The city was a restless beast, breathing in neon light and exhaling shadows. Mist curled through the alleyways, swallowing the distant hum of traffic. Somewhere in the dark, something watched.
Kaizetsu walked with purpose, his footsteps steady against the damp pavement. The chill of the night bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—on the man who had attacked him the night before. No records, no name. Almost like he had never existed. But Kaizetsu knew better. Patterns always led somewhere.
Something felt wrong.
His fingers hovered near his katana, his instincts screaming. The air carried a stillness that didn't belong. A flickering streetlamp overhead buzzed weakly, casting brief pools of light between the deepening shadows.
Then—
A shift. The sound of cloth against stone. Too controlled. Too deliberate.
Kaizetsu turned, but before he could react, a blade struck. Not at him—at his sword.
A dagger slammed into his sheath with pinpoint precision, knocking the katana from his belt. It spun across the pavement, clattering to a stop a few meters away. He stepped toward it—
—but they were already moving.
Five figures melted from the darkness, their movements sharp and practiced. One of them cut off his path to the sword, while the others surrounded him in a loose formation. Not street thugs. Professionals.
The leader took a step forward, his voice like cold steel. "We expected more resistance from the King's blood."
Kaizetsu met his gaze, unfazed. "That depends," he said, voice calm. "Did you expect to leave here alive?"
A sharp laugh. "Arrogant."
The leader raised a hand. The assassins attacked.
Kaizetsu moved.
The first strike came from his left—a downward slash aimed to cripple. He sidestepped, catching his attacker's wrist and twisting. A sharp snap. The assassin crumpled, but another was already closing in.
He ducked under a sweeping kick, pivoting into a counterattack. His elbow drove into the second assassin's ribs with enough force to send them staggering back. A third assassin lunged with a dagger. Kaizetsu caught their wrist, redirecting the force and sending them crashing into the alley wall.
But they were fast. Too fast.
They adjusted, their movements fluid, attacking in perfect sync. Without his katana, they thought they had the advantage.
Then, a glint of steel—
Kaizetsu twisted on instinct. The assassin's sword cut through empty air where his throat had been a moment ago
Instinct took over.
He twisted sharply, the cold edge of the sword slicing just past his skin, so close he felt the air shift. The assassin overextended, and Kaizetsu seized the moment. He slammed his palm into their wrist, forcing the blade wide, then drove his knee into their stomach. They gasped, staggering backward.
Then, something stirred deep within him.
A pressure—ancient, overwhelming.
The air thickened. The assassins hesitated. For a fraction of a second, Kaizetsu felt it—a presence wrapping around him like a second skin. His vision sharpened, his movements more precise. His body was moving before his mind could catch up.
His grandfather's words echoed in his mind: Your spirit is your blade. Wield it, or let it wield you.
Kaizetsu exhaled. He didn't understand it yet. But right now, it didn't matter.
He struck.
His fist connected with an assassin's chest, sending them flying into the alley wall. Another came at him—Kaizetsu sidestepped, catching their wrist and twisting. A clean snap. They crumpled.
One assassin hesitated, eyes flickering with uncertainty. Kaizetsu's movements had changed. He was no longer just reacting—he was overwhelming them.
The leader's eyes narrowed. "Tch. Pull back."
The remaining assassins didn't hesitate. In an instant, they vanished into the shadows, leaving their fallen behind.
Kaizetsu stood still, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The pressure in the air faded, but something lingered—a whisper in the back of his mind.
You're not alone in this anymore.
His gaze shifted to his katana, lying undisturbed on the ground. He stepped toward it, gripping the hilt. The steel felt cool against his palm, but different—like it had witnessed something alongside him.
A dying assassin coughed, blood pooling beneath them. Their eyes met Kaizetsu's, filled with pain—and something else. Regret?
"You… should've joined us," the assassin rasped. "The Secret Hand… will not stop."
Then—silence.
Kaizetsu wiped the blood from his knuckles. His gaze hardened.
They had just made a mistake.
----------
For a long moment, he stood there, staring at the fallen bodies. The city's distant hum crept back in, indifferent to what had just happened. He flexed his fingers, feeling an unfamiliar sensation beneath his skin—like something had awoken, waiting to be understood.
But before he could leave, something glinted in the assassin's half-clenched hand.
A locket. Small, old, the metal worn with time.
He pried it free and flipped it open. Inside, engraved into the metal, was a symbol—an eye, cracked and withering, as if it were dying.
Kaizetsu's fingers tightened around it.
This wasn't just an insignia. It meant something.
Pocketing the locket, He exhaled and turned away, disappearing into the night. There were more answers to find. And now, he knew exactly where to look.
But as he vanished into the mist, un
seen eyes followed his every step.
Somewhere in the darkness, a voice whispered.
"Interesting."