I sat at the dining table, a knife and fork resting in my hands. The blade sliced through the steak slowly, the scraping sound against the plate echoing clearly in the overly quiet room.
"I heard you've been practicing sword swings since dawn."
Across the table, a man in his early forties spoke without looking at me. His slightly graying hair was neatly combed back, a dark suit fitting his body perfectly.
That cold, heavy presence was unmistakable.
Kurogane Tatsuo.Akira's father.
"Just some light warm-ups," I replied shortly.
I didn't know how I was supposed to act. This man—technically—was my father, yet there wasn't the slightest emotional bond between us. I didn't grow up with him. I had no memories of him.
Tatsuo finally glanced my way.
Only briefly—but sharp enough to catch something.
"You've changed," he said quietly. "The way you speak. The way you sit."
I didn't answer. The knife moved again, cutting the meat with a steady rhythm.
Tatsuo leaned back in his chair.
"Seventy years ago," he said, his voice flat yet heavy, "the first portal opened."
My hand paused for a moment.
"Monsters poured into the world. Cities collapsed. Nations were crippled. Back then… your grandfather wasn't even five years old yet."
He lifted his glass and took a small sip.
"To survive, his family hid in a bunker. For decades. Living underground, avoiding monsters, avoiding the world. By the time robotic technology was finally discovered and began to develop, he was already too old—and too poor—to take part in it."
There was no emotion in his voice. Like a historical report.
"He was nothing more than a commoner. Surviving as a laborer. Nothing more."
I cut the steak and put it into my mouth. The tender meat tasted bland.
"However," Tatsuo continued, "little by little, our family began to set foot in the business world. Your grandfather founded a small locomotive company. Very small. Almost insignificant."
He stared at the table, as if seeing the past reflected there.
"I carried it on. Expanded it. Took risks. And in the end… the automotive giant known as Sekiryu was born."
I chewed slowly.
"But," he said, his voice lowering, "as time passed, I realized one thing."
"Businessmen… are nothing more than small pieces on someone else's chessboard."
My knife and fork stopped. I glanced at him. For the first time, a hint of interest appeared in my eyes.
He was right.
From the beginning, I knew the Kurogane family didn't possess true power. If Tatsuo truly held power, he wouldn't need to enter politics. The fact that he did only proved his limitations.
"The world changes," he continued. "Fast. Brutal. And that's where I saw an opportunity."
He looked straight at me.
"That's why I registered you with Guardian. I hoped… you would reach something I never could."
I swallowed the rest of my food.
"By reaching something within Guardian," I asked quietly, "can we step off that chessboard?"
Tatsuo placed his utensils down. His fingers intertwined, elbows resting on the table.
"The Rockefeller family," he said suddenly, "is a family with extraordinary influence. Even in the year 2066, their shadow still remains."
My hand froze completely.
That name… of course I knew it.
"Do you know why?"
I raised my gaze.
The history of this world was almost identical to my own—until the portals and the monster invasion. There was only one difference: how the world adapted afterward.
"They controlled energy. Logistics. Information. And most importantly—they planted influence before the world even realized it needed it."
Tatsuo looked at me for a few seconds longer. Then he reached for his knife and fork again, cutting his steak slowly, the once stern sound now oddly light in the room.
Before Tatsuo could say anything else, I spoke.
"The Rockefeller family," I began, "was a family with immense ambition. Even after amassing unimaginable wealth and becoming the world's first billionaires, they were never satisfied. Instead, they allocated much of that wealth to philanthropy."
I recalled one of the most shocking quotes I had ever heard: I don't want a nation of thinkers, I want a nation of workers.
"They began spreading the Prussian School System. Their efforts paid off; the method gradually spread worldwide and was adopted by many countries."
"The Rockefeller family also funded research into media and radio," I continued. "From there, they learned that propaganda could shape public opinion."
I took a slow breath, then added, "Musical frequencies were even standardized nationally. At first 435 Hz, later changed to 440 Hz."
Tatsuo watched me intently, waiting for me to continue.
"Essentially, the 440 Hz frequency can make people feel stressed, restless, and less at ease."
I looked at my father, his expression still sharp. "The question is… why make people stressed?"
"So that pharmaceuticals, medicine, and the entertainment industry could be sold."
Were they, from the very beginning, selling things we never truly needed?
I lowered my gaze briefly, then looked back up at him.
"From this, we can conclude that the reason they've survived until now isn't just wealth. They control education, pharmaceuticals, and—even without directly owning the media—they hold massive influence over it."
Tatsuo remained silent, letting me finish.
"But… those aren't the real reasons. Even though they clearly play important roles…"
I met his eyes, making sure he heard every word.
"The real reason is… because they control humanity itself."
I remembered a conversation with a friend from the past.
Back then, I visited his office—a vast windowless room filled with hundreds of active computers. Monitor light reflected off gray walls, humming softly like a giant hive. The air was cold, overly sterile.
"That day… you asked why I hate humans, didn't you?"
He spoke without looking at me. His finger lifted, pointing at one of the screens in front of us.
I stepped closer.
On the screen, streams of social media comments flowed endlessly—insults, mockery, slander thrown without hesitation. The target was a single politician.
I knew him.
He was the man I had once clashed with at a bar. Back then, consumed by anger, I had asked this friend to destroy him. But I intended to withdraw that request after learning the truth: he was clean. Too clean. Perhaps the most honest politician I had ever met.
Yet the screen before me told a different story.
"Humans are considered human because they possess intellect, reason, and morality," my friend continued. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his expression calm—too calm. "But that's not the only requirement."
He finally turned toward me. His gaze was sharp, cold, as if evaluating something defective.
"What truly determines whether someone deserves to be called human… is whether they possess freedom."
He typed several commands. Multiple screens changed at once.
The comments multiplied. Emotions escalated. Hatred spread like fire doused in gasoline.
"And as you can see," he said softly, almost bored, "they don't have it."
His fingers stopped above the keyboard.
"Their eyes. Their brains. Their attention."He pressed enter.
"I can control all of it however I want."
I didn't realize my hand had clenched into a fist.
He smiled faintly—not a smile of satisfaction, but the smile of someone stating a simple fact.
"From the beginning, I never hated them," he said quietly. "I just never considered them the same kind of beings as myself."
Those words fell heavier than any threat.
From that day on, I realized one thing—that #######.
"Hahaha, Akira, you've grown up. By the way, how many years has it been since we last met?" Tatsuo laughed cheerfully.
"I don't know. Three years, maybe."
Tatsuo nodded a few times. "Honestly, I was a little disappointed after hearing news about you these past few days. But after seeing this side of you, I've changed my evaluation."
I already knew what Tatsuo was planning. From the start, no one could truly leave the chessboard. All you could do was rise to become a more useful piece—or become a player yourself.
"So what's the reason you came here, Father?"
Tatsuo's expression turned serious.
"Shizuoka has been designated a level-one danger zone."