Japan.
Fukuoka.
In a damp, narrow alley, the sounds of smashing and blows rang out again and again.
"Heh, kid, you're pretty arrogant. Playing the hero, huh? Is that something a corporate slave like you should be doing?"
A yakuza had his foot planted on a man's head, raising a briefcase high and slamming it down over and over.
His movements were crude and merciless—because afterward, with just a bit of intimidation, even if the victim were beaten black and blue, he would never dare report it.
The oppressive presence of organized crime was something even kindergarteners on this island nation understood.
The man curled up on the ground, his face pressed into the puddled water, his body shaking like a sieve.
Under the repeated blows, he could only beg incessantly, crying that he'd never do it again, sobbing uncontrollably.
Against a nearby wall stood a woman in OL office attire.
She clutched the hem of her clothes tightly. Watching this scene, a whimper like that of a small animal escaped her throat, an overwhelming urge to flee surging within her.
Yet the moment she tried to push herself up, her legs went weak. With a plop, she collapsed back onto the ground.
"Why…?"
At that moment, she hated herself for choosing this route on a whim.
If she'd gone somewhere crowded, none of this would have happened.
On the ground directly across from her lay a camera.
Panicked, she drew a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and stretched out her trembling fingers, trying to secretly grab it and delete the photos taken earlier.
Even if no private parts were exposed, letting images of her disheveled appearance leak out would still mean social death.
Unfortunately, just as her fingers touched the camera casing, the yakuza noticed.
A cigarette hung from his lips as he exhaled smoke. Catching sight of her movement, he lifted his eyelids and snorted coldly.
"What do you think you're doing? I'll tell you this—I never hit women. But if you make me unhappy…"
As he spoke, he suddenly pressed down hard with his foot, grinding it viciously into the man's hand.
"Ah—!"
A scream tore from the man's throat, but he immediately clamped a hand over his mouth, as if afraid of making things worse, releasing only a muffled groan.
Cold sweat poured from his forehead. Seeing this, the yakuza nodded in satisfaction.
Not for nothing had he covered his body in tattoos—just to make himself look more frightening.
Anyway, even if he got caught, it would only be a year or two.
Prison on this island nation even provided food, lodging, and medical care—often joked about as a budget retirement home.
Seeing this, the woman's heart clenched. She yanked her hand back as if electrocuted, silently murmuring an apology in her mind.
It wasn't that she lacked courage—it was that this yakuza was too terrifying. Especially a yakuza who knew exactly where the line was.
Taking photos at most meant three years. She couldn't gamble those three years on whether he'd retaliate after getting out.
As her eyes darted in panic, wondering how today's incident would end—
whether she'd be blackmailed with indecent photos, whether she should report it anonymously—
At that moment, the shadows at the far end of the alley suddenly moved.
A black tentacle swept in with a tearing roar, indiscriminately lashing out.
Boom—!
The woman had only just made out the slick, black outline when a shrill sonic boom exploded in her ears. She screamed and collapsed flat on the ground.
At the same time, the yakuza saw the tentacle.
Dodge—too late.
His pupils shrank sharply. The cigarette fell from his open mouth.
Bang!
He didn't even have time to process what the tentacle was before he was sent flying, smashed against the wall like a rag doll.
"Pff—!"
A mouthful of blood sprayed out. His eyeballs bulged from the agony; the solid muscle covering his body now only hastened his death.
Pain. So much pain.
His organs felt like mush. Blood poured uncontrollably from the corners of his mouth and nostrils.
Why…?
As his vision darkened, the last thing he saw was the tentacle continuing its rampage, hard concrete pulverized into dust.
The man and woman hugged their heads and lay flat on the ground, screaming in terror amid the swirling debris.
"H-help! There's a monster!"
...
"What is this place? What did that man use—spatial magic?"
Shaton was growing irritable, veins bulging on his forehead as he swung his tentacles wildly, smashing the surrounding walls to widen his field of view.
Just moments ago, Milialde had restrained him for an instant.
Yuhran seized that opening and tackled him straight into the Gate Between Worlds.
Though in that split second, Shaton had pierced straight through Yuhran's waist and abdomen without hesitation—
Once he landed, the environment had changed.
From forest and open ground to something dark, cramped, eerily similar to the Demon King's Castle.
Nearby, the cries of men and women grated on his nerves. The murky air made his skin crawl, as if ants were crawling all over him.
Crash!
With the brittle sound of concrete turning to powder, nearby buildings split apart and collapsed, sunlight finally piercing the gloom.
Yuhran crouched halfway behind a crate, one hand clamped tightly over the wound in his abdomen. His face was pale, his breathing ragged.
"This bastard…"
He'd successfully transferred Shaton into reality—but the problem was, he'd been injured.
Once the authorities arrived, they would inevitably collect his blood.
Damn it.
He clenched his teeth, cursing inwardly as he frantically searched for a way to turn the situation around…
No—first priority was stopping the bleeding.
If it kept flowing, he was finished.
He called out to the holy tome.
Fortunately—
The holy tome hadn't lost contact despite the change of worlds.
"This place is—"
Before it could finish, Yuhran cut it off urgently, borrowing its power to cast healing magic. A faint white glow spread over his body.
The blood seeping between his fingers gradually stopped.
Sensing the familiar fluctuation of magic, Shaton snapped his head around, a feral grin spreading across his face.
So you're there.
A shadow spear rapidly condensed in his palm, then shot out mercilessly!
Woom!
The air shrieked.
Yuhran leapt high, barely dodging. His pallor eased slightly under the effects of the healing magic.
Boom!
Watching the shadow spear shatter the ground, stones flying everywhere, a flash of insight sparked in his eyes.
An idea formed.
It wasn't perfect—but it was the only option right now.
—Demolish the alley. If it became rubble, bloodstains and traces alike would be buried.
Hide a tree in a forest. Deceive the heavens.
So he began darting back and forth through the narrow space, his breathing technique running at full tilt. He occasionally hurled bursts of holy light, barely managing to exchange blows with the weakened Shaton.
Rumble—rumble—
Like an earthquake, the deafening crashes of collapsing buildings echoed relentlessly.
...
Outside the alley, onlookers were dumbfounded.
Wait—are they using heavy weapons in there or something?
Why does it sound like an RPG tearing buildings apart?
Some fumbled for their phones to call the police.
Others, bolder still, raised their phones and started livestreaming.
After all, this was a rare chance for exposure.
Fortune favors the bold.
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