The newly built Shirogiri Grand Hall stood as a testament to both tradition and progress. Towering wooden pillars, carved with intricate dragons, upheld a ceiling of cybernetic lanterns that pulsed with a soft, ethereal glow. The sliding paper doors bore the inked sigil of the Shirogiri Clan, illuminated by the neon skyline of Kurugami beyond. It was a fusion of Edo-era elegance and cyberpunk futurism—a bridge between the past and the future.
At the head table sat four figures of great importance.
Ash Atsuyuki Shirogiri, the newly appointed Shogun, sat at the center, his presence commanding but composed. To his right sat his father, Kuro no Yūrei—The Black Ghost—a man long thought to be lost to the abyss of war and exile. His gaze, sharp as a blade, swept over the gathered guests, measuring every flicker of movement, every unsaid word.
To Ash's left, Kaito, his most trusted ally, raised a cup of sake in quiet honor. Beside him, Hakurō Kaede, Kaito's daughter, sat gracefully, her kimono embroidered with silver sakura petals that shimmered under the hall's neon lighting. She cast a curious glance toward Kuro, the legendary ghost who had returned from the shadows.
The hall was filled with the most powerful figures in Kurugami—high-ranking officers from the Keiretsu, representatives of the most feared syndicates, influential government officials, and the heads of both military and police forces. The air was thick with the unspoken weight of politics, power, and history.
As the banquet commenced, the scent of finely prepared dishes wafted through the air. Sake flowed freely, and the low hum of conversation created an atmosphere of tense celebration. Kuro remained silent for much of the feast, his expression unreadable, his presence both revered and feared.
Then, as the night drew toward its end, Ash stood. The hall fell into immediate silence. All eyes turned to him.
Raising his cup, his voice rang with clarity.
"Tonight, we honor the return of my father, The Return of Ryouma "Kuro no Yūrei — The Black Ghost" Shirogiri. For too long, the shadows claimed him, but now he stands beside us once more."
A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the gathered crowd. Some bowed their heads in respect, others exchanged cautious glances. The ghost had returned—but what did that mean for the future?
Ash continued, his gaze unwavering.
"From this night forward, my father will stand as my regent. In my absence, his word shall carry the weight of my own."
A shift in the air. Some expressions remained neutral, others revealed flickers of apprehension. The Black Ghost was now more than a legend—he was power reborn.
The announcement settled over the hall like a heavy fog, but before the evening could close, Ash spoke once more.
"For returning, I have a gift for you."
The room held its breath, anticipation thick in the air.
The doors of the grand hall creaked open, revealing Yukihiro Arata, bound in heavy iron chains, flanked by two massive Oni-Brigade guards. His once-proud posture was gone, replaced by trembling steps and the dull sheen of sweat on his brow. His head was bowed, but his wide, fear-stricken eyes darted nervously around the room, until they landed on him.
Ryouma Shirogiri.
Arata's breath hitched. It was impossible. Ryo should have been dead. He had left him to die.
Seated at the head of the banquet table, Ash Atsuyuki Shirogiri rose from his seat, his crimson and black robes flowing like shadowed silk. At his side sat Kuro, silent and unmoving. The weight of his presence alone made the room feel colder.
Ash spoke, his voice calm, yet edged with finality.
"Father, you will decide Arata's fate."
The assembled guests—heads of syndicates, Keiretsu emissaries, government officials, military commanders—watched in utter silence. Some sipped their sake, others merely observed, waiting to see what judgment would befall the traitor. None dared to interrupt.
Arata swallowed hard. His knees buckled, barely keeping himself upright as he looked at Kuro.
"R-Ryo…" His voice was a whisper. "I… I had no choice."
Kuro's eyes, dark as the void, finally lifted to meet Arata's. No warmth. No mercy.
"Did you also betray me when it came to Tsukiko?"
Arata froze. He knew.
Kuro leaned forward slightly, his fingers grazing the table's surface. His voice, barely above a whisper, carried the weight of a storm.
"Did you give away our hiding place on Sekiwa?"
Arata shuddered, his lips parting, searching for an escape—an excuse. But the truth clawed at his throat. His shoulders sagged, and a slow, shivering nod escaped him.
"…Yes."
The word barely left his lips before Kuro stood, his aura shifting, the air itself seeming to darken. Shadows flickered unnaturally beneath him, stretching and writhing like living creatures.
A pulse of energy rippled through the room. Then came the whisper of an incantation.
"Emerge… from the void."
The shadows beneath Kuro exploded outward, twisting and converging into a single form. The temperature plummeted as a beast of pure darkness rose behind him—a massive Shadow Dragon, its form fluid like living smoke, yet its glowing crimson eyes held nothing but hunger.
A collective shudder rippled through the banquet hall. Some guests leaned back in fear, others gripped the hilt of their blades, but none dared to interfere.
Arata fell to his knees, his entire body trembling. "P-please… Ryo, I beg you! The Keiretsu forced me! I didn't want to—"
Kuro's gaze did not waver. His voice was ice.
"Devour."
The Shadow Dragon's maw opened wide, an abyss of swirling darkness. Before Arata could scream, the beast lunged.
The first sensation was cold. A bone-deep, soul-crushing cold as shadowed tendrils wrapped around him, pulling him into the dragon's mouth. The next was pain—an unbearable, suffocating agony as his body was swallowed, piece by piece, into the void. The final was silence, as his very existence was unmade.
The last thing the hall saw of Arata was his outstretched hand, his fingers twitching before the darkness consumed them whole.
Then, silence.
The Shadow Dragon lifted its head, its glowing eyes dimming as it slowly dissolved into the shadows from whence it came. The hall remained deathly still.
Ash exhaled slowly, turning his gaze to the guests. Some looked pale, others fascinated, a few intoxicated by the raw power Kuro had just displayed. But the message was clear—the Black Ghost had returned.
Kuro turned to Ash, his expression unreadable. He had shown no satisfaction, no rage—only cold, calculated finality. This was not revenge. This was justice.
Ash met his father's gaze and, for the first time, felt something he never expected.
Fear.
And yet, deep within, beneath the weight of that fear, something else stirred.
Awe.
In the void, unseen by mortal eyes, Oni-Wraith, bound to Ash's will, shifted in the swirling darkness, watching as the last remnants of Arata's existence were consumed. Its ethereal form twisted in frustration, its many eyes narrowing as it let out a guttural, rasping grumble.
"Tsk. A waste. He would have been a fine meal."