The Black Crow base was in chaos. Crashes echoed through the dimly lit hallways—shattered glass, overturned tables, the dull thud of steel clashing against stone. Asano, the leader of the Black Crow faction, was in a fit of unrestrained rage. His heavy boots stomped across the main chamber as he tossed furniture aside like paperweights. The few subordinates who hadn't fled his presence stood frozen, backs pressed against walls, praying he wouldn't lash out at them next.
A decorative sword—once gifted to him by a wealthy client—now lay embedded in the stone wall. Asano had thrown it across the room mid-tantrum, his fury boiling over like magma from a fractured mountain.
"How!?" he roared, voice echoing through the stone corridors. "How the hell did a bunch of goddamn nobodies do this to us!?"
His breathing was heavy, his suit jacket torn at the shoulder, sweat beading on his forehead. Black veins throbbed slightly along his neck, a side effect of his own unstable enhancement drugs—something he refused to talk about publicly.
He slammed his fist into a reinforced column, splitting the surface and sending a crack up the stone. No one dared speak. The air was thick with tension. The Black Crow faction, once feared as a calculated and cruel powerhouse of the underworld, now sat licking its wounds after the embarrassment they had suffered in the tournament.
And it all led back to one name—Renji Kuroya.
A name that should've been nothing. A man who should've been a ghost, just another discarded rat in the endless maze of underworld chaos. Yet somehow, that rat had grown fangs—and now he was threatening to claw his way up the power ladder.
Asano ground his teeth, pacing like a caged predator. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. How could he, a veteran tactician with years of blood-stained experience, be repeatedly overwhelmed by some ex-office worker freak and his mismatched team?
They weren't supposed to win. No—Renji and his crew were supposed to be a warning to the others. A symbol of what happens when you challenge the major factions. Instead, they'd become symbols of resistance. Emboldening whispers. Hope.
And in the underworld, hope was more dangerous than any weapon.
Asano's thoughts were interrupted when the steel door at the far end of the hall creaked open. One of his lieutenants entered with cautious steps, avoiding shards of glass and broken furniture. He bowed slightly, voice measured.
"Boss... the leaders of the other four factions are here."
Silence stretched out for a moment. Asano didn't move, his back turned to the man.
"Of course they are," he muttered, voice low. "They smell blood in the water."
Clenching his jaw, Asano barked an order to his closest lieutenant. "Prepare the reception lounge. Make it spotless. Lay out the Crimson oak mats and have the Onyx set tea served. They'll expect formality."
The command sent a ripple of urgency through the base. Henchmen dashed through the corridors, hauling crates of high-grade sake and imported delicacies, while others scrubbed the metal floors with a desperation bred from knowing their leader's temper. The reception lounge, usually reserved for high-stakes negotiations and delicate underworld pacts, began to take on a regal air beneath the flickering ceiling lights.
It wasn't long before the distant sound of reinforced engines echoed across the base's cavernous entrance. One by one, the faction leaders arrived.
First came Kiyoshi Takeda, the enigmatic leader of the Forgotten Dawn. Dressed in pristine robes with gold-trimmed sleeves, he walked with the serenity of a monk but bore eyes that shimmered with cold calculation. Flanking him was a slender woman clad in violet armor—his lieutenant, Yurei. Her silent presence alone seemed to chill the air.
Next was Abe Hikari of the Spiral Fangs. His thick, muscular frame strained against a sleeveless jacket decorated with fang motifs, and his scarred face was carved into a permanent scowl. He was accompanied by two of his most brutal enforcers, one of whom held a massive steel cudgel slung across his back.
Dante Varek, of the Crimson Pact, strode in with his trademark crimson trench coat fluttering behind him. His eyes held a demonic gleam, and even the air around him seemed to throb with quiet menace. He was flanked by his second-in-command, a tall man in dark red armor whose right hand constantly twitched as if ready to draw a blade.
Last to arrive was the Smiling Rats' leader Vera Corbin, who had been savagely eliminated from the tournament.
Guided by Black Crow foot soldiers, the four faction contingents were led through labyrinthine corridors into the Black Crow's reception lounge. The room had been transformed. The air smelled of incense, the crimson oak mats gleamed, and a table at the center bore rare delicacies from across the fractured underworld.
---
The tension inside the Black Crow faction lounge was thick enough to be cut with a blade. Dark drapes hung heavily over the windows, muffling the outside light and casting a muted ambiance across the room. The cushions, though plush and decorated with intricate embroidery, provided little comfort against the bitter silence stretching between the five most dangerous people in the city's underworld.
Seated in a semicircular arrangement were the leaders of the dominant factions, each flanked by one or two of their most trusted lieutenants. The scent of aged incense mixed with the metallic aroma of the Black Crow stronghold. Tea, untouched and steadily cooling, sat in front of each guest—an obligatory gesture of hospitality rather than an act of peace.
Asano strode into the lounge clad in his signature obsidian-black coat embroidered with a subtle crow-wing pattern that shimmered faintly under the ceiling lanterns. His boots echoed across the marble tiles, their rhythm as cold and confident as the man himself. His eyes immediately scanned the room, noting the restrained disdain curling on the lips of his guests. He returned their grumpy nods with a ghost of a smile. They might be irritated, even insulted, but they were here—and that meant they all knew the truth.
Their dominion over the underworld was being tested.
Asano chose to ignore their petulance. He wasn't here to nurse egos. They all understood what was at stake: their legacy, their power, their place in the structure they had clawed together from chaos.
His gaze lingered on Kiyoshi Takeda, leader of the Forgotten Dawn. Clad in ceremonial white robes that bore delicate golden patterns, Kiyoshi's silver-streaked hair was tied into a traditional knot, his expression as unreadable as ever. Next was Abe Hikari of the Spiral Fangs, his crimson armored jacket gleaming beneath the lounge light. A long scar ran down his left cheek, a souvenir from a battle that solidified his faction's fearsome reputation. Dante Varek of the Crimson Pact leaned lazily into his cushion, cigarette dangling between his lips, his red eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of boredom and contempt. Finally, Vera Corbin of the Smiling Rats twirled a poisoned pin between her fingers, her leather coat fluttering slightly every time she shifted. Her smirk never reached her eyes.
Asano stood tall before them, allowing the silence to stretch a second longer.
"I appreciate your willingness to come despite recent...frustrations," he began, his voice steady, authoritative.
No one responded immediately. Then, it was Kiyoshi who spoke, his voice calm but sharp as a blade's edge. "This meeting is necessary, not convenient. Let's not mistake urgency for unity."
Abe scoffed. "Unity? The only thing uniting us right now is a bunch of upstarts embarrassing us in our own game."
Dante blew a smoke ring. "And upsetting the betting pools. I lost fifty grand on those elimination brackets."
Vera's smirk widened. "You bet on Spiral Fangs again? Foolish."
Asano raised a hand, silencing their jabs. "Enough. You all know why we're here. Renji Kuroya and his team."
The room went still again.
Asano let the weight of that name settle over them. He could still remember the reports—grainy footage of Renji moving through the battlefield like a phantom, his teammates combining powers in frightening synergy. They had gone up against elite representatives from all five factions and emerged victorious. Worse still, they'd gained public favor.
"They're nobodies," Abe muttered. "Ghosts. Strays."
"And yet," Kiyoshi said, folding his arms, "they defeated our finest."
Asano turned to the window, letting the view of the sprawling Hollow Spine city below anchor his thoughts. It hadn't always looked like this—lit up, organized, somewhat structured. He remembered the chaos when the dungeons first appeared. Cities crumbled, streets burned, the air was filled with the stench of death and ash.
Back then, there were no asylum centers. No government patrols. Only fear.
And it was in that void that they rose.
He and these other four had been monsters once—infected by the mutation, shunned by society, hunted like rabid animals. But they had survived. No, they had conquered.
Their mutant powers allowed them to dominate others, to carve out strongholds and establish dominion over the dregs of society who had no other refuge. They took in other infected, offered protection in exchange for loyalty, and snuffed out any resistance with ruthless efficiency. One city at a time, they claimed the underworld.
And now, a ragtag team was threatening that fragile empire.
"We built this from nothing," Asano muttered, more to himself than to the room. "Before the military acted, before those scientists began their containment schemes, we were the ones who held the line. With our blood and our fists."
"Indeed," Kiyoshi agreed. "But our structure has become too...comfortable. We forgot how to adapt. These newcomers, they're not restrained by tradition."
Dante tossed his cigarette in a half-empty glass. "They've got synergy. Discipline. Hunger. That's dangerous."
Vera tilted her head. "It's not just Renji. Each of his teammates have shown powers that evolve in battle. Did you see the girl's kinetic explosion? The shadow-user's stealth? The brute strength of the tall one? And the electricity boy—he nearly fried three of my men in one move."
"They're anomalies," Asano said, clenching his fists. "They shouldn't exist."
"And yet they do," Abe spat. "Which begs the question: what do we do about them?"
Asano turned, letting the shadows of the room deepen the lines of his face. He didn't have a plan yet. He hated admitting it, but this was the first time since the rise of the underworld factions that they had no clear advantage.
Strength had always been their currency. But now...
"We need information," Kiyoshi said, his voice laced with iron resolve. "We underestimated them once. We won't again."
Vera chuckled darkly. "I've already dispatched spies to trail them. We'll see what secrets they hide."
Dante leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. "And when the final stage of the tournament begins... we watch. Every move. Every hesitation. Then we strike."
Abe cracked his knuckles. "This time, we hit them where it hurts. No more games."
Asano remained silent. His pride ached. The humiliation burned. But above all, a gnawing fear had taken root. If Renji and his teammates could rise so far, so fast... what else were they capable of?
"We'll give them their tournament," he said at last. "Let them shine. Let the crowd cheer. But when the dust settles, they'll learn what it means to challenge the pillars of the underworld."
The other leaders nodded. For the first time since entering the room, they were unified—not by respect, but by necessity.
The balance of power was shifting. And they would do anything to tilt it back in their favor.