The city's industrial district never slept. Even at midnight, cranes moaned over rusted docks, lights flickered on oil-slick water, and the air smelled of metal and rot.
Daichi stood on a rooftop overlooking the harbor, his coat fluttering against the rain.
He sucked on a lollipop, the candy stick tilting from his lips like a cigarette.
Arata crouched beside him, scanning the ground through a scope. "Three guards outside, possibly six more in the warehouse. Standard loadout — low-tier Reapers with smuggled weapons."
"Boring," Daichi muttered.
"We're not here for entertainment."
"Yeah, yeah. We're here for that cult nut with the mask."
Arata lowered the scope. "The Faceless Priest. Don't underestimate him. He's rumored to channel the souls of dead Reapers. One mistake and we'll be joining them."
Daichi grinned. "Then let's make sure he doesn't get a two-for-one deal."
Before Arata could argue, Daichi leapt off the roof.
Rain whipped against his face as he fell — and landed silently, knees bent, lollipop still between his teeth.
A guard barely had time to shout before Daichi's fist met his jaw. The man crumpled instantly.
Another tried to draw a blade, but Daichi was faster — twisting, slamming his elbow into the man's ribs, disarming him with a lazy spin.
"Two down," he whispered. "Your turn, partner."
Arata sighed over comms. "Show-off."
Gunfire broke the rain's rhythm. Arata's bullet tore through the third guard's shoulder — the gun he held disintegrated midair, reshaping into a curved blade that shimmered like smoke. He moved with mechanical precision, his eyes cold behind his glasses.
Each shot wasn't just a bullet — it was the weapon transforming with every pull of the trigger. A gun, a blade, a spear — his "Reaper Weapons" quirk adapting fluidly with his intent.
Daichi whistled. "Still overkill."
Arata ignored him, reloading. "We move. The Priest's inside."
Inside the Warehouse
The air was thick with incense and decay. Candles burned in uneven rows, wax running down rusted crates.
In the center stood a circle of masked followers — each one kneeling before a figure in a tattered robe, a bone-white mask covering his face.
The Faceless Priest.
His voice was calm, almost tender. "Do not fear death, my children. Fear the meaninglessness of your life before it."
The followers murmured prayers in unison.
Daichi stepped out of the shadows, hands in his pockets. "Nice sermon. Bit creepy on the delivery, though."
Dozens of heads turned. The Priest didn't move.
Arata emerged beside Daichi, his gun already shifting in form, glowing faintly blue.
The Priest tilted his head. "Agents of the Agency…" His tone was smooth, unnervingly gentle. "You carry the stench of false justice."
Daichi smirked. "And you carry the stench of cheap perfume."
Arata muttered, "You're insufferable."
The Priest raised a hand. "Kill them."
The cultists lunged all at once.
Daichi cracked his neck, candy stick snapping from his lips. "Finally."
He moved like smoke — ducking, spinning, striking with clean, brutal efficiency. His fists struck with enough force to dent metal. Each hit made the air ripple faintly — his Reaper energy barely contained.
Arata fired twice — both bullets bursting into scythes midair, slicing through two attackers before returning to gun form in his hand. His movements were disciplined, his expression unreadable.
Bodies fell. Silence returned — almost.
Then, slow clapping echoed through the hall.
The Priest was smiling beneath his mask. "Impressive. You both possess strength… yet you wield it without understanding."
Daichi stepped closer. "Understanding's overrated."
"You fight for an Agency that buries the truth of what you are."
Arata narrowed his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
The Priest extended his hand. Black mist coiled around his fingers. The nearest corpse twitched, then rose — its eyes blank and glowing.
Daichi's grin faded. "Well, that's new."
"Not new," the Priest said softly. "Merely forgotten."
The corpses began to move — jerky at first, then with terrifying purpose.
"Arata," Daichi said, sliding another lollipop into his mouth. "You take left."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, buddy."
The floor erupted into chaos once more.
Hours Later
By dawn, the warehouse was burning.
Smoke bled into the sky, and Daichi stood outside, wiping blood from his cheek. His lollipop was cracked, but still there.
Arata holstered his weapon. "He escaped."
Daichi's jaw tightened. "Yeah. But not for long."
They stood in silence as the flames reflected in their eyes — one with firelight dancing in his grin, the other with steel in his calm.
Somewhere far away, the storm they'd started was already spreading.
Meanwhile — The Academy
Eiden's fingers trembled as he read the notice pinned to the main hall board.
"Academy Group Trials – Commencing Tomorrow"
Below it, a list of names.
His name sat among three others: Renji, Kendo, and Jin.
Renji whooped. "We made it! Team of the year, baby!"
Kendo frowned. "Don't get cocky. We don't even know what the exam is."
Jin folded his arms. "It won't matter. We'll pass."
Eiden tried to smile, but his thoughts were heavy.
Pass or die.
He looked up at the academy's towering glass dome, the morning light shining across it like a blade.
Tomorrow, they would be tested — not as students, but as Reapers.