The night had settled thick over the ruins of the abandoned district, a suffocating silence hanging in the air like a shroud. The rain that had earlier washed the streets now left behind a gleaming surface, reflecting the shattered buildings and broken lamps like fractured mirrors. It was here, amidst the stillness, that Shinomiya Reiji walked alone, his shadow stretching unnaturally long beneath the pale moonlight.
Every corner whispered of hidden dangers. He could feel them—eyes trained on him, breaths muffled, the tremor of blades unsheathed in silence. The enemy had chosen their hunting ground well. But Reiji was no prey. He was the shadow that stalked shadows.
A sudden shift in the wind. He froze. The subtle scrape of steel against stone echoed from above. Without hesitation, Reiji leapt aside—just as a blade carved down where his head had been. The assassin descended like a phantom, masked and dressed in black, movements fluid, precise, and merciless.
Reiji's own blade met the strike midair, sparks scattering like fleeting stars. The clash was brief but sharp, a language of killers spoken without words.
More emerged from the darkness. One by one, silent blades glinted in the moonlight, circling him. The ambush had been meticulous, designed to overwhelm, to drown him in sheer numbers. Ten against one.
Yet his expression did not falter.
> "Cowards who rely on the dark without understanding it…" Reiji's voice was low, steady, his eyes burning cold. "…will always be consumed by it."
The assassins lunged simultaneously, a wave of steel and shadows. Reiji's body moved before thought could register—fluid as water, sharp as lightning. Every strike he made was deliberate, cutting not just flesh but rhythm. He disrupted their formation, turned their unity into chaos. Blood slicked the rain-soaked ground, merging with the reflections until it was impossible to tell what was shadow, what was stain.
Still, the assassins pressed on. Their leader, marked by a crimson scarf, signaled for a pincer strike. Blades darted toward Reiji from blind spots, angles impossible to evade.
But Reiji did not evade.
He stepped into the attack, sliding under the arc of one blade, letting another graze his arm in exchange for a killing thrust through the attacker's throat. Pain meant nothing; precision was everything.
The crimson-scarf assassin growled, tightening his grip on dual short swords. His movements were sharper, faster, deadly—far beyond the others. Their blades met again and again, clashing with a fury that resonated through the dead district. Sparks lit the darkness like fleeting lightning, every strike seeking death.
At last, Reiji found the opening he had been waiting for. A faint overextension of the enemy's wrist. With surgical precision, he slid his blade through the gap, disarming and cutting in one motion. The assassin staggered back, clutching his bleeding arm, but Reiji's eyes offered no mercy.
The killing blow was silent. A swift arc across the throat.
One by one, the remaining assassins fell. Some tried to retreat, but Reiji hunted them down with unrelenting steps, leaving no witnesses behind. By the time silence reclaimed the ruins, the ground was littered with bodies—cold, lifeless, swallowed by the night.
Reiji stood amidst them, breathing steadily, his blade dripping crimson into the shallow pools of rainwater. His eyes did not soften, not even once.
Yet deep within, a storm brewed.
These were not ordinary assassins. Their precision, their coordination—it spoke of training, of belonging to a greater order. Someone had sent them. Someone who knew his movements, his path.
As the moonlight dimmed behind thick clouds, Reiji tightened his grip on his sword.
> "So… the game begins."
The shadows around him no longer felt empty. They were watching, waiting, testing. The world itself seemed to conspire to push him deeper into the labyrinth of blood and betrayal.
And Reiji, the shadow that had already abandoned the light, walked forward into it—blade in hand, eyes unyielding, ready for whatever darkness awaited.