The sun blazed across the city, but its light barely touched the towering walls that loomed in the distance, stretching endlessly around the horizon. Concrete and steel fused into an unyielding barrier, high enough to blot out the sky in places, jagged with watchtowers and patrol platforms. The wall was not just a boundary — it was a statement, a silent threat, a cage for those inside. From Mejiro's vantage point on the highway bridge, he could see its shadow creeping over streets and rooftops, the sheer scale reminding him of the forces he was up against.
Below, the city pulsed with life: cars weaving along narrow avenues, pedestrians hurrying in neat lines, neon signs reflecting off glass towers. But the ever-present wall cast long shadows even in midday, a constant reminder that the authorities controlled everything within, and that escape, freedom, or defiance carried immense risk. Mejiro's gaze flicked from the convoy on the bridge to the wall in the distance. Its presence sharpened his awareness — every alley, every route, every obstacle was framed against this massive, unbreakable structure.
The police jail car rumbled along the bridge, flanked by cruisers, one leading the way. Mejiro adjusted his stance, feeling the weight of both the sun and the wall pressing against the city. Memories of past missions, betrayals, and losses tightened his resolve. He crouched slightly, eyes narrowing, calculating the convoy's movement and the opportunities the wall and the cityscape could provide. The towering wall was a silent observer, a looming sentinel, but today it would not decide the outcome — he would.
The police jail truck rumbled across the highway bridge, flanked by two escort cruisers and a lead patrol car. Sunlight struck the asphalt in harsh, blinding streaks, reflecting off the steel guardrails and glass towers beyond. Inside, the driver gripped the wheel with tense fingers, eyes constantly scanning the mirrors and the road ahead. Beside him, his partner sat alert, gloved hands resting near his sidearm, voice low but steady.
Behind them, in the backseat, two SWAT officers sat motionless, rigid in their black gear, weapons resting across their laps. They were silent, faces unreadable, watching the prisoner but too far removed to truly hear the conversation in front. Between them, the old man sat alone, head bowed, hands cuffed, prison uniform creased from travel. His posture was frail, almost defeated—but there was an unmistakable weight in the way he carried himself, a silent presence that demanded attention even without a word.
The driver broke the silence, voice rough over the hum of the engine. "Who is this guy? He looks… weak."
The passenger shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Weak? Don't make me laugh. That man's no joke."
"I mean… look at him," the driver said, eyes flicking toward the rearview mirror, catching the silent figure behind them. "Old, frail… doesn't seem like he could even stand without help."
The passenger's eyes narrowed, voice low but firm. "You don't get it. He was one of the strongest members of the Communist Party."
The driver's hands tightened on the wheel. "Oh… you mean the opposing party? The one against the government?"
"Yes," the passenger said quietly, voice calm, almost reverent. "I've heard they have one of the strongest humans in the party. You mean the Seven Opposers."
The driver's lips pressed into a thin line. "The Seven Opposers… all of them wanted, right? Not all three of them have been seen yet… Hard to even tell if they exist."
The passenger let out a dry laugh. "Shut up. It's not a lie. The one sitting behind you? He is one of the Seven Opposers."
Neither of the backseat officers reacted. They remained statuesque, weapons resting across their laps, faces blank masks. The old man still did not lift his head. The hum of the engine, the rattle of the wheels, and the rush of wind against the windows were the only sounds beyond the front seat conversation.
Suddenly, a deafening BOOM tore through the convoy. The lead police car erupted in fire, metal twisting and sending sparks across the asphalt. The truck jolted violently as the driver slammed the brakes, tires screaming against the asphalt. Smoke poured upward in thick, black waves, curling and twisting in the sunlight.
Flanking cruisers skidded to a halt, officers leaping out with guns drawn, fire licking the asphalt. One shouted, voice cracking over the roar: "I can't see anything! There's too much smoke!"
Through the churning black haze, a dark silhouette emerged, moving forward with unnerving precision.
"Who… who's that?" the driver yelled, panic creeping into his voice.
The smoke parted just enough to reveal Mejiro, his dark blade gleaming, moving like a storm incarnate. Bullets erupted from the remaining police cars, but Mejiro moved impossibly fast, blocking every round with his blade. Sparks flew as projectiles struck steel, harmless against him. He advanced, running and spinning through the smoke, cutting with precision and deadly grace.
The backseat remained still, tense shadows framed by the smoke, silent witnesses to the storm. The old man did not move, head bowed, observing only with the faint weight of his presence.
Step by step, the convoy's defense collapsed. Officers dropped, weapons clattering, panic spreading. Flames reflected off Mejiro's black blade as he moved, unstoppable, leaving silence and smoke in his wake.
The remaining officers poured out of their vehicles, weapons raised, faces tight with adrenaline. Eyes burned red from smoke; their boots slipped on scattered debris and sparks. They fired in frantic bursts, hosing the air with metal and noise. Mejiro met the volley like a storm meets a cliff — his blade an impossible, silent answer.
Rounds screamed past, striking concrete and metal with ringing clangs. Each impact on his blade sent up a shower of bright, flaring sparks; some rounds chattered off guardrails, others punched shallow divots in the asphalt. Mejiro moved through it all with a terrible calm: a step, a sweep, a pivot — soldiers' shouts cut off mid‑word as he closed the distance. When his blade met flesh and fabric, the sounds were awful and abrupt: a wet thud, a stifled cry, the metallic tumble of a dropped weapon. Men crumpled in the wake of his path, limbs folding like broken frameworks, boots skidding to stillness in darkening stains.
He didn't slash theatrically; he ended fights with efficient, surgical motions — a wrist snatched, a throat sealed, a shoulder opened, each followed by that awful hush where life ebbed and the bridge took on the metallic tang of gunfire and smoke. Voices that had barked orders became ragged, then fell silent. One by one the escort cruisers' gunmen slumped, their bodies slack against the cold asphalt, uniforms darkening where they fell. The air tasted of burned rubber, hot metal, and the sharp, coppered scent that follows violence.
At the jail truck, a lone SWAT officer had staggered free behind the open door, trembling. His rifle shook in his hands; sweat and fear made his grip useless. He pressed himself against the truck, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, eyes darting between the ruined convoy and the smoke‑choked bridge. Mejiro's approach was a shadow cutting through heat.
The officer tried to fire. His hands betrayed him; the shots rang wild and impotent. Mejiro closed the space with three heartbeats. With a brutal, single motion — a wrench of force that snapped the man's resistance — the officer's body went still. There was a dull, final sound, an ending as clean and terrible as a door slamming. The officer's rifle clattered to the asphalt; his breath stilled. No gore, only the awful quiet that follows a life stopped.
Silence pressed against the wreckage. Smoke curled, flames guttered, and distant horns wailed like the city itself mourning. From the back of the truck, the old man rose without haste. He moved with a grace that belied his age: slow, measured steps toward Mejiro, cuffs clinking faintly as he walked. He came close, the two of them framed by the ruined convoy and the looming wall of the city — ash and daylight and the harsh geometry of concrete around them.
Mejiro lowered his blade. For a moment the only sound was the rasp of breath and the crackle of small, dying fires. He stepped forward until the old man's face was close enough to see every lined crease, every hard memory mapped there. With a silent but chilling voice Mejiro says,
"It has been long,"
"Master."