Rain stitched silver scars across Kabukichō's rooftops as the midnight skyline choked on its own noise.
A man ran — coat torn, breath jagged, one hand pressed to a phone.
"Jinko—left, now. The alley. Don't slow down. He's behind you."
The voice on the line was calm. Mechanical. Inhuman.
Jinko's stomach twisted.
"Fuck, stop saying that— I'm near my limit!"
He obeyed anyway, boots sliding on wet stone, splashes echoing through the narrow corridor. Neon bled into the puddles like open wounds.
At the alley's mouth, seven figures detached from the shadows — tall, masked, silent. For a heartbeat, Jinko almost smiled.
"Finally," he spat, breathing hard. "You're late. You know what I pay you for—"
The tallest raised a gloved hand.
Motion froze.
The rain's rhythm broke.
Jinko frowned. "What—?"
One of the masked men convulsed, clutching his throat before collapsing. Blood spilled fast, vivid against the stone. The rest turned toward the rooftops.
"He's here," the leader whispered.
The phone slipped from Jinko's hand, the screen fracturing like ice. Six figures circled tighter around him, blades gleaming through the storm.
"Form up! Eyes everywhere!"
Jinko spun, heart pounding. The circle tightened — then thinned.
One man vanished.
Then another.
Only the rain remained, whispering across blades and fear.
He caught glimpses of movement — something dragging men into the dark.
One of the youngest, Ryu, broke.
"Where are they?! What's happening—"
Lightning flared. Faces flashed silver. The leader's voice came low, sharp as a blade.
"It's not a group. It's just one sick, twisted bastard."
Silence pressed in.
A chain lashed through the dark, wrapping around Ryu's throat.
"Ryu!" Jinko lunged forward, grabbing the chain to pull him back—
—but a shuriken sliced through the rain and caught his hand, cleanly taking a finger.
He screamed, clutching the wound as blood mingled with stormwater.
Ryu tried to claw free, boots scraping stone. The chain yanked harder, dragging him backward into the dark.
"Help me! Jinko, help me! Please! I—I don't want to die—"
His voice fractured and disappeared into the rain. For a moment, only the storm and the rattle of chains remained.
The leader's eyes followed the motion, shadows pulling the last man into the black. Only he and Jinko were left now.
Fed up and furious, he stepped forward, shouting into the storm:
"YOU COWARD! If you're man enough—show yourself!"
Silence.
Not even the rain dares to fall.
The world itself seems to freeze, listening.
Then — footsteps.
Slow. Heavy.
Each one echoing through the drenched alley like the toll of a funeral bell.
A tall figure steps into view — boots striking wet concrete, a long black coat dragging behind him, hair loose and dripping against his neck.
His eyes burn a deep, hellish red through the slits of a mask.
An oni mask.
Jet black, polished by the rain, with sharp white horns and fanged teeth curled into a perpetual snarl.
Steam drifts faintly from beneath it, mingling with the metallic scent of wet steel and air heavy with lightning.
The leader's throat tightens. He knows that mask. That legend.
The greatest killer in Japan — the Oni of Osaka's heir.
The Black Oni.
The masked man draws his sword. Not fast. Not frantic. He moves with the calm precision of something that has killed more times than it's breathed. Steel whispers free of its sheath, glinting under the fractured moonlight.
The leader raises his blade, right leg set before the left. His sword points to the heavens.
The Oni lowers his own, angled lazily to the right. Rain collects along the blade's edge, running down in thin silver streams.
Jinko stands frozen behind them, his body trembling. He can't move. Can't even breathe.
He knows—this duel decides everything.
The air tightens. Every drop of rain feels suspended midair. Every heartbeat deafening.
Then—nothing. Just stillness.
Jinko blinks.
When he opens his eyes, the Oni is crouched right in front of him. Close. Too close.
The faint sound of rain returns, soft and steady, tapping against the mask. Jinko freezes, wide-eyed.
Behind the Oni, the leader is still standing exactly where he was…
until blood begins to pour from his midsection, pooling beneath his feet—thick, dark, spreading. His upper half starts to slide, separating from his body.
Jinko barely manages to gasp—
but before he can even see it hit the ground, the Oni moves.
He lifts a gloved hand, placing it firmly against Jinko's cheek, turning his head back toward him.
The Oni's mask stares inches from his face, horns glinting with rain.
Those red eyes behind it glow faintly, steady, unblinking.
Steam drifts between them with every breath.
Jinko's voice quivers.
"Oh God… help me—"
The Oni's mask doesn't move,
but the shadow of a smile seems to flicker in the lightning.
Then the world flips.
Jinko's vision turns upside down — and he sees his own body crumple beside him, headless.
The Oni stands for a moment over the fallen. Rain strikes his coat, running in rivulets down to the street. His shoulders rise and fall slowly—each breath deliberate, almost weary.
He turns, sheathing his blade with a quiet click.
And then he walks.
Each step slow. Sluggish.
As though every kill weighs heavier than the last.
His boots echo through the alley, fading with the storm, until he disappears into the dark — swallowed by the same silence that birthed him.
The rain continues to fall.
The city forgets.
But somewhere deep in Kabukichō, a name begins to move again through the underworld.
Whispered.
Feared.
Reborn beneath the thunder.
The Black Oni.