The air inside the abandoned church was heavy.
Old wood groaned.
Candles flickered.
And at the altar stood a figure cloaked in deep crimson, face hidden behind a silver wolf mask.
Around him, more masked figures knelt in absolute silence.
This was not a gathering of common criminals.
This was the Crimson Pact.
A secret organization born from chaos.
They worshipped strength.
They lived for control.
And now, their eyes were set on the new player disturbing the balance of Tōriku City.
They spoke of him in whispers:
The boy who shattered Asakura.
The boy who humiliated the mercenaries.
A ghost moving through their empire.
The Crimson Wolf—their leader—lowered his head, murmuring a simple command:
"Find him."
"And bring me his head."
---
Meanwhile, at a quiet rooftop garden overlooking the city, Hiroshi stood with Nova and Echo.
The skyline stretched before them—steel and neon bleeding into the misty night.
But Hiroshi wasn't admiring the view.
His mind was sharp.
Calculating.
Waiting.
"You feel it too, right?" Nova asked, flipping her butterfly knife lazily.
Echo nodded, adjusting her glasses. "Movement. Subtle. But deliberate."
"They're not just reacting anymore," Hiroshi said softly. "They're hunting."
He almost smiled.
It was exactly what he wanted.
---
In the underbelly of the city, strange things began to happen.
Informants vanished.
Safehouses burned.
Supplies meant for the Kurogane Empire were intercepted without a trace.
Wraith led a small unit to investigate—and what they found chilled even her.
An entire crew of Specters—skilled operatives—slaughtered with ruthless precision.
No bullet wounds.
No explosions.
Just silence.
And a symbol scorched into the floor:
A crimson wolf.
---
Back in their hidden base—nicknamed "Sanctum" by the team—the Seven gathered for an emergency meeting.
The war room buzzed with static and shifting holograms.
Revenant leaned forward, frowning. "Whoever these guys are, they're professional. Not street rats."
"Or worse," Geist muttered. "They think like us."
Hiroshi studied the wolf symbol carefully.
Ancient.
Primordial.
A sign of a group not interested in flashy power.
They wanted domination from the shadows.
Just like him.
Just like the empire he was building.
Nova leaned on the table. "What's the plan, boss?"
Everyone turned to Hiroshi.
He stayed silent for a moment.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Then he smiled—a cool, razor-thin smile.
"We bait them," he said simply.
"And we show them the difference between playing in the dark... and owning it."
---
The bait was simple.
A fake shipment of rare tech, moving through one of the more exposed districts.
Heavily guarded—but just vulnerable enough to tempt a real strike.
Every alley, every rooftop, every sewer exit was covered by hidden eyes.
The Kurogane Empire was ready.
Or so they thought.
---
The attack came differently than expected.
Not a frontal assault.
Not a sniper team.
It started with music.
A soft, eerie melody whispering through the mist.
Then laughter.
Mocking.
Cold.
Then, without warning—explosions.
The convoy didn't get attacked.
The streets around it did.
Buildings collapsed inward.
Escape routes turned to rubble.
Smoke flooded the air.
In the chaos, figures in crimson cloaks moved like ghosts.
Cutting down guards.
Disrupting comms.
Blinding cameras.
For the first time, Hiroshi realized—
They weren't just strong.
They were artists.
Masters of chaos.
---
Hiroshi dropped into the battlefield personally, chopsticks sliding into his hands like blades.
From the mist, a figure approached.
Not rushing.
Not charging.
Walking.
Confident.
This new enemy wore a crimson wolf mask, like the others—but his presence was heavier.
Older.
More dangerous.
The man stopped a few feet away.
"You must be the boy who thinks he can change the order of things," the masked figure said.
His voice was calm.
Amused.
Hiroshi twirled a chopstick between his fingers.
"And you must be the relic clinging to the old ways."
The man chuckled. "Perhaps. But relics have a way of surviving."
Lightning-fast, he attacked.
Hiroshi barely blocked the strike.
The man fought with a brutal, ancient martial style—raw strength mixed with savage precision.
Every blow shook the ground.
But Hiroshi was faster.
Sharper.
He didn't match strength with strength.
He flowed like water.
Redirected.
Dodged.
Countered.
The battle wasn't a clash of equals.
It was a lesson.
And Hiroshi was the teacher.
---
After several exchanges, Hiroshi saw it—the tiniest hesitation in the man's left foot.
A weakness.
Without mercy, Hiroshi struck.
One, two, three precise hits.
Crack—shoulder dislocated.
Snap—knee collapsed.
Final blow—mask shattered.
The man crumbled, gasping for air.
Hiroshi crouched beside him.
"You're good," Hiroshi said quietly. "But you're still chained to the past."
The man, bleeding and broken, smiled through cracked lips.
"You think you've won?" he rasped.
"You've only... awakened the true beast."
Before Hiroshi could ask what he meant, the man bit down on something.
A sharp click.
And his body ignited in crimson flames.
Self-destruction.
Hiroshi stood up, expression unreadable, as the body burned away.
The Crimson Pact wasn't just another gang.
They were fanatics.
And they were just getting started.
---
Later that night, as the city smoldered in pockets of hidden fire, Hiroshi stood alone at the edge of a ruined rooftop.
The wind tugged at his black hoodie.
Far below, the people of Tōriku City lived their lives, unaware that a new war was brewing over their heads.
A war between unseen kings.
And Hiroshi?
He smiled faintly.
"Let's see how deep your shadows go."
Because he would go deeper.
He would become the darkness that swallowed them whole.
No matter how long it took.