The night was inked in shadows as the van rumbled down a desolate highway, its engine a low, incessant growl that mingled with the muffled beats of distant music. Inside the cramped, odoriferous interior, Makoto lay unconscious in the back, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. The vehicle's dim interior lights flickered intermittently, casting erratic patterns over the occupants. At the wheel was Belto, his eyes hard and determined, while in the front passenger seat, Sakura's expression betrayed both urgency and trepidation. Every bump and jolt in the journey seemed to reverberate through Makoto's body, even as his mind languished in a void of oblivion.
Unbeknownst to him, this journey was but the opening act of a far more intricate performance—a clandestine expedition that would soon introduce him to a cabal of enigmatic figures whose reputation had long haunted whispered legends and forbidden tales.
Moments later, a subtle shift began within Makoto's foggy consciousness. His eyelids fluttered, struggling against the oppressive haze of unconsciousness. Gradually, a semblance of awareness crept into his mind, punctuated by a dull throbbing at the back of his skull. When his eyes finally opened, the world that greeted him was a tapestry of blurred shapes and uncertain sounds. He tried to rise, only to find that his limbs betrayed him; his legs, in particular, were heavily chained to a cold, unyielding surface.
Panic mingled with confusion as he strained to recall the fragments of his memory—snatches of a brutal confrontation with Belto, the sharp sting of defeat. Now, as his vision cleared, he beheld seven indistinct silhouettes arrayed before him, their features shrouded in shadow yet radiating an unmistakable aura of authority and menace.
It was in that moment of disoriented awakening that Makoto's racing thoughts coalesced into a single, terrifying realization: he had been abducted and confined in a secret stronghold. With each labored breath, he struggled to piece together the circumstances that had led him here. The metallic tang of fear intermingled with the acrid smell of industrial cleaning agents, while the chill of concrete and steel pressed in on him from every side.
Slowly, the amorphous figures in the dim light began to assume recognizable forms. Perched atop a raised dais of polished obsidian were seven individuals, each seated in an opulent chair that exuded both regality and latent danger. Their expressions varied—ranging from indifference to barely concealed contempt—and each seemed to possess an unspoken story etched into their countenances.
At the apex of this grim pantheon sat the first-ranked member, Saito Minamoto. Only 34 years old, his commanding presence and steely gaze left little doubt about his position as the undisputed leader of the group. His posture was impeccably straight, his uniform immaculate, and his eyes shimmered with a mixture of youthful intensity and battle-hardened resolve.
Flanking him was the second-ranked member, Akari Hoshiko—also 34—whose calm, measured expression belied a mind of remarkable acuity. His dark eyes, penetrating and analytical, swept over Makoto with an inscrutable look that hinted at both judgment and curiosity.
The third-ranked member, Hina Takeshi, a 33-year-old woman, sat with an air of languid indifference. As she meticulously applied her makeup—a ritual that seemed almost ritualistic in its precision—her demeanor remained unruffled, as though the unfolding events were mere background noise to her own private performance.
Next, the fourth in command was Haruka Kazama, a 32-year-old whose ice-cold gaze and detached manner suggested an inherent disdain for superfluous emotion. His presence was as quiet as it was menacing, his every movement measured and deliberate.
In stark contrast stood the fifth-ranked member, Renzo Kurogane, a mere 16 years, His mischievous smirk and playful giggle hinted at a propensity for insolence, yet there was a fierce glint in his eyes that spoke of latent power.
The sixth member, Hotaru Kagami, a 33-year-old woman with delicate features and an air of refined sophistication, exuded an aura of quiet authority. Her manner of dress was impeccable, and as she adjusted her glasses with a practiced grace, it was evident that every gesture was laden with calculated intent.
Finally, the seventh-ranked member was Ryūjin Tatsumi, also 34, whose formidable presence was underscored by a subtle air of ferocity. His dark, brooding eyes and the hint of animalistic intensity in his features suggested that beneath his composed exterior lay a potential for unbridled savagery.
As Makoto's gaze swept over these seven figures—each a living embodiment of power, mystery, and danger—a tremor of both awe and defiance coursed through him. His mind raced with questions as his body, still chained and rendered vulnerable, strained against its restraints.
"Who the hell are you?" Makoto demanded, his voice echoing off the cold, hard walls of his confinement. The question was less a plea for information than a challenge to those who dared imprison him.
In that charged silence, a flicker of recognition crossed Makoto's face. A memory, long suppressed and now reawakened, bubbled to the surface—a recollection of his skirmish with Belto and the subsequent haze of unconsciousness caused by Sakura. It was then that the realization struck him with electrifying clarity: these were none other than the fabled Seven.
The tension in the room was palpable, charged with a volatile mix of authority, defiance, and the promise of imminent conflict. Makoto's eyes widened in a mixture of shock and begrudging respect as he regarded the assembled figures. "So finally," he drawled, a sardonic smile curving his lips, "I've met the so-called Seven. The most renowned bosses in this game, aren't you? And here I am, witnessing—quite incredulously—that there's even a child among your esteemed ranks."
At the mention of his remark, the youngest among them—Renzo—responded with a gleeful giggle. Perched in a relaxed squat on his chair, he flashed an impish grin and waggled his fingers to form the number sixteen, as if to underline his own age with a mix of pride and playful defiance. "Hey, I'm not a child," he retorted with feigned indignation. "I just turned 16, alright?"
Before the moment could spiral further into juvenile banter, Saito's commanding voice cut through the mounting cacophony. Leaning casually on the armrest of his chair, he fixed Makoto with a piercing stare. "That's enough, Renzo. We did not convene here for puerile quips," he said coolly, his tone brooking no argument. "Our purpose transcends mere banter, and we must now proceed to matters of consequence."
Makoto's initial mirth gave way to a defiant glint in his eyes as he squared his shoulders, though the chains around his legs reminded him of his present vulnerability. "So, by your reckoning," he sneered, "you get to decide which seirei gets exorcised and who doesn't?" His words dripped with a mixture of scorn and incredulity—a challenge to the carefully constructed hierarchy before him.
At this juncture, the sixth-ranked member, Hotaru, adjusted her glasses with a deliberate grace. In a tone that was both formal and unfathomably precise, she intoned, "We authorize deployment solely upon collective consensus that the extant peril remains within your purview. However, should you unilaterally diverge from protocol—initiating exorcistic engagement absent sanction—and fail—the resultant debacle shall not merely besmirch your standing but impugn the very integrity of our function."
Makoto blinked in confusion, his mind grappling with the labyrinthine verbiage as if deciphering a cryptic cipher. Before he could muster a retort, the second-ranked member, Akari, offered a clarifying interjection in his characteristically measured tone. "In essence," he explained, "if you attempt an exorcism without our explicit concurrence and fail, the blame—and all ensuing repercussions—fall squarely upon us alone. It is only when the threat appears insurmountable for the region that we choose to intervene."
The gravity of their words hung heavily in the air. Makoto's mind churned with memories of his past and the bitter sting of betrayal. "Liars!" he barked suddenly, his voice quivering with suppressed rage and hurt. "If that's truly the case, then why did none of you help my father when he needed it most? Why did you stand idly by as he suffered, as he sacrificed himself?" His accusation cut through the silence like a blade, each word dripping with indignation and unresolved sorrow.
For a long, agonizing moment, the room remained mute, the only sound the soft hum of distant machinery echoing off the walls. It was then that Hotaru's voice rang out once more, cool and detached from the swirling maelstrom of emotions. "You must refrain from articulating conjecture as though it were verifiable truth. Understand that our directives operate within a meticulously delineated framework—one that permits scrutiny of his intent to harm. However, let it be unequivocally stated: our involvement in this matter remains nonexistent."
Makoto's confusion deepened as he tried to reconcile her impersonal, almost clinical delivery with the raw emotion of his own memories. "That's it," he snapped, his voice rising with renewed ferocity. "You should shut up! Anyone else can talk, but you keep quiet!" His defiance filled the room with an electric tension that seemed to vibrate along every surface.
It was at that moment that Haruka, the stoic fourth-ranked member, could no longer tolerate what he perceived as blatant insolence. Rising from his seat with a sudden, almost violent movement, his face contorted into a mask of icy fury. "You are being irreverently disrespectful, Makoto," he growled, his tone as cold and unyielding as the steel chains that bound him. "Just because you are Kyoka's son does not grant you carte blanche to insult us."
Makoto's lips curled into a derisive, mocking grin. "Yeah, sure, gloomy eyes," he taunted, his tone laced with contempt. The words echoed in the chamber, each syllable a deliberate provocation meant to push the boundaries of the fragile decorum that held the gathering together.
Before anyone could de-escalate the situation further, Ryūjin—the formidable seventh-ranked member known for his explosive temper—rose to his feet. His voice thundered across the room as he bellowed, "Who the hell do you think you are, you piece of shit? I'll tear you to pieces!" In that instant, his entire being seemed to warp, as if the very air around him bristled with feral energy. His eyes blazed with a primal intensity, his features contorting as coarse hair sprouted along his jawline and his teeth elongated into savage, predatory points.
However, before his transformation could reach its zenith, Akari's commanding shout reverberated throughout the room. "Ryūjin, calm down! If you allow your anger to escalate further, you might lose control—and your Standz might run amok once more!" His words, firm and unyielding, served as both admonition and plea for order. Gradually, as if by some unseen force, Ryūjin's bestial metamorphosis receded, leaving him seated once more, albeit with a lingering scowl of barely contained ire.
Saito cleared his throat, his tone imbued with a deliberate calm that belied the simmering tensions beneath. "Yes, Akari is right," he declared. "No one should let Makoto's provocations unsettle our composure. That is precisely what he wants." His eyes met Makoto's, steady and inscrutable, as he attempted to restore a semblance of order to the mounting chaos.
Yet Makoto was not finished. Despite the chains that held him, he summoned every ounce of defiant energy remaining within him and pressed on. "All I want is an answer," he insisted, his voice both hoarse and determined. "You claim that your rules dictate intervention only in cases of dire peril—yet you did nothing when my father was in mortal danger. If you cared so little, why meddle in our affairs now? Why have you abandoned your responsibilities?"
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken tensions, the air thick with the weight of accusations and regrets. It was then that Hina, the ever-calm third-ranked member who had until now been content with her silent makeup application, abruptly set aside her tools. With a cool, almost disdainful glance, she fixed her gaze on Makoto and said, "Look, little boy—do not go asking idiotic questions. And, for the record, explain yourself: why did you rashly set off on an exorcism of the Seirei without our express permission?"
Makoto, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of annoyance and indifference, pretended as if her words were nothing more than background noise. With a casual, mocking side-eye, he addressed her, "Perhaps you should heed the advice I gave your 'fellow girl' over there and shut up. Men are talking, bitch." His words, caustic and irreverent, cut through the tension like a sledgehammer, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though the balance of power in the room might irreparably shift.
In response, Haruka's normally impassive demeanor shattered. Without a moment's hesitation, he raised his hand and, with a precise and calculated motion, flicked his palm. From the cold, hard floor in front of Haruka, a thick chain was suddenly propelled through the air—a projectile moving at a staggering velocity, Moving at Mach 2. The chain's glint in the dim light was a harbinger of death as it hurtled directly toward Makoto's forehead.
Time itself seemed to slow as Makoto's eyes widened in terror, convinced that his end was nigh. Yet, in a display of reflexive brilliance, Akari sprang into action. With the speed and precision of a seasoned warrior, he unsheathed his sword and, in one swift motion, sliced through the chain before it could make contact with its target. The metallic arc of the severed chain spun harmlessly away, its threat neutralized in an instant.
For a long, suspended moment, Makoto remained frozen—his mind reeling in disbelief as he struggled to comprehend the near-fatal spectacle that had just unfolded before him. His heart pounded furiously against his chest as he realized that the very people he had dared to challenge possessed powers far beyond his own comprehension. "I—I thought I was a goner," he thought, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and reluctant awe.
Akari, his expression unruffled, calmly returned his sword to its sheath at his waist. "What did we just say about losing it?" he chided Haruka in a low, measured tone. "You must learn to ignore his provocations. You're quite adept at it—if only you could let that skill temper your temper." Haruka's face, still as cold as the steel of his chains, betrayed a flicker of indignation as he mumbled, "I simply cannot abide by such blatant disrespect."
Makoto's breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as he tried to steady himself. The sheer force of the encounter had rattled him to his core, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he questioned whether these formidable beings might indeed extinguish him on a whim. Yet, even in the face of such overwhelming danger, a spark of resolve ignited within him. He drew a deep, steadying breath, his eyes hardening with determination as he met the unyielding gazes of his captors.
In the charged silence that followed, Saito's voice once again cut through the tension—a clarion call to restore a semblance of order amid the chaos of emotions and raised stakes. "Makoto," he began, his tone measured yet imbued with an undeniable authority, "it appears that you have questions and grievances, and we too harbor our own concerns. Therefore, let us settle this matter through a contest of combat—a duel wherein the victor shall be awarded the answers he seeks, and the defeated shall incur punishment for their transgressions, multiplied by two."
A murmur of disbelief and apprehension rippled through the assembled members of the Seven. The proposal was both audacious and perilous—a clear invitation to test the mettle of one another under the most extreme of circumstances. Makoto's eyes gleamed with a mixture of defiance and anticipation as he weighed his options. The prospect of engaging in battle was as dangerous as it was alluring—a final opportunity to reclaim his dignity and demand the truth about his past, and particularly, the fate of his father.
With a wry, almost cavalier smile, Makoto's gaze locked onto Saito. "Very well," he declared, his voice resonant with newfound confidence despite the chains that still bound him. "I challenge you—the very man at the helm of the Seven. Let our duel serve as the crucible in which our truths are forged. If I prevail, I expect nothing less than a full and unvarnished account of your failures, your mandates, and why my father was forsaken. But if I lose…" His voice trailed off, the implications as dire as they were unspoken, "then I will accept the consequences—twice over, as you so ominously decreed."
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at the feet of fate itself. The gathered members exchanged glances, a silent communion of shock and anticipation rippling among them. For a brief, charged moment, it seemed as though the very fabric of the secret headquarters trembled with the weight of this impending confrontation.