Neo-Kyoto pulsed with artificial life, a city of towering neon monoliths and rain-slicked streets reflecting the glow of a thousand electric dreams. Overhead, the sky stretched black and bruised, split by the occasional flicker of lightning, thunder rolling in the distance like the growl of some unseen beast. The rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against steel and glass, pooling in the cracked pavement below.
Dio stood on a rooftop, unmoving, untouched by the cold bite of the storm. The hood of his black leather jacket was pulled low, shadowing his face, leaving only the faint glint of his glowing red eyes visible through the downpour. Beneath the cloak of darkness, his white hair clung damply to his forehead. His katana rested securely on his back, its weight familiar, a quiet promise of violence if necessary.
Below him, lay the Red Veil one of the most exclusive club in the lower district, owned by Salvatore Macini underworld gang boss, leader of the red veil gang. It's neon lights burned against the rain, its entrance glowing like a wound in the city's underbelly. The club was alive with sound and movement—a rhythmic, pulsing bass that sent tremors through the pavement, muffled laughter, the electric hum of neon ads dancing along the walls.
A crowd stretched along the sidewalk, waiting behind a glowing crimson barrier—a digital security line that marked the threshold of exclusivity. The bouncers were like statues, massive figures clad in sleek, high-collared coats, eyes cold and augmented with retinal scanners. They didn't just check IDs—they analyzed movements, scanned for concealed weapons, searched for anyone who didn't belong.
Dio didn't belong. But that never stopped him before.
Boys dressed in tailored synth-suits, flashing status through designer cybernetics, exhaled plumes of vaporized liquor while their dates—girls draped in scant fabric and neon-trimmed mini-skirts—clung to their arms, laughter sharp as static. It was a scene of wealth and indulgence, the kind of place where power was measured in connections, credits, and the ability to slip past the barriers that kept the lesser out.
Dio's gaze flicked to the rooftop access. That was his way in.
He exhaled slowly. His power activated.
The weight in his limbs vanished.
No longer feeling the restrictions of gravity he jumped from the rooftop, his boots leaving the wet metal surface without a sound. He floated upward, rain streaking past him in slow-motion, neon lights below smearing into a blurred mosaic of color. With a slight tilt of his body, he drifted toward the club, his coat billowing like smoke around him.
Gravity meant nothing to him.
The rooftop of the Red Veil loomed ahead, slick with rain, vents humming softly as they filtered recycled air into the club below.The moment his boots touched the surface, he let gravity return, his weight settling back into place with a soft tap.
No alarms. No movement. No one looking up.
Dio moved swiftly. The rhythmic bass of the club pulsed beneath his feet, a heartbeat of excess and secrets. He scanned the rooftop. There—a maintenance hatch, locked with an electronic panel. Probably coded to staff biometrics. He crouched beside it, pressing his fingers against the scanner.
Nullification.
The lock flickered, the system shorting out with a weak hiss before the hatch clicked open. Dio slid inside, feet first, vanishing into the darkness.
Warm air, thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat, rushed up to meet him. The dull thrum of music vibrated through the steel walls as he descended, floating effortlessly past bundles of cables and pipes. He landed lightly in a back corridor, silent as a shadow.
Beyond the door ahead—the real world of the Red Veil.
He straightened his jacket, tucked his katana just a little closer against his back,the moment Dio stepped past the threshold, he was swallowed by a world of dark velvet and neon fire.
The Red Veil was more than just a nightclub—it was a statement. A place for the powerful, the reckless, and the untouchable. The air was thick with artificial smoke, tinged with the sharp bite of electric liquor and the synthetic perfumes of those who could afford to smell expensive.
The walls pulsed with holographic art, shifting between abstract displays of neon waves and flickering silhouettes of dancing figures. The floor, made of some kind of semi-transparent material, glowed beneath his boots, syncing with the music's bass in hypnotic pulses of crimson and gold.
A massive, circular bar dominated the center of the club, its surface a constantly shifting projection of exotic drinks. Liquor bottles levitated and spun mid-air, handled by sleek robotic arms that mixed cocktails with inhuman precision. Bartenders—human and augmented alike—moved with effortless grace, their movements as rehearsed as a stage performance.
The club had multiple levels, with sleek, curving staircases leading to VIP lounges suspended above the dance floor. Glass-walled booths, dimly lit and heavily guarded, housed the city's elite—corporate heirs, black market brokers, and high-ranking enforcers of underground syndicates. They watched the chaos below with disinterest, insulated from the bodies writhing to the music.
The dance floor itself was a beast of its own.
A sea of bodies moved beneath a massive, shifting chandelier—a twisting construct of holographic flames and refracted light, constantly morphing in time with the beat. The DJ, perched on an elevated platform, was half-hidden behind an array of holographic projections, their hands flicking across a console that responded to their every whim.
Dio moved carefully, staying along the shadows, his hood still up. He could feel the bass through his bones, an artificial heartbeat that dictated the rhythm of the night. The air shimmered with heat and movement, a sensory overload designed to trap people in the moment.
Salvatore Mancini.
A name that carried weight in Neo-Kyoto's underworld. The leader of the Red Veil Gang, a man who ran his empire not like a thug, but like a businessman. He was the kind of predator who dressed in white while bathing in the blood of his enemies.
Dio's glowing red eyes flicked upward to the VIP lounge—a glass-walled sanctum suspended above the chaos. Only the untouchable could enter. And Mancini? He never left his perch. From up there, he had a perfect view of his domain, watching the writhing masses below like a king observing his court.
Even from a distance, Mancini stood out. A white suit, crisp and untarnished, an odd contrast against the club's blood-red glow. His dark hair was slicked back, his expression unreadable behind tinted glasses. A man who never looked rushed, never looked worried. He didn't need to.
Because sitting just beside him was his monster.
Dio's gaze locked onto the hulking figure standing behind Mancini's seat—a brute of a man, well over seven feet tall, shoulders like slabs of concrete. His suit barely contained his mass, the fabric straining over muscle and cybernetic reinforcements, his left eye was a cybernetic implant giving him a more intimidating vibe. The rest of Mancini's gang was scattered around him—men and women in sharp suits, some laughing, some leaning back with drinks, others quietly observing the floor below. These weren't just common thugs. These were killers.
And Dio had come to kill them and their leader.
His fingers twitched at his side, itching to draw the blade on his back.
Dio climbed the staircase leading toward Mancini and his goons, but before he could ascend further, two bouncers in sharp suits stepped in his way. Their arms were thick with muscle, and despite the formal wear, Red Veil gang tattoos coiled around their wrists.
A gun rested in a holster at each of their waists.
One of them frowned, eyes narrowing at the sight of a kid.
"How the hell did you get in here?"
Dio said nothing.
His blank crimson eyes met theirs—cold, unreadable.
The bouncer on the left clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"Tch, fucking kids—"
He reached forward, intending to grab Dio by the arm and toss him out.
He never got the chance.
In an instant— Dio's hand flashed toward the man's holster.
And took his gun pointing it at the man's legs
A pair of deafening gunshots tore through the club's heavy bass.
The first bullet shattered the bouncer's knee. His leg snapped sideways, body collapsing under his own weight.
The second bullet slammed under his jaw, blasting his skull apart. Blood and brain matter splattered against the club walls.
The second bouncer barely had time to react—his hand darting for his own weapon—
BANG.
A bullet tore through his forehead, snapping his head backward. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Silence.
For half a second, the club remained frozen.
Then—screams erupted.
A pair of waitresses had seen the whole thing. Their eyes widened in pure horror as their shrieks ripped through the music.
"Shooter! SHOOTER!"
The panic spread like a plague.
The club exploded into chaos.
People shoved and trampled over each other, racing for the exits. Some were crushed underfoot, others were slammed into tables, while the weakest were thrown aside like ragdolls.
Amid the bedlam, Red Veil gang members and other bouncers rushed toward the commotion, guns drawn, fury on their faces.
Then—they froze.
At the center of the bloodshed stood a boy.
A kid.
Their brains struggled to process reality. This wasn't a hitman, an assassin, or a rival gang member.
This was just some white-haired kid standing over two fresh corpses.
For a split second, hesitation gripped them.
Dio moved.
He didn't hesitate.
Blade drawn.
A silver flash split the air.
Steel met flesh as Dio sliced straight through a gang member's waist.
His upper body slid off.
Organs spilled across the club floor. Blood painted the stairs.
Gunfire erupted.
The gang snapped out of their stupor, unloading their clips. But Dio was already moving.
Bullets screamed past him.
Dio weaved through the storm of lead, unnaturally fast. His sword carved through bodies, one after another.
One gang member raised his weapon—Dio sliced his hand off.
The man screamed, stumbling back. Dio stabbed him in the thigh, then severed his head in one clean motion.
The corpse collapsed. Dio grabbed the body, using it as a shield as more bullets rained down.
The corpse jerked violently as bullets ripped through it. Then—Dio threw it.
The flying body slammed into the shooters, knocking them off balance.
That was all he needed.
Dio tore through them.
Blade. Blood. Bone.
Men collapsed in seconds. Screams of agony filled the air. Limbs were severed. Heads rolled.
It was a massacre.
From above, Mancini watched.
The mob boss leaned on the railing, completely unfazed. He watched as his men were slaughtered like cattle, blood pooling at Dio's feet.
Dio flicked his blade, letting a spray of blood splatter onto the floor before wiping it clean.
Then—he climbed.
Mancini's lips curled into a smirk.
"It's not every day you see a child cut down twenty men like they were nothing." His voice was filled with amusement. "How interesting."
Behind him was his bodyguard
He watched Dio ascend, muscles coiled like a predator.
"An Unchained?" he asked, voice deep.
Mancini gave a slow nod.
"It's possible. The A.R.I. do create the most fabulous of monsters."
"Sigh, Ji Liao deal with it." Mancini said,The bodyguard gave a curt nod
Mancini chuckled. "Try not to kill it too soon."
Ji Liao said nothing. He simply walked toward Dio.
Dio stared at Ji Liao with a cold, unreadable gaze. He didn't know why people kept mistaking him for an Unchained—one of those sick experiments A.R.I. had unleashed onto the world—but he didn't care.
The club had gone silent. The bass-heavy beat that once shook the floors had died with the DJ—whether from the stampede or the panicked crowd trampling him to death. It didn't matter.
Right now, only two people stood in the chaos, locked in a silent stare-down.
One small.
One massive.
Both deadly.
Dio could sense something about this man his instincts screaming at him—danger. Ji Liao was built like a tank, but something about him was off.That cybernetic eye locked onto Dio, studying him, analyzing him.
And Ji Liao, despite his size, wasn't underestimating Dio either. Not because of the power he had displayed earlier—but because of what he thought Dio was.
An Unchained.
Ji Liao stepped forward. Slow. Controlled.
Dio didn't charge recklessly.Without hesitation, he raised his stolen gun and fired.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots rang out like thunder in the dead silence—
And Dio's red eyes widened in shock a rare emotion for the white haired boy.
Ji Liao hadn't moved an inch.
Smoke curled from his closed fist—where the bullets lay crumpled in his palm. He had caught them.
That speed...
Ji Liao uncurled his fingers, and in a single motion, his fist snapped forward.
The bullets, now moving faster than when they were first fired, shot straight at Dio like miniature cannonballs.
His body reacted before his mind did—instinctively tilting his head just barely in time. The bullets almost grazed his cheek before slamming into the concrete wall behind him.
BOOM!
The impact left a crater where the wall once stood.
Dio's head whipped backwards looking at the damage. That could have been his skull. Dangerous.
"Pay attention."
Dio barely registered the words before his instincts screamed again—a shadow loomed over him.
Ji Liao was already in front of him.
A fist the size of a cannonball was coming straight for his face.
BOOOOM!