The ocean stretched endlessly around the boat, dark and calm under the night sky. The flames of Hashima Island were still faintly visible in the distance, flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. The foreigners huddled together under blankets, their voices hushed as they whispered among themselves. The mother sat with her son in her lap, gently running a hand through his hair as he finally began to drift into exhausted sleep.
Arata leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His posture was relaxed, but his mind wasn't. He replayed the battle in his head, every slash of the spear, every counter from the curse, the moment the dome closed in, the wave of heat that tore across the island. It had been too close.
Not because he doubted his own power, but because of what it revealed.
I'm strong now. Stronger than most. But strength brings attention. And attention brings problems.
The salty wind brushed against his face, cooling the faint burn scars on his arms. He closed his eyes and let the quiet of the ocean wash over him. For the first time since he entered this world, he wasn't being attacked, hunted, or forced into a fight. It was… peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
"Mr. Arata," the mother's voice came softly from behind him, careful not to wake her son who was sleeping in her lap.
He turned his head a little. "Hm?"
She looked at him for a moment before asking, "How old are you?"
Arata blinked, not expecting the question. "Fifteen," he said casually.
The mother's eyes widened a little. She hesitated, then asked, "How… how did you end up in this world?"
Arata scratched the back of his head, then gave a small smile. "It's a long story. But since we've got time…" He leaned back on the railing and started speaking.
He told her about his parents—how they died, how that loss had left him wandering without direction. He explained how, on the very same day, his powers awakened for the first time. The shock of it, the confusion, the raw fear he felt. He talked about his first fight against a curse, how close he came to death, and how, in that chaos, he met Gojo.
He smiled as he spoke, the memories carrying both pain and pride. "Since then, I've been dragged into this world of curses and sorcerers. Training, fighting, learning. It's only been a few months… but it feels like years already."
The mother listened quietly, her hand still on her son's head. When Arata finished, she said softly, "You must already know who my husband is." She paused, her eyes firm despite the exhaustion in them. "When I tell him about this… how you rescued us… I will make sure he knows. We will never forget this."
Arata smiled at her words, shaking his head lightly. "It's okay. I'm just glad you're safe. That's enough for me."
The mother's eyes softened, and for the first time since leaving the island, she let out a small sigh of relief.
Far away, in a quiet city, the glow of a television lit up a dim room. The news broadcasted images of Hashima Island, though the reporters could only show the distant flames from offshore. The voiceover spoke of unexplained disasters, of strange earthquakes and fires, of missing people. The anchors didn't know the truth—they never did.
Sitting in the room, a woman watched with sharp, calculating eyes. Her forehead bore a long line of stitches, as if her head had been cut open and sewn back together. Her fingers rested lightly on her cheek as she leaned against the armrest of her chair. The flickering light of the TV reflected in her dark pupils.
Her phone buzzed.
She reached for it lazily, answering without looking. "Yes?"
On the other side, a woman's voice spoke briefly, almost mockingly. "About that mission you wanted an update on… check for yourself."
Before the stitched woman could reply, the line cut. A notification appeared on her screen—an incoming file. She tapped it, and the phone screen filled with video.
It was Hashima Island.
Or rather, what was left of it.
The footage wasn't professional; it was shaky, clearly recorded secretly from offshore. But even with poor quality, the scale of destruction was impossible to miss. The entire island glowed red, flames consuming every building, every street. The ground itself seemed to shimmer as if it had been scorched down to its core.
The stitched woman's eyes narrowed.
The video shifted, showing the moment the sky lit up in a golden flare. A ring of searing light expanded outward, cutting through structures like paper. Even the ocean around the island steamed violently. For a moment, the entire frame was nothing but red and gold.
She leaned forward, her face serious.
Then, slowly, her expression changed. Her lips curved into a smile.
"So this is what the boy has become," she murmured. "Interesting."
She replayed the video, pausing at a frame where Arata's silhouette could be seen through the fire, spear in hand. The image was blurry, but his stance, the glow surrounding him—it all carried the weight of something undeniable.
A chuckle escaped her lips.
"This era really is becoming more and more complicated," she said softly to herself, almost in amusement.
She leaned back in her chair, letting the video play again. The flames reflected in her stitches, making her face look both calm and sinister.
Back on the boat, Arata's phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen. A message from Gojo: Don't forget to bring gifts. And no, burning rocks don't count.
Arata snorted quietly, shaking his head. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and let himself relax against the railing.
The ocean stretched on, endless and dark. Arata stood there—calm, powerful, and unknowingly already drawing the eyes of forces greater than he should.
The flames of Hashima were gone now, but their echoes had only just begun.