The city stretched before him like a living beast, its veins pulsing with dim streetlights and neon signs. The distant hum of traffic mixed with the occasional echo of footsteps, but in this part of town, silence reigned. The mist curled around Kaizetsu's feet as he moved through the empty streets, his mind still replaying the events from earlier.
He had searched the fallen assassin's body, expecting nothing but weapons or supplies, but what he found instead was far more chilling—a small, silver locket. It had been tucked inside the folds of the man's cloak, as if hidden from prying eyes.
The locket's surface was engraved with a symbol. A single eye, cracked down the center, as if it were weeping blood.
Kaizetsu turned it over between his fingers, a cold weight settling in his chest.
The Secret Hand.
The assassin's last words rang in his mind. Whoever they were, they knew about him. They had come prepared. But what unsettled him the most was the implication—the title "King's blood" was no accident.
Someone knew his past.
Someone knew who he really was.
And they wanted him dead.
He tucked the locket away and quickened his pace. Standing around wouldn't give him answers. He needed information, and he knew exactly where to start.
A dimly lit alley led him to a quiet district at the city's edge. The streets here were lined with old shops, their neon signs flickering with age. At the corner stood a small ramen shop, its red paper lantern swaying in the breeze. "Takeshi's Ramen"—a place Kaizetsu had visited a few times before.
The scent of broth and grilled pork filled the air as Kaizetsu stepped into the shop. The place was old, but the warmth of the simmering pots and the quiet hum of conversation made it feel almost untouched by time.
Behind the counter, an elderly man with silver hair and sharp eyes stirred a pot with practiced ease. Takeshi, the owner, had run this shop for decades. He wasn't just a cook—he was an observer, a man who had seen more of the city's underbelly than most.
Kaizetsu slid onto a stool.
"Late night," Takeshi muttered without looking up. "Not many people come here at this hour unless they're hungry or troubled."
Kaizetsu's lips twitched. "Maybe both."
Takeshi ladled steaming broth into a bowl and placed it in front of him. "Eat first. Then talk."
The warmth seeped into Kaizetsu's fingers as he lifted the bowl, the scent grounding him. He took a slow sip, letting the heat clear his mind before speaking.
"I'm looking for information," he said at last.
Takeshi arched a brow. "You always are."
Kaizetsu reached into his pocket, pulling out the locket. He placed it on the counter, watching the old man's reaction. Takeshi's hand, mid-motion, hesitated for just a fraction of a second before he resumed wiping a glass.
"Where did you get that?"
"From a man who tried to kill me."
Takeshi exhaled through his nose, setting the glass down. His eyes, once mild, sharpened. "You should throw that away. Burn it. Forget you ever saw it."
Kaizetsu didn't move. "So you do know something."
Takeshi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Rumors. Whispers. The kind you don't chase unless you've got a death wish."
"I need to know."
The old man studied him for a long moment before nodding toward the back of the shop. "Come."
---
The back room was dimly lit, shelves lined with boxes of supplies and old relics from another time. Takeshi sat on a stool, folding his arms.
"There's an organization," he began. "They don't show their faces. They don't leave trails. People speak of them in hushed tones, and those who speak too loudly disappear."
Kaizetsu stayed silent.
Takeshi glanced at the locket. "That symbol—the Dying Eye—is said to mark their members. It's not just a name. It's a warning. Those who bear it are already dead in the eyes of the world. The moment you wear that, you belong to them."
A slow chill crept down Kaizetsu's spine.
"Some say they deal in the supernatural. Others say they control things from the shadows—politics, wars, assassinations." Takeshi's voice lowered. "But the truth? No one really knows. Because the ones who do—"
"—aren't around to talk," Kaizetsu finished.
Takeshi nodded. "Exactly."
Kaizetsu turned the locket in his palm. The Secret Hand. If this was truly their mark, then he had just stepped into something far bigger than a simple attack.
"I need to find them," he said.
Takeshi let out a dry chuckle. "That's the last thing you need to do, kid."
But Kaizetsu's mind was set. This wasn't just about self-defense anymore. These people had sought him out. They had called him "King's blood."
They knew something about him.
And he needed to know why.
---
As he stepped out of the shop, the mist had thickened, wrapping the city in its embrace. The streets were nearly silent, but Kaizetsu's senses remained sharp.
Then, just for a moment, he felt it again.
That pressure.
The same one he had felt during the fight. But now, it wasn't coming from within him.
It was watching him.
A presence, unseen but undeniable.
He stopped, his hand instinctively hovering over his katana. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
A whisper, barely audible, yet right behind him.
"Curious."
Kaizetsu spun, but the street was empty. Only the swirling mist greeted him.
A slow exhale left his lips, his pulse steady despite the unease curling in his chest. He had gotten his answers. But now, he had new questions.