The transition from "existence" to "nothingness" was supposed to be a peaceful descent into darkness. For Isamu Hagiwara, it was anything but.
The last thing he remembered was the blinding glare of high-beam headlights in a Tokyo parking garage, the screech of tires, and the cold realization that the corporate lawsuit he had just won had cost him his life.
Is this the afterlife? Isamu thought, his mind already calculating the variables. If so, I'd like to file a complaint regarding the lack of orientation.
He gasped, his lungs burning as they pulled in air that tasted of wet stone and ancient iron. He wasn't dead. Or, at least, he wasn't "gone."
Isamu opened his eyes. He wasn't in a hospital. He was slumped against a damp, moss-covered stone wall. His tailored charcoal suit had been replaced by a deep blue tunic that felt surprisingly heavy. Beside him sat a leather tube the kind used for storing high-value legal transcripts.
"Isamu? Hey, counselor... you still with me?"
The voice was familiar. Deep, calm, and slightly breezy. Isamu turned his head. Sitting on a pile of moldy straw was Arata Fukunaga.
He looked exactly as he had on Earth: 6'4", arms like oak trunks, and a messy, spiky mane of dark hair. He was wearing a simple black shirt that looked two sizes too small for his chest. Balanced precariously on his nose were a pair of thick, wooden-framed glasses.
"Arata?" Isamu's voice cracked. "Where are we? The car... the hitmen... we should be in a morgue."
"Beats me," Arata said, giving a carefree shrug as he adjusted his clunky glasses. He looked around the cramped, lightless cell with the curiosity of a tourist. "One minute I'm trying to shield you from the bumper, the next minute we're falling through a hole in the sky. We landed on a carriage. A very fancy, gold-plated carriage. People started screaming about 'Prophecy' and 'Criminal Trespass.' Now? We're in the dungeon."
Isamu stood up, his legs shaky. He grabbed the leather tube. Inside was a single piece of parchment that pulsed with a faint, crimson light.
[The Blood-Stained Contract]
"Arata, this isn't Japan," Isamu whispered, the gears of his strategist mind finally locking into place. "Look at the architecture. Feel the air. We've been displaced. Reincarnated. And if we're in a dungeon, we're under the jurisdiction of a power we don't understand."
"Is that bad?" Arata asked, picking a piece of straw out of his hair.
"It's a legal nightmare," Isamu snapped. "We have no standing, no documentation, and-"
The heavy iron door at the end of the corridor screeched open. Two men in rusted plate armor marched toward their cell. One of them carried a heavy, serrated executioner's sword.
"Prisoners 905 and 906," the lead guard barked, his voice echoing off the stone. "The Sun-King has reached his verdict. For the crime of desecrating the Royal Transport, your lives are forfeit. The Trial by Combat begins in one hour."
Isamu stepped toward the bars, his eyes narrowing. "Trial by Combat? That's archaic. Under whose authority? Where is the magistrate? I demand a copy of the penal code for this kingdom!"
The guard stopped, blinking in confusion. "Code? Magistrate? You speak in riddles, little man. The Sun-King is the Law. He said you die. If you survive the Champion, maybe the Gods wanted you to live. But nobody survives the Champion."
The guards turned to leave.
"One hour," Isamu muttered, looking at the glowing contract in his hand. He turned to Arata. "They don't have laws here, Arata. They have 'Verdicts of Fate.' It's a system built on the assumption that might makes right."
Arata stood up, his massive frame casting a shadow that covered the entire cell. He cracked his knuckles, a sound like dry wood snapping. Through those blurry, wooden glasses, his eyes briefly lost their "clueless" glint.
"So," Arata said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You handle the talking? I handle the Champion?"
"Not quite," Isamu said, a cold, sharp smile spreading across his face the same smile that had terrified prosecutors in Tokyo. "If they want a Trial by Combat, we'll give them one. But I'm going to prove that their 'Champion' is in breach of contract before you even have to break a sweat."
Isamu unrolled the parchment. The crimson light flared, illuminating the cell.
"Arata, keep those glasses on. Stay 'clumsy.' Let them think you're the weak link."
"You got it, Counselor," Arata grinned, accidentally tripping over his own feet and crashing into the wall. "Whoops. I'm just an idiot bodyguard, right?"
Isamu looked at the iron door. "Case 906 is officially open. And I'm going to sue this kingdom for every bit of 'Divine Right' they have."
The Sun-King's face shifted from gold-tinted arrogance to a deep, violent purple. He slammed his scepter against the marble dais, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder.
"Enough of this madness!" the King roared. "You speak of contracts and covenants in my house? I am the Sun! I am the Law! Champion! Crush his skull and bring me that glowing rag he holds!"
The seven-foot giant didn't need a second command. With a guttural growl, he stepped forward, the sand beneath his heavy boots exploding with every stride. He raised the massive flail high, the spiked iron ball whistling through the air as it began its lethal arc toward Isamu's head.
Isamu didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the weapon. He simply looked at his pocket watch a ghost of an object he had brought from Earth that still ticked in his mind.
"Arata," Isamu said calmly. "The motion to dismiss was denied. Proceed with the physical objection."
"On it, Boss," Arata chirped.
In a movement so fast it looked like a glitch in reality, Arata "stumbled" forward. To the crowd, it looked like the big, clumsy idiot had tripped over a loose stone. He fell right into the path of the giant.
CLANG.
The sound was deafening. The iron ball struck, but not Isamu. Arata had somehow "tripped" into a position where the flail's chain wrapped around his massive forearm, the spiked ball slamming into the sand just inches from his boots.
"Whoops! Heavy toy you got there, big guy!" Arata laughed, his wooden glasses hanging off one ear. He didn't look like a master; he looked like a lucky fool. But beneath his arm, the iron chain was taut, held in place by a grip that could crush granite.
"Wait!"
A new voice, sharp as a guillotine blade, sliced through the chaos.
At the edge of the royal balcony, a man in a pristine white suit startingly modern compared to the King's robes—stepped into the light. He held a silver pocket watch in one gloved hand, clicking it shut with a crisp snap.
This was Endo Nagata.
"Your Majesty," Endo said, his voice smooth and cold. "Stop this at once. As the High Prosecutor of the Divine Realm, I cannot allow this execution to proceed."
The Sun-King turned, his eyes bulging.
"Endo? This is a local matter! These rats fell on my carriage!"
Endo walked to the railing, looking down at Isamu with a gaze of pure, intellectual hatred. "It is no longer local. That man in the blue suit... he isn't just a prisoner. He is holding a Class-A Divine Artifact. If you kill him while he holds the Blood-Stained Contract, the magical backlash will erase this city from the map."
Endo leaned over the railing, his eyes locking onto Isamu's.
"Isamu Hagiwara," Endo sneered. "I should have known. Even in death, you find a way to make a nuisance of yourself."
Isamu looked up, his smirk widening. "Endo Nagata. I see the afterlife promoted you. Tell me, does the white suit come with a sense of ethics, or are you still overcharging for 'justice'?"
Endo's jaw tightened. He turned back to the King. "We will not have a Trial by Combat. We will have a Formal Tribunal. If Hagiwara wants to play lawyer in the world of the Gods, I will be the one to personally hand him his life sentence."
The giant Champion looked confused, still trying to tug his chain away from Arata's "clumsy" grip. Arata let go suddenly, sending the giant stumbling backward into the dirt.
"Trial adjourned," Isamu announced to the stunned arena. He began rolling up his contract. "See you in court, Endo."