In the very fabric of the world, such existences defy hope and justice, spreading chaos across the realm of thought. Yet, these malevolent forces were erased by the warrior of the Mugen Emperor — sovereign of the Sphenix Pyramid. Known as Da'hiva by the Pharaoh's people, he wielded the Regurgitation of Light to purge the dishonest evils, not just from Egypt, but from the entire human world. Four thousand years passed, and the Earth evolved into a new civilization—one built upon mechanisms and ideologies far removed from the ancient world. The wisdom of the past faded, buried beneath concrete, code, and modern ambition. On the night of May 22nd, 2024, at exactly 11:00 PM, in the heart of Tokyo's restless Shinjuku district, a strange stillness crept through the skyline. The darkness echoed with an eerie elegance, as if the night itself remembered something the world had long forgotten—a whisper of the old order, stirring once more beneath the skin of a new age.In the Shinjuku Ward, along 21st Road—lined with shuttered shops and flickering market stalls—a stretch of darkness swallowed the city's pulse. Street lamps buzzed and glitched, casting broken halos of light over the endless asphalt. A man, dressed in a plain shirt and black jeans, his hair slicked back, sprinted down the road. He wasn't just running—he was fleeing. Something chased him from behind, unseen but suffocating in presence. As he pushed forward into the deepening night, each streetlamp flickered out one by one behind him, as if the darkness itself was hunting him, consuming the path with every step he took toward the unknown.The man was in a broken, almost unconstitutional state—his breath shallow, his body trembling. Words failed him, but he kept muttering, barely audible: "Help… help… help…" His eyes darted wildly, scanning the empty street for any sign of reinforcement. Nothing. No one. Just the echo of his own desperation. Then, up ahead, he spotted a shop with its awning half-open—dark inside, abandoned, no shopkeeper in sight. Two flickering lamps flanked the entrance, stuttering dim light into the void. Beyond it stretched a long, empty road that seemed to stretch forever, swallowed by the creeping dark. And still… he ran.He ran with every ounce of strength left in his body, feet pounding against the pavement, heart clawing at his ribs. In a frenzy of desperation, he darted into the open shop—a narrow, lifeless space with thin wooden walls and a low, creaking ceiling. The air was stale. Dust clung to old bottles of wine and stale snacks; a humming refrigerator stood crooked in the corner, the only thing still alive in that tomb of a store. The shop was too cramped for more than a few people, but the man didn't care. He stumbled inside, his chest heaving from a five-kilometer sprint, his legs nearly buckling beneath him. And then—suddenly, violently—blood sprayed across the room. In less than two seconds, the interior was painted with it. The man was hurled backward by some unseen force, crashing into the far wall with a sickening crack. His breath caught in his throat. One of his arms hung limp, mangled—his bone exposed, half-torn from his flesh. Agony ripped through him. He screamed, raw and wild, "STAY AWAY… YOU MONSTER! LEAVE ME!" But it was too late. Something was coming. Through the darkness ahead, just a few feet away, two small legs stepped forward—feet like a child's, wearing plain, spotless shoes. They stopped directly in front of him. And the man, broken and bleeding, could only stare… as the true horror began to reveal itself.
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On the 22nd of June, 2022, in the Shinjuku Ward, life moved quietly. In the Neji area—a modest and familiar part of the city—residents went about their daily routines without disturbance. Among a row of clustered apartments stood a small two-story house, modest but distinct. Built with white tiles and wooden features, it had two entrances: one in front, and one discreetly placed at the back. The upper floor held two rooms—one kept closed and unused, the other occupied by a boy lost in his own world. He lay stretched out on his bed, a book resting lazily in one hand, his eyes skimming lines while his other hand absentmindedly hung by his side. He was busy, not with tasks or responsibilities, but with thoughts—buried in the comfort of routine, unaware that his ordinary day would soon unravel into something far from normal.
The boy wore a red T-shirt layered with an open green shirt, paired with plain, loose-fitted pants. His hair was jet black, slightly messy, and his eyes had white sclerae with sharp blue pupils that flicked with quiet curiosity. As he reached the last page of his book, his lips moved slightly, letting out a soft mutter—"Ahh… nice story. I finished it." With a calm gesture, he closed the book, gently set it down on the bed, and sat up slowly. He glanced around his room, taking in the simple layout. To the left of his bed stood a long wooden table with a two-tiered shelf beneath it, cluttered with scattered stationery and a few old magazines. In the far corner near his bed, a large window stretched tall, letting in soft daylight filtered through gauze curtains. The room held a few more pieces of modest furniture—functional, not flashy. It was the room of someone grounded, someone used to a quiet, uneventful life… but still, the air hinted that quiet wouldn't last long.Kyujaki blinked, stretched his arms, and let out a quiet yawn. Just then, a voice called from the hallway outside his room. "Kyujaki, you awake?" It was his mother's voice—gentle, familiar. A moment later, the door creaked open, and an adult woman stepped into the room. She wore a simple white pajama set, her long black hair flowing loosely down her back. Her eyes, like her son's, had white sclerae and calm blue pupils. She offered him a soft smile, her lips moving with warm purpose. "Kyujaki dear, your breakfast is ready." Kyujaki gave a small nod, still shaking off the last of his sleep. "Yes, Mom. I'll be there," he replied. Her smile widened slightly, serene and motherly. "Okay, I'll be waiting," she said before turning around and gently closing the door behind her, leaving the boy alone in the quiet hum of morning light.Kyujaki turned his gaze toward the window. For a brief moment, he felt a strange sense of sustainable elegance—calm, balanced, almost too still. Shrugging off the feeling, he stepped away from his room and into the hallway, his footsteps light against the wooden floor. He made his way down the stairs, each step echoing softly through the quiet house. Upon reaching the first floor, he passed the door to his parents' room and turned toward the washroom tucked in the nearby corner. Entering, he gently closed the door behind him. The space was modest, clean, and carried a faint scent of soap and cool tiles. The contemporary color palette—muted grays and whites—gave the room a sterile, grounded feel. Kyujaki walked slowly to the mirror, the soft lighting above casting a faint glow on the glass. He stared at his own reflection, eyes locking with himself, unaware that this ordinary moment was standing at the edge of something extraordinary.