# Cormac Virelli POV
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## Shibuya, Cat Street
Reaching for my phone, I discovered it was already dead—the screen black and unresponsive. Though I knew the rough location of the shop, its exact whereabouts remained frustratingly unclear. The narrow streets of Cat Street twisted and branched like arteries, each one lined with boutiques and cafes that blurred together in the afternoon haze.
I couldn't let this setback derail my plans. Looking around, I spotted a reliable-looking salaryman in a crisp navy suit, briefcase in hand.
"Excuse me," I called out, approaching him with measured steps. "Can you tell me where I can find Mizuki Clothing?"
He frowned slightly, his brow creasing as he processed my words. A few moments of silence stretched between us before understanding dawned in his eyes, and he gestured down the street with practiced efficiency. The brief confusion was likely due to my English—not everyone in this district was comfortable with foreign languages, despite Shibuya's international reputation.
After following his directions through several winding turns, I finally located the shop. The storefront buzzed with activity, but not from customers browsing merchandise. Instead, workers moved in and out of the building, carrying boxes and furniture with the methodical urgency of a business relocation. This was exactly why I had come today—to catch the owner during his transition.
I quickly scanned the scene and identified a middle-aged man directing the workers with animated gestures, clearly the person in charge.
"Hello," I approached him with a slight bow—a gesture I'd learned was appreciated here. "Could you be Mr. Mizuki?"
The man turned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Yes, I am. And who might you be?" His eyes widened with sudden recognition. "Wait! Are you Mr. Corvic? I've been expecting you, though I thought you'd arrive a few days later. How fortunate that you've come while I'm moving everything out today."
"Yes, that would be me—Cormac Virelli," I corrected gently. "I came to inspect the property with my own eyes. I'm hoping to establish a cafe here."
I studied the building as we spoke. The two-story structure had good bones—solid construction with large windows that would flood the space with natural light. My vision was already taking shape: the ground floor transformed into a cozy cafe, while the upper level would serve as my personal residence.
"Ah, a cafe!" Mizuki's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "If that's your plan, then I believe you'll find this place quite charming. By the end of today, I'll have cleared out all my inventory and fixtures. Please, let me show you around properly."
We spent the next hour exploring every corner of the building. Mizuki pointed out the electrical upgrades he'd made, the reinforced flooring that could handle heavy equipment, and the separate entrance to the upper floor that would provide privacy for residential use. The space spoke to me—it had character, history, and most importantly, potential.
The structural integrity was sound, the location prime, and the price reasonable. After some brief negotiations over minor details, I finalized the deal with Mizuki. The renovation would require approximately a month to transform the ground floor into a functional cafe, but the upper floor was move-in ready since Mizuki had already cleared it out.
With the property secured, I could now focus on my primary objective for coming to Japan. I booked a room at a nearby business hotel—nothing fancy, but clean and convenient.
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## Several Hours Later
"Ring! Ring!" The shrill tone of my phone cut through the quiet of my hotel room.
I glanced at the screen—unknown number. Hesitating only briefly, I answered. "Hello?"
"Good evening, is this Mr. Cormac Virelli?" The voice was professionally courteous, speaking accented but clear English. "This is Mr. Zen calling from the Bounty Hunting Commission. Your license application has been processed and approved. You can collect it tomorrow during business hours."
"Understood. Thank you for the notification." I ended the call and set the phone aside.
The real work was about to begin.
I dressed methodically—dark jeans, a fitted black shirt, and my long coat that concealed my equipment without appearing bulky. From the locked case I'd carried from Italy, I retrieved my gear: the specialized revolver that had served me well in Europe, various artifacts I'd collected over the years, and most importantly, the hourglass.
Each piece was checked, secured, and positioned with practiced efficiency. Tonight wasn't about the cafe or settling into a new life—tonight was about understanding the power structures that governed this country's hidden world.
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## Ruins of the Star Religious Group Headquarters — Outskirts of Tokyo
The abandoned compound lay before me like the skeleton of some massive beast, its concrete bones bleached white under the moonlight. The destruction was more comprehensive than I'd anticipated from the reports—entire sections of buildings had been reduced to rubble, and scorch marks painted abstract patterns across the remaining walls.
"This place feels like a graveyard," I murmured, stepping carefully over chunks of debris.
I'd heard fragments of the story during my research—something about a battle involving the Star Plasma Vessel, a conflict that had drawn some of Japan's most dangerous individuals. The details were scarce and often contradictory, but one name kept surfacing in the whispered conversations of the underground: Toji. A bounty hunter of considerable reputation, though whether he'd survived the encounter remained unclear.
The air itself seemed heavy with residual energy, thick enough to taste. This wasn't just the site of a battle—it was a place where something fundamental had been broken.
From my coat pocket, I withdrew a small hourglass artifact. Unlike a normal timepiece, this one was empty of sand, its glass chambers waiting to be filled with something far more valuable than granules. The artifact pulsed faintly in my palm, responding to the cursed energy that still saturated this place like radiation.
I knelt carefully among the rubble and placed the hourglass on a relatively flat piece of concrete.
"Hourglass Hall," I spoke the activation phrase clearly.
The response was immediate and unsettling. The air around me seemed to bend and warp, as if reality itself was being pressed between invisible fingers. The hourglass began to spin slowly in place, its empty chambers gradually filling with what looked like liquid starlight.
Then the world transformed.
The ruins faded like morning mist, replaced by the compound as it had been—whole, imposing, filled with the energy of violent confrontation. Like watching an old film reel fed through a haunted projector, the scene materialized around me in ghostly detail.
The vision was fragmented, damaged by time and the sheer magnitude of what had occurred here, but certain images burned through the static with crystalline clarity:
A man with stark white hair and dark sunglasses, standing with an almost casual posture that somehow radiated absolute confidence. Even in this echoed memory, his presence was overwhelming—like staring into the heart of a star.
Another figure, scarred and brutal, wielding something that made the air itself recoil. The artifact in his hands thrummed with malevolent purpose.
The battle that followed was less a fight than a natural disaster given human form. The two combatants moved with speeds that should have been impossible, their clash sending shockwaves through reality itself. Buildings crumbled like sandcastles, the very ground beneath their feet cracking and reforming under the pressure of their conflict.
But it was the ending that truly captured my attention.
A body falling forward, life bleeding out onto broken concrete. The defeated warrior's final moments, frozen in time like a photograph of tragedy.
And through it all, the white-haired man stood unmoved in the eye of the storm. Not just any sorcerer—this was someone beyond normal classification. Someone who had earned a title that others spoke in hushed, reverent tones: the Honored One.
The silence that followed the battle was more deafening than any scream, heavy with the weight of finality.
"So that's what happened here," I murmured as the vision began to fade around the edges.
The ghostly images dissolved like smoke, leaving me alone among the ruins once more. But the impression lingered—the sense that I had glimpsed something fundamental about the nature of power in this country.
"Monsters have learned to wear the faces of men," I said quietly, pocketing the now-dormant hourglass.
I turned to leave, my footsteps echoing strangely in the empty space. But at the threshold of the compound, something made me pause. The sensation was subtle but unmistakable—like the feeling of being watched, or the moment before lightning strikes.
The story wasn't finished here. This battle, devastating as it had been, felt like a single movement in a larger symphony. The reverberations of what had occurred in this place were still spreading outward, touching lives and shaping destinies in ways that wouldn't be understood for years to come.
As I walked back toward the neon-drenched streets of Tokyo, the revolver at my hip seemed to pulse with its own quiet hunger—eager for whatever challenges this country might offer.
The night was young, and I had the distinct feeling that my real education in Japanese sorcery was just beginning.
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*End of Chapter*