Zoro
After calling the police, the guard was located — still unconscious, not far from the factory — and hoisted over the shoulder.
"Hmm. Held back considerably, so it shouldn't be injury-related. Could this be backlash from depleting all of his cursed energy?"
'If that's what this is, it's genuinely informative. First time witnessing someone drain their reserves completely.'
Around 80 kilos. Nothing serious.
Back on the skateboard and moving.
Returning directly to Osaka with a body slumped across the back wasn't a realistic option. Confidence in the balance required to cover 55 kilometers at 180 km/h while carrying a passenger wasn't exactly high. So the destination shifted to a secondary location — a secret base maintained by the Inagaki clan somewhere in Kyoto.
Nothing dramatic about it. A warehouse. A padlock. Discreet enough to avoid anyone's attention.
Off the board, guard still draped across the shoulder. Key retrieved from its hiding spot in the flower pot beside the entrance. Padlock opened.
Tchik!
Handle grabbed. Metal door lifted.
PHRAAH!
The interior was packed to the ceiling with goods. Crates, boxes, containers stacked against every surface.
"There's not a single centimeter of free space — what the hell is this?"
No room to set someone down, let alone rest. But no alternatives presented themselves, so the situation had to be worked with.
"Ahh. The end justifies the means."
PHRAAH!
THUD!
Inside, door closed behind. A look around confirmed what was already obvious — moving freely in here was going to require creativity.
Internal complaints were building steadily when something caught the attention.
'There's nothing over there.'
In the far back corner of the room, a specific area was completely clear. Not enough space for someone to actually lie down comfortably, but noticeably, conspicuously more open than every other part of the warehouse.
'But why?'
Why was that corner untouched while everything else was buried under merchandise? And more importantly — why would Kentaro have provided this address at all if the place wasn't actually usable?
'There's something there.'
Squeezing through the packed contents of the warehouse while carrying a body on the shoulder turned out to be a significant undertaking. After considerable effort, considerable frustration, and more than a few colorful internal remarks, the corner was finally reached.
'That was genuinely harder than the entire hunt.'
Frustration set aside. A look around confirmed the obvious — nothing visible. Nothing except a carpet laid across the floor.
On its own that would have been deeply anticlimactic after all of that. But the slight, unmistakable bulge beneath it said otherwise.
Fsh!
Carpet ripped back.
A trapdoor underneath.
A smile arrived without prompting.
"Jackpot."
"Cliché. But absolutely welcome."
Handle seized. Trapdoor pulled open hard.
CRIICK!
No stairs below. Just a drop.
TAP!
Landing at the bottom confirmed two things: complete darkness, and significantly more space than the floor above.
Not large enough for anything social, but more than sufficient for two people.
"Need to find a light switch. Hoping there's actually power running down here."
Searching in near-total darkness, navigating by touch more than sight. The natural senses had been kept sharp on purpose — years of heavy Observation Haki use could atrophy everything else if care wasn't taken, and that wasn't a trade worth making.
The switch was eventually located, buried under a thick layer of dust.
"Let's hope this still functions."
Click!
The ceiling bulbs flickered once, twice — then came on one by one until the entire space was lit.
"And there was light."
A proper look at the room, finally.
"Whoa. This is considerably better than expected."
It was essentially an underground apartment. Modest, not sophisticated by any stretch, but fully functional. A bed, a couch, a fridge, a small dining table, and — somehow — a television.
No time wasted. The guard was moved to the couch and set down carefully.
"Time for him to wake up."
A drink first. The fridge was opened — beer. Nothing but beer.
"Tch. Damn yakuza."
More searching produced a bottle of water tucked behind everything else. It was gone in a matter of seconds.
The bottle came down from the mouth with an involuntary sound.
"Ahhh. Nothing better in this entire world. But — back to business."
Back to the couch.
"Wake up."
Nothing.
"Hey. Wake up."
Still nothing. He was showing no signs of returning to consciousness anytime soon. Unfortunately, there was a history test in the morning, which meant the timeline was not flexible.
"ARE YOU GONNA GET THE HELL UP OR NOT?!"
Possibly too loud. But effective.
He jolted awake with a sharp cry of pain.
"ARGH!"
Eyes searching the room. Then settling on the swords. Then sinking inward as memory tried to reassemble itself piece by piece.
The expression shifted through stages — confusion, then something pained, then recognition settling in all at once like something finally clicking into place.
"Three swords." Said quietly, to himself. Then louder: "IT'S YOU!"
"Took you long enough. Hit hard, but held back — you weren't supposed to be this damaged. How exactly did you manage to burn through your entire cursed energy reserve to the point where basic defense wasn't even possible?"
"What do you want from me?" The attempt at a cold, professional tone was somewhat undercut by the tension and residual pain written clearly across his face.
And that was the beginning of a legend. The greatest Jujutsu mercenary in history — though neither of us knew that yet.
"My name is Roronoa Zoro. And I have a feeling you and I are going to become GREAT~ friends."
---
Back to present
Three years had passed since that night. Three years since Jin Kahmi — obviously a fake name, but one that was never challenged — provided the contacts that made everything possible.
Those contacts opened a door into the underground sector of what was already a hidden world. Missions came in steadily, each one a degree more dangerous than the last. The work ranged across everything — theft, assassination, and occasionally the full dismantlement of entire organizations when the scope called for it. The one just completed fell into that last category.
Operating primarily within the region hadn't limited the reach of the reputation. If anything, the concentrated activity had accelerated it.
Several nicknames had been earned over three years in the field. The one that stood out from the rest, the one worth keeping, was "The Scythe of Certain Death."
The origin wasn't complicated. Not a single mission involving a kill had ever been failed. Other assignments — espionage, infiltration, theft — those had gone wrong before. But combat missions? Perfect record. And the preference for them was hard to disguise.
The reputation had spread outward from Kyoto in every direction. Reasonable to assume it had reached most corners of the Jujutsu world by now.
But that chapter was closing.
Retirement. At least for the moment.
The wind moved across the face as the walk continued unhurried. The last mission was finished. Done.
Then — movement behind. Close.
No alarm. The identity of that presence was not in question.
"Soru's come a long way," said to whoever was trailing behind. "Completely clean now."
The figure behind was dressed identically, the one visible difference being the blood across the clothing.
"Obviously. What exactly were you expecting?"
"That tone — who exactly are you talking to like that?"
"Stop performing."
The performance continued without missing a beat, this time pivoting toward wounded disappointment.
"To think this day would come. Where did the upbringing go wrong? Is this teenage rebellion? Is that what this is?"
The head tilted sideways as soon as the last word landed, letting a fist pass through the air where the face had been a moment earlier.
"Drop it."
"To think my own little brother would raise his hand against me. I genuinely miss the days when small, earnest Toji used to call me big brother without irony."
"Tch." He stopped pushing. He'd already figured out that resistance was giving exactly what was wanted.
Laughter broke through without much effort. "Hahahaha! Alright, alright — done."
The expression settled back into something composed.
"How did it go?"
"Same as always," he replied, completely unbothered.
Toji had been assigned to clear out the lower ranks while the leadership was handled directly. He'd done it without needing any guidance.
The decision to bring him along on missions had come early — very shortly after the work with Jin Kahmi began. After his first mission, the question was put to him directly: did he want to continue?
He'd been shaken by the first kill. Anyone would be. But he said yes.
A year ago, the solo work began. Mostly assassination contracts. Since the targets were predominantly curse users rather than cursed spirits, the title of curse killer didn't apply — but a different one had appeared to fill the gap: "The Sudden Death."
Together, they'd made the underground nervous. The name that eventually circulated for the pair was "Fear and Terror."
"Let's go — there are things to take care of," said while picking up the pace again.
"What things?" He fell into step alongside.
"We're going back to Tokyo."
He stopped. His expression closed off completely.
"So it's time."
"Yes, Toji." A feral smile came without being asked for.
"We're going home."
END OF VOLUME 1 : ACCLIMATIZATION