He was working on the car with a catchy tune whistlingas a shadow fell over him he looked to see a familar set of eyes reverse eyes "Came for retribution?" he asked still working on his car
"Shintaro is dead..I killed him..." he still didnt talk working on the car "did your daddy gave you a name yet ?" toji asked
"its Gun"
"Okay listen here Gun or Canon whatever I don't give a fuck about your flashbacks and shit. State your business or get the heck out of my palace."
He sat lazily in the rundown chair, the wood creaking as he shifted. His sharp eyes locked onto the young man in front of him, those strange black eyes, the reverse eyes of Yamazaki. The boy took a moment to glance around, taking in the so-called palace he had mentioned.
The scent of engine oil and gasoline hung thick in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of old tools scattered across the floor. Cars—some barely holding together, others sleek and untouched—were parked haphazardly, their exteriors coated in a thin layer of dust and grease. In the corner stood a shed, its rusted frame leaning dangerously, as if it would crumble at the slightest breeze.
"How about a contract?"
"Now we're talking." The boy smirked, flashing his usual scammer's grin.
"Like I said, Shintaro is dead. So is everyone else from Yamazaki," the young man continued, voice calm but firm. "Now it's a drowning ship. I have a few people I can still trust, but having someone bearing the name Yamazaki will give it the stability it needs."
The other boy groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Ahhh, look here, little shit. I ain't coming back. Even if I have to die...again, you are the one who's gotta clean up your mess. I ain't working under anyone, let alone you."
"Fifty million per month."
That got his attention. His head snapped forward. "...Uh? I knew you were rich, but not this rich." He leaned back again, exhaling. "Still no."
"Like I said, I don't work und—"
"Toji," the young man cut him off. "I'm not asking you to work under anyone. I'm asking you to return as Toji Yamazaki."
"Do you think the old vassals are ready to go against the tradition does the old farts even know im alive "
"I dont care about the vassals neither do you... if it come to it we will remind them the power of gen 0 yamazaki who united the whole japan"
Silence.
"I have business in Korea. I can't stay away for long," the boy added, looking up at the ceiling as if expecting an answer.
No response came.
With a sigh, he turned and started walking toward the door.
Gun sighed, turning to leave, his boots scuffing the floor. His hand hit the door handle, and then—whoosh—a screw flew past his head, smacking the door hard, cracking the wood. "Where you going?" Toji's voice came, low and rough. "Show me how much you've grown. Let me see the strength of the guy who killed Shintaro Yamazaki."
Gun turned, a slow smile creeping up, the same wild grin Toji threw back at him. "Let's kill each other," Toji said, his green eyes turning pitch black, glowing blue dots popping up in the middle, fierce and bright.
Moments passed, and the garage was a wreck—more of a junkyard now. Cars were dented, tools scattered, glass busted all over the floor. The two boys sat on a busted workbench under the moonlight coming through the broken roof. Toji had a split lip, blood trickling down his chin, and a few scratches on his arms, but he looked fine, leaning back with his hands behind his head. Gun, though, was a mess—his shirt ripped to shreds, one sleeve gone, blood soaking through from cuts on his chest and arms. His face was bruised, a black eye swelling shut, and his nose was crooked, dripping red onto his lap. He breathed heavy, wincing as he shifted, his reverse eyes dull with pain but still sharp.
"I know why you said yes," Gun said, voice rough, looking at Toji through his good eye. "You've got something to lose."
Toji stared up at the moon with his emerald like green eyes, wiping the blood off his lip with his thumb. "Why keep it? Shingen did the same, and he died. He was weak 'cause he had something to protect."
"I don't know," Toji said after a bit, shrugging. "Feels good knowing someone's waiting for me."
The air in the garage was thick, heavy with the bitter tang of oil and the ghosts of unspoken words. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching long and dark across the concrete floor. Toji stood near the workbench, his hands trembling slightly, still smeared with grease that no amount of scrubbing could ever wash away—not the grease, not the blood. His voice cut through the silence, low and jagged, like a blade dulled by years of use. "Stop hiding. I know you're there."
From the far back of the garage, she emerged, a fragile figure stepping out of the gloom. Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, swaying faintly as she moved, each step shaky, uncertain. Her eyes were wide, glistening with tears she fought to hold back, and her hands twisted nervously at the hem of her shirt. Toji sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand regrets, and pushed himself up from the bench. His body felt heavy, as if the sins he carried had rooted him to the earth.
"You heard everything, didn't you?" he said, his voice cracking, raw with something he couldn't name. "I'm a mess." He turned his head, unable to meet her gaze, his jaw tight. "You never asked me anything—not about the bloodstains on my clothes, the strange people slipping in and out of my life, the women I've slept with to drown out the noise in my head. No matter how much you pretend not to see it, this is me." His words grew quieter, darker, as if they were being dragged up from some bottomless pit inside him. "A monkey. Talentless. Hated. The demon who killed his own mother."
As he spoke, his eyes changed—blackness swallowed them whole, a cold, glowing blue flickering in their depths like a cursed flame. Memories he'd buried deep clawed their way free: his mother's body, lifeless, dangling before him, her skin cold against his trembling hands. The screams of the damned rang in his ears, the faces of the thousands he'd killed for money, for gambling, for the fleeting rush of proving he was something more than the useless halfblood everyone said he was. He needed to kill—needed the heat of someone else's blood to warm the ice in his veins, to make him feel alive. He was a demon, after all. That's what they'd burned into him, and he'd come to believe it.
"Like your father said," he muttered, his voice trembling with a bitterness that stung the air, "stay away from me. It's better for you." He turned to leave, his boots scuffing against the concrete, his hands curling into fists as that familiar coldness crept back into his bones—the same coldness he'd felt when he'd touched his mother's corpse, when he'd realized what he'd done. He walked toward the open garage door, each step a surrender to the darkness that had claimed him long ago.
But then, the coldness shattered.
A pair of small, trembling hands grabbed his, yanking him back from the abyss. She was there, her chest heaving, her breaths ragged as if every word she wanted to say was choking her. "Don't go," she whispered, her voice so soft it barely reached him, quaking with desperation. "Please… don't leave me too." She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, hugging him so tightly it was as if she could hold all his broken pieces together. "I don't care what you are—monster, killer—I don't care. Just don't… don't leave me too."
Her voice broke, splintering into sobs as tears streamed down her face, soaking into his shirt. She couldn't even string a full sentence together, her words tumbling out in a messy, heartfelt plea. "I've lost everyone," she choked, her body shaking against his. "My mom, my dad—they're gone. You're all I have left. I don't care what you've done. You're not a demon to me—you're Toji. Please… stay."
Her warmth seeped into him, spreading through his chest like a fire he didn't deserve. His eyes, once swallowed by that black void, that eerie blue glow, softened, the green returning as her touch pulled him back from the edge. She was crying harder now, her sobs muffled against his chest, her fingers digging into his back as if she was terrified he'd slip away. Toji stood there, frozen, his arms limp at his sides. Her words crashed into him, tearing down the walls he'd built to keep everyone out—walls made of guilt, of shame, of the belief that he was beyond saving.
Slowly, hesitantly, his hands moved. They hovered for a moment, trembling, before wrapping around her, pulling her closer. The coldness in his bones melted away, replaced by a warmth he hadn't felt since before the blood, before the killing, before the day he'd lost everything. He rested his chin on top of her head, his own eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall..She sniffled, her grip tightening, her tears still falling as she pressed herself against him
--------------------------------------------------
The Yamazaki estate sprawled across the land like an untamed beast, swallowed by the depths of an ancient, living jungle. Towering trees stretched skyward, their gnarled branches woven with thick vines, while the air pulsed with the restless hum of the wild—leaves whispering secrets in the wind, birds calling out in sharp, distant cries, and somewhere in the unseen depths, the low, guttural growl of something primal.
This was no place for the weak. Predators roamed freely, creatures sculpted by evolution to kill—leopards with eyes like molten gold, moving soundlessly between the shadows; serpents coiled high in the canopy, their patient hunger outlasting time itself; wolves that ran in ghostly silence, their howls never reaching human ears. Yet, for all their savagery, even they dared not trespass too close to the heart of the estate.
There, rising like a relic from another era, stood the great Yamazaki mansion—a monument of old-world Japan, its vast wooden structure whispering of both elegance and menace. Sweeping roofs curved under the weight of history, paper screens stood fragile yet unyielding, and dark wooden floors bore the silent echoes of countless footsteps, generations of men who had walked them before. A house built for a hundred, with room to spare.
But it was not its beauty that kept the jungle at bay.
It was the monsters inside.
Not beasts with fangs and claws, but men....men whose hands had been dyed in crimson long before they ever held a sword. Bloodlust clung to the walls like a lingering curse, deeper and darker than any predator's hunger. And within those halls, where the scent of death had settled like an old companion, the true rulers of this land thrived.
Today was the meeting.....a gathering unlike any other. Every elite member, every vassal head, had been summoned. Even those cast out as traitors after the rebellion had received invitations, their presence demanded. And so they came, draped in tradition, their kimonos and hakama whispering against the tatami mats as they moved.
Their bodies spoke their histories....arms inked with writhing dragons, venomous snakes coiled around old wounds, demons baring jagged teeth across battle-worn chests. These were not aristocrats or businessmen. These were criminals. Yakuza through and through. The backbone of the Yamazaki syndicate.
Yet unease thickened the air like smoke from a smoldering battlefield.
Gun was gone. Word had already slithered through the ranks....he had left for Korea, leaving his throne cold and unattended. So who had called them here?
The question rippled through the grand hall, unspoken yet deafening, hanging over the clink of sake cups and the low murmurs of restless men.
The gates groaned open, slow and deliberate, the sound cutting through the murmurs like a blade through silk. The air turned heavy, thick with something unspoken, something primal. A shadow stepped through the threshold, and every breath in the room hitched. Conversations died mid-sentence, hands froze over glasses of whiskey, fingers paused over weapon hilts.
He was young—too young for the sheer presence he carried, for the way the space seemed to shrink around him. Nearly six feet and still growing, his frame was a blueprint of violence—lean, coiled muscle packed under a loose black kimono that barely clung to his shoulders. The fabric slipped, revealing a torso carved from battles, his skin marked with the remnants of old wars.
Jagged scars crisscrossed his body, each one a trophy of survival—knife slashes that ran too deep, old wounds that had healed yet never truly faded. Those in the room recognized them instantly. They knew what those scars meant. After all, they lived in the same world.
He looked like a tiger that had devoured many hunters—his body sculpted not through training, but through war, through the kind of fights that left no room for weak or half bakes.
But it wasn't the scars, or even the raw, unpolished strength that made their throats dry. It was his eyes.
Dark pools of abyssal black, empty and endless, broken only by the eerie glow of two blue dots in the center—like a demon peering through a human shell. His jet-black hair, wild and unkempt, framed a face too sharp to be gentle, too refined to be brutal, and yet somehow, he was both. Beauty wrapped in lethality.
"Shingen..." The name escaped someone's lips, more a breath than a word, carrying the weight of something between fear and disbelief. But they all knew better.
This wasn't Shingen Yamazaki, the man who had once reigned like a god before falling into the grave. This was the ghost that walked in his absence, the demon born from his ashes.
Kuro Oni.
The Black Demon.
A monster who ripped men apart with his bare hands for nothing more than a wager, who reduced entire city blocks to smoldering ruins just to watch them burn. He was quite famous in the underworld of both japan and other countries for his lack of empathy and lust for money.
And yet, here he was.
These were the elites, the architects of Japan's bloodstained syndicates—the ones who had seen corpse more than people, who had eaten with hands still slick with someone else's blood. Fear was not something they indulged in. But as he stood there, watching them like a wolf surveying a den of lambs, a single question lingered heavy in the air.
Where was Gun?
And why had the Black Demon stepped into Yamazaki's domain?