"Holy crap! It's confirmed! I knew there had to be an official Transcendent department—'Special Incident Response Section'—the name alone screams badass!"
"Transcendents policing Transcendents—that's the only logic that makes sense, or the world would've imploded long ago!"
"Looks like the state machine can still crush the super-powered crowd. I feel a bit safer now…"
Yet sharper-eyed netizens who love to mine every pixel for clues immediately sensed something off, sparking an even deeper debate.
"Hold up, don't celebrate yet! Look at Yota's reaction—his subordinate clearly advised reporting it to the Special Section, but he flatly refused and insisted on sending regular cops to die. Does that smell right?"
"Exactly! The logic here is terrifying when you think about it. A father whose daughter's life is on the line ignores the specialists who could actually solve the problem and picks a slower, bloodier option? That's not rational!"
"There's only one explanation: either it's not yet time for them to move, or…"
"'Saving lives has priorities, healing the world has an order!' A Transcendent's life is still a life—and probably a more valuable one. The Transcendent assets in official hands are strategic; they won't be mobilized for one bureaucrat's family drama. Their priority is bigger, more urgent threats."
"I'm with the guy above. Yota Yukinoshita would rather bet police firepower can stop Kuchiba Hiro than request Transcendent backup. What does that tell us? In the official risk matrix, the 'chaos level' Hiro is causing hasn't crossed the line for immediate elimination."
"Terror-level food for thought +1. It implies Transcendents can wreck normal society, but the bar for official intervention is sky-high—maybe even a silent rule of 'limited conflict': as long as you don't cross the red line, do whatever you want."
"So… The Authorities can't actually control every Transcendent? They only set a floor: fight among yourselves all you like, just don't splash the collateral too far."
These deeper analyses sent a chill through countless viewers, who couldn't help replaying Hiro's deeds in their heads.
He's killed nearly twenty people — more to come probably — and the people who could stop him still aren't in a hurry. How bad must it get before official Transcendents act?
If that's true, ordinary folks are even more helpless than imagined. Official protection isn't omnipresent; it follows a cold, utilitarian priority list.
To these titans, the feud between Kuchiba Hiro and the Yukinoshita Family is probably a "minor scuffle" safely below the threshold—hardly worth mentioning.
The online discussion kept digging—and kept getting darker. The light screen had shown not only personal grudges and super-powers but also the colder, crueler rules that might govern society behind the curtain.
(The light screen cuts to Shibuya Crossing. A giant outdoor LED loops an emergency bulletin.
The anchorwoman looks grim, Hiro's cold-eyed teen mugshot behind her.
"Urgent: Police are hunting extremely dangerous fugitive Kuchiba Hiro, male, 18. This morning in Aokigahara Forest he brutally murdered multiple officers and slipped into Tokyo. He is highly dangerous and possibly armed. Do not approach; call police immediately if seen…"
The announcement echoes over the clamor of traffic and crowds, an eerie dissonance.
A cluster of salarymen stops, glances up, and whistles.
"Whoa—one kid took out an entire SWAT team? Seriously? High-schoolers these days…"
"Straight out of a manga. Should've cut back on the shōnen jump."
"Anyway, not our problem. Gotta catch the train or say goodbye to the perfect-attendance bonus."
"Yeah, the section chief's waiting for my report. Let's roll."
After a few shrugs they switch topics as casually as chatting about the weather, merging back into the tide of commuters.
Other pedestrians spare the screen a glance, maybe a flicker of worry, then bow their heads again—scrolling phones or hurrying on.
For most people, no matter how bloody the headlines, life goes on as long as disaster hasn't knocked on their personal door.
Commuting to work, going to school, paying off loans, squeezing into the subway—those mundane fragments form their real world. The bloodshed far away feels like noise from another dimension, and they instinctively choose to ignore it, as if simply refusing to think about it lets them stay forever on the sidelines, content to play the silent background figures in the era's torrent.
The camera follows the crowd, focusing on the mouth of a subway station.
Kuchiba Hiro had already changed into an utterly nondescript outfit: a plain black jacket, blue jeans, sneakers. A mask hid his face, and he'd pulled his cap low. He kept to the wall, minimizing his presence.
A short way ahead, at the intersection, a temporary roadblock had been set up. Several heavily armed police were directing traffic and randomly inspecting passing vehicles.
All the main roads were under tight surveillance. The van he'd stolen was too conspicuous and had long since been abandoned several blocks away.
Taking the subway—using the city's vast, tangled underground network to reach Chiba—was now his fastest and stealthiest option.
He headed for the nearest subway entrance, eyes sharp as he swept the crowd, alert for any plainclothes officers.
Though his clothes were ordinary, his overly wary stance—like a coiled spring ready to snap—and the cold, un-youthful eyes above his mask clashed with the numb or hurried atmosphere around him.
The anomaly was quickly noticed by a young woman drifting through the crowd, gaze furtive. She looked innocent but her eyes held calculation and greed.
In the neon-lit city, using a "false molestation" accusation to extort money was nothing new; for the unscrupulous, it had even become a low-cost, high-return business.
Spotting her moment, the girl passed Kuchiba Hiro and suddenly yelped, staggering back to slam into him. Instantly she clutched her chest and shrieked, "Pervert! He groped me!"
The scream drew every nearby eye. Kuchiba Hiro paused, brows knitted, wanting only to leave. But several "helpful" strangers instinctively blocked his path.
Hey! What did you do to her?
You're not going anywhere—wait for the cops!
Unwilling to let things escalate, Hiro swallowed his rage, pulled out his wallet, and shoved a few Fukuzawa Yukichi notes at the girl. "Take it and get lost."
To onlookers, the cold attempt to buy silence looked like guilt. Emboldened, the girl wept even harder. "You—how dare you insult me with money! Officer! Officer! This pervert tried to bribe me!"
Two patrolling officers heard the commotion and hurried over. They'd seen this scenario countless times, but procedure had to be followed.
What's going on here? asked the senior officer.
The crowd and the girl chattered at once, effectively convicting Hiro on the spot.
The officer sighed and stepped up. "Sir, please come with us to the station to assist our investigation."
Kuchiba Hiro glanced at the two ordinary officers, then at the growing ring of phone-waving onlookers and the still-performing girl. Beneath his mask his lips curled in utter irritation.
He drew a deep breath—and moved.
Without warning he spun, a vicious roundhouse kick catching the senior officer on the side of the neck. The man crumpled without a sound.
The younger officer gaped and reached for his baton. Hiro was faster; the instant his spinning foot landed he surged forward, driving a heavy front kick into the officer's gut.
The young officer doubled over, bile and acid spraying from his mouth as he folded backward like a shrimp.
In a flash—barely two seconds—both cops were down.
The crowd erupted in terrified screams.
Eyes icy, Hiro didn't pause. Stepping on the fallen officer as a springboard, he leapt like a panther and slammed his other shoe square into the scammer girl's face.
A dull crack—nasal cartilage snapping—cut her wail short.
Using the rebound, Hiro shot forward like an arrow, burst through the panicked crowd, and vanished into a side alley at terrifying speed.
He left behind only chaos: screaming pedestrians, unconscious officers, and the blood-smeared girl writhing on the ground.