The rooftops of Shibuya blurred beneath Obi's feet—slates of rusted metal, patches of mossy tile, glass panels reflecting the moonlight. He sprinted with practiced clumsiness, hood whipping in the wind, his breath fogging in the cool night air.
The crow flew just ahead, darting between neon signs and antennas like it knew the city better than any map. Obi barely kept up, eyes squinting in the wind.
"Where are you even taking me?" he muttered, leaping across a narrow alley. "Birds aren't supposed to have agendas."
The crow swooped low, banking hard over a familiar silhouette—the same abandoned building where Obi had nearly died fighting that screeching demon. He skidded to a stop, crouching low on the edge of a rooftop, eyes scanning the lot.
Then he saw it.
A figure stood in the open courtyard below, motionless as stone.
Dozens—no, a murder—of crows circled overhead. They swooped in synchronized spirals, wings slicing the air like blades. The boy below stood with his arms loose at his sides, head bowed slightly, whispering something Obi couldn't hear.
The crow he had followed joined the frenzy, vanishing into the vortex of wings.
Then, as if on cue, the entire flock exploded upward in silence, scattering into the night sky like shrapnel made of feathers and darkness. All but one.
The last crow glided down and perched neatly on the boy's shoulder.
Obi blinked. "...Okay. Nope. Not weird at all. Just casually summoning crows like a knockoff Itachi Uchiha in a bird-themed cult."
Aki looked up slowly, unfazed. "Crows are essential for scouts," he said, his voice low, matter-of-fact. "They deliver messages. Track demons. They remember faces. If it wasn't for Kabane—" he gestured to the smug-looking bird on his shoulder, "—my brother wouldn't have arrived in time. We'd both be dead."
The crow cawed sharply, chest puffed like it was proud.
Obi sighed. "Right. Praise be to the flying surveillance squad. Now… what was so urgent you had to drag me out of bed?"
Aki raised an eyebrow. "My brother had a change of heart. He's willing to train you. You're now under consideration to join the Eclipse Division. You're welcome, by the way."
There was a beat.
"You what?" Obi squinted at him. "You woke me up just to say that? Bro, I'm barely two steps away from a mental breakdown. Thanks, but I'll pass. Maybe try again when I've had, I don't know, eight hours of emotional stability."
"You asked for this," Aki snapped. "You begged my brother to train you, remember? Practically got on your knees. And now that he's offering, you're backing out?"
"I didn't ask to join the murder crow boy band," Obi said. "I just—ugh." He rubbed his eyes. "Dude, I watched someone die this week. I was nearly killed by a demon. And now, surprise! Some cult-y division wants me to join. I haven't even had a full night's sleep. I just want peace. Even for one day."
Aki's face twitched. "So you're saying no."
"I'm not bailing," Obi huffed. "I'm just… declining with dramatic flair."
He looked away, voice softening.
There was silence between them. Wind brushed through the broken windows. The crow blinked.
"…Fine," Obi muttered. "Since you guys apparently know about all this supernatural crap, maybe you can explain something to me."
Aki's gaze sharpened.
"I met the devil a few days back. Blood-red eyes. Said he was buying a book… for his wife. That's what he said. But the way he looked at me—like I wasn't human."
Aki went completely still.
"You met the Nameless King? And he let you live?"
Obi's throat bobbed. "…Yeah. He let me live. After he killed my family."
The air changed. Sharpened. Even the crow went quiet.
"I didn't know," Aki said, softer now. "I'm… sorry."
"It's whatever," Obi muttered, kicking at a piece of broken concrete. "Doesn't change anything."
Aki glanced down. "You'll get a letter in the morning. It'll tell you where to go."
Obi looked at him. "And if I don't?"
"You'll go," Aki said simply. "Whether you want to or not."
"…That a threat?"
Aki's voice dropped. "It's just the truth. Once you've stepped into this world… there's no going back."
Obi didn't reply. He turned and walked toward the edge of the rooftop, not looking back.
As his figure vanished into the dark, Aki raised a hand. The crow fluttered from his shoulder and took to the sky, following quietly behind.
"Keep an eye on him," Aki murmured. "He's still necessary to us."
---
Obi stumbled back into the house sometime after 2 AM, the door creaking softly as he shut it behind him. The silence inside felt heavier than usual—like the walls had heard everything.
He kicked off his shoes, shuffled to his room, and collapsed onto the bed, limbs aching from the rooftop sprint and emotional whiplash.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.
"What a weird-ass night," he muttered.
Then, with a long sigh, he let sleep drag him under.
---
✦ The Next Morning ✦
The smell of fried eggs and toast lured Obi into the dining room with the sluggish grace of a zombie. His hair was a mess, hoodie lopsided, eyes bleary.
Mr. Kumon sat at the small wooden table with his usual calm expression, sipping tea as he glanced at the newspaper.
"Mornin', kid," he said without looking up. "You look like a corpse."
"Feel like one," Obi groaned, plopping into the chair across from him.
Mr. Kumon pushed a plate toward him, then paused. "Oh—almost forgot."
He reached into the side drawer and pulled out an envelope, placing it beside Obi's toast. It was pristine white, the paper thick and smooth like it cost more than Obi's entire wardrobe. A golden dove was embossed on the seal, wings spread in mid-flight. The words "For Obinna Takahashi" were scrawled in elegant cursive across the front.
Obi blinked, staring at it.
"Huh? Who's it from?"
"No idea," Mr. Kumon replied. "Wasn't a return address. Just showed up in the mailbox. Hand-delivered, maybe. Fancy stuff. Looked… important."
Obi reached out and ran a thumb over the seal. A pit formed in his stomach. He could already guess who it was from—and he wasn't ready.
He stuffed the envelope into his hoodie pocket and forced himself to eat, chewing slowly, robotically.
---
✦ Later, in His Room ✦
Obi sat on the edge of his bed, hands trembling slightly as he broke the seal.
Inside was a piece of black parchment, inked in gold script so clean it shimmered like liquid light.
He read it in silence.
---
Dear Obinna,
We acknowledge your attempt to reach us. The sincerity in your request did not go unnoticed.
You are now considered for enlistment within the Eclipse Division.
Your presence is required at the following location:
Shinjuku Gyoen Greenhouse – South Gate Entrance
June 18th – 10:00 PM sharp
We trust you understand the consequences of absence.
— Eclipse Division
---
Obi let the letter fall to his lap, staring into space.
His heart pounded. His throat felt tight.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. That night in front of Reiji… he was desperate, sure. But that had been an emotional outburst, not some official enlistment application.
He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't even sure he was sane.
Now they were inviting him—no, summoning him.
He looked around his room. The books on the shelf. The quiet hum of life. The mundane safety of his little world. All of it suddenly felt like a fragile illusion.
And now, the illusion was cracking.
"They're really pulling me in," he whispered, voice hollow. "I didn't… I didn't think they'd actually say yes."
He buried his face in his hands.
Everything was unraveling.
---
A soft knock pulled Obi out of the spiral in his head.
He blinked, still seated on the edge of his bed, the black-and-gold letter clutched loosely in his fingers. His hands had gone numb. He quickly stuffed the letter under his mattress and tried to steady his breathing.
"Hey, squirt?" Mr. Kumon's voice came from the hallway. "You good in there? Your shift's about to start. I just… wanted to check."
There was a pause. A softness in his tone that Obi wasn't used to. It wasn't about the shift—it was about him.
Obi hesitated, then stood up and opened the door.
Mr. Kumon was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed in concern. He didn't say anything at first—just studied Obi's face, as if trying to read between the lines of the fake smile he was about to give.
"I'm fine," Obi said, forcing a little grin. "Just... spaced out. Let's get to it, yeah?"
Mr. Kumon's eyes lingered for a second longer. Then he nodded and stepped aside.
"Alright. Let's go."
---
By midday, the bookstore had settled into its usual quiet rhythm: a few customers flipping through paperbacks, the distant hiss of the espresso machine from the café corner, the scent of old pages mingling with cinnamon tea.
Obi stood behind the counter, absently organizing bookmarks that didn't really need organizing.
But his chest—his chest wouldn't shut up.
That letter. The gold dove. The meeting in Shinjuku Gyoen.
It sat in his mind like a weight he couldn't shake, pressing on his lungs with every breath. Every now and then, he'd glance at the clock. 2:41 PM. 2:56. 3:12. Time ticked by, but the gnawing sensation didn't.
It was like something inside him was being pulled.
He tried to distract himself. Helped a customer find a missing volume. Restocked a shelf. But that haunting script still burned behind his eyes.
Meet us.
He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to stretch.
"You good?" Mr. Kumon asked casually, popping in from the backroom with a stack of used books.
Obi nodded quickly. "Yeah. Just… tired."
Mr. Kumon narrowed his eyes, not fully convinced, but said nothing as he returned to the register.
Obi leaned on the counter, eyes drifting to the window. Somewhere out there, at the edge of a city filled with monsters, a secret world was waiting for him.
And no matter how hard he tried to ignore it...
He couldn't unsee the gold ink.
---
Late Afternoon – Hospital Visit
The hallways of the hospital were quiet, humming with the sterile scent of disinfectant and that underlying stillness only medical buildings had. Obi sat beside Mr. Kumon in the waiting area, the ceiling lights overhead feeling harsher than usual.
A nurse peeked her head into the room. "Obinna Takahashi?"
"That's me," Obi muttered, standing.
He gave Mr. Kumon a half-hearted thumbs-up before following the nurse down the hallway.
She was warm, chatty, trying to make the visit feel less clinical. "How are you feeling today?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
"Alive," Obi replied dryly.
She chuckled, opening the door to a small examination room. "Well, that's a good start. Eating okay? Sleeping?"
Obi gave a vague shrug. "Trying. Some nights are just... long."
"Mm. Recovery is never just physical," she said kindly, then pulled on gloves. "Alright. Shirt off, please."
Obi peeled off his hoodie and undershirt slowly. The fabric tugged slightly on the stitches near his shoulder, earning a faint wince. The nurse's expression softened when she saw the three neat lines—two across his shoulders, one stretching along his right side.
"Looks like they're healing well," she said, reaching for her tools. "Ready?"
He nodded.
As she gently snipped and tugged the stitches free, Obi stared at the tiled wall.
"How are you feeling?" she asked again, quieter this time. "Not just the wounds. Everything else."
Obi swallowed. His voice came out softer than he expected.
"It stings... but right now? I feel nothing."
She paused but didn't push. After a brief silence, she nodded and removed the final thread. "You're all done."
---
Evening
The house was silent when they returned. Dinner had been simple—rice, leftover curry—and conversation even simpler. Mr. Kumon could tell Obi wasn't in the mood to talk, and for once, he didn't push.
Later that night, Obi collapsed onto his bed with a heavy sigh. His muscles ached—not from physical strain, but from being.
He let his eyes drift shut, for the first time in days feeling just a little bit lighter. The stitches were gone, the bandages off. His skin felt like his again.
But that peace didn't last long. The time reached
A sudden chill slid across the room like frost under a doorframe.
Obi's eyes snapped open.
His breath hitched. He wasn't alone.
"You didn't follow our orders," a voice said—smooth, cold, and impossibly calm.
Obi jolted upright and turned toward the source.
Perched on his open window, crouched like a phantom, was Reiji Yukimura.
His icy blue eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, piercing through the dark like daggers. His brown hair shimmered, tipped in white, tousled by the wind. An elegant, black umbrella rested casually on his shoulder. A crow—still as stone—perched on the other.
Every part of Obi froze. His knees nearly gave out.
"Wh—What are you gonna do to me?" he stammered.
Reiji didn't speak. He simply raised the tip of the umbrella, pointing it at Obi like a weapon.
Obi stiffened. He knew what that umbrella could do. He'd seen it tear through demons like paper.
Then Reiji grinned.
Not kindly.
"This," he said, his voice a low hum of menace and amusement, "is going to be fun."
---
Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital – Isolation Ward
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the long corridor. The security guards barely spared a glance as the man walked past—tall, composed, gliding like a shadow in human skin.
He was elegant in the most unnerving way. His skin, a smooth obsidian brown, seemed almost sculpted. His long, silky brown hair fell in waves past his shoulders, framing a face too symmetrical to be comforting. And his eyes—those blood-red eyes—glowed with a haunting luster, like embers smoldering in the dark.
He stopped at the final reinforced door. A nurse, glancing nervously, buzzed him through without a word. No one questioned who he was.
Through the thick, soundproofed glass wall, Itsuki Hibira sat in the isolation room.
No—bound in the room.
The once-vocal madman, now reduced to a twitching shell of his former self, was strapped tightly to a steel chair bolted to the floor. A white straitjacket pinned his arms to his chest, and heavy leather straps wrapped around his torso and ankles. His head was wrapped in gauze, stained faintly where old wounds had refused to heal. A thick muzzle covered his mouth, muffling all sound but his ragged breathing.
At first, Hibira stared at the floor. Then he looked up—and froze.
His eyes locked with the blood-red gaze on the other side of the glass.
And then he screamed.
It wasn't audible, but the sheer force of it vibrated through his whole body. He thrashed wildly in the chair, veins bulging in his neck, the chair groaning under the strain of his convulsions. His muffled screams echoed in his throat, desperate and primal. He kicked. He bucked. He slammed his forehead against the side of the muzzle. Panic overtook him like a wave crashing over a drowning man.
But outside the room, no one came.
No guards. No nurses. No doctors. It was as if the hospital had gone deaf.
The man with blood-red eyes tilted his head slowly, watching the display like one might observe a caged animal losing its mind. Then, he smiled.
It was not a human smile.
He took a step forward, and the lights above flickered.
Inside, Hibira's eyes widened in abject terror. His screams became guttural, the kind that tore at the throat and soul. He strained harder, as though sheer desperation might make the glass shatter.
The man raised a single finger and tapped the glass once.
Tap.
A hairline fracture bloomed across the reinforced pane.
The man's smile widened.
And then he leaned close, whispering something no one else could hear.
But Hibira heard.
And he began to weep.
---