On 13th December 2041, at Amigu-Rumi Mansion, which is situated at Kurohane, South-West Sector. Katoge Nakahara stepped quietly through the threshold of the Amigu-Rumi mansion, his boots brushing against the polished wooden floor. The air inside was still, tinged with incense and the faint sweetness of blooming red and white chrysanthemums that adorned the entrance's shoebox altar—an elegant tribute to transience.
From the corridor ahead, the soft rustle of silk approached.
A woman in a black-and-gold striped kimono emerged gracefully into view, her amber-brown hair swept into an immaculate updo, her expression calm but unreadable. Hoshida Kyokouki—the lady of the mansion and the wife of Mr. Amou—paused, her gaze fixed on him.
"Katoge. Where have you been?" she asked softly, her voice lacquered with poised authority. "And how did the mission fare?"
Katoge met her eyes, fatigue etched deep into his features. "I'm fine, ma'am. Mission accomplished," he replied, his tone low and respectful.
She offered a quiet nod, almost maternal in its restraint. "Good. Get some rest. You look as if death passed by you in the hallway."
"Yes," he answered, bowing slightly before continuing down the corridor.
Kyokouki remained a moment longer, her gaze lingering. Though elegant and reserved, she was not a woman to underestimate. In Mr. Amou's absence, she governed the mansion with unnerving precision—cunning, intelligent, and revered by the men under her command, who affectionately called her Okāsan.
As Katoge moved deeper into the residence, the scent of old wood and camellia oil clinging to the air, he was intercepted by a familiar presence—Noda Hidoriko.
The sharp-eyed man stood at ease, idly toying with a long, slender pin, scrutinising its glinting point.
"Ah, Katoge," Noda drawled, eyes alight with mischief. "So… how was it? Mission? Or was it a romantic stroll with our dear Chelsea Countessa?"
Katoge exhaled through his nose, his voice flat. "Noda-san, I've no mood for riddles."
"Hmm," Noda murmured, leaning in just enough to make the air between them feel dense. "You'd best tread carefully with her. Chelsea's no ordinary flame. She's A-rank Sinner. Dangerous—more so than any of us. And some don't play by rules, kiddo."
Katoge gave a silent nod.
Just then, a shadow passed by—Wanaka Hubayashiki—a stoic figure of few words. He strode down the hallway, katana sheathed at his hip, every step purposeful, his expression unchanging.
"Katoge," he said with barely a glance. "You're back. Mr. Amou is expecting you. Don't keep him waiting. He's convening a council."
His gaze flicked to Noda. "You too. Are you coming, or shall I assume you're plotting mischief?"
Noda smirked. "I'm coming, I'm coming."
"Good. Don't be late." And with that, Wanaka disappeared around the corner like a spectre in ink.
Noda Hidoriko, an S-rank outlaw within the Amigu-Rumi, was a volatile mix of jest and brutality. His chosen weapon—a sharpened pin—belied the precision with which he could end a life. Despite his unpredictable moods, when the mission called, he was lethal and focused.
Wanaka Hubayashiki—another S-rank outlaw—was revered as a walking executioner. His katana did not whisper; it sang. And its song was always fatal.
Moments later, Katoge stood at the ornate doors of the ballroom. They opened inward to reveal a striking juxtaposition—traditional Japanese aesthetics meeting modern decadence. Shoji panels and tatami mats met ambient smart-lighting; ancestral banners hung beside digital calligraphy that shimmered subtly with motion. A long lacquered table stretched through the centre, adorned with seasonal arrangements and steaming tea.
At the far end sat Mr. Amou, silent, waiting—surrounded by shadows who served him with absolute loyalty.
Katoge entered quietly, the faint click of the door shutting behind him sounding like the tolling of a prelude.
A tense silence permeated the ballroom as Katoge entered. Sensing the unease, he asked, "What happened here?"
"Katoge, you don't know?" Harai Satsuokuo responded, his voice tinged with surprise. He leaned in, whispering, "Last night at 8:30 p.m., there was a massive argument between Fujiita Sageyudao and Takaharai Daohira. It escalated into a brutal fight, causing a massacre. Both received harsh punishment from Mr. Amou for disrupting the brotherhood."
Fujiita Sageyudao and Takaharai Daohira were renowned for their combat prowess. Fujiita wielded a long scythe with blinding speed, while Takaharai favoured molotovs and grenades, leaving no trace of his enemies. They had joined the family simultaneously and had become close friends. Their sudden conflict was shocking, and no one dared to intervene until Noda stepped in.
Later, Mr. Amou discovered that eight million dollars were missing from his safe. His mood darkened, suspecting that someone within the organisation had stolen the money. He summoned everyone to the ballroom to address the issue.
With a low, growly voice, he asked, "Where is Takaharai Daohira?"
Katoge glanced around, noting Fujiita's presence but Takaharai's absence.
Turning to Fujiita, Mr. Amou inquired, "Do you know where he is?"
Fujiita responded solemnly, "Sir, I haven't seen him this morning. We've searched everywhere, but there's no trace."
"So, it seems Takaharai is the main suspect who stole the money," Noda remarked, polishing his pin needle.
"Is that so," Mr. Amou said, his tone deadly serious. "Then he must pay the price for his betrayal." He glanced at Katoge and Harai. "You both are to find him—dead or alive!"
"Yes, Sir!" they responded in unison.
Fujiita raised his hand, volunteering to join the mission. Mr. Amou paused before nodding in agreement.
Katoge observed Fujiita's internal struggle—regret and anger etched on his face for not preventing his friend's descent into treachery. Katoge felt a pang of sympathy but knew duty called. He reached for his knife, declaring, "Mr. Takaharai, you will pay for your crime!"
Before they departed, Mr. Amou issued a final warning. "Beware of Agent-90. Ensure he doesn't get involved."
"Understood!" they all nodded.
To gather intelligence, Katoge ventured into a dimly lit alleyway, where he found Gonda Subuichi smoking a cigarette.
Gonda glanced at him, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Well, Katoge, how can I assist you?"
"Gonda-san, I need your help," Katoge said earnestly.
"What is it, boy?"
"Do you know where Takaharai Daohira is?"
"Yes, he's holed up in the Yūrei-ku district."
"So, he didn't leave the city and remains in the shadows. What a fool," Katoge muttered.
Gonda nodded, adding, "He's formed his own gang called the Takaharai Gang."
"Hmph," Katoge scoffed. "He thinks he can escape justice."
"One more thing," Gonda said, flicking ash from his cigarette. "His members bear a 'Black Dragon' tattoo on their forearms."
With that, Katoge thanked Gonda and disappeared into the night, determined to bring Takaharai to justice.
The interior of the car was cloaked in tension, like the hush before a storm. Katoge gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled focus, his eyes narrowed behind a faint reflection of dashboard lights. Every turn of the wheel felt weighty, deliberate. Beside him, Harai Satsuokuo sat hunched in his seat, absentmindedly gnawing at his thumbnail, his leg jittering with nervous energy.
In the back seat, Fujiita Sageyudao rested in stoic silence, one gloved hand coiled loosely around the shaft of his long scythe, the other drumming a slow rhythm on his knee. His voice, when it came, was gravel laced with gravel.
"How long until we arrive?" he asked, not lifting his gaze from the window.
"We're nearly there, sir," Katoge replied, eyes on the road. "Yūrei-ku District is just ahead."
Harai let out a low breath, finally tearing his gaze from the rain-streaked windscreen. "Yūrei-ku…" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "A place of silence and shadow… in a world that knows only noise and chaos."
Half an hour later, the car eased into the periphery of Yūrei-ku as dusk dipped into full night. Here, nightfall was not mere darkness—it was a ritual.
Yūrei-ku came alive like a dreaming god.
The Twilight Parade had begun. From behind lacquered shōji screens and through the mist-veiled alleyways, soft drums pulsed like forgotten heartbeats. Processions of hooded figures filed through the narrow stone paths, their hands cradling ancestral lanterns that glowed with names encoded in pulses of light. These were not just offerings—they were quantum beacons, each flickering with echoes of memory and soul.
Neo-Kabuki theatres unfurled like lotus blossoms, their blossom-shaped domes splitting open to reveal augmented stages. Actors enhanced by neuro-links performed digital tragedies—ghosts weeping luminous tears, samurai forged from calligraphy, cherry blossoms cascading in waves of code.
Overhead, origami-shaped drones—sleek as obsidian cranes—soared silently in formation, casting cyber-memorials from long-dead clans. They whispered data and grief to the bio-linked below.
Katoge parked the car at the edge of the crowd. The trio stepped out into the swirling mist.
"Let's split up," Fujiita said in a low voice, checking the balance of his scythe on his back. "Watch for tattoos—Black Dragon ink on the forearm."
Katoge nodded silently. Harai gave a two-fingered salute and disappeared into the crowd like smoke.
As Harai weaved through clusters of spectators mesmerised by the spectral theatre, his gaze snapped to a figure brushing past him. A man, mid-thirties, with a hood half-pulled, and on his left forearm—there it was: the snarling ink of a Black Dragon.
Harai's breath caught. He lowered his wrist and activated the micro-comm.
"Target spotted," he whispered. "Left forearm, Black Dragon tat. I'm tailing him now. He's heading west."
The man continued on foot through the cobbled street, until he came upon a traditional ryōtei—a high-end establishment with wood-panelled walls and hanging lanterns emblazoned with plum blossoms.
The sign read: Yamaji Restaurant.
The man slipped through the curtain entrance, vanishing into the murmur of music and conversation.
Harai stopped just shy of the door, pressed himself against the wall, and whispered into his wrist comm again.
"I've tracked him to Yamaji Restaurant. I'm holding position outside. Get here fast—he's not alone."
He glanced over his shoulder, hand slowly drifting toward the hilt of his blade, his breath shallow but measured.
Somewhere behind the paper walls of the restaurant, justice—or betrayal—was waiting to be carved out under the flicker of synthetic candlelight.
A few minutes later, the mist at the edge of the alley parted as Katoge and Fujiita emerged from the crowd, their strides purposeful, their expressions grim.
Fujiita's grip tightened on the haft of his scythe, knuckles whitening beneath his gloves. "Did they come out yet?" he asked tersely.
Harai shook his head, eyes fixed on the curtained entrance. "No. Still inside. Second floor, V.I.P lounge. They're making themselves comfortable."
Fujiita exhaled through his nose, his breath slow and seething. "Right. Then let's go in. Remember—no harm to civilians."
The three of them moved as one.
Inside, Yamaji Restaurant was a masterwork of architectural fusion—a decadent marriage of old-world refinement and cutting-edge opulence. Tatami flooring merged seamlessly with kinetic light panels; the scent of grilled eel and cedar incense floated beneath an ambient hum of smart lanterns. Digital koi swam lazily beneath the glass floor, their pixelated scales glinting gold with every step.
Servers in augmented reality kimono weaved silently between private booths and holographic blossom trees. In the far back, a lacquered staircase spiralled upward to the V.I.P rooms.
At the top, behind a sliding fusuma painted with cranes in flight, they found him.
Takaharai Daohira.
Lounging on silk cushions, sleeves rolled up, chopsticks in hand, a bottle of imported sake in the other. He laughed—too loudly—at something one of his men had said. Around him, his self-styled gang lounged like thugs at court, drunk on money and arrogance. The stolen millions no doubt financed the sake, the escorts, and the gilded katanas leaning lazily against the table.
Then came the voice.
"Well, well… Takaharai. Living it up, I see."
The room fell still. Takaharai's chopsticks froze in mid-air. Slowly, he looked up—and met the cold stare of Fujiita Sageyudao, flanked by Katoge and Harai, all three radiating restrained fury.
"You…" Takaharai's voice caught, half-bemused, half-panicked. He stood too quickly, the sake sloshing over the rim of the bottle.
Fujiita took a step forward, his scythe gleaming in the dim ambient light. "You stole eight million from your own brothers and pissed it away on girls and glitter." His jaw tightened. "You spat on the very hands that fed you."
Takaharai gave a slow, mocking clap. "Bravo. Still the righteous one, Fujiita." He grinned, a crooked, venomous grin. "You always were Amou's little favourite. Always standing tall, always noble. Frankly—" he gestured around him "—I got sick of it. So I helped myself."
The temperature in the room dropped.
Fujiita's voice lowered to a growl. "I won't stain this place with blood. Step outside. We finish this where no innocent has to watch."
Takaharai paused for a moment, cocking his head, then gave a low chuckle and stretched his arms with theatrical flourish. "Fine. Let's dance."
His gang stirred to life, weapons at the ready, but Fujiita raised a single hand—calm, unwavering.
"We only want you."
The room fell into tense silence as the two sides stared each other down. Then, with the low scrape of steel on lacquered wood, Takaharai picked up a modified cleaver and walked toward the exit, his men parting like shadows.
"Let's see if Amou still thinks you're worth more than I was," he spat over his shoulder.
Katoge followed closely behind, eyes narrowed, hand on his blade.
Harai whispered under his breath, "Time to pay your dues, bastard."
Katoge himself becomes amazed by Fujiita how he remains patience for a moment.
They stood in silence before the decrepit building—its concrete walls sagging beneath the weight of time, ivy clawing at its façade like forgotten memories trying to break free. Rain fell in murmurs, soaking the rubble-strewn courtyard as thunder rumbled faintly above.
Katoge adjusted his grip on his pistol, jaw set, brows knitted in a hard line. Beside him, Harai flicked the edge of his knife, its reflection flashing briefly beneath the overcast sky.
Inside, shadows shifted.
Then chaos broke loose.
From the upper floors, Takaharai's men burst forward, shouting obscenities, brandishing blades and sidearms. Without hesitation, Katoge raised his gun—cold, clinical. The first shot cracked through the rain, followed swiftly by another. Two enemies dropped before they reached cover.
Harai slipped into the fray like a shadow, blade flashing in graceful arcs. One assailant lunged—Harai side-stepped with practised ease and buried his knife into the man's shoulder, yanking him down with brutal efficiency. Another charged, only to meet the same fate.
"Clear the left flank!" Katoge shouted, moving with feline precision between pillars. He fired again—this time from the hip—dropping another.
Sweat clung to their brows despite the chill. The air was heavy with adrenaline and breathless urgency.
Then, Takaharai emerged through the shattered frame of a doorway, wild-eyed, bloodied—but grinning.
He hurled a grenade.
Fujiita was already in motion, shouting over his shoulder, "Get down!"
Katoge ducked behind an old pillar, slamming Harai down with him just as the device exploded with a deafening crack, sending up dust and debris.
"You son of a bitch!" Katoge snarled, rising again, only to be stopped by Fujiita's outstretched arm.
"Stand down. He's mine," Fujiita ordered. His voice was level, but his expression… unflinching.
Katoge hesitated, breath caught mid-chest. Harai blinked at him, eyes wide, but said nothing.
Takaharai laughed, pulling a second grenade from his jacket.
This time, Fujiita met him head-on.
He lunged—not with hesitation, but with the unwavering resolve of a man carrying a lifetime's worth of purpose. He punched Takaharai across the jaw with such force the man reeled—then, in one swift motion, shoved the grenade into his open mouth.
"You wanted to be remembered?" Fujiita muttered, eyes locked.
He pulled Takaharai close.
And then—
Light. Sound. Silence.
Katoge stood under the fractured roof, the distant echo of sirens now bleeding into the edge of his senses. Dust still hung in the air like grief that hadn't settled.
"Two bags," he muttered, eyes fixed on the broken space where his comrade had stood. "Bring two damn bags."
His voice wavered, just once.
Harai stepped beside him, silent. No jokes. No smirks. Just the solemn weight of shared loss pressing on both their shoulders.
Katoge closed his eyes for a moment. He now understood—truly—what it meant to walk the line of an outlaw. Not the bravado. Not the violence. But the pain of losing someone who chose to fight for something that could never be won.
And yet... they would carry on.
For the brotherhood. For the blood.
For Fujiita.