The sky above Chuo was heavy with clouds, casting deep shadows over the quiet streets. A low wind swept through the alleys, carrying the distant scent of the river. And under that wind, the steady sound of boots striking pavement echoed with growing intensity.
Six hundred men marched forward in perfect formation—every step synchronized, every breath held in grim anticipation.
At the front of them, walking beside two division leaders—Riku Abeno of Toyosu and Masaki Hozumi of Kiyosumi-Shirakawa—was Eichi, clad in dark clothes, his face unreadable. For a moment, he looked every part the war-hardened commander... even if his heart was beating out of his chest.
It's really happening...This is insane.We're really going to attack Bakurocho... and I'm the one leading this!?
His legs wanted to tremble, but he stood still.
Then, halfway down the road, Eichi raised a hand. The entire force came to a halt with military precision. The men waited in silence. No orders. No signal. Just Eichi's presence.
Eichi cleared his throat awkwardly.
He hadn't really planned to say anything… but now that hundreds of hardened men were staring at him, waiting for him to speak like a general, he had no choice.
He raised his voice.
"Everyone, listen to me!"
The wind seemed to pause.
"We will win tonight—no matter what! Bakurocho will be ours!"
The men clenched their fists and nodded silently, the fire in their eyes growing.
Eichi continued, his voice surprisingly steady.
"We are part of the Arata Clan. We may be called yakuza… but that doesn't mean we're bad people."
The men blinked. A strange thing to say before a battle.
But Eichi pressed on.
"Each one of you has something you protect. A family. A friend. A memory. And that's why we're fighting—not just for territory, but for the bond we all share."
He touched his chest.
"The Arata Clan isn't just a name. It's a heartbeat. One we all carry."
There was silence.
And then—
"UOOOOHHH!!!"
The men erupted in a roar that echoed across the empty streets.
To them, it wasn't just a speech—it was a declaration of honor, of resolve, of something greater than war.
To Eichi… it was a desperate attempt not to mess up.
Thank God that worked...
Meanwhile, behind him, Riku and Masaki exchanged a glance.
Masaki whispered, "Even now, he's reinforcing morale without promising glory. His words reach deeper than victory. As expected of someone planning three steps ahead."
Riku nodded. "He's telling them that this war isn't about blood—it's about the soul of the clan. A man like that… even death would hesitate to touch him."
Eichi, unaware of the storm of respect building behind him, wiped a bit of sweat from his brow.
"Alright," he said, turning forward again. "Let's go."
And the march continued—toward Bakurocho, toward legend, and toward a misunderstanding that would only grow larger.
The men finally reached the heart of enemy territory: the Unuodera Clan's stronghold. An underground casino nestled beneath the city's surface, hidden beneath a maze of towering buildings. The air was thick with tension as the Arata forces halted.
Eichi's voice cut through the night. "Split into four groups. Each group takes one building surrounding the casino. One hundred and fifty men per team."
Riku Abeno stepped forward confidently to lead the first. Masaki Hozumi took charge of the second. Sakimura, ever loyal and sharp-eyed, led the third. And the last group—under Eichi's direct command—moved toward the underground casino itself.
Eichi's mind raced. If I take the easy route, I won't make a name for myself. I won't live up to what they expect of me. No... I have to go straight to the source. I'll face the leader of Bakurocho myself.
He knew the path wouldn't be simple. Four powerful defenders stood between him and control of Bakurocho—each guarding a crucial part of the casino's defenses.
Their names and faces were known in the underworld and feared by many:
Takeshi Morimoto
Haruto Fujikawa
Daiki Yamashiro
Souta Kanemura — the leader of Bakurocho
Eichi's pulse quickened. To take Bakurocho, each one must fall.
Only then would the city—and the clan—know the real strength of the Arata Young Master.
Everyone headed to their assigned buildings, tension thick in the air. The moment they reached their positions, the first clash erupted.
The Unuodera Clan spotted the attack quickly—no one was going to take Bakurocho without a fight. Their defenders sprang into action, weapons drawn, voices shouting commands through the chaos.
The streets filled with the sounds of steel clashing, shouts, and the hurried movements of men fighting for control.
Eichi's group pushed forward toward the underground casino.
Masaki's Building – Eastern Block, near the Underground Casino
Masaki didn't wait for orders. He didn't need them.
The instant the attack began, he slammed the door open with his shoulder and walked straight in, eyes sharp, jaw clenched. His 150 men followed in silence—but they all knew what this meant: Masaki Hozumi was hunting.
He wasn't carrying a sword.
He didn't need one.
Two Unuodera sentries moved to block the entrance, blades drawn—standard formation.
Masaki cracked his knuckles.
"I don't have time for you," he muttered.
The first one lunged.
He sidestepped, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed him into the wall with enough force to leave a crack in the concrete. The second tried to swing at him, but Masaki ducked and drove his elbow into the man's ribs—once, twice, then a brutal uppercut that sent him crashing through a table.
No wasted movement. No hesitation.
Just raw, terrifying strength.
His men watched in silent awe. Masaki didn't just fight—he dominated.
"I won't lose to Riku," he muttered under his breath, stalking deeper into the halls. "That bastard's probably already cleared half his building."
Another wave of Unuodera fighters appeared—this time six, lined up at the end of the hallway. All armed. All wary.
Masaki rolled his shoulders and charged.
He didn't slow down.
They swung. He ducked. Parried a blade with his bare forearm, then countered with a spinning heel kick that shattered a man's jaw. He tore through the group like a storm—bones cracking, bodies flying, shouts echoing up the stairwell.
"Floor by floor," he growled. "I'll clear this whole place myself if I have to."
By the time his men caught up, half the floor had already been neutralized.
Masaki's fists were red, knuckles bruised, but his eyes burned with that same fire.
He wasn't a towering figure—standing at around 175 centimeters—but there was a weight to his presence that made him seem much larger. His frame was tightly packed with muscle, every motion carrying a brutal efficiency that came from years of grinding discipline. His white hair, slightly disheveled, gave him a weathered look, adding to the image of a man who had seen far more than his age suggested.
His face was bold and sharp, rough around the edges. A bit of facial hair shadowed his jawline, making him look older and more rugged than he truly was. That, paired with his intense expression, made it hard for anyone to treat him lightly—even among the division leaders of the Arata Clan.
Masaki wasn't here to show off. He was here to win.
And he wasn't planning on letting anyone—Riku, the Unuodera Clan, or even fate—get in his way.
He wasn't trying to be a hero.
He was just too damn proud to come in second.
Masaki's knuckles were bloodied, but his breath was steady. The building had almost been cleared—bodies lined the halls, and the cries of retreat echoed through the lower floors. He was getting closer. One more floor.
He cracked his neck and kicked open the stairwell door.
And then—he froze.
There, at the top of the stairs, stood a figure. Small. Fragile-looking. A boy—no older than seventeen, maybe younger. He was a mess of pale skin and twitching fingers, eyes hollow with deep bags beneath them, lips dry and cracked. His messy hair clung to his forehead, and his oversized coat nearly dragged on the ground.
He looked like a sickly shadow someone had forgotten to erase.
Masaki narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
The boy twitched—then raised his hand to his mouth and let out a high-pitched, unsettling giggle.
"I'm… f-f-fukuda…" he stuttered, eyes widening unnaturally. "Haruto's little brother…"
His voice cracked halfway through, but he kept giggling.
"You can't beat him… heh… you can't even beat me…"
Masaki stepped forward, body tense. "Tch… another lunatic—"
"I'm gonna kill you here," the boy whispered, his head tilting. "Right here…"
He giggled again. Louder this time.
Then he vanished.
Masaki's eyes darted—"Where did—!?"
Something cold pierced his side.
He looked down.
A blade. Thin. Precise. Already buried deep into his body.
His vision blurred as he staggered back, breath caught in his throat.
From the darkness behind him, the boy's voice whispered again—closer this time.
"Too slow…"