Beika Wharf – Second Floor of the Warehouse
Akemi stood frozen at the window, staring blankly down at the carnage below.
In mere moments, the more than one hundred gangsters gathered for the deal had been torn apart by Azuma's merciless bombardment. Bodies sprawled across the open lot, weapons scattered, screams and groans echoing in the smoky air. The sight hit her like a hammer to the chest.
She had never witnessed anything like it in her life.For a long moment, her mind went white, incapable of forming words for what she was seeing.
Down below, Ren Kuroda—now fully in his Azuma persona—surveyed the wreckage. After making sure no one was still standing, he slung the spent launchers over his shoulder and switched to a compact submachine gun. Step by step, he advanced through the chaos, checking the bodies and firing short bursts to finish off anyone still twitching.
Caution came first. This was his first real mission—and the last thing he wanted was to mess it up by leaving survivors who could identify him.
Even so, a sliver of unease pulsed under the adrenaline. His brow twitched slightly, though his movements remained calm and precise.It was strange—shouldn't he feel something? Fear, nausea, guilt?Instead, he felt… steady.
And that steadiness unnerved him more than the violence itself.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Akemi had come down from the upper floor.
She stepped out of the warehouse, opened her mouth to speak—then stopped dead. The smell of blood and gunpowder hit her full force, and the sight of so many fallen men shattered what little composure she had left.
"Ugh—!" She doubled over and vomited on the spot.
"I—I'm sorry… I didn't mean to—ugh…" she tried to apologize between heaves, but another wave of nausea cut her off.
Ren turned his masked face slightly toward her, voice calm. "Don't rush it. You'll get used to it eventually. We've got time."
"T-thank you…" she managed weakly, forcing a pained smile before stumbling to a corner to throw up again.
Watching her, Ren couldn't help frowning slightly.
Wait… shouldn't I be reacting more like that?
Anyone's first time doing something like this—watching people die, causing it—should've been traumatic. Vomiting, trembling, shock… those were normal. Yet he was oddly composed.
Why?
His gaze flicked to the black Azuma mask covering half his face.
It's this thing.
Yeah… it has to be.
It was dulling his emotions—blunting his natural reaction to death. Turning the act of killing into something matter-of-fact.
A faint grin tugged at his lips under the mask. Figures. The Outlaw System doesn't hand out equipment that doesn't change you.
He didn't resent it, though. In fact, this made things easier. Vomiting mid-fight would've been embarrassing, and he couldn't afford to lose his cool during a job.
Besides, he told himself, these weren't innocent people. They were human garbage—violent criminals who polluted society. The fewer of them around, the better.
As his thoughts wandered, Akemi finally steadied herself. She wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and approached him, bowing deeply. "I'm so sorry. That was… disgraceful of me."
Ren waved it off. "You'll get used to it. Come on—let's see what we've scored tonight."
Excitement flickered in his eyes as he walked toward the pile of wooden crates.
Akemi, seeing how calm he was amid the blood and smoke, felt her belief in his "professionalism" solidify. No ordinary man could face such horror so casually. Whoever this masked vigilante really was, he wasn't just some reckless thug.
Pushing her thoughts aside, she followed him.
Ren pried open the nearest crate. Inside were rows upon rows of weapons—assault rifles, handguns, and ammunition. He frowned as he picked one up, noticing the crooked barrel.
"Tch. I thought they were trading something valuable," he muttered. "Turns out it's just a pile of junk metal."
Akemi blinked. Junk metal?
To her, the sheer amount of firearms was staggering. But remembering how casually he'd wielded those grenade launchers earlier, she had to admit—compared to his gear, these probably were scraps.
Still, she ventured, "Even if they're low quality, this many weapons could sell for quite a lot."
Ren shook his head immediately. "No. Selling this stuff will only bring trouble. Too easy for the police to trace."
In truth, he wasn't interested in arms dealing at all. The Outlaw System could make him a black-market king overnight if he wanted—but that path was a dead end.Too much attention, too many enemies. No peace, no freedom.
"Once we're done here, I'll call the cops and let them clean it up," he said simply.
Akemi nodded in relief. Deep down, that answer reassured her. She wasn't used to breaking laws, let alone killing people—hearing him hand things over to the authorities made it feel a little less… wrong.
Ren moved to the other side of the lot, where several suitcases lay scattered among the bodies. His eyes gleamed. "All right, let's see how much this haul's worth!"
He grabbed the nearest case, flipped open the latches—and froze.
Inside was white powder.
"…Flour?" His voice flattened.
"Eh? Flour?" Akemi blinked, then hurried to check another suitcase. Then another. Every single one was filled to the brim with the same white powder.
Her face paled as realization dawned. "Wait… I think they were trading this for the weapons."
She sighed heavily. "In the underground market, 'flour' moves fast. It's safer than money, and when they resell it, they can double their profit."
Ren stared at the suitcases for a long second, then shrugged. "So it wasn't cash. Whatever. At least we took out a bunch of scum. That's still a win."
Akemi looked at him in silence. There was something… different about him. He wasn't motivated by greed or bloodlust. He genuinely enjoyed crushing criminal networks.
He's not like the others, she realized. He actually wants to clean up the city.
She bowed deeply again. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Azuma. My intel was incomplete. I messed up and wasted your time."
Ren glanced at her and nodded. "No harm done. You'll get better next time."
She straightened, determination replacing guilt. "I will. I'll gather proper intel before I call you again—I promise."
"I'm counting on you," Ren said simply. With that, he turned and walked off into the night.
Once he was far enough from the scene, he pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and reported the incident anonymously.
By the time the sirens reached Beika Wharf, Ren Kuroda was long gone—disappearing once more into Tokyo's shadowed streets.