The bound man's eyes widened, chest hammering, as the figure in the purple coat stepped closer. Each movement was deliberate, controlled, as if the shadows themselves bent around him. The man froze mid-step, his legs refusing to obey. It was as if some unseen force held him in place.
A wave of malevolent power emanated from the purple coat man, a chilling aura that pressed against the air, suffocating, almost tangible. Every heartbeat felt slower, every breath heavier. The bound man's instincts screamed to flee, yet his body betrayed him, locked in place by sheer presence.
From the left, a blur of motion cut through the tension—Mejiro's blade arced with lethal precision. Sparks flew as it grazed the purple coat man, forcing him to sidestep gracefully, a faint smirk tracing his lips.
"Ah… you survived," the purple coat man said, voice smooth, teasing, yet edged with danger.
Mejiro's gaze hardened, cold and unwavering. "I'm not here to play games."
Kenji stepped forward beside Mejiro, bare hands clenched, muscles coiled like springs. He studied the purple coat man with calm intensity, ready to strike the instant the fight began.
Without another word, the battle erupted.
Mejiro's katana sliced through the air with deadly accuracy, clashing against the purple coat man's defenses. Every movement was fluid, precise; the villain seemed to anticipate each strike, moving with an unnatural grace.
Kenji closed the distance, launching a barrage of punches and kicks. His hands struck with blinding speed, each blow aimed at pressure points, yet the purple coat man shifted effortlessly, avoiding, redirecting, countering.
The ground around them trembled with the force of Mejiro's strikes and Kenji's blows. Crates splintered, concrete cracked, and debris flew as the villain's sheer power forced them to retreat momentarily.
Mejiro and Kenji coordinated silently, flowing together in an unspoken rhythm. Despite their skill, the purple coat man's aura and technique kept them on the defensive, constantly adjusting, constantly reacting.
A spinning kick from Kenji grazed the villain, sending him skidding backward, only for him to recover instantly, his smirk never fading. Mejiro lunged, blade aimed at the opening, but the villain twisted, barely evading, leaving Mejiro cutting through the empty air.
Sweat and blood streaked their faces, but their resolve never wavered. Each strike, each dodge, each counter moved them closer, yet farther from victory—the purple coat man was a storm of raw skill and terrifying presence.
Finally, after a series of strikes that left the alley in ruins, the villain stepped back, observing his opponents with calm amusement.
"You've improved… but it's not enough," he said softly, almost kindly, then vanished into the shadows, leaving Mejiro and Kenji breathing heavily, muscles screaming, and eyes locked on the space where he had stood.
Even together, they had barely kept up. The threat was far from over.
Mejiro crouched slightly, hand tightening on his blade, eyes still scanning the shadows. The bound man staggered forward, chest heaving, finally able to move, but his eyes remained fixed on the path where the purple coat man had disappeared. Kenji flexed his fingers, muscles tense, his gaze lingering on the empty space with a frown. "Who the hell was that?" he muttered, voice low but sharp, carrying both disbelief and caution.
He shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing. "He… he was never in any government assassin records." Mejiro's jaw tightened, and even the bound man flinched subtly, sensing something beyond their understanding. The three of them remained on edge, each processing the implication: this was no ordinary foe, and he had only shown them a glimpse of the power he wielded.
The scene shifts.
The bar was the color of old wood and cigarette smoke — every surface a deep, worn brown that swallowed light instead of holding it. A single row of stools lined the counter like sentries, their leather cracked, their springs sighing softly when someone shifted. No customers tonight; the street outside moved in its usual lazy parade of umbrellas and hurried shoulders, pedestrians' boots tapping a steady rhythm against the wet pavement. Rain ghosted across the window, blurring faces and neon into watercolor smears. A small fan, perched on a shelf behind the counter, spun lazily, then hiccuped and rolled upward on its stand as if remembering how to breathe; its thin breeze barely ruffled the white cloth an old man used to polish a glass.
He wiped with slow, sure motions — white hair like cotton at his temples, beard trimmed but unruly, a brown apron tied around his waist over a white T‑shirt whose sleeves were rolled up to the elbows in the neat, practical fold of someone who had done this a thousand times. The bar smelled faintly of lemon oil and dark liquor, of steadiness and late hours. Mejiro sat near the end of the counter, shoulders hunched, blade of silence at his side; behind him the world hummed, distant and indifferent.
The old man set the glass down with a soft clink, watched the fan take another sleepy turn, and then leaned on the counter with both palms, as if settling a question into place.
"How was your mission."
He did not ask it like a stranger. He asked it like a man who had seen a thousand returns and expected this one to be no different — voice roughened by smoke and seasons, curious and careful.
"Did you save the president."
Mejiro's hand tightened on the rim of the glass next to him. He did not look up at first; he let the hum of the fan fill the space between words. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and met the old man's eyes.
"He was not the president. It was his son."
The old man's fingers paused on the cloth, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Oh." The exhale that followed was small, an audible tilt of surprise more than shock. "That's… surprising." He set the cloth down with a deliberate calm and let his gaze wander to the blurred street for a beat, as if weighing the city's mood. Then he returned, voice low, muscles of his face softening into something like pity and anger braided together.
"The whole lot's rotten," he said finally, words sliding out like stones from a shaken sack. "They patched the law over with paper and promises, wrapped their fingers in suits and titles, and called it order. But order for them is profit and silence. They stamp out priests if they speak, they bury the small fires of anyone who points and calls them thieves. Men with badges twist the law like a rope, and the gangs tie the knots for them. The people who should be holding the line — the ones they call leaders — they trade the line for a place at the table. Everything that could have been true gets sold off in whispers and favors. You save one boy and they call you dangerous; you let a billion suffer and they call it stability. That's the cost they sell." He gave a short, bitter laugh that was almost a cough. "I've watched it for longer than most. Promises get thinner. Names change hands. But the machine keeps grinding."
Mejiro's jaw moved once, twice; his answer came flat, like a blade drawn from a sheath. "We have to get the president of the party to safety."