Zoro
Osaka arrived late at night. The port city was completely quiet — which made things considerably easier.
Toji had fallen asleep in the trailer somewhere along the final stretch while the pedaling continued. Fresh ocean air hit the face, carrying the salt of the sea with it — a smell completely different from anything the past few weeks had offered.
A deep breath. The tension that had clung throughout the rough week loosened, just slightly.
Eyes closed. Lungs emptied. The legs were heavy from days of relentless use and the exhaustion was genuine — but somehow, for the first time in a long while, something close to refreshed settled in.
"Life's tough, but we push through. Okay — where are we sleeping tonight?"
A good spot to set up the tent was needed.
"Maybe look for a bridge."
Not difficult. Osaka had a dense network of waterways — rivers cutting through every district, and the sea not far behind.
"This city isn't that different from Tokyo."
Skyscrapers in the distance, some of them still lit despite the 3 a.m. hour. Downtown was still a ways off, but the metropolitan sprawl had already started — houses on every side, and honestly, beautiful ones. Quiet streets, warm lamplight bleeding out of windows here and there.
Lost in that thought, something snagged at the attention through Observation Haki.
A nauseating trace. Unmistakable. Cursed energy.
Focusing tighter — a cursed spirit, no question.
"Hmm. Grade 2, maybe. Not that strong, but moving fast is better than waiting."
Other presences nearby as well. Ordinary ones. Non-sorcerers who had no idea what was sharing the night with them.
The pedaling picked back up, faster this time, and within seconds a dark alley came into view at the edge of the street.
"That's so cliché."
Hard not to think it. But the moment the smell hit — every trace of amusement disappeared.
Blood. Strong. And beneath it, the sharp edge of gunpowder.
Going straight in wasn't an option. Toji and the gear had to be secured first.
Three streets back, off the bike — the frame was seriously worn after three days of hard use, creaking in ways it hadn't at the start. Wado Ichimonji came out from under the blanket covering Toji, along with all the belongings. A quick check of the surroundings confirmed nobody watching, and then it was back to the alley.
"Let's violence."
In with Wado Ichimonji in hand, still sheathed.
The scene inside was gruesome. Without the experience built up from dealing with curse users over the past months, it would have ended in vomiting immediately.
Men in suits scattered across the ground. Guts exposed, stomachs torn open in long clean lines. Most of them had scars on their faces. Several were missing the first joint of their pinky finger.
"Yakuza?!"
Paw!
A gunshot cut through the silence and snapped the focus back into the present. The presence of survivors had already been registered — but realizing the victims were yakuza introduced a serious complication.
The survivors were yakuza too. That made the situation considerably messier.
"Should I help them?"
Pop culture had done serious damage to the yakuza image over the years. The reality wasn't romantic. At their core, they were simply mafia — assassinations, extortion, drugs, territory wars fought with real consequences for real people. Organizations that protected local businesses had existed in the past, sure. But in cities like Osaka, built around commerce and port trade, ruthlessness was the standard, not the exception.
Knowing all that, jumping in wasn't exactly appealing.
But given the current situation — no identity, no money, no legal existence in this city — the right opportunity could change everything.
"If he's high-ranking in an influential clan, this changes a lot for us."
A hard call. But the upside was too significant to walk away from.
"Fuck it. I'm going."
Full sprint toward the cursed spirit. Didn't take long to close the distance.
Ugly, like all of them. A bipedal creature with black skin, patches of white breaking through in patterns that mimicked a suit. Legs disproportionately thick, almost comically so. And its feet were, literally, shoes — polished ones.
Its hands — if they could be called hands — were tantos. Sharp, curved, unmistakable. Tantos had a long history with yakuza culture. The connection wasn't subtle.
A cursed spirit born directly from their fear and resentment. That was the read, and it felt solid.
Attention shifted to the victim. Observation Haki gave less precision on humans than on cursed spirits, but enough detail came through to work with. Another yakuza — but the outfit was sharper, more expensive, cut differently from the others on the ground. Higher quality in every visible detail. Instinct flagged him as high-ranking without needing more evidence.
Today might actually be a lucky day.
He was in full panic. Normally, cursed spirits stayed completely invisible to ordinary people — but under extreme circumstances, when someone was close enough to death that raw negative emotion began converting into cursed energy, that rule shifted. Temporarily, they could see what the rest of the world couldn't.
He'd been shooting. The trigger kept pulling. Nothing came out. The magazine was empty — every round fired, nothing left.
Tears and snot running down his face. When the realization landed that the gun was completely dry, he threw it at the spirit anyway, a last act of pure desperation.
It passed straight through, like everything else had.
With every option exhausted, the yakuza simply collapsed. The despair arrived all at once and took him with it.
"Ha… haha… hahaha!"
Gone already. Eyes rolled.
The cursed spirit began its approach. Slow. Deliberate. Unhurried in the way that only something enjoying itself could be.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Psychological torture — savoring every second of it. The sickening smile spreading across that grotesque face made the intention obvious. No interest in ending things quickly. It wanted to stretch every last drop of suffering out for as long as possible.
Unfortunately for it, patience had completely run out.
"I really don't have time for this."
Tchak.
Grip shifted on Wado Ichimonji. Held vertically along the left arm, right hand moving into position at the hilt.
"Ittoryu Iai—"
The voice — unmistakably young — cut through the silence of the alley. The cursed spirit turned toward it.
That was the last thing it ever did.
"Shishi sonson."
By the time the attack finished, the position had already shifted — behind it, legs spread wide, blade back at the waist.
Splurch!
A massive spray burst along the spirit's body. A clean split, straight through the center. It hadn't understood what happened. Both halves hit the ground and began dissolving slowly, cursed energy bleeding out of the remains until nothing was left.
Thirty seconds. Gone completely.
Turning back toward the yakuza — and the look on his face made the body take an instinctive step back.
"Hachiman-Sama…?"
"The hell are you babbling, you dirty son of a bitch?"
It just slipped out.