Chapter 196: Kira's Judgment; The "Perfect" Mask Cosplay
Inside the surveillance van parked outside the facility, L heard a panicked voice crackle through his headset.
"Kira has appeared! What are our orders? Do we move in for the arrest?"
"No," L replied. He stared at the monitor, watching the figure of Kira step toward the detention center gates with calm, measured strides. "Proceed with the transfer as planned."
The field commander froze. "But... we have a live national broadcast going on. If this spirals out of control..."
"You don't have a 100% certainty of catching him right now, do you?" L countered. "If you move now and he escapes, we gain nothing. But if we let him act in front of the cameras, he'll reveal more of his philosophy, his methods, and his ego. That data is far more valuable for deducing his true identity."
"But the suspect's safety—"
"Miura Kura was already headed for a death sentence, wasn't he?" L said, his voice as flat as a dial tone. "Instead of rotting in a cell and wasting taxpayer money, let him provide us with something of actual worth before he goes."
The commander felt a chill run down his spine. This "Great Detective" didn't give a damn about procedural justice or human rights. To L, this wasn't a police operation; it was a high-stakes game of chess, and Miura Kura was just a pawn to be sacrificed for a better position.
"Understood," the commander finally muttered. He made his peace with it. If Kira killed a child-murdering monster on live TV, L would be the one taking the heat from the top brass. Besides, in his heart, he felt the same as the rest of the city: a monster like Miura didn't deserve a trial.
"This is Tokyo TV! We are live on the scene as the suspect, Miura Kura, is being transferred from the detention center!"
It was exactly 7:00 AM. Most of Tokyo's workforce was awake, eating breakfast while half-watching the news. When Miura Kura's name was mentioned, every head turned to the screen. Chopsticks stopped mid-air.
The heavy iron gates of the detention center creaked open. Armed officers formed a perimeter. The cameras zoomed in on the dark threshold.
Clink... Clink...
The sound of shuffling chains echoed from the shadows. A man of average height, wearing a nondescript face and glasses, stepped out in a prison jumpsuit, flanked by two guards.
L watched the feed, then did something the commander never expected. He unhooked his headset, pushed open the van door, and stepped out into the morning air, slipping on his shoes.
"Are you insane?!" the commander hissed, chasing after him. "Kira might know your face from the hotel incident! You're putting a target on your head!"
"How tedious," L sighed, not even bothering to look back.
His logic was simple: Kira considered himself a bringer of "Justice." He was using this broadcast to build a brand, to become a symbol. Would such a person kill a detective in cold blood in front of millions of viewers while trying to claim the moral high ground?
If Kira was that petty, then he wasn't a threat worth L's full attention.
Kira... are you a true believer, or just another petty killer playing God?
On the live feed, Miura Kura looked at the cameras. Seeing the lenses pointed at him, a twisted, arrogant light flickered behind his glasses. He suddenly raised his shackled hands and flashed a peace sign at the nation.
"Sorry to disappoint you all," he sneered, his voice high and manic. "But I've got a certified mental illness. I'm not getting the rope! I'm 'not responsible' for my actions!"
Fury erupted across the country. In living rooms and on the scene, people were screaming at their TVs.
"This guy is unbelievable!"
"Hang him now!"
"He's playing the system!"
Miura didn't stop there. He looked at the female reporter standing near the cameraman and licked his lips.
"You're pretty," he chirped. "But I prefer them younger. I love the way they cry and beg before I take them apart piece by piece. It's the most beautiful sound in the world!"
A guard shoved him. "Shut up and move!"
"Don't touch me," Miura laughed. "Even a 'bad guy' like me has human rights. You have to show me basic respect."
But as the words left his mouth, his arrogance vanished. His eyes bugged out as if he were seeing a demon. He stumbled back, falling onto his backside in the dirt.
"Wha... what the hell is that?!"
The police and the viewers were baffled. To them, he was just having a panic attack. Only L, standing a few dozen yards away, narrowed his eyes. It's starting.
RIIIIP.
The sound of wet fabric and flesh tearing apart filled the air.
It wasn't a doll being ripped. It was Miura's left arm.
Blood geysered from the stump like a crimson fountain. Miura stared at the empty space where his limb had been for a full second before the agony hit him.
"HELP! SAVE ME!" he shrieked, thrashing in a pool of his own blood. His severed hand, still cuffed to his right wrist, flopped uselessly on the pavement.
"SNIPER!" the guards screamed. "GET DOWN! COVER!"
They raised their rifles, searching the rooftops, but found nothing. There was no muzzle flash, no sound of a shot. It was as if an invisible giant had simply reached down and plucked the man's arm off.
RIP. RIP. RIP.
Left leg. Right arm. Right leg.
One by one, Miura's limbs were torn from his torso in a gruesome display of invisible dismemberment. Finally, his head was twisted off like a bottle cap.
The monster of Tokyo had been "drawn and quartered" by an unseen executioner. The guards were frozen in horror. The commander turned to the camera crew, his face pale. "Cut the fee—"
"No," L interrupted, his voice calm amidst the carnage. "Keep the broadcast running. You can blur the body, but don't stop. The main event is just beginning."
As if on cue, steady footsteps echoed from inside the detention center gates.
A figure emerged into the morning sun. He wore ornate white robes and a blood-red Dai-Tengu mask. He didn't avoid the gore; he stepped right through the pool of blood, his boots splashing in the thick liquid.
"Greetings, citizens," the figure said, his voice smooth and carrying an eerie authority.
"I am Kira."
The commander drew his pistol, aiming it at the white-robed figure. "You are under arrest for the murder of Miura Kura! Stand down or we will open fire!"
"Murder?" The eyes behind the Tengu mask glowed a sinister red. "Where is your evidence? Can anyone here prove his death was caused by my hand? Does your precious 'procedural justice' have a law for what just happened? If not, on what grounds are you arresting me?"
Before the police could respond, Kira looked directly into the camera lens, his crimson gaze seemingly piercing through every TV screen in the country.
"The wicked shall not escape judgment. The New World has begun."
L leaned toward the commander. "Fire."
"What? But—"
"Forget it." L snatched the pistol from the commander's hand. Before anyone could react, he aimed at Kira and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The figure in white didn't flinch. No bullet hit him. It was as if the projectile had vanished into thin air.
But L saw it. For a split second, a monstrous entity—nearly seven feet tall with massive wings, looking exactly like the legendary Emperor Sutoku—had manifested in front of Kira and swatted the bullet aside.
"I see..." L murmured, staring at the masked boy. "I'll be catching you very soon."
The commander's jaw dropped. Are you trying to get yourself killed?! This guy just tore a man apart with his mind!
Kira spared L a final, lingering look—crimson eyes meeting dark, shadowed ones. Then, like a ghost, he melted into the shadows of the facility and vanished.
Inside the Detention Center.
"Freeze!"
A lone guard, the last one standing in the hallway, aimed his taser with trembling hands at a suspicious figure in a black trench coat and a pitch-black mask.
ZZZT!
The taser wires hit the intruder's chest, sparks dancing across the fabric.
"That's it?" The Mask (Yoru) chuckled, brushing the wires off like lint. "That much voltage is barely a massage. You gotta do better than that, chief."
The guard stared in terror as Yoru stepped closer. "We doing this the hard way, or the easy way?"
The guard didn't hesitate. He stripped off his belt, his radio, and his sidearm, tossing them into a pile. He sat down and put his hands on his head.
"Smart move," Yoru nodded. "You don't get paid enough to die for this place. Just sit tight."
Yoru continued down the hall. "Now... where is it?"
He turned a corner and found his target. Leaning against a wall was a woman—or rather, a female spirit. She wore a revealing kimono, her skin pale as moonlight, her curves meant to ignite a man's darkest impulses. She looked like a lost, porcelain doll.
"Please... don't kill me," she whimpered, tears welling in her large, innocent eyes. "Won't you show a poor girl some mercy?"
Hidden in the shadows nearby, Light (Kira) watched. He knew Yoru's reputation. He's a total skirt-chaser. This ghost is his natural enemy. Let's see how the 'Avatar of Chaos' handles a thirst trap.
Yoru walked right up to the beautiful ghost. He reached out with his left hand and tilted her chin up, looking like a classic anime delinquent.
The ghost, thinking her charm worked, leaned in. "I'll do anything you want... just don't hurt me..."
"Is that right?"
Yoru's hand suddenly transformed into a Pale Ghost Hand. He didn't kiss her; he grabbed her entire face and slammed her skull into the concrete wall with enough force to crack it.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
He spent the next thirty seconds rhythmically tenderizing the ghost's head against the masonry. Finally, he let go, opened his mouth, and inhaled the black miasma as she dissipated.
"Sorry, babe," Yoru muttered. "I'm in Ascended Mode right now. Pure Zen. Your 'thirst trap' logic doesn't work on a guy who just spent all night 'leveling up' with Tuanzi."
Light stepped out from the shadows, looking disappointed. "So you finished your snack?"
"Yup. Tasty," Yoru chirped. "How was your debut?"
"He's dead," Light said coldly. "The man was pure evil. No spiritual influence, just a rotten soul."
Yoru shrugged. "Figures. The world has plenty of human trash that makes demons look like amateurs. Can't blame the ghosts for everything."
"You're actually defending the spirits now?"
"Hey, I'm a 'Friend to the Supernatural.' I eat 'em, but I respect 'em. It's a professional courtesy."
10:00 AM, Hotel Room.
"It's perfect!"
Marin Kitagawa stared into the mirror. She was cosplaying as Shizuku-tan—her favorite character. With her purple contacts and elaborate dress, she looked like she had stepped right out of a high-tier anime.
She turned to Saki Kawasaki. "Saki-chan! This outfit is god-tier! You're a literal genius!"
Saki blushed, looking away. "As long as you're happy with it. But... aren't you going to be hot? That fabric is thick."
"No worries! I've got cooling pads taped everywhere!"
A knock came at the door. "It's me."
Marin ran to open it and gasped. "Whoa! Yoru-kun! You look... identical!"
She pointed at Yoru, who was dressed in "The Mask" cosplay—a black trench coat and a custom-made pitch-black mask.
"Saki, look! It's like the real 'Mask' walked into the room! The height, the vibe... it's 100% restoration!"
Saki managed a weak nod. Yeah... no kidding, Marin. It's not a 'restoration.' It's the original file.