Before the Story
Billions of years ago, Earth was nothing but stone and silence.
A dead sphere—cracked, barren, and overflowing with unspent power. Raw life energy, Tao, coursed through the planet's veins like blood trapped in a body with no heart. It had nowhere to go. Nothing lived. Nothing breathed.
And yet the pressure never stopped building.
From that unbearable excess of creation, something finally took form.
Ragnarok.The first Yokai.
It had no gender.No hunger.No ambition.
It did not want to exist.
It simply did.
Ages passed. Stone eroded into soil. Seas swallowed continents. The world softened—and from the ruins of silence, humans emerged.
Unlike Ragnarok, humans possessed something dangerous.
Instinct.
They fought to survive.Then learned how to thrive.
Humanity discovered Tao—not as a force to endure, but as a weapon to shape the world. Tao became blades and shields, miracles carved from will itself. With it, they founded the Hunter Organization, an order sworn to eradicate the Yokai and protect mankind at any cost.
Under Kin Yama, the First King, humanity united beneath a single banner—the Kingdom of Humanity.
That unity lasted one thousand years.
When Kin Yama's four sons were meant to inherit the throne together, greed poisoned blood. Brothers turned on brothers. War devoured the world, and from its ashes rose four nations:
Sao Kingdom
Yoru Kingdom
Natsu Empire
Zenith Republic
To end the conflict, they agreed upon a single law:
If only one prince remains, he shall be crowned King.
None ever have.
But one still dares to dream of that crown.
A boy with no royal blood.No lineage.No right to even want it.
His name is Akira Yamato.
A sharp knock rattled the thin wooden door.
"Akira!"
The voice was rough—angry.
"You still haven't paid for this inn!"
Akira groaned and rolled onto his side. Pain throbbed behind his eyes as he dug through his pockets, fingers brushing dust, lint, and disappointment. He found a single battered bill—his last.
With a tired sigh, he shoved it into the innkeeper's hand.
"Pleasure doing business," the man sneered. "Now get out."
Outside, Akira stretched until his joints cracked. Morning sunlight caught the white streak cutting through his black hair.
"Broke again," he muttered. "Guess I've got no choice but to visit her."
The bell above the shop door rattled as Akira stepped inside.
The air was thick—burnt herbs, ink, and old smoke clinging to the walls like memories that refused to fade. Behind the counter sat an older woman, pipe between her fingers, eyes sharp beneath years of wrinkles.
She studied him in silence.
"Akira," she said at last. "Are you still pursuing it?"
He blinked. "Pursuing… what?"
Smoke curled from her lips as she exhaled slowly.
"Becoming King."
Akira stiffened—then nodded.
She coughed, covering her mouth. "Tch. Thought so." Her gaze softened just a little. "I know an orphanage that'll take you in. Warm beds. Food every day."
Akira smiled faintly. "Your motherly instincts are kicking in."
"Only took a few months," she snorted. "Stubborn brat."
He stepped closer and held out his hand. "Just give me the contact."
She hesitated—just a heartbeat—then placed a worn card in his palm.
"Try not to die," she said.
"No promises."
The city assaulted him the moment he stepped outside.
Akira pinched his nose. "Ah… it smells terrible."
He dialed the number while walking, then dropped onto a bench as it rang.
"I want to be King," he muttered. "But I don't even know where to start. What am I supposed to—"
"How should I know?"
Akira flinched.
The man at the far end of the bench stood, scowling.
"Sorry," Akira said quickly. "Talking out loud."
The man scoffed and walked away.
Akira glanced at his phone.
The call had already connected.
Slowly, he raised it to his ear.
"…Hello?"
A rough voice answered immediately.
"Straight to attitude. I like that. You the kid she sent?"
Akira straightened. "Yes, sir."
"You're lucky. We need people—fast. Get to the Atlas Building near Ake Street."
"How long do I have?"
"Ten minutes."
The call ended.
Akira stared at the screen.
"You've gotta be kidding me."
He ran.
Through alleys and over rooftops. Vaulting carts, clearing fences, the city blurring beneath his feet. By the time he stopped, lungs burning, he stood before an Atlas warehouse guarded by ten hired men.
"…Guess these are the others."
Two men emerged—one in a tailored black suit, the other a nervous aide clinging close.
"You will escort me to a facility three miles east," the developer said without greeting. "No Tao barriers. We may encounter Yokai."
Akira raised a brow. All this… for a walk?
A woman among the guards spoke up. "We'll need a Taoist. Or at least a Tao-infused weapon."
"Calm down," the developer snapped. "It's only three miles."
His assistant whispered, "Sir, maybe we should wait for Hunters—"
"They're unnecessary," the developer replied coolly. "If something appears, we'll be close enough to lose whoever we need."
Akira clicked his tongue. "I'll already be gone if a Yokai shows up."
The forest swallowed the path.
Shadows stretched long. Silence pressed in.
Then—movement.
A lizard-headed Yokai dropped from the canopy.
Horns twisted like roots. Scales glinted green-black.
It hissed.
Two guards died before anyone screamed.
The Yokai's tongue lashed out, wrapping three men and smashing them into the ground until bone gave way. Gunfire cracked uselessly against its scales. The developer and his assistant fired wildly before being dragged screaming into the dirt.
Akira watched—heartbeat steady.
There's no chance I can run, he thought. So I should at least protect these weaklings.
He looked down at his empty hands.
No weapon.
"Whatever," he muttered. "I'll take him."
He leapt.
Midair, his fist hardened—Tao surging—and struck the Yokai square in the jaw.
It barely moved.
But that single centimeter was enough.
The Yokai's eyes widened. It screamed—not in pain, but recognition.
"KING!!"
Akira clamped his hands over his ears. "Huh?"
A kick sent him flying.
Another swipe hurled him through four trees. Trunks exploded. Air tore from his lungs.
Silence followed.
The Yokai drove a claw through the developer's chest. An ID card slipped free, fluttering to the ground.
Pinned beneath splintered wood, Akira stared at the name:
Steven Yung.
Tears burned his eyes.
"I really thought I could do it," he whispered. "I couldn't even beat a Grade One… and I wanted to be King."
Darkness closed in.
The last thing he saw was motion—two figures dropping from the canopy, blades gleaming.
"Sora," one said. "Is he alive?"