It was deep into the night.
The once-bustling avenues of Manhattan had fallen silent, swallowed by layers of fog and darkness. The neon lights that usually painted the streets had gone dim, and even the traffic lights blinked lazily, casting eerie glows on the empty asphalt.
But amidst the sleeping city, one building still burned bright against the skyline — the Phil Nick Building, home to the empire of the underworld's emperor, Jin.
Floodlights illuminated the structure from every angle. Around the perimeter, a dozen heavily built men patrolled with the precision of soldiers. These weren't ordinary guards — they were gang enforcers, handpicked from New York's most ruthless crews. After Jin's recent purge of rival factions, these men had been reassigned here, guarding his stronghold on a night when the entire criminal hierarchy gathered upstairs.
Tonight was not an ordinary night.
It was the night of a major underworld conference — one that could reshape the balance of power in the city. Every gang lord and black-market boss had been summoned. Every eye of the underworld was watching.
No outsider was allowed near.
The guards stood alert — or at least tried to. It was late, and their nerves had softened after hours of uneventful waiting. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a lazy mist.
"Think the meeting's over yet?" one asked, exhaling.
"Probably soon," another said, adjusting his vest. "Boss hates long speeches. We'll be back in Hell's Kitchen before sunrise."
"I swear, when we get back, I'm hitting a real bar. No more of this babysitting."
The others laughed quietly, their voices mixing with the faint hum of the city. They had no idea that in a matter of minutes, their laughter would turn into screams.
Because down the dark street came the steady sound of footsteps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Every man froze.
The sound was slow and deliberate — not the cautious steps of a drunk or a stray passerby, but confident, rhythmic, almost ceremonial.
From the veil of shadows emerged two figures.
As they came closer, the first man's features appeared under the glow of the last working streetlight — a blond-haired warrior, wearing a black-purple feathered coat, with a long, curved sword hanging at his side. His face was sharp, emotionless, and carried a quiet intensity that made the air feel heavier.
Beside him walked a younger man, a hooded figure with a boyish grin, his hands in his pockets, eyes gleaming with mischief. His steps were light, like someone walking through a playground rather than into a battlefield.
"It's finally here," the hooded one said, his grin widening. "Hope we're not too late."
The blond man's tone was cold. "Let's begin. Destroy everything."
He didn't need to raise his voice. The words themselves were a command, one that carried the weight of certainty.
These were no ordinary men.
They were Mie and Dax, elite assassins of the Thunder of Destruction Organization, sent directly by Levi himself.
Levi's orders were simple — eliminate everyone inside the building.
Mie lifted his head toward the glowing skyscraper, his eyes narrowing as a faint digital shimmer flickered in his pupils.
> [Target confirmed — Phil Nick Building.]
[Mission parameters verified.]
[Assassination protocol initiated.]
"Let's move," Mie said flatly.
The two strode forward, showing no concern for the armed guards watching them.
"Hey! You two!" one guard shouted. "Stop right there! This is private property!"
The patrol captain — a six-foot bruiser with tattoos crawling up his neck — stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
He sneered, mistaking the strangers for delusional wannabes playing dress-up. "Turn around and walk away before I rearrange your faces."
Mie didn't even acknowledge him.
That only made the man angrier. He swung a hand up to shove Mie aside—
But Mie moved first.
In a blur, he caught the man's wrist, twisted it backward, and slammed him into the concrete. Bones cracked like dry wood. Before the captain could even scream, Mie pressed his boot to his chest, eyes cold as steel.
"Too weak," he muttered.
The other guards froze. Then fury took over. Guns came up.
"Light them up!" someone roared.
Gunfire exploded in the night.
Muzzle flashes burst in rapid rhythm as dozens of bullets streaked toward Mie and Dax. The captain, wheezing on the ground, managed a cruel grin — certain his men would reduce the intruders to shredded meat.
But that smile died in an instant.
Because Mie unsheathed his sword.
The blade flashed with a silver arc, moving faster than the human eye could follow.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound was pure madness — steel against metal, the rhythm of precision death. Each bullet that came near was split perfectly in two, ricocheting harmlessly away. A few even rebounded into their shooters, piercing their throats and skulls with terrifying accuracy.
Explosions flared as stray bullets hit parked cars, turning the street into chaos.
When the gunfire finally stopped, silence followed — the heavy, dreadful kind that only comes after impossible things.
All around, empty shells and broken bullets littered the ground, sliced so cleanly they looked as if cut by machines.
The remaining guards could only stare, trembling.
"What… what kind of monster are you?" one whispered.
"A swordsman of the new age," Mie replied, sliding his blade back into its sheath with one fluid motion.
Dax laughed, clapping like an excited child. "That was awesome! You looked like lightning, man. Boom! Boom! Gone!"
Mie gave him a glance that could've frozen lava, but Dax just grinned wider.
Behind them, the wounded captain tried to crawl away.
He didn't get far.
Dax spotted him immediately, his grin turning feral. "Oh, look, a survivor. How cute."
He stepped on the man's back, forcing him down, and drew a sleek black pistol. The captain looked up, face pale with terror.
"Wait—please—"
Bang!
The shot echoed like thunder. Blood sprayed across the pavement.
Dax tilted his head, admiring his work. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Almost artistic."
To him, death wasn't cruelty. It was fun — a performance, a moment of color in an otherwise dull world.
The surviving guards could barely stand. Their weapons shook in their hands.
"Who… who are you people?" one managed to choke out.
Dax turned to him, pretending to think, tapping his chin. Then, smiling like a child who'd solved a riddle, he said softly:
"Who are we? Hmm…"
He paused dramatically, then looked up at the glowing skyscraper.
"We are the rulers of the new era."
Mie said nothing, only reached for his sword again, the steel catching the moonlight.
Behind them, the fires still burned — black smoke curling into the night sky, the scent of gunpowder mixing with blood.
The two assassins began to walk toward the entrance of the Phil Nick Building, stepping over the bodies without hesitation.
Above them, in the penthouse suite, the city's most powerful crime lords were deep in conversation, glasses clinking, laughter echoing.
They had no idea that death itself was already on its way up.
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