The year was 1965. A crisp, uncertain year, marked by the echoes of a war long past and the frantic pulse of a future rapidly arriving. It had been two years since I left everything behind.
Tokyo presented itself as a vivid paradox. While outwardly a dark, conventional city striving for rigid post-war order, it was simultaneously a glamorous and noisy melting pot, energized by the revolutionary and restless spirit of the roaring Sixties. It was a kaleidoscope where neon lights clashed with traditional wood-and-paper architecture, where sleek modern skyscrapers soared above dilapidated alleys that clung stubbornly to the ground.
But beneath the glamour and noise lay a hidden, corrupt counterpoint. The city's underground, its shadow economy and criminal hierarchies, flourished more vigorously and dangerously than its legitimate side.
The Cold War's aftermath left a populace gripped by fear and paranoia, a perfect backdrop for burgeoning crime. Law enforcement struggled with a soaring crime rate, creating a power vacuum quickly filled by shadowy underground gangs. These syndicates ruled not just through force, but through a far more insidious, supernatural form of intimidation.
They were feared by the people because they weren't just common criminals. A significant number of their ranks were bearers (Aspect manipulators), many using weaponized wraiths as their fighting technique.
My arrival to Tokyo was silent and unceremonious. Just another body in the crowd spilling out of Ueno Station-shoulders hunched against freezing rain, neon signs flickering like broken curses overhead.
I had nothing.
No money.
No home.
Only the dormant Something's curse and the Yokojon history no one here cared about weighed on me. Tokyo offered no second chances; I was instantly an outcast. Lost, I sought somewhere less crowded and a place to sleep, hoping to find shady people for easy money or a job. The first night, I slept under a rusted highway overpass.
Voices echoed above: drunks, salarymen, something snarling behind a vending machine, then silence.
Only my instincts kept me alive. A swarm of low-class wraiths passed me by, drawn to the city's anger and exhaustion.
My stomach growled. I was cold and I needed a plan.
Word spreads amongst the homeless: ''If you are desperate, go below Shinjuku. The gangs need bodies.''
Shinjuku in the 60s is a maze of construction, neon signs, dust filled alleys.
Below the surface—in the vast, forgotten expanse of abandoned subway tunnels, half-finished underground malls, and utility service conduits—lay what the street-level scum referred to as the 'Inner-Dimension Realm.' It wasn't a supernatural place, not in the traditional sense; that was just a street nickname. It was the hub of the Aspect-user black market, a place where those who dealt in dark energies, illegal artifacts, and forbidden contracts congregated. It was entirely gang-run, profoundly illegal, and lethally dangerous. And it was exactly where I needed to be.
So there was my plan. I'll head to the undercity and find a job. My focus wasn't on the type of work, but on earning money and accumulating power.
The biting cold of the concrete floor was the first sensation that registered. When I opened my eyes, two figures were silhouetted against the weak, flickering glow of a faulty street lamp filtering in from the alley's mouth. They were rough-looking men, their clothes stained and worn, but not with the indiscriminate grime of homelessness; rather, the deliberate shabbiness of minor-league criminals. Thugs, probably, belonging to one of the myriad low-level underground gangs that infested this sector of the city.
One of them, the taller one with a scar running through his eyebrow, moved first. He gripped a handful of my hair—a painful, sudden yank—and used the leverage to haul my entire body upward until my face was inches from his own. The stench of stale liquor and cheap tobacco was immediate and sickening.
A slow, predatory smirk stretched across his face, a look that spoke of entitlement and ingrained cruelty. "You look too pretty to be sleeping here on your own," he slurred, his eyes raking over me with sickening appraisal. He then turned his head slightly to address his accomplice. "What do you say, Rix? Should we have some fun?"
Rix, a shorter, more wiry man whose eyes held a distinct, unsettling flatness, didn't bother with a verbal reply. Instead, he pulled a switchblade from his inner coat pocket. The steel caught the ambient light, and he performed a slow, deliberate lick along the length of the blade, his gaze never leaving mine. Then, with a practiced motion, he pressed the cold edge of the weapon against the delicate skin of my throat, just hard enough to make a point.
"Let's get her undressed," Rix murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a faint chill, though not of fear, down my spine. His intense stare remained fixed on me, oblivious to the fact that his predatory assumption was about to become his worst nightmare.
I, however, found the entire spectacle deeply amusing. A genuine, almost dangerous smirk curved my lips. "You think you can handle me, boys? Well, you are in for a ride." My voice was calm, almost bored, a stark contrast to the rapidly escalating situation. Armed with the power of the Something, I had become a disaster—a source of nightmare fuel for ordinary humans.
The words had barely left my mouth when I acted. In a lightning-fast motion, I gripped the knifeman's wrist. Before Rix could react, I channeled a raw, kinetic blast of my innate power, mixed with the residual Something's Aspect, through his arm. His entire forearm and hand, still clutching the knife, was violently ripped from his torso.
Rix let out a sound that was less a scream and more an animalistic shriek of pure, disbelieving terror. A crimson arterial fountain immediately erupted from the ragged wound, spraying the cold alley wall and the shocked face of his partner.
The taller man, momentarily paralyzed by the gruesome spectacle, instantly released my hair. He was quick enough, however, to realize the danger. He began to wind up for a desperate counter-attack, attempting to land a heavy blow infused with his own crude, inferior Aspect. But he was too slow. I dodged the telegraphing movement with ease, a faint blur of motion, and countered with a simple, yet devastating strike infused with the same potent energy that had disarmed his friend. The blast of force sent him soaring across the narrow alleyway like a ragdoll, where he impacted the brick wall with a dull thud and slumped immediately into unconsciousness.
The still-bleeding Rix, operating on pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct, dropped to his knees and scrambled for the only weapon he had left: the knife that now lay in the pool of his own blood. It was a proper sorcerer's tool, a weapon infused with cursed energy, and he lunged with desperate, feral intent. He didn't even cover half the distance. Before he could reach me, I launched a focused wave of kinetic energy lifting him clean off the ground and slamming him into the ground with enough force to ensure he wouldn't be getting up again anytime soon.
I turned, ready to deliver a final, neutralizing strike to the other downed thug, when a new, much heavier force collided with me. It was a crushing, physical blow from behind that propelled me forward, slamming my body violently into the solid brick wall of the warehouse. The impact jarred my bones, and I coughed, tasting dust and blood.
When I looked up, the adrenaline overriding the pain, I saw it. Towering over me was a monstrous entity—a wraith. It was a bizarre composite creature: a head like a deep-sea fish, the skeletal wings of a scavenger bird folded against a torso covered in matted, wiry fur. Its presence radiated a dense, sickly aura of hostile dark energy.
"Wow, you are ugly."
I recognized its type immediately. It was a Phasing Wraith, a particularly nasty species known for its ability to manipulate and move through solid surfaces, dragging anything it touched along with it. The sheer density of its Aspect signature pegged it as a strong one.
Was it summoned by that dude over there? I thought, glancing quickly toward the unconscious scarefaced thug I had slammed into the wall. I've heard that most of the gang members in this district use weaponised wraiths, but this is way more advanced than I had expected. This wasn't the work of a common street punk.
The wraith moved with a speed that belied its bulk. Its first move was a heavy-handed, crushing punch aimed at my head. I charged a blinding layer of Aspect energy around my body, momentarily setting the surrounding air alight with a pale blue glow, and just managed to deflect the blow, narrowly avoiding incineration. Enraged, the wraith reacted by grabbing me and throwing me backward, directly into the brick wall. This time, the wall didn't merely stop me; it seemed to swallow me, the rough material closing in around my shoulders and torso, holding me fast.
"The hell, how am I supposed to get out of this?" I squeezed the words through clenched teeth, struggling against the unnatural constraint. The rough, gritty surface pressed against my face, smelling of damp earth and decay.
Maybe I can move stuff without physically moving my body. A pure telekinetic application of the Something´s energy. I've only done it once before. It better work, damn it.
I focused, straining my will and concentrating the entirety of my energy on the most solid, unmoving object I could still see: a large, dislodged concrete boulder a few feet away. I tried to mentally exert force, to lift it, but the object was impossibly heavy, a massive drain on my power while simultaneously being pinned.
The wraith prepared to deal the final, devastating blow, raising a massive, clawed fist to smash my head and crush my entire trapped body. In that fraction of a second something slammed into the monster. The unconscious Rix I had knocked out earlier flew through the air and collided with the wraith's chest with surprising force.
"It's not what I had in mind, but I'll take it," I muttered, genuinely surprised. Instead of the rock, my blood manipulation had somehow launched the unconscious, inert mass of one of the thugs into the creature.
The wraith's momentary pause, caused by an unexpected projectile, was my chance. I burst out of the wall, showering dust, and leaped up, executing a mid-air turn. Channeling massive aspect energy, I unleashed a devastating beam onto the Curse's core. Its unnatural body ruptured, spurting blood violently before it collapsed, dead with a wet sigh.
I landed gracefully on the damp ground, my boots crunching on the debris. I slowly raised my gaze to the source of the trouble: the man who had summoned the wraith, who was still laying motionless on the ground where my first counter-attack had sent him.
I walked over, still fueled with rage, the silence of the alley now broken only by the dripping of blood and my own footsteps. I crouched down in front of him, the sheer intensity of my crimson gaze penetrating his unconscious state.
His eyes were wide with sheer terror as he looked at me.
"Wha... what are you?" he stammered.
"So," I began, my voice low, a promise of pain lurking beneath the calm veneer. Bloodveins reached out from my back wrapping around his throat painting his neck with blood "Tell me. Where is your boss? I would like to have a word with him."
I leaned in, a dark, dangerous smile touching my lips. "You see, I am in need of a job."