The world is broken.
The government is nothing more than a puppet, strings pulled by gangsters, mafia, and corrupt officials. Streets run with fear and blood. Justice is a memory, erased by men who bend laws to suit their whims.
Religious leaders, the voices of conscience, are hunted. People vanish for whispering against the system. Any spark of resistance is snuffed out before it can ignite. The ones who survive learn to obey—or die.
I have watched it all. Seen the decay, the cruelty, the way the weak are crushed under the heels of the powerful. And I understand.
Do not hesitate. Do not falter. Kill what must be killed. Spare nothing, and show no mercy.
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The warehouse stank of rust, sweat, and iron. Flickering lights cast jagged shadows across the walls. Muffled screams bounced off concrete, swallowed quickly by the cavernous space.
A man knelt in the center, bruised and bloodied. Crimson streaked his torn clothes. His wrists were bound, but his eyes burned with defiance.
"You… dare defy our rules?" one hissed, boots splashing in the blood beneath him. Knives glinted as the others circled, anticipation thick in the air.
"I… I did what I had to," the man rasped, "If you want… kill me… do it… now."
The men laughed, sharp and grating. "One mistake can't be forgiven."
Above, shadows shifted silently on the catwalk. A scrape went unnoticed.
"What a little shit," a voice barked. "You thought you could distribute this behind our backs?"
Several pamplets fluttered to the floor. Bold words smeared with ink denounced the so-called "opposing party." Fear and anger flickered across the men's faces—but before they could react, a shadow fell.
Glass shattered. A figure dropped from above—black katana in hand—landing with bone-shattering precision.
The warehouse froze.
He rose slowly, deliberate, terrifyingly calm. The black blade reflected the weak light like a shard of darkness. A faint aura crawled along its edge, pulsing like a heartbeat. His eyes were cold, unmoving. Death incarnate.
"Who… who are you?" the bound man whispered, voice trembling.
No answer. Only the silent weight of presence.
The first attacker lunged. Sparks flew as the black katana met the blade. In one fluid motion, the attacker's hand was severed. Blood sprayed. A scream tore through the air.
The others hesitated, just for a heartbeat. That was all he needed.
The black katana moved like living shadow. Limbs and heads fell with horrifying precision. Blood spattered walls and crates. Bones snapped. Flesh tore. Every strike final, merciless.
He leaped onto crates, spun mid-air, descended like inevitability itself. The aura around the sword writhed, alive with dark intent.
One by one, the men fell. The floor became a pool of blood, walls streaked like a grotesque painting.
The last man standing—the boss—stepped forward, chest swelling with pride, eyes burning.
"I am just doing my duty to save the Empire," he declared, voice echoing in the warehouse.
Mejiro's dark eyes glinted, cold amusement curling at the edges. "Save the Empire? You mean save yourself."
The boss snarled, lunging with a sword raised high. The clash rang out, metal against metal, sparks flying, shadows dancing violently across walls streaked with blood.
Blow after blow fell. Every strike Mejiro delivered carried not just force but judgment, the aura of his katana slicing through arrogance and fear alike.
Finally, the boss stumbled, chest heaving, blood trickling down his temple. He fell to the floor, trembling, legs unable to hold him.
Mejiro pressed the black katana to his throat, the cold steel biting lightly against skin. The hum of the aura vibrated in the silent warehouse, a quiet promise of finality.
"You… you think you are justice?" the boss rasped, desperate, broken.
"I am not justice," Mejiro replied, calm, deliberate. "I am what the world made me. And I do what is necessary."
"You… were never saving anything," he continued, voice quiet, icy. "Not the Empire. Not anyone. Only yourself."
Silence swallowed the room. Blood dripped onto concrete. Shadows stretched long and thin, as if the darkness itself had paused to watch.
The bound man trembled in the corner, whispering Mejiro's name:
"Mejiro…"
And in that moment, the world felt small, fragile, and entirely under the control of the shadowed swordsman who had become inevitability itself.