The air in Tachikawa, Tokyo, tasted of ozone and pulverized concrete. Sirens wailed like dying beasts, a mournful symphony for a city ripped open. At the epicenter of the destruction, a monster stood, a thing of nightmare and geometry.
[Kaiju Alert: S-Class Threat Designated 'Kaiju No. 0' – Tachikawa Sector]
It was not a creature of flesh and rage, not like the others. Kaiju No. 0 was an obsidian sculpture of death. Its body was a lattice of glossy, black crystal, shifting and reforming with unnatural speed. It had no face, only a pulsating core of sickly green light that hummed with a power that warped the air around it. Every few seconds, it would shed crystalline shards, launching them with the velocity of railgun slugs. Each one struck with enough force to liquefy an armored vehicle.
"All squads, maintain suppression fire! Target the core! Do not let it advance toward the shelter zone!"
Third Division Captain Mina Ashiro's voice was a rod of steel over the comms, but even she couldn't hide the strain. Her custom-made rifle, a weapon capable of punching holes in mountains, bucked against her shoulder. Each explosive round detonated against the Kaiju's crystalline hide, only for the chasm to seal itself in a heartbeat.
"Captain! It's not working!" Reno Ichikawa yelled, diving behind the wreckage of a bus as a volley of shards shredded the metal like paper. "Its regeneration is too fast!"
Nearby, Kikoru Shinomiya was a blur of golden light and righteous fury. Her personal battle suit, a marvel of technology, allowed her to move with impossible grace. She weaved between the projectiles, her massive axe-like weapon carving deep grooves into the creature's legs. But for every piece she hacked away, two more grew back, sharper and deadlier.
It's learning, Kikoru thought, her teeth grit, a sheen of sweat plastering strands of blonde hair to her forehead. It's adapting to my attack patterns. This thing is… elegant. And it's making a fool of me.
The situation was spiraling. The Defense Force, the pride of Japan, was being systematically dismantled. The creature wasn't just strong; it was intelligent. It was a general on a battlefield of its own making.
Then, the ground shook. A roar, not of a beast, but of pure, unadulterated power, tore through the air.
From the dust and smoke, a silhouette emerged, growing larger, more monstrous. Its fist, the size of a small car, was cocked back.
Kafka Hibino, in the form of Kaiju No. 8, had arrived.
"Finally, you useless oaf," Kikoru muttered under her breath, a flicker of relief warring with her innate frustration.
Kafka didn't waste time with words. He charged, his colossal form a battering ram of raw, untamed force. He'd learned to control his power, to channel it, but against this crystalline abomination, finesse was useless. This was a job for brute strength.
"GRAAAAAH!"
He slammed his fist into Kaiju No. 0's torso. The impact was apocalyptic. A shockwave erupted, blowing cars and debris away for a full city block. The obsidian lattice cracked, splintered, and for a glorious second, the green core was exposed.
But Kaiju No. 0 wasn't a mere beast. It reacted. Before Kafka could land a follow-up blow, thousands of crystalline tendrils erupted from its body, wrapping around his arm, his chest, his legs. They began to pulse with that sickly green light.
Kafka roared, not in rage, but in agony. The energy was draining him. His Kaiju form flickered, the raw power that defined him being siphoned away.
It… it eats energy? Kafka's human mind screamed from within the monster. My power… it's a buffet for this thing!
He was trapped. The more he struggled, the faster his strength faded. The Defense Force watched in horror. Their trump card, the very monster they both feared and relied upon, was being consumed.
And then, the sky broke.
It didn't tear like fabric. It shattered like glass struck by a god's hammer. A web of violet-black cracks spread across the gray clouds, leaking an energy that was ancient and suffocating. There was no sound, only a sudden, crushing pressure.
It was a weight not on the body, but on the soul.
Mina Ashiro, a soldier who had faced down city-destroying monsters without flinching, found her knees giving way. Her rifle, her extension of her will, clattered to the asphalt. Every cell in her body screamed at her to submit.
Reno Ichikawa collapsed, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His vision swam. It felt like the universe itself was pressing down on him, judging him, and finding him wanting.
Even Kaiju No. 0 froze. Its crystalline form shuddered, the green light of its core dimming in what could only be described as fear. The tendrils holding Kafka loosened.
Inside Kafka's consciousness, his inner Kaiju, the primal core of No. 8, went berserk. It wasn't fighting an enemy. It was recoiling from a predator. It was the terror of a wolf realizing it had stumbled into the den of a dragon.
From the nexus of the shattered sky, a figure descended.
He dropped from the portal, landing on the broken street with a soundless impact. He was alone. Barefoot. His torso, lean and etched with a latticework of white scars, was bare. His black pants were torn, his hair a windswept mess.
But it was his eyes that held the world captive. They glowed with a soft, yet absolute, violet light. And from his body, shadows bled. They weren't mere absences of light; they were liquid and tangible, coiling around his feet like loyal serpents before receding back into him.
The portal behind him sealed itself, vanishing as if it had never been. The oppressive, god-like pressure vanished with it, leaving a stunned, ringing silence.
The man tilted his head, his glowing eyes scanning the devastation. He took a slow breath, his expression one of cold, detached analysis. A low, almost bored voice cut through the silence.
"...This isn't Korea." He paused, his gaze finally landing on the two towering Kaiju. "But something stinks of monsters."
For a moment, no one moved. The world held its breath.
Then, instinct took over. Kafka, freed from No. 0's grasp and overwhelmed by the terrifying aura of the newcomer, saw only a threat. A threat greater than anything he had ever faced. His mind screamed DANGER! ELIMINATE!
With a guttural roar, Kaiju No. 8 charged, his fist aimed to obliterate the impossibly calm man.
The man didn't move. He simply watched the mountain of muscle and horn bear down on him. At the last possible nanosecond, when the city-block-leveling fist was inches from his face, he acted.
His movement was a glitch in reality. He wasn't just fast; he defied physics. He flowed past the punch, his hand, glowing with the same violet energy as his eyes, rising to meet Kafka's face.
There was no epic collision. Only a quiet thump.
The man's palm connected with Kaiju No. 8's jaw. And then he pushed.
What followed was a display of power so absolute it was insulting. Kafka's colossal, multi-ton body was driven backward, not thrown, but crushed. He was slammed into the ground with the force of a meteor strike. The asphalt didn't just crack; it vaporized. A crater, fifty meters wide, erupted into existence, with Kaiju No. 8 pinned at its center, his head held to the ground by a single, casual hand.
The man leaned down, his face inches from Kafka's monstrous eye. His expression was unchanged. His voice was flat, cold, and laced with the ancient weariness of a thousand wars.
"You're lucky I'm curious," he whispered, the sound carrying across the battlefield with perfect clarity. "Otherwise, you'd be a corpse with horns."
[POV: Mina Ashiro]
My rifle lay forgotten. My training, my discipline, my entire understanding of combat—all shattered. My mind was a maelstrom of unanswerable questions. Force readings? Impossible. Energy signature? Undetectable until the moment of impact. Identity? Unknown. He hadn't used a weapon. He hadn't used a suit. He had used… himself. He had treated Kaiju No. 8, a force of nature that we measured on a national threat scale, like an unruly child. Awe and terror warred within me, and terror was winning. My hand trembled as I reached for my comms unit. My voice came out as a broken whisper.
"W-Who… is he?!"
[POV: Reno Ichikawa]
My jaw was on the floor. I saw it happen. I saw the punch that could level buildings, and I saw the man just… stop it. He didn't block it. He invalidated it. He pressed No. 8 into the ground like someone stubbing out a cigarette. The raw, physical absurdity of it broke my brain. My mind kept replaying it, trying to find the trick, the hidden mechanism. There was none. Just a man. A man standing where a crater should have been.
"Did he just… beat Kaiju No. 8 barehanded!?" I choked out, not expecting an answer.
[POV: Kikoru Shinomiya]
Humiliation. It was a hot, bitter flood in my throat. I, Kikoru Shinomiya, the greatest talent of my generation, had just been rendered utterly, completely irrelevant. My entire existence was dedicated to gaining the power to defeat beasts like that. I had bled, I had trained, I had sacrificed everything. And this… this man… he appeared from nowhere and ended the fight with a casual gesture.
I watched him, standing over the fallen No. 8. That lean, scarred body wasn't just strong; it was a testament to a level of conflict I couldn't even imagine. The nonchalant arrogance. The absolute confidence. That smug, beautiful, infuriating face. My cheeks burned, a furious red blush I couldn't control. A cocktail of emotions so potent it made me dizzy swirled inside me: fury at his power, shame at my weakness, and a primal, terrifying spark of something else. Something dark and wanting.
I whispered the words into the confines of my helmet, my voice shaking with a rage that was half desire.
"That body… that power… that smug face! I hate him! I want him!"
[POV: Media Broadcast]
The news helicopter's camera zoomed in, the image shaky from the pilot's turbulence and terror. On millions of screens across Japan and the world, the scene played out.
"We… we are witnessing history," the news anchor stammered, his professional composure gone. "The monster known as Kaiju No. 8, which has single-handedly defeated numerous threats, has been… neutralized. Not by the Defense Force, but by a single, unidentified man."
The screen displayed a freeze-frame: the barefoot man, his eyes glowing faintly, his hand still resting on the downed Kaiju. A technical analyst in a split-screen window pointed frantically.
"Look at his eyes! And the energy… it's not like anything on record. It's dark, almost… regal. The way he commands the space around him… he's not just a combatant." The analyst leaned forward, his own eyes wide with a Eureka moment. "He's like a king. A monarch, ruling over those… those shadows."
The anchor seized the word. It was perfect. It was mythic.
"A Shadow Monarch," he breathed.
Across the bottom of the screen, the news chyron updated, the words burning themselves into the collective consciousness of a terrified world:
THE MAN WHO STOPPED KAIJU NO. 8 — WHO IS THE SHADOW MONARCH?!