Mirai was still reveling in the stunt she was about to pull—beheading their target with precision.
Beta zipped through the air just as the rope that had propelled Mirai snapped loose from her waist. It was a double execution. If, by some miracle, Alpha failed. Beta was there to finish the job. His line hooked onto the black Lincoln Nautilus, yanking his body toward it. A pistol in his left hand, a short sword in his right. His moment was now.
As he closed in, two shinobi emerged beside the car he had anchored to. He aimed and fired, his shots striking their sleek silhouettes—but the bullets ricocheted off their attire like pebbles against steel. No hesitation. He was already upon them, and they were poised to strike. So was he.
Beta twisted midair, a hiss escaping from his belt as compressed gas propelled him. The blade in his grip hummed as its edge turned to plasma, glowing like molten steel. He slashed—leaving a scarlet arc in the air. He aimed for the neck, but the shinobi deflected with ease, their movements fluid, inhuman.
The moment his feet balanced on the car's hood, a brutal counterattack landed. A fist to his jaw—bone-crushing, merciless.
His head snapped back, but he redirected his weight, allowing his momentum to fuel a vicious counter. As his body reeled, his right leg swung—a savage crescent kick. Impact. One shinobi was launched into the air, spinning before slamming into the pavement.
But the second ninja struck back. With a precise sweep, Beta's supporting leg was cut from beneath him. He plummeted. Twisting mid-fall, he activated his belt's gas again, shifting in time to drive his heel upward. His foot met his attacker's chin with a sharp crack.
But this one was faster. She blocked, redirecting the force with a well-placed arm. And before Beta could react, she drove both fists into his chest.
Air fled his lungs. His body was a ragdoll as it crashed into the hood of a police vehicle, crumpling the metal on impact.
Gamma descended like a vengeful specter, landing exactly where Beta had stood moments before. The car beneath her dented from the force, but she paid it no mind. With brutal efficiency, she struck.
A crack.
Her opponent's forearm shattered under her blow, bone piercing skin. The ninja reeled, a strangled gasp escaping her lips—but Gamma gave no room for recovery. She drove her knee into the ninja's abdomen, forcing her to double over. Another opening. Gamma seized it, pivoting into a ruthless elbow strike. The ninja's jaw snapped sideways.
Time to end it.
Gamma unsheathed her blade. A single, precise strike—one that would split the ninja's jaw, carve through her nasal bone, and impale her brain in a straight, merciless line.
Then—
A violent tug.
A rope coiled around Gamma's waist and yanked her backward, her fatal strike aborted at the last second.
She wouldn't let this opening go to waste.
As her body was wrenched away, she grabbed a kunai from her thigh holster, flipping it in her grip. Mid-flight, she hurled it toward her near-victim's skull. This ends now.
But—
Clang!
Another kunai intercepted it midair. The first ninja Beta had sent flying had returned, deflecting the deathblow meant for her ally.
Gamma's gaze flicked over her shoulder.
The third one.
A feminine figure loomed behind her, the rope's end still in her grasp. But Gamma had already reacted. Before the ninja could drive a sword into her exposed back, Gamma's fingers found another set of kunai. She slashed at the rope, severing it instantly.
Momentum carried her into a backward roll. She recovered seamlessly, landing on her feet in one fluid motion—and drove her boot into the third ninja's stomach with bone-crushing force.
"Beta—kill that one," Gamma ordered, barely sparing a glance. She pointed at the shinobi whose arm she had just destroyed.
"Duly noted." Beta scoffed, shaking off the pain as he bolted forward, a blur in the dark.
Then—
"Watch, little girl." The voice came from just inches away. Cold. Mocking.
Gamma barely had time to process it before a fist slammed into her jaw. Bone met bone in a vicious impact, her head snapping sideways from the sheer force. A sharp sting shot through her skull, teeth rattling.
Then—
A gunshot.
The bang split through the chaos, a deadly promise from Delta's sniper. Someone was about to die.
But—
A metallic shriek rang out. Closer this time.
Steel met steel. Sparks spat into the air as the bullet was deflected mid-flight, veering off-course.
A figure emerged from the haze of battle. The masculine Fujiwara shinobi. A smirk barely visible beneath the mask of shadows.
"This is exciting." His tone was laced with amusement, with something darker lurking beneath.
Mirai's foot pressed against the cracked asphalt, her muscles coiling. Her body leaned forward, twin blades glinting like fangs in the dim light.
Then—
The ground beneath her ruptured as she launched forward. The wind howled in her wake, debris spiraling from the sheer force of her movement.
Mirai didn't waste words.
Her blade spun—a silver arc of death, slicing through the air toward both the shinobi's neck and the target's. A single, flawless strike meant to sever them in one motion.
A flash.
Steel met steel.
A shower of sparks erupted between them, dancing like fireflies in the dark.
Mirai balanced herself, poised where her opponent had once stood. Their duel had ended with her as the victor.
Whereas—
The Fujiwara ninja thrust backward, slamming into the SUV behind him with such force that the vehicle rolled and rebounded into the air before crashing down. The impact sent a metallic groan through the battlefield, but the man himself remained steady. When the dust cleared, he stood far from Mirai, his presence unwavering.
This time, though, she saw it. The flicker of hesitation in his stance. He had felt her strength.
"Huh," the Fujiwara ninja scoffed, rolling his shoulders.
The tip of his katana kissed the asphalt, a slow metallic scrape that sent chills through the air. In his other hand, he still held the American by the waist—his fingers digging into her trembling frame as if savoring her fear.
With a casual flick of his sword, he swung at the air—clink!—deflecting another sniper bullet. But this time, he redirected it with a cruel smirk.
Delta's rifle shattered.
"There you are," the ninja murmured, his gaze snapping toward the now-exposed sniper's perch. His tongue ran over his lip, relishing the successful counter. But soon, his attention fell elsewhere—downward.
His eyes locked onto the American's chest, watching the way her body quivered from his movements. A dark hunger flickered across his features.
Mirai's voice cut through the tension. "You there."
The ninja's head tilted slightly, turning his eyes her way.
"Do I know you?" Mirai's voice was steady, but her stance had shifted—her weight balanced, primed to strike.
The man's smirk widened.
"I am Shoichi Yokoi—the savior of all things feminine." His voice carried a sick amusement, his gaze shameless as it lingered on her curves.
Mirai followed his line of sight and understood his meaning instantly.
"Ah. I think I know you now," she muttered, watching his long white hair twist with the wind. Unlike the shinobi of the Minamoto clan, the Fujiwara saw no reason to hide their faces. That made recognition easier.
"The Harem Master—Jōnin Alef."
Shoichi let out a deep, unrestrained laugh, his mirth echoing through the battlefield. His eyes locked onto where Mirai's own should be, his smirk deepening.
"Show your face," he ordered, his katana lifting, its tip pointed toward her.
Only those worthy of battle knew his title. She knew it.
Mirai double-tapped the button behind her ear. The high-tech mask shimmered, then faded, revealing her sharp features.
The Vile Princess of the Minamoto clan.
Shoichi's smirk widened. His voice dropped to a murmur. "Now there's a beautiful lady… Jōnin Alpha."
With an almost careless shove, he threw the American aside. "Dalet, take care of her."
The moment he spoke, the ninja who had sucker-punched Gamma emerged, moving into position.
Mirai tilted her head, teasing. "On my mark?"
Shoichi chuckled, stepping forward. "Well, I do love a cowgirl—"
CRACK!
Mirai's foot slammed into his jaw, cutting him off mid-sentence.
His body whipped backward, his entire frame following the force of her kick. His skull hurtled toward the asphalt, but at the last second—shnk!—he plunged his katana into the ground, stopping himself just before impact.
Using the hilt for balance, he twisted and landed back on his feet in one fluid motion.
Mirai was already on him.
A fist, fast as lightning, drove toward his gut. Shoichi sidestepped, his movements eerily smooth, then countered in the same breath. His katana sliced upward, aiming to sever her arm at the elbow.
Before the blade could reach flesh—
A sniper bullet slammed into its surface.
CRACK!
The blade snapped in half.
Shoichi's eyes widened—but Mirai was already moving.
Her uppercut came in like a war hammer, smashing into his jaw. The sickening crunch of bone echoed.
Shoichi reeled, but his reflexes kicked in. A kunai flashed in his grasp, thrusting toward her gut. Mirai barely dodged, springing back. But Shoichi closed the distance instantly—one step, then another, his fist hammering into her throat.
Her vision blacked out.
A second later, she was airborne—slammed across the battlefield.
When she regained focus, she was meters away from where she had stood. Her gaze darted to the side.
Gamma.
A knife was buried deep in her arm, blood seeping from the wound just above her shoulder.
"Gamma—" Mirai's voice was hoarse, her throat raw from the blow.
A shadow loomed over her.
She turned her head just in time to see Shoichi striding toward her—his katana discarded, a massive battle axe now gripped in his hands.
And he was smiling.
There was no time for games. Failing a mission was one thing, but losing a teammate was another.
For the first time in a long while, Mirai felt anger—not for herself, but for someone else. A fire burned in her chest, the same unbearable heat that had clouded her mind when she hid inside that tiny cupboard, watching her childhood friends being slaughtered.
She rose from where she had been thrown, her thoughts no longer scattered but singular and absolute. Kill this stupid man. Save Gamma.
Mirai unbuckled a pouch on her belt, and in a flash, a tiny metallic rod shot into her hand. With a swift flick of her wrist, it extended into a six-foot double-headed spear, its surface gleaming under the city lights. Her stance was poised, movements tranquil—deadly precision wrapped in elegance.
Shoichi lunged, his massive axe whistling through the air, eager to carve her apart. A wild grin stretched across his face, lust and violence intertwining in his gaze. He swung for her head. Miss. Again, he slashed at her legs. Miss. His frustration mounted with each failed strike.
Then—a slash.
Shoichi staggered back, eyes widening. A thin line of red bloomed across his stomach, staining his pristine suit. His fingers brushed the wound. Shallow. She had grazed him at such close range?
Mirai moved with a dancer's grace, her spear an extension of her will. She dodged, spun, countered. Each strike carved shallow wounds into his flesh, painting his black uniform in splashes of crimson. He fell to one knee, breathing ragged, body slick with blood. But she had struck with purpose—no vital spots. He was good. And she had no time to finish him.
Her gaze snapped to Gamma. The Fujiwara shinobi raised her sword, aiming to sever Gamma's head.
No.
Mirai's spear flew, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle before burying itself deep into the shinobi's calf. A scream erupted, the woman collapsing to her knees before Gamma.
Mirai was on her in an instant. One swift movement. She ripped the spear free, spun it in a deadly arc, and severed both of the woman's breasts in a single, clean sweep. A wail of agony, high-pitched and raw.
Another step. A final thrust. The spearhead punctured her heart. A choked gasp. A twitch. Then nothing.
The black asphalt drank deep of the blood spilling from her lifeless body.
"Beta, take her to Delta," Mirai ordered, her voice cold and final.
Beta, breaking away from his prolonged fight, rushed to Gamma's side. Without hesitation, he lifted her weakened frame from her kneeling position. She was still breathing.
The battlefield was a massacre.
The ninja whose arm Gamma had broken—dead.
The one Beta had kicked into the pavement—dead.
The shinobi who had been protecting the American nearly had her brains blown out by Delta's bullet—mere moments before she watched Mirai finish her teammate with a spear to the heart.
The street was painted in blood. Bodies littered the road, lifeless forms sprawled among shattered glass and burning wreckage. The police had fired indiscriminately, bullets ripping through both enemies and civilians alike. The air reeked of burnt rubber, gasoline, and the sickly stench of blood.
The moon hung above them, indifferent. Time had become meaningless.
"It's over," Shoichi muttered, voice steady despite the carnage around him.
The wail of sirens filled the night.
He stood beside his only surviving teammate, Elizabeth Thornton's unconscious body slumped over his arm.
Mirai raised her spear, pointing it at him. Her stance unwavering. "Jōnin Alef of the Morning Glory Strike Team—we shall meet again."
Shoichi chuckled, licking blood from his split lip. "I'm already hard thinking about our next meeting, Jōnin Alpha of the Spider Lily."
With a lazy wave of his hand, he stepped aside. A blade flashed, and the last Fujiwara ninja's head tumbled from her shoulders.
Thud.
A fresh torrent of blood sprayed from the stump of her neck, drenching the pavement in its final offering.
Shoichi exhaled, watching the crimson pool expand around his feet. "You have served your purpose," he murmured.
And then—they vanished.
All that remained was the aftermath. A gruesome, blood-drenched ruin of what had once been a street.
The American breathed another night's mercy.