Naoya Zenin crouched at the edge of the rooftop, his trench coat billowing in the wind, a cigarette between his fingers.
As he watched the fight below, his expression shifted from "somewhat interesting" to "impatient."
Megumi Fushiguro.
He repeated the name in his mind, his tone steeped in contempt.
The old man handed the position of Clan Head to a bastard who won't even take the Zenin name.
So what if you have the Ten Shadows Technique? It's wasted on you.
Naoya watched Megumi Fushiguro get forced back against a broken wall by a rain of objects, watched him get distracted listening for sounds to the southeast, watched his shoulder bleed.
He scoffed.
Getting cornered like this by some guy who uses receipts, and still getting distracted worrying about other people.
What would beating trash like this prove? There's no glory in it.
Naoya stood, dusted off his pants, and turned to leave.
But after two steps, he stopped.
I might as well watch. You don't see idiots fighting like this every day.
Below, a flying vending machine struck Megumi Fushiguro. He staggered, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
Reggie laughed atop the rubble and pulled out another stack of receipts.
Megumi Fushiguro didn't look like he could last much longer.
Naoya fell silent for two seconds.
He sat back down at the edge of the roof, took out a lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a deep drag.
Oh, fine. Whatever else he is, that guy still has Zenin Clan blood.
He can't lose to some roadside nobody who uses receipts. If he can't hold out, I'll step in and deal with Reggie.
Naoya tapped the ash off his cigarette, his gaze fixed on Megumi Fushiguro below. With a hand on his knee, he leaned forward slightly,