The silence in the villa was unnatural — too clean.
The kind of stillness that comes before a storm.
Then came the crash.
The front doors exploded inward, wood splintering like bone under a hammer.
"¡Rai!"
Akashi's voice cracked through the grand hall as he sprinted in, chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the chandelier.
"They're here! They're—"
A single shot cut him down.
Sharp. Clinical.
Akashi's body jerked mid-stride. A crimson hole bloomed in his chest like a grotesque flower. He collapsed onto the marble, mouth still open, the last of his warning frozen in his throat.
Arakawa Raien — Rai, the Shadow King of the Underworld — didn't move.
He stared at the body, eyes unreadable.
Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to the open doorway.
They came in like shadows with teeth.
Not rivals.
Not mercenaries.
Special forces.
Matte-black tactical gear. Suppressed rifles. Visors glowing faintly under crystal light.
No shouting. No hesitation. Just precision — the kind of violence that moves with government blessing.
Rai stayed seated.
One hand raised — calm, deliberate.
The other held a lit cigar, smoldering between two fingers.
His pistol lay nearby on the desk. Untouched.
Wouldn't matter.
Not against this.
The lead soldier leveled his weapon.
"Arakawa Raien. You are under arrest for terrorism, drug trafficking, multiple counts of human trafficking and—"
"Save it," Rai said, voice low.
The man paused.
"You didn't come to arrest me."
Silence.
Rai gave a small nod. "Didn't think so."
They moved — not rushed, just inevitable.
A silent tide of metal and intent.
"Hands where I can see them!" one barked.
Rai didn't flinch.
He took one final drag from his cigar, exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon made of ash.
Then moved.
In one brutal motion, he kicked the oak desk forward — flipping it onto its side mid-room with a thunderous crash.
The soldiers raised their weapons — gunfire erupted.
Muffled bursts cracked the air. Muzzle flashes strobed across the polished walls. Bullets shredded the desk, splintered covers, tore through paintings.
A few rounds cracked the ceiling.
The chandelier shattered — glass rained down like glittering razors.
Then:
Black.
The lights died.
The villa drowned in shadow.
The soldiers hesitated.
That was their first mistake.
But Rai?
Rai thrived in darkness.
He had lived in shadows colder than this.
Deeper. Hungrier.
He was the dark.
He was already gone.
Low. Fast.
Slipping into the dark like a ghost born of concrete and blood.
He moved without sound.
The first soldier never saw him.
A knife slid between the armor plates at his neck — clean and quiet.
One down.
The second turned too slow.
Rai slammed a chair leg into his throat, then drove two fingers into his eye socket.
The sound made the others flinch.
Two.
The third fired — the shot clipped Rai's shoulder. Pain flared — hot, biting — but he didn't stop.
He tore the rifle from the man's grip, smashed it into his face, then shoved the barrel into his mouth. Then he pulled the trigger.
The man's head snapped back, skull erupting in a spray of red and ruin.
Three.
By the time reinforcements kicked in the side entrance, six were already down.
Rai crouched behind the grand piano, blood slicking his arm, breath steady despite the chaos.
The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder.
Shadow clung to him like armor.
He grinned.
"This is what justice looks like, huh?" he muttered.
Gunfire erupted again.
The piano splintered around him, ivory keys flying like broken teeth.
Rai didn't run.
He stood there
Bullets tore into him — five hot punches to the ribs, arm, and thigh — but he stayed there maintaining his ground like a wounded lion on his last breath:
Deliberate. Heavy. Yet Unstoppable.
Before the next shot, the commander stepped forward.
No visor. No rifle.
Just a cold face and the weight of command.
"So this is the Diablo," he said. "Didn't think you'd put up that much of a fight."
Rai spat blood.
"Didn't think you'd need thirty-six men to kill one."
The commander smirked.
"Would've brought more."
He stepped closer.
"Let's settle this like men."
Rai chuckled — low, rough.
"You're either brave," he said, "or real damn stupid."
"Maybe both," the commander replied. "But curious."
Then they lunged.
The world narrowed.
Fists. Blood. Bone. Rage.
Rai fought like a man already dead.
Every blow a memory.
Every strike, survival.
The commander was trained. Brutal. Efficient.
But Rai was something worse.
He smashed an elbow into the man's jaw.
Then a headbutt. Then another.
Bone cracked. Blood spilled.
The commander staggered. Reached for his sidearm.
Rai saw it.
And smiled.
The commander raised a hand.
"FIRE!"
But before a single round could be fired—
Beep.
Then another.
Tiny red lights blinked beneath the floorboards.
Inside walls.
Behind marble.
The commander froze.
"What—"
Rai stood up, looking down at the battered comander. His voice, cold as steel.
"You really thought I didn't plan for this?"
He looked around — the broken walls, flickering sparks, the blood.
"You came to the Devil's Den and expected to walk out."
The commander opened his mouth to shout, "RETR—"
Too late.
Boom.
The villa exploded.
Steel and flame tore the walls apart. The shockwave shattered windows for blocks.
Fire curled into the sky like a dragon's breath, lighting the night in orange and gold hue.
Thirty-six elite soldiers.
One commander.
One devil.
All gone.
And somewhere, far from the ruins...
In another world...
The wind stirred.