Chapter 1: The Hunt Begins
Rain hammered the neon streets of Neo-Tokyo like a relentless drum. Every puddle reflected fractured lights—red, blue, green—shivering across the asphalt. In the shadows, Kuroda Azein waited, silent, invisible. His black coat clung to his lean frame, damp but immovable, like a second skin.
The building across the street was a fortress of glass and steel: the Crimson Serpents' headquarters. Kuroda's eyes scanned every entrance, every camera, every patrol. The faint hum of electronics and distant chatter of guards filled the night like a heartbeat—slow, steady, predictable.
Perfect.
He slipped through an alley and scaled the side wall with calculated precision. Each foothold, each hand grip, was measured. Not a sound escaped.
Inside, the lobby was vast, marble floors gleaming under cold fluorescent lights. A security guard paced slowly near the elevators. Kuroda crouched behind a pillar, eyes narrowing.
The first strike was quiet. A single, precise elbow to the jaw—the guard crumpled silently. No hesitation. No mercy.
From the corner of his eye, another guard moved. Kuroda's hand shot out, grabbing a decorative chair. He swung it like a pendulum. The impact cracked ribs, echoed through the hall, and sent the second guard sprawling into the wall.
Each move was deliberate. Each moment cinematic.
Kuroda advanced, using shadows and walls like extensions of his body. His breathing was controlled, minimal. A third guard pulled a gun, but Kuroda was faster. He disarmed him with a quick wrist lock, snapping the metal with a sickening crunch. The gun skidded across the floor. A headbutt ended the fight.
No one gets to see me coming.
He reached the security room. Three men inside, monitors flashing, unaware of the predator in their midst. Kuroda struck like lightning:
A spinning kick shattered one guard's arm.
A knee to the chest dropped another to the ground.
The last guard barely had time to raise a pistol before Kuroda disarmed him, twisting the weapon into a splintered heap of metal.
The monitors flickered. One camera showed Kuroda in the shadows, a fleeting glimpse before he vanished again.
Deeper in the building, a narrow hallway led to the inner sanctum. Guards began to converge. Kuroda didn't run; he flowed. A fight broke out—hand-to-hand, precise, unrelenting. Every punch, every strike was bone-on-bone, every kick measured to incapacitate. The sound of impact rang like gunshots in the silent hall.
He improvised with the environment: a shattered vase became a lethal weapon; a railing snapped into a staff. No move wasted, every motion a deadly choreography.
By the time he reached the elevator to the upper floors, eight guards lay unconscious or broken behind him. His movements were methodical, almost artistic. The camera angles in his mind—like a manhwa panel—caught each moment: the flash of his eyes, the twist of a wrist, the flick of blood in the dim light.
The elevator opened. Only one man waited—a hulking enforcer with a knife in each hand. He charged. Kuroda sidestepped, grabbing the man's wrist, spinning him into the wall, then delivered a brutal combination of punches and elbows that left the man crumpled, gasping.
Kuroda didn't pause. He stepped into the inner sanctum, facing the first layer of the Crimson Serpent hierarchy. The game had only begun.
And he was already winning.
Chapter 1: The Hunt Begins (Continued)
The inner sanctum was a palace of shadows and neon: dark corridors lined with polished black steel, walls humming with hidden electronics. The smell of gun oil and expensive cologne lingered—a grotesque mix that made Kuroda's senses sharpen.
At the center of the room, a dozen armed men stood like statues, waiting. They had been warned. But none were ready for what came next.
Kuroda stepped forward, each footfall deliberate. The men tightened their grips on weapons—knives, pistols, batons—but movement betrayed hesitation. That was all Kuroda needed.
The first strike was a blur: he vaulted over a table, shoulder-first into the nearest guard, sending him flying into a steel pillar. The impact cracked the floor beneath them.
A knife flashed toward Kuroda's chest. He twisted, grabbing the blade mid-air, snapping it with a crisp crack. The next guard fired a pistol. Kuroda rolled, slid under the swing, and delivered a precise elbow to the shooter's temple.
Every movement was exact, cinematic, fluid.
He grabbed a nearby metal pipe and spun it like a baton. Guards fell in a controlled storm of chaos:
One swung a baton; Kuroda caught it, twisted it into the man's wrist, and dropped him.
Another tried a low kick; Kuroda leaped, using the guard's own momentum to slam him into the wall.
The room became a symphony of grunts, metal impacts, and the subtle thud of unconscious bodies hitting the floor.
Kuroda's eyes never wavered. He was reading patterns, predicting every strike before it happened.
But then—a bigger threat. A massive enforcer, muscles taut, eyes cold as ice, stepped forward. No weapon, just fists. A hand-to-hand showdown unlike any before.
Kuroda moved. The fight was a blur:
Punches and elbows traded at lightning speed, each strike meant to incapacitate, not kill unnecessarily.
Blocks were seamless; counters were brutal. Kuroda caught a swing, spun the man, and delivered a knee into the midsection.
The enforcer responded, a sudden haymaker to Kuroda's jaw. Pain exploded—but Kuroda absorbed it, using the momentum to throw the giant into a steel railing.
The floor trembled beneath the impact. Dust fell from the ceiling. For a moment, everything froze—the room a tableau of tension and shattered bodies. Then Kuroda stepped forward, delivering the final, precise strike: a spinning backfist that sent the enforcer crashing to the floor, unconscious.
Silence returned.
But Kuroda wasn't done. A door at the far end opened—he knew what waited inside: the lieutenant of the Crimson Serpents, someone with intelligence, speed, and skill. The real game had begun.
He adjusted his gloves, breathing steady, every muscle coiled like a spring. The city outside had no idea the storm that had just entered its veins. And Kuroda… he was just getting started.
The hunt had only begun.
Chapter 1: The Hunt Begins (Final Confrontation)
The door to the lieutenant's office slid open with a whisper. Beyond it, the room was dimly lit, sleek, and cold—marble floors, glass walls, expensive art. A single figure leaned against the desk: tall, sharp-featured, eyes gleaming like a predator.
"Kuroda Azein," the lieutenant said, voice smooth but deadly, "I've been expecting you."
No words. No hesitation. Kuroda's eyes narrowed.
The lieutenant's hands moved like lightning, reaching for twin combat knives. Kuroda was already in motion.
The fight began.
The first clash was a blur: steel against steel. Sparks flew as knives collided with a metal pipe Kuroda had grabbed from the room.
He twisted, swept the lieutenant's legs out from under him. But the man rolled, landing on his feet with uncanny balance.
Kuroda struck with fists, elbows, and knees—each hit targeted, precise, bone-shattering if necessary.
The fight moved like a storm through the office:
Chairs toppled, papers scattered like snow.
A vase shattered; Kuroda used a shard to deflect a knife swipe, then slammed the lieutenant into a glass wall, leaving cracks that spider-webbed across the pane.
The lieutenant countered with brutal efficiency, a spinning kick that caught Kuroda off guard—but Kuroda rolled, absorbed the impact, and retaliated with a savage uppercut.
Every strike had weight. Every movement was calculated. No wasted energy.
The fight shifted to the windows. Rain lashed against the glass outside, neon reflections dancing across the combatants' sweat-slicked bodies.
Kuroda dodged a knife slash and kicked the lieutenant backward into the desk. The desk collapsed, scattering weapons and glass.
He swept the man's legs again, but the lieutenant caught Kuroda mid-fall, twisting him into a choke hold.
With a grunt of effort, Kuroda slammed his shoulder backward, shattering the lieutenant's grip.
Time seemed to slow. Each man's breathing was ragged, muscles trembling, eyes locked in deadly focus.
Finally, Kuroda saw the opening: the lieutenant raised a knife to strike. Kuroda feinted left, rolled right, grabbed the man's wrist, and disarmed him with a snap so precise it could have been rehearsed for a stage fight.
The final strike was clean, brutal, cinematic: a spinning backfist that sent the lieutenant crashing to the floor, unconscious. The knife skidded across the marble.
Silence fell. The storm outside the city mirrored the calm inside the office. Kuroda stood among the wreckage: shattered furniture, scattered papers, and bodies lying unconscious—a testament to the perfect, terrifying efficiency of his skill.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't hesitate.
He walked to the window, looking out over Neo-Tokyo. Rain washed over the neon streets, and in the distance, more threats waited. More chaos. More blood to spill.
And Kuroda Azein, the shadow in the city, would meet it all—because this was only the beginning.
Chapter 1 ends. The hunt continues.