Tokyo, Japan.
At Tokyo University, Gakuen-sai's night.
June 18th, 2026
9:30 PM 23° Celsius/73.4 Fahrenheit
Gunfire echoed through the derelict plaza, sharp and unrelenting. Screams—raw, dying, inhuman—filled the air. The ground was slick with blood. Steel clashed. Bones shattered. The scent of gunpowder and copper tainted every breath.
In the midst of this violent ballet, Ray fought like a demon unleashed.
Three dozen Yakuza enforcers were already dead—some beheaded, others cut in half, and many unrecognizable. Ray's fists were caked in gore. A half-broken katana rested in one hand; the other clutched a stolen submachine gun. His face was drenched in blood—not all of it his own. And yet, his eyes burned like twin furnaces.
Far from the heart of the battle, Kojima-sama and the masked woman stood side by side on a balcony above the square. Flames from overturned vehicles lit their figures in flickering orange. Kojima stood calm, unmoved, hands behind his back like a general observing a doomed army.
The woman beside him was silent, still. Her cracked fox mask caught the light.
Kojima didn't turn as he spoke.
"I thought you'd join the fight." He said to her.
She tilted her head slightly, arms folded.
"I already did." Her voice was calm, sultry, but faintly distant.
"But I won't interfere any longer." She added.
Now, Kojima turned to her fully. His sharp eyes narrowed, suspicion gleaming beneath the calm.
"Why?" he asked, the screams of his dying men echoing behind him.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, her gaze returned to the battlefield where Ray ripped through five Yakuza at once, tearing a pipe from the ground and smashing it into a man's jaw so hard it shattered.
"I thought you said the Mistress wants her prize alive," she said coolly. "Not half-dead?"
Kojima remained silent. The implication in her tone hung heavy.
Below them, Ryuji Takahashi, shirtless now and soaked in blood, screamed as he launched himself at Ray. He moved like lightning—sais spinning in a deadly blur. Ray blocked one, parried the other, but Ryuji ducked low, swept Ray's leg, and slammed a fist into his wounded side.
Ray coughed blood. He stumbled.
But then, with a vicious growl, he headbutted Ryuji, grabbed his arm, and drove him through the windshield of a nearby car.
The vehicle's alarm wailed.
"If I go all out, we might kill him. And I don't want that." The woman continued, her voice now quieter, almost mournful.
Kojima's eyes sharpened. "Why?"
The woman didn't answer right away. She turned her body slightly, finally facing the battlefield as if pulled by invisible strings.
Yakuza soldiers kept coming in waves—blades, guns, grenades—but Ray tore through them like a storm. He flipped a man over his shoulder, shot two more in the face, and kicked another's knee backward until it snapped.
"He's..." she began, but the word caught in her throat.
Kojima studied her, noting the faint tremor in her hands. His frown deepened.
Then Ray screamed—a guttural, almost inhuman roar—as he lifted a fallen Yakuza's light machine gun and sprayed a wide arc of bullets into the charging crowd. Bodies dropped like flies. The plaza was a war zone.
Maria slashed at Ray from behind, a silent blur. But he anticipated it. He spun, caught her blade with his bare hand—blood spurting from his palm—and slammed the butt of his gun into her jaw. She stumbled back, dazed, tasting her own blood.
"He's someone I..." the woman whispered.
Her voice cracked.
She didn't finish.
Because then—
A sudden hiss filled the air.
Thick smoke exploded across the battlefield.
Smoke bombs—dozens of them—dropped from above, rolling along the bloodied ground, spilling white fog in every direction.
The entire plaza vanished under a blinding cloud of white.
Gunfire stopped. Screams halted. The air thickened. Shapes blurred into ghosts.
Kojima tensed.
"What the hell—?"
But the woman didn't flinch. She stepped forward, peering through the fog with a strange, knowing calm.
And still—her sentence hung unfinished.
The plaza drowned in smoke—white, thick, unnatural. Visibility dropped to zero. Sounds warped. Shadows twisted. The dead lay still, unseen beneath the haze. The wounded groaned. The air grew heavier, like something ancient had awakened.
Ray stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, blood pouring from his wounds. His body ached. Bruised ribs, shattered knuckles, a deep gash on his back from Maria's sneak attack. He'd taken a bullet to the shoulder earlier—but it didn't stop him.
Nothing could stop him.
But now he couldn't see.
Ray spun, heart hammering. The fog muffled everything, even his own breath.
His senses were all heightened and his heart and fists yearned for more blood.
Then—
A whisper behind him.
"Found you."
Ryuji.
The crimson-clad ninja launched at him from the fog, blades poised like vipers.
Ray turned at the last second—metal screeched as blade met bone. Ryuji's sai stabbed into Ray's side—but Ray didn't flinch. He grabbed Ryuji by the collar and headbutted him again, even harder. Blood sprayed. Ryuji stumbled.
"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?!" Ryuji shrieked.
He slashed wildly, furious. Ray dodged, parried, ducked low, and swept Ryuji's leg out from under him. But Ryuji twisted mid-air, landed like a cat, and launched a knee into Ray's face. Ray staggered back.
Their fight now was raw, animalistic, personal.
—
Above, Kojima stepped back, choking on the smoke as it reached the balcony.
The masked woman didn't move. She stood with her arms crossed, still watching, her breath steady.
"Who dropped the bombs?" Kojima coughed.
The woman turned her head slightly. "Not ours."
"Then whose?"
She didn't answer.
Because deep in the smoke… movement.
A new figure. Silent. Swift. Precise.