Zander never thought "mandatory five-month break" would feel more like an eviction notice from life than an actual vacation. But here he was — staring at the notification for the hundredth time, the message glowing at him like some cosmic joke.
5 MONTHS BREAK: THE BUILDING COMPLETELY GOT MIXED UP!
He sighed, tossed his phone on the bed, and muttered,
"Yeah, no kidding. It got blended… like a damn smoothie."
Most people would be celebrating. Five months of rest? Free time? No deadlines?
But Zander wasn't "most people."
He was… him.
Ageless, tired, confused, hungry, and deeply in need of a reset button the universe didn't offer.
And maybe—just maybe—this was the excuse he needed.
He stood in the center of his apartment, hands on his hips like an exhausted dad staring at a mess he didn't wanna clean.
"Well," he muttered, "guess I'm leaving the country."
He didn't know where yet. Didn't know how long. Didn't know if it would help.
He just knew he needed to move.
He dragged his suitcase out from the back of his closet. Dust puffed out like the suitcase was offended it was finally getting used again."Don't judge me," Zander said to it. "You're literally built for this."
He flipped it open and stared at the empty interior.
Blank. Quiet. Kinda like his brain.
He grabbed clothes blindly — shirts, hoodies, way too many socks, then way too few pants. He folded some, rolled some, then straight-up tossed half of them in like a kid playing basketball with a laundry hamper.
He paused halfway through, holding up a hoodie Hydro gave him years ago. Black, oversized, still soft.
"…nah. If I bring this, he's gonna think I miss him. He does NOT need that ego boost."
The hoodie went in anyway.
He kept packing — toiletries, charger, portable battery, random receipts he never threw away for some reason, a book he swore he'd finish (he wouldn't), and his passport.
Right before closing the suitcase, he stopped.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room.
Where Okanehira[1] rested, sheathed, quiet, leaning against the wall like it was patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it.
"Yeah… fine," Zander said, grabbing it. "You're coming too. Happy?"
He didn't know why he talked to the sword.
But sometimes… it felt like it listened.
He strapped it to his back and zipped the suitcase shut.
Click.
Like locking away the last piece of normalcy he had left.
Zander pulled his suitcase toward the front door.
The apartment creaked — old building problems — like it knew he was leaving.
"Relax," he told the walls. "I'm not dying. Just going on break."
He grabbed the doorknob.
It resisted.
"…Bro. Don't start."
He twisted it again.
It stuck.
Jammed.
Or maybe just petty.
"You had ONE job."
He jiggled it — aggressively.
The lock clicked, then unclicked, then clicked again like it was mocking him.
"Why are you like this?" Zander groaned, forehead leaning against the door.
He tried again.
Twist.
Pull.
Push.
Twist again.
Nothing.
He pulled harder.
BANG.
The door swung open so suddenly he nearly fell forward into the hallway.
"…Yeah. No. Totally normal. Could NOT be anything paranormal. Absolutely not."
He stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. It shut easier this time — because obviously it wanted to embarrass him one last time on the way out.
He wheeled his suitcase toward the elevator.
Pressed the button.
Waited.
Five minutes passed. "Well..." He took the stairs instead, muttering curses the whole way down.
Outside, the city looked fine.
Too fine.
Like it was pretending nothing happened.
Like the world didn't just merge into some Pokémon-meets-multiverse-sci-fi fever dream.
Cars passed by, fast and full.
Every taxi he flagged down either ignored him or already had passengers.
Zander squinted at one, raising a hand.
It zoomed past with a full cab of what looked like…
Furries?
But not… furries?
Actual anthropomorphic animals.
"Well. That's… new."
Another taxi slowed down — Zander waved like a stranded castaway — then sped off again.
"You gotta be kidding me," he groaned. "I showered. I KNOW I don't smell like alley TRASH."
Eight minutes of waving later, sweating under the sun, dragging his suitcase like it weighed forty kilos, Zander finally saw it:
A taxi.
Empty.
Slowing.
Slowing…
Stopping.
"THANK YOU," Zander yelled, borderline emotional.
He popped the trunk, shoved his suitcase in, and slid into the backseat like a man entering heaven.
The driver, a middle-aged guy chewing gum aggressively, looked at him through the mirror.
"Airport?"
Zander nodded.
"Yeah. International. Please. Before the universe tries to hit me with something else."
Driver shrugged and pulled into traffic.
The city rolled past the windows — different yet trying so hard to pretend it wasn't.
Billboards glitched.
Skylines were slightly off.
People — not people — walked casually down sidewalks like it was nothing.
Zander rested his head against the glass, watching everything blur together.
He saw a café where elves and humans argued over who stole whose drink. A street vendor selling glowing fruit that definitely wasn't from this planet. A couple walking two… were those… mini-dragons? Neo-Tokyo-style floating advertisements flickering on and off like unstable hologram. A building that shifted its architecture every few seconds, like it couldn't remember what it originally looked like. A group of high schoolers taking selfies with a literal seven-foot talking bird
Zander stared at it all.
"…The merge feels like a fever dream here..."
The driver raised an eyebrow.
"You locals are weird," he said.
Zander almost laughed.
"Trust me, dude. None of us even know what 'local' means anymore."
The taxi sped through the streets.
He watched people live through chaos, adapt instantly, pretend this was normal because humans are masters at pretending their world isn't falling apart.
Zander closed his eyes for a moment.
Vacation.
Yeah. He needed this.
He had no idea what country he was flying to yet — he'd figure it out when he got there.
He just needed space.
From life.
From work.
From Hydro.
From the Interface.
From everything he didn't choose but still ended up dealing with.
He let out a long breath.
"Let's hope," he murmured, "this doesn't get weirder."
The taxi turned a corner.
Something massive flew overhead — like a dragon made of mist — but Zander didn't even react anymore.
"Too late," he muttered.
He leaned back in the seat, headphones in, watching the sky shift colors as the taxi approached the highway leading to the airport.
The world passed him by.
Weird.
Beautiful.
Chaotic.
Alive.
And for the first time since the Merge…
Zander felt something close to relief.
The taxi rolled to a stop at the airport curb, the brakes whining like the universe's last nerve. Zander blinked awake — apparently he'd zoned out staring at a floating billboard of an elf reviewing ramen.
"Sir," the driver said, tapping the meter lightly. "You're good to go."
Zander nodded, rubbing his eyes.
"Right, right. Lemme… uh… pay before I accidentally spend this on chips."
He pulled out his wallet — a beat-up thing Hydro once called "the oldest surviving relic of humanity" — and passed the bills forward.
The driver counted, nodded once, and gave him a small smile.
"Stay safe, kid."
Zander let out a half-laugh, half-exhale.
"No promises. But I'll try."
He grabbed his suitcase from the trunk, stretching his back like a man three times his age.
"Ow—okay. That's… normal pain. Not cosmic pain. Great start."
He hauled the suitcase toward the terminal doors, blending into the river of travelers flowing in and out of the airport like stressed fish.
INSIDE
Inside, it was chaos — the kind that airports always have, except this time it included beings that DEFINITELY didn't exist two days ago.
A humanoid fox argued with a human dad over a boarding pass.
A robot assistant malfunctioned and kept spinning in circles.
A jacked orc in a Hawaiian shirt waited calmly in line holding a baby stroller.
Zander walked to the counter, dragging his suitcase like it weighed the entire Merge.
The woman at the desk smiled brightly.
"Hello! Destination?"
He hesitated.
Japan felt right.
Hydro had history there.
Zander had memories too — some good, some confusing, some involving him trying to stop Hydro from buying a katana from a tourist shop "just to test the quality."
"…Japan," he said. "Tokyo. First available flight."
"Perfect," she said, typing fast. "One ticket? Economy?"
He squinted.
"Yeah, one. And uh… window seat if possible. I like pretending I'm escaping my problems dramatically."
She laughed politely — the customer service kind of laugh — and printed his ticket.
He tapped his card, grabbed his papers, and moved to the seating area behind Gate 7.
Zander collapsed into the chair.
"God, I feel like a grandma."
He leaned back, stretching his neck—
When the screens above him flickered.
Static crackled, then resolved into a bright, colorful commercial.
A hyper-energetic voice blasted from the speakers:
"DO YOU LOVE COSPLAY? EVENTS? CHAOS? OR DO YOU JUST NEED MONEY AND CAN'T COOK?"
Zander blinked.
"…damn called me out."
The screen switched to a montage: crowds cheering, cosplay judges smiling, staff members handing out badges, Hydro's camera crew sprinting past like they were in a war zone.
A cheerful narrator continued:
"Join the Otakufest Cosplay Staff Program! We're hiring for the 2035 return event!
Apply today — and maybe YOU will be working alongside legendary staff members!"
Zander quietly snorted.
"Oh my god… Hydro's gonna clown me if I join this."
Then again… Hydro was a cameraman there.
Zander imagined showing up and seeing him mid-shift, complaining about lighting while wearing a staff badge.
He chuckled under his breath.
Before he could react more, the airport speakers chimed.
"Passengers for Flight 271 to Tokyo, please proceed to boarding. We repeat: boarding has begun."
Zander straightened up.
"Well… that's me."
He grabbed his suitcase, stretched one last time like an old man preparing for a marathon, and followed the crowd.
Boarding
He shuffled through the boarding line, passing families, business people, and one cat-person wearing Beats headphones and scrolling TikTok.
After scanning his ticket, he stepped into the airplane — the familiar blend of recycled air, too-bright lights, and existential dread.
He searched for his seat.
Row 18.
Seat F.
Window seat.
"Bless," he whispered.
He slid into the chair, shoved his backpack under the seat, and clicked his seatbelt.
A tired-looking flight attendant appeared at the front, smiling with practiced enthusiasm.
"Good afternoon, passengers. Welcome aboard Flight 271 to Tokyo. Before we take off, please give your attention to the safety instructions…"
Zander leaned back as the demonstration played — seat belts, oxygen masks, flotation devices, all the standard "try not to die" stuff.
He zoned out again, staring out the window at the airport staff waving batons on the runway.
He let his breathing slow.
He wasn't excited.
He wasn't scared.
He wasn't anything, really.
Just… existing.
Floating.
Trying to not think too hard about the Interface thrumming quietly somewhere inside him like a sleeping phone notification.
He closed his eyes.
…
Meanwhile: The Higashi Family Office
(Subsidiary of the Konohagure Clan)
Far across the city — hidden behind an unmarked metal door in a narrow alley — the Higashi Family gathered in their office.
Not the Konohagure Clan headquarters — that place was far too busy, too prideful, too heavily watched.
This office was calmer.
Smaller.
But serious.
A long wooden table stretched across the room, lacquered, polished, and dimly lit by the hanging lamps. The members of the Higashi Family — about fourteen of them — sat in traditional fashion, straight-backed and quiet.
At the head of the table sat **Higashi Yutaro**, the subsidiary's leader.
He looked calm.
Too calm.
A steaming pot of tea rested beside him, untouched.
He lifted his gaze slowly.
"…Unfortunately, the sword was never been found."
The room fell silent.
Yutaro spoke, voice calm but carrying a weight that pressed into the walls.
"There is still no sign of the Okanehira."
A murmur spread — frustration, disappointment, disbelief.
He continued, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
"I lost it. I take responsibility. The sword vanished under my watch. And as such… it is my failure to bear."
Most leaders would get mocked, questioned, maybe even challenged for such a confession.
But the Higashi Family members only bowed their heads.
"We will continue searching," one said firmly.
"Would there be any one finding who the owner is?" another added.
Yutaro nodded once — grateful, but still burdened.
"Thank you. But understand: this is not just a missing weapon. This is a matter that reaches the main Konohagure Clan."
A younger member raised his hand slightly.
"Sir… we've heard rumors the main Clan is also searching for another sword. A… Ghost?"
Yutaro's eyes sharpened.
"Yes. The Konohagure Clan seeks Ghost. But not out of honor. Not out of tradition."
He looked around the room, voice dropping.
"They want it out of malice."
The entire table stiffened.
"Ghost carries the soul of Kabuto Rokuhira," an older member whispered.
"If that falls into the wrong hands—"
"They will use it to gain power over the dead," Yutaro finished. "Power no clan should ever possess."
A cold silence filled the room.
"Our task," Yutaro said quietly, "is not only to recover Okanehira… but to ensure Ghost never reaches the Konohagure main family."
Another member swallowed nervously.
"But… who has Okanehira now?"
Yutaro stared down at his tea.
"…We do not know."
He didn't know the sword, at that very moment, was quietly resting in the overhead luggage of a passenger jet currently preparing to leave the ground.
And its current holder?
A tired, ageless guy quietly waiting for a plane to take off so he could run away from his problems for five months.
The Higashi Family conference room looked way too fancy for a bunch of exhausted, overworked Yakuza accountants and enforcers, but that was the point — appearances. The long wooden table, polished enough to reflect the red lantern lights above it, sat surrounded by twelve members of the subsidiary family. Everyone looked tight-faced, half-awake, and stressed in the same flavor: *"I hope someone else speaks first."*
At the head of the table was Yutaro Higashi, the current leader of the Higashi Family — mid-40s, sharp eyes, that kinda dude who always looks like he hasn't slept in two days but tries to walk like he's chill. Today? Zero chill.
"Alright," Yutaro said, sliding a small remote across the table and pointing it at the wall monitor. "Let's look at the last evidence we've got. What little we have."
The screen flickered, then pulled up archival security footage — grainy night vision, a date tag reading 2034, in the Konohagure Clan main weapon vault. The room was spotless, lined with weapon racks and glass cases. The camera angle pointed toward a pedestal that once held two legendary blades.
Then a figure entered the frame.
A kid. A literal kid.
Hood up. Messy hair. Sixteen at most. No swagger, no hesitation — just this weird aura of calm danger, like he already knew he didn't need permission to be there.
He walked straight up to the pedestal.
He touched the glass case over Ghost.
The case SHATTERED like it was made of sugar, not reinforced ballistic glass. The kid didn't flinch.
He lifted the Odachi — 87 damn inches of spiritual metal — with one hand. As soon as his fingers curled around the grip, the whole room dimmed like the shadows bent toward him.
Then the kid looked right at the camera.
Right. At. It.
Like he knew they'd be watching.
His eyes glowed for half a second — quick flicker, almost like a glitch of light — then he just turned around and walked out casually, not even running.
The footage ended.
Silence.
You could legit hear someone gulp.
"…So," Yutaro exhaled slowly, like that footage hit his soul. "That's the last time anyone ever saw the Ghost under Konohagure possession."
One of the younger members leaned forward, jaw tense. "So he stole the Ghost so the clan wouldn't let it fall into the wrong hands?"
Yutaro nodded once. "That's the common assumption."
Another member, older dude with a scar over one eye — Hiroto — clicked his tongue. "But what about Okanehira? We've searched every affiliate, every warehouse, every registry. If the kid stole one sword, why not the other? Unless—"
The younger member cut in. "Maybe he kept it too, but he didn't know who owned it. Maybe he's trying to find us, but we've got no way to contact him."
Yutaro tapped the folder in front of him, then shook his head. "We won't know. Not yet. Either way… we wait. Impatience is how families like ours get erased."
A murmur of agreement filled the room, though no one sounded confident. More like: "Yeah sure boss whatever you say, please let us sleep tonight."
But Hiroto wasn't letting this go. He cleared his throat and leaned his elbows on the table. "Boss, there's something else on the table — the Ohara Community."
The whole room tensed again. Even the fluorescent lights felt like they buzzed louder.
Yutaro lowered his gaze. "Yeah. That."
It was no secret — the Higashi Family hated the Ohara Clan's remnants. Or, well, "disliked but tolerated" was the polite version. But everyone knew the truth: their history was messy, bloody, and way too old.
"You mind elaborating?" asked Akemi, one of the strategist members.
Yutaro exhaled through his nose. "Long story short, the Ohara and Higashi families were supposed to be allies. The Ohara clan crafted half the swords Konohagure used for centuries. But political shifts, betrayals, some internal power struggle crap — we ended up shoved into the shadow of the Konohagure while Ohara got wiped out piece by piece."
Hiroto crossed his arms. "So… old grudges."
"Old wounds," Yutaro corrected, voice quieter. "Still bleeding, even today. Even if the Ohara Community now is just a tiny peaceful bunch, not the old clan."
Akemi frowned slightly. "Still doesn't make 'em trustworthy. We know they're connected to some strange events. Strange people. That kid in the footage? He had an Ohara-style charm tied to his wrist."
The room buzzed at that info — whispered cursing, some raised eyebrows, a couple "no way" comments.
Yutaro lifted his palm. Everyone shut up.
"Look," he said. "Whether that kid is Ohara-aligned or not isn't our business right now. And we don't have any proof. We don't know where he came from. Hell, we don't even know what he is."
Someone chuckled nervously. "He's 16 and shattered a reinforced vault case with his presence."
"Exactly," Yutaro deadpanned. "That's the kind of anomaly you don't chase unless you wanna disappear."
Hiroto nodded. "So what? We wait?"
"We wait." Yutaro confirmed. "And we keep searching quietly. Konohagure is already pissed we can't locate Ghost. We're not adding more fuel to that fire."
A few members sighed in relief — at least they weren't being dragged into another suicidal retrieval mission tonight.
Yutaro stood up, chair scraping lightly.
"That's all for tonight. Meeting adjourned."
Everyone bowed lightly and started packing up documents, muttering amongst themselves, trying to decompress. The weight of failure, fear, and weird supernatural anxiety hung over them like smoke.
But Yutaro didn't move.
He just stood there, staring at the paused CCTV frame of that kid — Hydro Undergrove — frozen mid-blink, Odachi in hand.
A sixteen-year-old who walked into a Yakuza vault like it was a grocery store.
A sixteen-year-old who shattered tempered glass with spiritual pressure alone.
A sixteen-year-old who carried himself like he wasn't human.
Yutaro narrowed his eyes. The room was empty now, doors shut.
He whispered:
"…Where did this kid even come from?"
He didn't expect an answer.
But the longer he stared at that paused frame, the more he realized something unsettling:
The kid didn't look scared.
He looked sad.
Like he wished someone else had stolen the sword before he had to.
Yutaro reached forward and turned off the monitor. The room went dark. And the weight of that question followed him out the door like a shadow:
What kind of child steals a cursed Odachi to protect people he's never met?
[1] Okanehira is Zander's weapon. Zander found this months back.