steady dark blue, without any extra decoration, except for a striking emblem embossed on the seal. The emblem consisted of golden wheat ears encircling a sword pointing straight to the sky, its tip piercing an open book. The design was simple yet powerful, exuding a spirit of sharp ambition. Below the emblem were several characters, also gold-stamped, with bold, forceful strokes—

Advanced Nurturing High School.

"The paperwork is all done." Kazama Ryunosuke's tone was as light as arranging an ordinary vacation. "You can report next week. That boy Rokusuke will probably be overjoyed if he finds out you're going too." His eyes held a mischievous glint, as if he could already see Koenji Rokusuke's exaggerated, delighted expression.

Kazama In's gaze locked firmly onto the golden school emblem. Wheat stalks, books, a sword... symbols entirely foreign to him, utterly unlike anything from the past decade of his life. Symbols representing order, knowledge, competition under the sun, and the future.

The Arbiter's blade would be sheathed for now.

He reached out, his fingertips touching the smooth surface of the deep blue document folder. The sensation was faintly cool, yet it strangely kindled a small, genuine flame within his heart.

A new battlefield awaited him. One without gunpowder smoke, without bloodshed, yet perhaps far more complex.

And the unspoken secrets hidden deep within his mother's gentle eyes seemed, with the name of this school, to quietly surface from the dark waters of fate.