Chapter 8: The Breaking Point
Daiki knew things had turned into a mess the moment he saw him among the pursuers. It had turned for the worst.
Kyoji.
The second-in-command of the Asakusa Group. The man who moved through the underworld with the ease of a spectre, leaving behind only ruin. Daiki had faced men like him before. Killers. Sadists.
But Kyoji was something else entirely. He wasn't just another enforcer or a desperate thug grasping for power. He was the kind of man who could make death look like an art form. And now, he stood among the crowd of street punks and two-bit gangsters, his mere presence an undeniable shift in the air.
The others were nothing—wannabe gangsters with more bravado than sense, fools chasing the illusion of power. But Kyoji? Kyoji was the real deal. He was a killer. A man who knew violence intimately, who wore it like a second skin.
And worst of all, he enjoyed it.
And that was a problem.
Daiki's grip on his blade tightened, his knuckles turning white. Kyoji stood there, calm, unshaken beneath the dim streetlights, the rifle slung over his shoulder like it was just another extension of his body. The neon glow reflected off the wet pavement, casting flickering shadows that stretched and warped, but Kyoji remained still—too still. The sight of him sent a cold knife of dread slicing through Daiki's chest. Not fear. Never fear. But something close.
Kyoji wasn't just another enemy. He wasn't a mindless thug or a reckless assassin looking to prove something.
Kyoji was precise. Calculated.
And right now, he was playing a game.
Daiki's teeth clenched as he watched him, his hawk-like gaze studying every twitch, every shift of weight. The rhythmic firing of the rifle echoed through the rain-soaked streets, deliberate, controlled. Kyoji wasn't trying to kill him outright.
He's messing with me.
Daiki knew this tactic all too well. Kyoji was dragging things out, wearing him down, testing his limits. A cruel little game of cat and mouse. Just like always. He was the predator, and his prey never stood a chance. He'd toy with them until they were too broken to fight back—until they had nothing left to offer him. And now, Daiki was in his sights.
Enough was enough. He refused to let Aiko and Koushirou suffer the same fate as Kyoji's countless victims—left broken, discarded, or worse, meeting a gruesome end. The blood, the fear, the weight of a life dictated by violence—it had haunted Daiki for too long. He had fought to escape it, to carve out something real, something worth protecting. And now, Kyoji was here to rip it all away.
Daiki's jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. His muscles coiled, ready to strike. If Kyoji wanted to play his sadistic game, Daiki would make damn sure he regretted choosing him as his opponent.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his pulse a war cry. Kyoji's cold eyes met his, and Daiki knew—there would be no running from this.
Consumed by a relentless drive, a deep, primal instinct to protect everything he'd fought for, Daiki gripped the door handle. Forgoing any notion of self-preservation, the fleeting hope for escape, Daiki leapt out of the moving car.
Rain pelted the pavement, washing away the blood and filth of the alley. The city was alive with the distant hum of traffic and the occasional blare of a car horn. Still, here—here, in this narrow backstreet where shadows stretched long and mercilessly—there was only the sound of boots on wet concrete and the low, measured breaths of men preparing for violence.
Daiki's body slammed against the cold, rain-soaked pavement as he hit the ground hard. His knees buckled beneath him, the impact sending a shockwave through his body that rattled his bones. The world spun in a blur of headlights and rain. His chest heaved, and for a brief moment, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears, his heartbeat pounding in his skull like a war drum. The sharp tang of the wet asphalt filled his nostrils, mingling with the coppery taste of adrenaline flooding his system.
He didn't waste a second.
The street was slick beneath his boots, each step a careful calculation as he pushed himself to his feet, teeth gritted against the pain that shot up his spine. His pulse roared in his ears, the weight of the situation pressing against him like a vice. But his eyes were locked on the vehicle, the looming shadow of Kyoji's rifle pointed straight at him.
The distant sound of tires screeching, the wind howling, but Daiki's focus remained singular. The world narrowed. It was him, Kyoji, and the rifle. His heart thudded, not from fear but from something else—a burning, guttural need to act.
I won't let them hurt my family again.
With a primal growl, Daiki sprinted forward, his legs pumping furiously, his movements swift, calculated, each stride full of purpose. The rain lashed against his face, stinging like a thousand needles, but he didn't flinch. Every fibre of his being was concentrated on one thing: the rifle in Kyoji's hands. The sharpness of the barrel's glint. The moment when Kyoji would pull the trigger again.
Behind him, he could hear the cab's tyres screeching, swerving wildly, desperate to outrun the violence that pursued them. The driver was no longer trying to fight for control—he was simply panicking, blindly following orders. But Daiki knew this wasn't about the cab anymore. It wasn't about running. It was about survival.
His mind flashed to Aiko's face—the warmth of her smile, the tenderness in her eyes. Koushirou, so full of promise, still innocent in so many ways. Aiko's voice echoed in his mind, the tremor of fear in her cry sending a bitter stab of guilt into his gut. What if he couldn't protect them this time? What if this was it?
Focus. He shook off the thought. They couldn't pay for his mistakes. Not like this. He would not let them suffer for the life he had escaped.
The ground was slick beneath his boots, and the low hum of his thoughts sharpened, bringing clarity to the chaos that surrounded him. Daiki's eyes flicked toward Kyoji, who stood poised like a predator waiting for its moment to strike. The air between them was thick, laden with the unsaid—violent history, bitter promises, and a thirst for revenge that had festered for too long.
Ahead of him, Kyoji was already adjusting his stance. His eyes never left Daiki, a steady, predatory calm in the way he held the rifle. The moment stretched out, impossibly tense.
Kyoji tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his sharp features. His smirk was almost imperceptible, a brief twitch of the lips that did nothing to mask the cold fury behind his eyes. He was waiting, testing, to see how Daiki would respond.
But Daiki wasn't going to be a pawn in this game anymore.
Then it came—a sharp exhale, Kyoji's finger tightening on the trigger.
Bang. Another gunshot rang out.
The shot rang out with a deafening crack that seemed to tear through Daiki's chest.
In a blur of motion, he closed the distance between them, each step a fierce statement of his resolve. The rain lashed against him, but it didn't matter. Kyoji's eyes never left him, calculating and cold. Daiki's blade slid from the inside of his coat with a sharp rasp, its weight now a reassuring presence in his grip. The metal gleamed darkly beneath the dim lights of the street, a silent promise that this wouldn't end the way Kyoji intended.
With a roar, Daiki lunged. The air cracked with tension as Kyoji's rifle raised in response. Daiki felt a flash of heat as the first shot rang out, the bullet whizzing by so close it seemed to sing against his skin. He barely registered the sting of it before the second shot followed, but he was already moving, the predator becoming the prey.
He dove to the left, rolling across the wet ground, his body striking the pavement with bone-jarring force. Pain surged through him, but there was no time to linger on it. He was already back on his feet, the cold night air burning his lungs as he charged once more, determined to close the distance before Kyoji had a chance to reload.
Every movement was instinct. Every inch of him was attuned to Kyoji's next move, and Daiki could feel the shift in the air—the subtle rise in Kyoji's breath, the way his fingers gripped the rifle tighter. Daiki's body was a blur, a relentless force that refused to yield. He was done running.
He was done playing Kyoji's game.
Daiki reached Kyoji just as the next shot rang out, but Daiki was already upon him. Their bodies collided with a violent thud. Kyoji's rifle was knocked out of his hands in the chaos of the fall. The world around them erupted in noise—rain, thunder, the storm's fury mirroring the violent clash between them. They scrambled on the wet concrete, the scent of rain mingling with the metallic tang of sweat and blood. Kyoji was fast, but Daiki's rage was faster. His hands were on Kyoji's collar, dragging the man upward, pulling him into a punishing knee that crushed the air from his lungs.
Kyoji's eyes, wide with shock, locked onto Daiki's. There was no surprise in Kyoji's expression—just a cold calculation, an understanding that the game was shifting in ways he hadn't anticipated.
"You thought you could break me?" Daiki growled, his voice low and filled with rage, but tinged with something else—a deep, bitter pain that only those who had survived violence could understand.
"Still quick," he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. His voice was strained with the pressure Daiki's knee had placed on his chest. "But you're not as sharp as you used to be. You've become too weak."
Daiki's hands tightened, his knuckles white with the force. "Not anymore," he spat back.
In a swift motion, he drew his knife from his coat, the blade gleaming in the storm-drenched air. He pressed it to Kyoji's throat, the cold steel sinking into the skin, just enough to make Kyoji feel the threat of death. The world went still. The rain fell in steady sheets around them, but the storm within Daiki was louder than any thunder could ever be.
For a moment, Daiki hovered there, the blade at Kyoji's throat, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. The temptation to end it here, to finish this once and for all, was overwhelming. But there was something deeper within Daiki now—something stronger than the need for revenge. He had fought to escape this life. He had built something better. He wasn't going to destroy it with a single, violent act.
He pulled the blade away, his hand shaking, a growl of frustration escaping him.
Kyoji, gasping for breath, spat blood onto the wet concrete. His expression shifted to one of fury, but there was a flicker of disbelief there as well. "You think this ends here, Daiki?" he sneered, wiping blood from his lips.
Daiki didn't answer. He didn't need to. The only thing that mattered now was Aiko. Koushirou. They were waiting for him.
The sound of the approaching car's engine grew louder, but Daiki didn't flinch. He backed away from Kyoji, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the intensity of the confrontation. With one last look at his fallen adversary, Daiki turned and sprinted into the storm, knowing the fight was far from over. The war was just beginning, but for the first time in years, he wasn't afraid.
Kyoji's eyes flicked toward the cab, his hand casually sweeping toward it, as if drawing Daiki's attention to the true target. Aiko and Koushirou were inside, huddled together, their faces pale with fear, their bodies trembling from the terror of the situation. Daiki could hear their silent, muffled whimpers even from where he stood. Each sound was a blade to his heart.
Daiki's heart stopped. No, it can't happen! It's not supposed to happen. Not on my watch!
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not on his watch. Not when he had fought so hard to leave that world behind. The thought of Aiko and Koushirou—his family—caught in Kyoji's cruel game sent a wave of nausea crashing through him. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to throw himself between them and the chaos.
His breath caught in his throat as panic clawed at his chest, but he swallowed it down, forcing himself to focus. The fear that twisted in his gut wasn't just his own—it was for Aiko and Koushirou. Every fibre of his being screamed to protect them, to rush to their side and shield them from the horror that Kyoji had already set in motion.
But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he had the upper hand.
The image of their terrified faces burnt into his mind. He could see them—huddled together in the cab, eyes wide with fear, each tremble a reminder of what was at stake. Every breath they took, every whimper they made, was a dagger to his soul.
And Kyoji—Despite him being pinned against the ground with Daiki's knee restraining him to the ground, Kyoji was the one holding the blade.
Kyoji's lips curled into a cruel smile, relishing the power he held over Daiki. "You think you can save them?" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "They're already in my hands, Daiki. You can't protect them from me."
The words cut deeper than any knife. Daiki knew that Kyoji wasn't just threatening them; he was trying to break him. To make him doubt, to make him hesitate. It was the same tactic Kyoji had always used—manipulating the fear of loss to make his enemies falter.
But Daiki wasn't going to fall for it. He couldn't.
With a ferocity that burnt through his veins, Daiki forced his gaze away from the cab. He couldn't afford to be distracted by their fear. Aiko and Koushirou's lives depended on his next move. He couldn't allow Kyoji to control the narrative any longer.
"Don't underestimate me, Kyoji," Daiki said, his voice low, his resolve solidifying with every breath. "I'll rip this world apart to protect them."
Kyoji's smirk faltered for just a moment, a brief flicker of doubt flashing in his cold eyes. But it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a darker, more venomous smile. "It's too bad we've reunited as enemies," he sneered. "If only that woman hadn't put strange ideas into that thick skull of yours, Asakusa would have been impenetrable. We'd be invincible. The best."
The words hung in the air, thick with the bitterness of what could have been. Daiki's jaw tightened as Kyoji's words twisted like barbed wire in his chest. It wasn't the first time he'd heard them—this belief that if Aiko hadn't come into his life, things would have been different. That he would have stayed with the group, their ruthless ascent to power undisturbed. But that was a version of himself he had long buried. A version that, even now, Kyoji still saw as a tool to be wielded.
Daiki took a step forward, his voice a quiet but deadly growl. "I'm not the same man I was. I'm not your puppet anymore, Kyoji. And neither are they." His eyes flicked to the cab, where Aiko and Koushirou were still cowering, caught in the web of violence and betrayal Kyoji had spun. "This ends tonight."
"I agree. This farce ends tonight." A few hundred yards away, Zen emerged from the shadows, his voice dripping with malice. His lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it—only the chilling certainty that he held all the power in this moment. He took a step forward, his hand resting on the grip of a battle rifle, the weapon gleaming coldly in the dim light of the street.
The rifle was a monster of precision and lethality, its dark metal surface catching the faint glow of the nearby streetlights. The weight of the weapon in Zen's hands was more than just physical; it was a clear signal of intent. He wasn't here for diplomacy or a moment of hesitation. His presence was a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. The rifle wasn't merely an accessory—it was a statement. Zen was not a player in this game; he was its architect, the one who controlled the inevitable outcome.
Kyoji's lips stretched into a smirk, his eyes cold and calculating. "You refused our Master's last charity. He gave you three days. Three days to reconsider, but you squandered them. Such a shame." His voice dripped with contempt. "Daiki, I thought time might've softened you, but I see it's only made you weaker. You've wasted his efforts."
Kyoji's smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with dark amusement as he stepped closer, drawing the tension taut. "In due respect of your history together, Daiki, you'll die by his hands. Not because he wants to. But because you forced his hand."
Daiki's chest tightened at the mention of the Master—the man he once called him his father. The overlord and the boss of Asakusa Group. That name had always carried a weight, a shadow that loomed over him, reminding him of a past he had desperately tried to bury. But now, it resurfaced, sharper than ever, and it wasn't just an old name anymore. It was the promise of violence, of bloodshed, and a fate that Daiki had fought to escape.
Zen's cold eyes flicked over Daiki with the chilling indifference of a predator sizing up its prey. "It's unfortunate," he said, his voice smooth but laced with something darker. "But you had your chances. And now, there will be no mercy."
Daiki didn't flinch, his jaw tightening with resolve. The weight of the rifle, the mockery in Kyoji's words—it all served to fuel the fire burning in his gut. He wasn't going to die here. Not like this. Not after everything he'd done to escape the past.
As Zen's rifle remained steady in his hands, ready to deliver the final blow, Daiki's thoughts flickered back to Aiko and Koushirou. He wouldn't let them suffer the same fate. Not if he had any say in it. The storm was coming, but Daiki would not be swept away without a fight.
He took a slow breath, readying himself for the inevitable clash. The die had been cast. The game was over.