The streets of the city were shrouded in an eerie silence, broken only by Akira's hurried footsteps. His breathing was steady, but his thoughts raged—a storm within.
— Everyone said the same thing… Explosions. The attack started with explosions. And now, no sign of the central headquarters.
He moved through the charred ruins with black eyes, alert to every sound. The sky above was a suffocating shroud of gray smoke. Deep in his mind, unease grew, pulsing like a vein about to burst.
— I can't feel Mei's presence anywhere.
The thought fell like poison. Mei Nuhay didn't disappear. Her power was a beacon in the chaos—warm, indomitable, impossible to ignore. And yet… silence.
— Is she… dead?
Akira closed his eyes, shaking his head.
— No. That would be impossible. Not her. But someone like her wouldn't vanish in hours like this either.
He resumed running, leaping with lethal precision over the debris.
— Aisha is still out there. Tenklyn too. I can sense their traces… distant, but alive. There's still time.
He was minutes away from the headquarters when screams echoed.
Children.
Two small bodies ran, terrified, fleeing from three malformed puppets. Their joints creaked like snapping cords. Akira didn't hesitate.
With a snap of his fingers, shadows leapt from his body like black blades. His silver kusarigama, with its scythe and weight connected by a chain, spun agilely—the metal weight crushed the first puppet's head. The chain wrapped around the second's neck, and the scythe sliced through cleanly. The last one was obliterated by a black light bomb.
He fell to his knees before the children, voice firm.
— It's okay. It's over. Breathe. Look at me. No one will hurt you now.
A sharp sound cut the air.
Metal grinding.
Four more puppets appeared, advancing like beasts. Akira rose calmly. The kusarigama decapitated one in a single strike. The others were reduced to scrap by shadow cuts and containment bombs.
Silence.
For a few seconds, everything froze.
Then, a soft, serpentine, dark voice:
— So kind… for a killer.
Akira turned.
A tall figure emerged from the smoke. Its presence was suffocating. Clad in a long, dark plague doctor's outfit, reinforced with light armor and straps. The hood enveloped the face entirely, hidden by a curved beak mask behind which something pulsed—flesh fused to structure. The eyes—or what remained of them—glimmered lifelessly, two empty windows to an abyss.
Its hands delicately and sickly gripped the children's necks.
— Akira… — said the figure, as if meeting an old friend — …choose. Which one dies? Which one lives? Ten seconds. Then, I decide.
Akira froze. The name echoed in his mind before the memory exploded.
— …Dr. Isha… — he whispered, eyes wide — You… that voice… that description…
He remembered. Elkros. His companion, now vegetating in a hospital, skin corroded by demonic rituals, mind destroyed. Tortured by this monster.
— You are the Shadow-K Kokuhan… faceless in the files. The butcher playing god.
Isha tilted his head, the mask reflecting the dead light of the sky.
— Good you remember me… Elkros was a fascinating project. But fragile. An adult mind is… limited. Now, children… — his fingers tightened around the small throats, which sobbed and trembled — …they are paradise. More sensitive, more open. Like dissecting a body made of cotton. So malleable… so pure. I love children, Akira.
— You are a demon, — growled Akira — Kokuhans are renegades, traitors to duty. But you… you are a black stain on the soul of the world.
Isha began counting.
— Ten…
— You must be joking. This is sick!
— Nine…
— Let them go! Now!
— Eight… seven… six…
Akira closed his eyes. There was no time.
— …five…
With a low shout, Akira activated the Forbidden Technique of his clan—a bloodline secret passed through generations. The sky darkened further, and the ground trembled.
A field of pure shadow enveloped the street like an absolute veil. Within it, Akira was a god. His shadows, infinite, obeyed every thought.
— Four…
Chains erupted from the ground, binding Isha. Akira activated the Rune of Speed, a burning pain in his veins. The world slowed.
— Three…
He advanced with supernatural speed toward the children, shadows covering his steps like a living storm.
— Two…
He was centimeters away from them.
Then, portals opened in the ground. Deformed tentacles whipped through the air. Isha's demonic projection broke.
A tentacle struck Akira squarely, hurling him against a wall.
— One…
Crack.
Two dry snaps.
The children fell.
Dead.
The shadow field dissipated. Akira dropped to his knees, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, empty, burned.
— You tried… — mocked Isha — But it was predictable. Even your powers are fragile before true evolution.
Silence fell like a tombstone. Akira remained still, staring at the lifeless bodies. Then, with a broken voice, he murmured to himself:
— Mei… if you were here… you would have done it, right? You wouldn't have hesitated… You always knew what to do. You were always the flame when everything was darkness…
He closed his eyes tightly.
— You still are…
A deep breath.
— …my beacon.
Then he vanished.
He reappeared behind Isha in the blink of an eye, the kusarigama spinning like a promise of vengeance. Isha turned, but not in time. The blade sliced through his arm, dark blood gushing. A bomb of shadow smoke detonated.
Isha staggered, laughing, his arm raw and torn.
— Ah… went personal. How fun.
He vanished into a black rift.
But Akira anticipated it. He spun in the air, launching two bombs. The first exploded with brute force. The second unfurled into a containment net made of living shadow.
Isha was trapped.
— You can play god, Isha. But I am the sentence that pierces the darkness.
— Nice words… let's see if you die beautifully too.
Akira activated the Rune of Strength. The kusarigama glowed with dense energy. He leapt and struck Isha in the chest, throwing him inside an abandoned factory.
He fell to his knees. The poison of speed was taking its toll.
But he didn't stop. He walked toward the factory, weapon swinging.
And within the shadows of the factory, true hell opened.
The shadows didn't obey him.
"He did something, my shadow power is strange... it's obvious it's a trap... but this demon needs to die, it's worth the risk"
Then, dry laughter.
Footsteps.
The two children.
Reanimated.
Profane Stitching. A technique allowing Dr. Isha to manipulate the flesh of anyone injected with demonic energy and subjected to terror.
— Fight your failures, Akira — Isha called from atop an iron rail. — You are an assassin. Your family knew. You know.
Akira stared at the reanimated bodies. His fists trembled.
The puppets attacked.
Even reluctantly, Akira ended them within seconds.
The battle restarted.
And within the factory shadows, terror moved like an ancient whisper.
The air thickened, almost solid. A sharp crack, and Isha vanished from view—a blur of malice among the ruins.
Impact.
Akira was thrown sideways like a ragdoll, hit in the flank by a strike he hadn't even seen. He rolled on the rough, damp ground, lungs burning, but immediately rose, eyes sharp, fighting through the pain.
— Come, Akira… — Isha's voice slithered into his mind, a venomous whisper. He delivered a spinning kick. Akira blocked with his forearm, the impact cracking the concrete beneath his feet.
— Prove you are more than a walking mistake… or accept your fate as a failure.
Akira staggered, gasping. His arm throbbed. He didn't answer. Every second he endured was another piece on the board.
— Do you remember the sound Elkros made when he fell? — Isha whispered coldly, circling him. — That dry snap? It was his neck breaking. All because you… hesitated.
A punch to the stomach interrupted Akira's thoughts. Blood spurted from his mouth. He collapsed to his knees, vision darkening. Yet even fallen, his mind raced. Metal structures. Puddles. Air currents. Almost there.
— Cold. Calculated. That's what you pretend to be, right? — Isha raised his arms, conjuring three black spears vibrating like cursed bones. — Then why are you trembling, Akira?
The spears launched. Akira moved—a jump backward behind a rusted column. One grazed his shoulder. Pain exploded, but he held firm. Eyes focused. The pieces were almost complete.
— And Mei? The one you followed like a loyal dog? — Isha mocked theatrically. — She abandoned you. Everyone abandoned you. Not out of fear… but because they saw who you are: dead weight. A disposable soldier.
Akira twisted to block another attack. The shadow blade came with lethal speed. He barely blocked it, then was hurled into the debris of a crane. Dust rose, metal fragments loosened. And even there, wounded, Akira smiled inwardly.
Continue, Isha… just one more step. Just one more.
— All your friends are dying right now. One by one, — Isha advanced, dragging his feet like a leisurely executioner. — And the tragic part? You won't save them. You will fail. As always.
Akira coughed, spitting blood onto the concrete. But he stood again, trembling, as if something stronger than his body pushed him.
— You're right… — he murmured.
Isha paused. The tone caught his attention.
— I failed with Elkros. With the children. With everyone, — he raised his gaze. His eyes weren't dead. They were alive. Furious. — And that's why now… I won't fail.
In his left hand, small shadow particles swirled like shards of a broken mirror. From the start, while being beaten, bleeding, falling… Akira had been setting the stage.
Puddles arranged. Refractions. Crossed air currents. An optical labyrinth built silently, in every disguised movement. And now, it was activated.
— Now, Isha… you dance on my board.
Isha took a step. Another. Stopped.
The floor reflected shattered pieces of the sky. Distorted fragments of reality. Akira's shadows were wrong. The reflections delayed. Or advanced.
— What have you done? — Isha growled, eyes narrowed behind the mask.
Akira raised his bloodied hand. A sharp snap filled the world.
— Welcome to the blind zone.
The scenery shattered. Shadows stretched. Isha disappeared, fused with the environment. Akira advanced, and for the first time since the beginning…
He smiled.
The shadows in the puddles rose at impossible angles. Each reflection became a black puppet—silhouettes identical to Akira, each moving opposite to the real. A shadow-mirror illusion field, meticulously crafted, waiting for the right moment.
— I let you talk. I let you hurt me. Meanwhile… you put yourself at the center of it all.
Isha tried to move, but hesitated for a second—a figure appeared to the left… another behind… one above… the real Akira was somewhere there, but now impossible to identify.
A chain hissed through the air.
CLANG.
The kusarigama's weight wrapped around Isha's left arm and pulled with brutal force. He was dragged against a toppled container. Akira leapt from the side of a crane, striking with lethal precision. The curved blade of the kusarigama spun in the air and descended.
Isha defended with a burst of energy, but it was too late: the strike tore his shoulder.
— You talk too much, — muttered Akira, sliding across the floor with mastery, using shadows to move as if the world were in slow motion.
The fake silhouettes continued advancing. Isha's mind, until now calm and analytical, began to overload. Every wrong move created an opening, and Akira knew it.
Another chain strike.
Isha dodged, but didn't see the trap. A shadow projected beneath his foot, formed from three fallen reflectors, creating an almost perfect dark zone. Akira had stored a burst of pure spiritual pressure and compressed shadow there.
Stepping on it—
BOOM.
The energy erupted upwards like a dark geyser. Isha was thrown, colliding with the hangar wall ruins.
Akira emerged silently. Energy swirled around him. His eyes, sharper now, cut through the field with surgical precision.
— Now that I've silenced you… — he said quietly — tell me: will you keep trying to break me? Or do you want me to keep dismantling you from the inside?
Isha rose, coughing, aura flickering.
Akira spun the kusarigama one last time, shadows aligning around his body like living armor.
— If you want to break the pawn… better not let it reach the end of the board.
Isha, staggering, barely stayed upright before Akira grabbed him by the collar and, with a firm motion, threw him out of the factory.
Isha fell heavily onto the filthy ground, raising his masked face with a cold, cruel smile. Shadows danced around the plague doctor mask, his red eyes glowing behind it, burning with a silent threat.
Akira approached, voice low, challenging:
— Why did such a stealthy Kokuhan choose to show up like this, Isha? What's your game?
Isha raised his gaze, voice heavy with deep threat:
— Because today will be glorious. A day where all must bow. Where the father of my belief will be reborn, and everyone will see the world change… From today, I decided to reveal myself and be part of a plan that's been years in the making.
Suddenly, Isha extended his hand, and a grotesque black chain surged from the ground, wrapping around Akira's arm with crushing force. The chain pulsed with profane energy, burning his skin and piercing beneath his clothes, as if wanting to stitch flesh and dominate the body.
Akira felt the throbbing pain, but with a swift motion cut the chain with his blade, sparks flying from the clash with dark energy.
— Cutting the chain won't save you, — Isha sneered, stepping closer. — The curse is already inside you. In your flesh, in your blood, in your heart. You are already mine, even if you haven't realized it yet.
Akira squinted, feeling the invisible poison spread, attempting to corrode his will.
— Anyone else would be agonizing on the ground, — Isha continued, voice echoing from behind the mask. — But you… your resistance is admirable.
Akira made a firm move, keeping the blade ready.
— Resisting poisons like this was the basics of my training since childhood. I'll end you before this curse has the chance to dominate me.
His gaze drifted to the horizon, remembering Mei, Tenklyn, and Aisha. The smile of his friends burned like embers in his heart.
— I'll reunite with my companions soon. And we'll end your insane plan.
Isha laughed, a cold, cutting sound, shadows twisting around him.
— Yes, of course… if they're still alive when you find them.
The air grew heavy, as if darkness itself breathed with them. Isha advanced, the mask reflecting a shadowed light, while Akira held his blade firmly, eyes locked on the enemy.
The fate of this combat hung suspended—a dance of opposing forces in a silence thick with tension. Who would emerge victorious? Time, curse, and willpower were the true judges.
To Be Continue...