Morning light clawed its way over the broken horizon, illuminating a wasteland soaked in crimson and shadow. Smoldering fires crackled in the distance, their dying embers clinging to life like the final gasps of fallen warriors. Smoke curled lazily upward, and the air hung heavy with the stink of death and gunpowder—drenched in blood, rot, and despair.
A figure stood alone amid the ruin.
Akihiro Takeda.
His black hair caught the pale light like a blade drawn from a sheath. Blood trickled down the side of his neck, running along the collar of his torn coat. The Takeda crest, though stained, was unmistakable on his coat—a symbol that demanded reverence and bred terror.
Around him, corpses lay twisted and broken—many still warm.
He exhaled, steam rising from his lips in the morning chill. His eyes, gleaming with muted calculation, scanned the devastation. Not with pride. Not with guilt. Just bored detachment.
Then—a sound.
The faint crunch of ash beneath a careless step.
Akihiro turned without hesitation, swinging the scrap of metal he'd salvaged earlier—just in time to intercept a rusted blade aimed at his throat.
CLANG.
The attacker—a ragged, feral-looking man—grunted, teeth clenched. "Die, you noble piece of sh—"
Before he could finish, Akihiro stepped inside his guard and slammed the edge of the scrap into his wrist, severing tendons and muscle. The man screamed as his arm fell limp, then dropped entirely.
SHUNK.
With an elegant turn, Akihiro buried the metal into the man's side, twisting it slightly before releasing.
The body crumpled at his feet.
Silence returned—briefly.
Then, slowly, more shadows emerged. From behind collapsed buildings, rusting crates, and the burned-out husk of a transport truck, thirty survivors came into view. Men and women, gaunt from stress and thirst, eyes wide—but alive.
One of them froze, pointing. "T-That crest…"
"Takeda," another whispered. "That's Akihiro Takeda."
"No way," someone else muttered. "The black sheep?"
"He's number five," another murmured, his tone shifting—hope and fear warring behind his eyes.
Akihiro tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanged. "Don't flatter me," he said, voice as cold as the air around them.
They hesitated.
Some took a step back.
Others clenched their fists, desperate men driven by the promise of bounties, power, and escape.
"There's thirty of us," one barked, almost convincing himself. "Even he can't take us all on."
"If we take him down," another said, eyes gleaming, "our bounties will explode. We'd be legends."
Akihiro sighed and glanced down at the blood drying on his boots.
"…If you can't make up your minds," he said, boredom laced with malice, "I'll do it for you."
THWIP.
A blade whizzed past his cheek, slicing a shallow gash across his skin. Blood welled instantly. His head turned toward the direction it came from—slowly, sharply.
The dagger landed in the dirt with a soft thud, its ornate handle gleaming—marked with the Yakuza crest.
A husky, lilting voice cut through the tension like velvet over steel.
"You're too bloodthirsty."
From behind a scorched column of rubble, Shirahoshi Ume stepped into view.
She moved like a wraith—graceful, fluid, untouched by the carnage that surrounded her. Her kimono had been modified for combat, dyed black with deep violet accents. She wore no armor, yet carried herself like a queen on the battlefield. Her eyes—icy blue—glowed beneath strands of ink-black hair.
The air shifted around her.
Akihiro's eyes narrowed. He looked at the dagger still quivering in the ground, then back at her. "…Damn you threw a knife at my face."
"And I missed on purpose," she replied smoothly. "For now."
The crowd of thirty immediately reacted.
Several bowed low at the sight of her. Others straightened up, grinning, practically swooning.
"That's Shirahoshi Ume!"
"She's number six!"
"She's so—God, marry me!"
"She's the goddess of the Yakuza…"
Shirahoshi offered none of them a glance.
Her attention was fixed solely on Akihiro.
Akihiro raised an eyebrow, brushing the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm honored the Yakuza sent their poster girl to handle me."
She smiled faintly. "You're a Takeda. A nuisance with a fancy bloodline. You'd cause too much trouble if left unchecked. I volunteered."
He scoffed. "Volunteered?"
Her tone turned teasing. "Well, someone's gotta put the black sheep down."
Akihiro's jaw tensed at the name. He didn't respond immediately—just watched her carefully, calculating. "…You sure you want to fight me? You're number six. I'm five."
Shirahoshi rolled her neck, her knuckles cracking. "Rankings are like lies. Pretty on paper. But let's see how they taste when reality punches you in the face."
Suddenly—
One of the men, fueled by blind lust and stupidity, lunged forward with a crude weapon, yelling, "Shirahoshi! This one's for you!"
Akihiro moved so fast he vanished.
CRACK.
The man's body hit the ground a second later—his spine crushed inward from a spinning heel kick Akihiro delivered with surgical precision.
The survivors watched in frozen horror.
One man pissed himself.
Another turned and bolted. Then another. Panic spread like wildfire.
Within moments, twenty-five had scattered, leaving only Akihiro and Shirahoshi facing each other beneath the rising sun.
Silence.
Then—
"OHHHHH, HELL YES!"
The island loudspeakers screamed to life with a savage roar.
"WAKE THE HELL UP, BLOODTHIRSTY SCUM—WE'VE GOT A SHOWDOWN! WE'VE GOT A TAKEDA VS A YAKUZA! RANK FIVE VS RANK SIX! THE BLACK SHEEP VS THE DEATH FLOWER!"
"WHO WALKS AWAY FROM THIS ONE?! PLACE YOUR BETS, PLACE YOUR BLOODY BETS!"
"WILL SHIRAHOSHI PROVE BEAUTY AND DEATH GO HAND IN HAND? OR WILL AKIHIRO CARVE THROUGH HER LIKE THE REST?! THIS ISN'T JUST A FIGHT—THIS IS A DAMN FANTASY DEATH MATCH!"
As the announcement echoed, the battlefield seemed to pause, waiting for someone to move.
Akihiro fixed his hair.
Shirahoshi slid another blade into her palm.
And then—
They launched at each other.
Elsewhere on the Island…
The wind howled across the battlefield, sweeping through the ruins of a crumbling rock stained with blood. Ash floated in the air like snow, and the only sound that broke the silence was the slow, deliberate footsteps of Ren.
His katana glistened crimson in the half-light, fresh blood dripping steadily from its edge and pooling at his feet. The body beneath him twitched once before going still, a clean, single slash carved across its chest. Ren's breath was even. His expression? Blank.
He stared down at the corpse for a long moment. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, wiping the blade on the man's jacket without ceremony. Then, he paused—head tilting slightly.
Something felt off.
He wasn't alone.
In an instant, he spun to the left, raising his arms just in time to block a blindingly fast kick.
CRACK.
The impact jolted through his forearms like thunder. His heels dragged across the concrete, carving snow trails until he came to a stop. The sudden attack hadn't rattled him—but it had surprised him. And very few things surprised Ren.
"You're good," came a voice, playful and sharp.
He looked up slowly.
Erika Sannomiya, Rank #10, stood there—hands on her hips, lips curled into a smirk. Her eyes gleamed with thrill, short raven-black hair swaying as the wind whipped through the clearing.
"You seem worthy of your title Silent Reaper," she said, cracking her knuckles. "I wanted to see the hype for myself."
Ren's eyes flicked to her boots—lightweight, reinforced steel. That explained the force of the kick. "You always greet people like that?" he asked.
"Only the ones worth killing."
A quiet chuckle echoed from behind. Ren's gaze shifted again, this time toward the shadows.
Emerging like a phantom was Yusuke Hanazawa, Rank #8. Unlike Erika, he didn't smile. His expression was calm—too calm. Dressed in traditional black, his hands were wrapped in cloth, the faint outline of pressure-point needles strapped along his belt.
"We've decided," Yusuke said, stepping into the open, "to team up and take you down."
Ren blinked once. "Team up?"
Erika stretched her neck. "Can't blame us. Woo's a monster. Met him on Day One. We didn't even try. We knew."
"We also considered Cole Maddox," Yusuke added. "But the bastard is always with his brother, both of them together, I doubt even woo would be able to do anything against them together. You, however—you're right here."
Ren tilted his head. "So you settled."
Erika shrugged. "Don't take it personally. You're the most famous name in this tournament besides Woo. Everyone's talking about the 'Silent Reaper.' How you kill without saying a word. Cold. Clinical. Ghostlike."
Ren gave a small snort of amusement, dragging his sword across the floor and flicking blood from the edge with a twitch of his wrist.
"I'm surprised," he said, finally speaking. "I figured you'd be smarter."
Yusuke raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Ren's eyes sharpened. "I'm surprised your dumbasses think you stand a chance."
The air thickened.
Erika blinked.
Then she grinned.
Yusuke's fingers subtly flexed, readying to move.
Suddenly—BOOM—the island speakers crackled to life overhead.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—ATTENTION!" the announcer boomed. "WE'VE GOT A SPECIAL ONE LINING UP FOR YOU NOW! IT'S A TWO-ON-ONE, AND NOT JUST ANY FIGHTERS—WE'VE GOT RANK TEN, RANK EIGHT, AND THE ONE AND ONLY 'SILENT REAPER'—RANK FOUR!"
"WILL REN SURVIVE? WILL HE BE BURIED UNDER TWO COORDINATED ASSASSINS? OR—WILL THE REAPER CLAIM TWO SOULS INSTEAD OF ONE? PLACE YOUR BETS, BLOODHOUNDS. THIS MATCH STARTS NOW!"
The voice faded. The battlefield returned to silence.
Ren rolled his shoulders. "Well? Let's get it over with."
Erika raised her fists, falling into a southpaw stance. "I like him," she said to Yusuke.
Yusuke didn't reply. His eyes were locked on Ren like a hawk.
"Don't hold back, Hanazawa," Erika said. "He's not the type we can wear down."
Yusuke nodded once. "I know."
Ren took one step forward—and vanished.
WHOOSH.
Erika barely twisted her neck in time as a blade screamed past her shoulder, the wind pressure slicing a few strands of her hair. She lunged back, and Yusuke moved in immediately, throwing a volley of precise, blinding-fast strikes—each aimed at Ren's joints.
But Ren weaved through them like smoke, his movements sharp, tight, unforgiving.
Clang. Cling. Slice.
Metal kissed metal. The ground quaked beneath their feet.
In that instant, the battle had begun—and the storm Ren brought with him was only just beginning.