The glow of the monitor was the only light in the room. Hours had passed, unmeasured, as Ayanokoji moved from one tab to the next, assembling a framework of this world.
He began with government sites. The Parahuman Response Teams had their own portal: sterile, bureaucratic, full of policy documents and public notices. The text spoke of containment procedures, classifications, incident reports. Each confirmed the reality: capes were not anomalies; they were a recognized social force.
Next came the Protectorate. A polished front-facing site showcasing teams of heroes across the United States. Profiles listed names, codenames, classifications. Alexandria. Eidolon. Legend. These were the so-called "Triumvirate," presented as the pinnacle of heroism. Their biographies were vague, curated for public relations, but the implication was clear — they were symbols. Anchors holding a fractured society together.
He clicked further, tracing reports of battles. Casualties. Cities destabilized. Property damage measured in billions.
Heroes. Villains. Both alike in their power. Both constant presences.
On PHO, the tone shifted. The forum was less curated, less filtered. Anonymous users argued endlessly over capes' motives, powers, and failings. He scanned threads:
"ABB activity spreading to the Boardwalk"
"Empire capes sighted again — why isn't the PRT cracking down?"
"Eidolon weaker lately?"
Each post painted a picture of a city steeped in gang violence, crime, and parahuman conflict. The authorities managed symptoms, not causes.
Ayanokouji's gaze lingered on the local board: Brockton Bay. Threads detailing encounters with villains: Lung, Oni Lee, Kaiser, Purity. Photographs and shaky videos accompanied some.
He studied each image carefully. Costumed figures clashing with inhuman force. Fire blossoming, steel bending, explosions tearing through streets. It was spectacle, but it was also war.
A society where superhuman violence is normalized. Heroes and villains are labels, but their battles are consistent. Predictable in their chaos.
He bookmarked the threads, filing the information away.
Another tab: Parahuman Wiki.
This one offered compiled knowledge. Powers were categorized into types: Movers, Shakers, Brutes, Thinkers, Tinkers, Blasters, Strikers, Changers, Masters, Trumps, Strangers. Each classification explained in clinical terms.
He read each definition twice, memorizing them. A taxonomy of abilities. A system to bring order to chaos.
At last, curiosity drew him further. A thread pinned across multiple boards, bold in its title:
"The Endbringers: Compilation Thread."
He opened it.
The page loaded with a banner image: a grainy satellite photograph of devastation. Below it, a list of three names.
Behemoth. Leviathan. Simurgh.
He clicked the first.
Behemoth. A towering monster of stone and energy. First sighted in 1992, Delhi, India. Battles cataloged across continents. Casualties listed in the tens of thousands each time. Each incident described with chilling detachment: the monster arriving, fighting, retreating. Never killed. Always victorious in destruction.
He clicked the second.
Leviathan. An aquatic monstrosity. Its appearance triggered tsunamis and floods, cities drowning beneath waves. 1996, Newfoundland. 2004, Kyushu. Each attack lasting hours, then withdrawal.
He clicked the third.
The Simurgh. A winged figure of alabaster and music, descending upon Lausanne in 2002. Less physically destructive, but its presence twisted minds, driving entire populations to violence and despair. A threat that lingered long after it departed.
He sat back, the faintest shadow crossing his expression.
The thread scrolled on, endless speculation, eyewitness accounts, photographs of collapsed cities. Records of the Protectorate and Triumvirate mobilizing, often failing. The death toll mounted year by year.
A world already unstable, fractured by parahumans. Yet above them, threats greater still. Endbringers. Calamities with no solution, no permanent victory. A cycle of attacks without end.
He closed the thread slowly.
The refrigerator hummed on in the background. The bulb overhead flickered once before steadying.
He rested his chin against steepled fingers, eyes hooded in thought.
Not an experiment. Not a test. A transfer. Another world. A stage built on violence, survival, and unending crises. Whoever placed me here ensured I had identity, tools, freedom. But not safety. Never safety.
His gaze returned to the monitor. The cursor blinked in silence at the edge of the screen.
Capes. Gangs. Endbringers.
The new world had shown its face.
And Kiyotaka, as ever, felt no panic. Only calculation.