This vast world is split by an invisible moral line. On one side stand nations that see slavery as a stain upon civilization and fight for equality among all sentient races—human, elf, beastkin, and others. On the other, there are places where lives are bought and sold, where chains and collars are ordinary sights, and freedom is merely a commodity. It is at this dark crossroads that organizations like Slyther flourish, their roots spreading like cancer beneath Myanmar's damp soil.
Their headquarters—an unwindowed concrete fortress—was guarded day and night.
At the front post, two armed men chatted to kill time.
"Did you hear the boss's latest, Harun?" "About the pay cut? Yeah." "Not that, idiot. About our salesmen ending up dead in the streets." Harun exhaled, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. "I heard. Maybe some bored government agent. Who cares? Boss will hire new ones." "Agents arrest; they don't kill. This is different. This is… a hunt." Harun fell silent for a beat. "Hey… you ever hear the name 'Steel'?" "Steel? Who's that?" "I dropped by the Guild yesterday. Word is someone brought in the head of Riki the Wrestler. Cash on the spot. They only knew him by that alias." "Riki—the muscle mountain—dead? Impossible! The bounty for his head alone was ten million Gold from the boss!" "It's only my hunch," the first guard said, voice lowering. "But what if this 'Steel' is hunting up the food chain? What if the next target is our boss—Columbus?" Harun burst out laughing. "Don't be ridiculous! This is Slyther! No single man could—"
Ssst!
A kunai sank between Harun's eyes, silencing his laughter forever. The second guard spun in panic, saw only a flicker of shadow—and then a blade opened his heart.
Ritsuki stepped out of the darkness, moving like a breath. His face had sharpened with age, expression flat as stone. "Your gossip is late," he whispered to the bodies.
He studied the fortress. Cameras blinked at every corner; motion sensors lined the walls. A serpent's nest. He had come to pull its fangs.
He became a ghost. He slipped through every blind spot, flicked pebbles to draw watchers from their posts, and took them one by one—rear chokes, clean knife thrusts. No screams. No alarms. Only the night wind, and quiet death. At a steel door with a card reader, he lifted an ID from a corpse, tapped it to the panel, and slid in as hydraulics hissed.
Hell waited inside. Dozens of cells in rows—mostly women and children of many races—stared with empty, broken eyes. His entrance stirred a ripple of fearful whispers. "New guard?" "No… the aura's different." "A buyer…?"
He ignored them. His gaze locked on two guards lounging at a monitor table, watching a movie. "Hey! You shouldn't be here!" one barked, reaching for the assault rifle at his side.
Ritsuki flashed forward. In the heartbeat before the trigger broke, a shuriken struck the rifle's barrel—BLAM! The gun blew apart in its owner's hands. Riding the confusion, Ritsuki spun midair and drove a kunai into the second guard's skull, landing as lightly as dust. A clean, perfect ambush.
He slipped into a vent, crawling through a narrow, lightless throat. Below, in a lavish office, his target sat at ease: Columbus—an enormous man packed into an expensive shirt—ringed by four elite bodyguards.
From his pocket, Ritsuki drew a small remote. Hours earlier he had laced explosives into the facility's main generator. He pressed the switch.
CLICK.
The world went dark. Panic detonated below. In that razorthin blackness, Ritsuki dropped. Two poisontipped shuriken stitched the throat and heart of two guards. He landed on the desk, turned his momentum into a whipping heel kick that snapped the third guard's neck. The last one raked the dark with blind fire. Ritsuki seized a fallen body, used it as a meat shield, drove straight through the storm, and crushed the shooter's head with a single palm strike.
BZZZT!
Emergency lights bled the room in demonred. Columbus stood over his four dead men, then looked at Ritsuki. Not afraid—impressed.
"Hooh… a splendid show," he rumbled. "I heard the head of the Zero Guild in Italy died like this too. What's your name, boy?" "Call me Ritsu," Ritsuki said, pulling his blade free.
Columbus grinned and cracked his knuckles. "Very well, Ritsu. Let's dance."
The fight exploded. Columbus struck with brutal power—every punch a concretecracking hammer. Ritsuki flowed like water around the violence, his movements the distilled efficiency of a thousand death fights.
A thunderous left hook scythed in. Ritsuki parried with an open palm, bleeding its force away. A lightning right followed; he shed it with his elbow.
"YOU'RE TRICKED!" Columbus roared.
The punches were feints. His right leg—treethick—scythed for Ritsuki's ribs. But Ritsuki was already airborne. He let the kick pass under him, spun, and axed Columbus's skull with his heel. The giant skidded back, hitting the wall hard enough to crack it.
"Don't get cocky, boy," Columbus growled, standing. Cold blue light filmed his eyes.
"Clockwork: Activate."
He charged again—different now. Every strike landed a fraction before Ritsuki could react. A fist caved Ritsuki's gut, ripping his breath loose. A kick smashed his shoulder and staggered him.
Ritsuki understood. Not superspeed. Precognition. Columbus could see two seconds into the future. How do you fight a man who already knows your next move?
Ritsuki's smile was glacial. If his enemy read thought, then he would fight without thinking.
The battle devolved into a chaotic death dance. He stopped defending in patterns. He attacked in nonsense—pure honed instinct. He'd feint left and kick right, crouch as if to sweep then fling a knife instead.
For a moment, Columbus faltered. But the giant was too seasoned; even instinct left footprints. He caught Ritsuki's forearm, slammed him to the floor, and locked his throat.
"I've already seen it," he breathed into Ritsuki's ear, tightening the choke. "Two seconds from now, your neck snaps."
Ritsuki's vision tunneled. Even on the lip of death, his genius mind hammered on. If you can see my future… then I'll give you a future you cannot accept.
He didn't fight the hold. With his free hand he reached for the kunai strapped to his ankle. He looked into Columbus's blue eyes—eyes watching a foregone victory.
And he drove the blade—not into Columbus—but into his own heart.
Shock blew Columbus's eyes wide. In his vision, Ritsuki died from a broken neck. He had never seen this—suicide. The illogic tore a hole in his precognition, freezing him for a fraction of a second.
A fraction was all Ritsuki needed.
As Columbus flinched, the choke loosened. Ritsuki spat blood, twisted free, and in the same breath the kunai flashed from his own chest to Columbus's throat, carving ear to ear.
The giant crashed to the floor, hands clamped to the arterial geyser, eyes locked on Ritsuki in total disbelief until their light went out.
Ritsuki rose, breath ragged. He wrenched the kunai from his chest and swallowed the pain. He strode to the control panel and shattered it with a single palm. Cell doors sighed open one after another.
"You're free," he told the slaves who stared with fear and awe. "Get out. Burn this place if you must."
He turned for the shadows—gone, leaving behind silence, death, and a thin thread of hope in the snake's den.
—
Blood fountained from Columbus's neck as he fell, eyes fixed on Ritsuki until the last spark died. Ritsuki stood over him, yanked the kunai from his own chest, and moved on. No time for triumph.
Behind the office was a steel door. One kick blasted it open, revealing a spiral stair dropping into deeper dark.
Down there, at the cell bank he'd passed earlier, he smashed the master console. With a hiss, every door unlocked. Hundreds of vacant eyes blinked at him—fearful, dazed—flickering with a fragile hope.
"You're all free," his voice rang. "The master here is dead. Leave before the authorities arrive."
The hush broke into choked sobs and strangled cheers. Prisoners stepped into freedom like sleepwalkers.
"Wait," he said, halting them. "There's more. Where are they holding the elves?"
A trembling beastkin woman pointed down the spiral. "B-below… in special cells, sir…" "Call me Steel," he cut in. "From now on, you have no master."
He descended farther. The air grew colder, wetter. Here the cells were luxurious and cruel, each housing one captive. Elves—renowned for grace—were chained like rare beasts, their astronomical prices making them Columbus's private collection.
Ritsuki worked quickly, popping locks with practiced hands. One by one, stunned elves stepped into freedom.
"W-what is the meaning of this?" asked a silverhaired elf, elegant even in rags. "It means your slavery is over," Ritsuki said, tossing him a ring of master keys. "Free the rest. I have one last task."
Back in Columbus's office, Ritsuki knelt at the heavy mahogany desk. A hidden panel gave way to a safe. In minutes, it yielded.
Emergency light gleamed on a sea of gold coins, gems, and platinum bars—wealth distilled from a thousand sufferings.
When the freed elves arrived, they gasped. "S-Sir Steel…?"
"This isn't mine," Ritsuki said, voice ice. He looked to the silverhaired elf. "It belongs to you—all those whose freedom he stole. Your race is known for wisdom.
Distribute it fairly to every freed slave. Make sure they have enough for their lives."
The elf bowed low, ancient eyes shining with respect. "We shall. May the stars light your path, Steel."
Ritsuki only nodded. His gaze drifted to a youngest elf girl staring up with uncertain eyes. On the desk lay a guard's Polaroid camera. He lifted it, pointed it at the child, and pressed the trigger.
CLICK—FLASH.
A photo slid out. He fanned it until an image bloomed, then placed it in her hands. "This," he said softly, "is proof that you were here, and that you survived. Don't ever forget."
He left through a rear tunnel that emptied into the river—unseen, unknown. In his pack he carried a plasticwrapped, bloodsoaking head—Columbus's. Proof for the Guild; payment for the job. In his pocket, something more precious: a scrap of cloth embroidered with the royal crest of Targon, found in a hidden elf cell.
One snake's head was gone, but the nest was vaster, deeper. Somewhere in it, someone named Violet was waiting. The hunt was far from over.
—
He had freed the slaves, but instinct—honed over years—kept him from leaving. There was one more door—a steel slab isolated in the darkest corner. Curiosity, or a grim sense, pushed him to open it.
What waited inside froze even his cold blood.
A young catfolk girl hung in chains from wrists, ankles, and neck. Her small body was striped with fresh whip weals; blood had dried in the fine fur. She was suffering made into display—a warning to any slave who dared resist.
The creak of Ritsuki's boot woke her. Enormous, terrified eyes fixed on him.
"D-don't… please…" she rasped. "Don't come closer… I wasn't trying to run! I promise! Please… don't whip me again…"
The strangled sob cracked something that had long since died in him. He came forward slowly, deliberately, not to startle.
"P-please…"
Wordless, he reached out—not to hurt, but to release. One by one the shackles fell. When the last chain hit the floor with a clang, the child collapsed, too weak to stand.
He caught her, unexpectedly gentle. The small body shook like a leaf. He washed the wounds with water from his flask, wrapped her in a spare cloak.
"T-thank you…" she whispered. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Targon…"
His heart ticked faster. "Your name?" "I… have no name. They called me 'filth.'"
He paused, looking into eyes clouded with despair. "Don't listen to them," he said, firm. "From now on, your name is Stella." "Stella…?" "It means 'star.' Now we're leaving." "But… I don't have the strength to walk…"
He crouched and lifted her onto his back. She was featherlight—fragile as a dry twig. Through the waste tunnel and into the forest they went, his questions beginning as they moved.
"Stella, do you know the way to Targon?" "Yes… Ritsukisama," she breathed. "We were taken through a… bright round gate." A portal, he thought. As suspected.
Nearly two hours through the trees were a first test of their newborn bond. Raised on chains and whips, Stella feared the open world. Every snap of twig made her quake. Ritsuki's steady stride became her anchor. He told her of stars and constellations, weaving small myths to pull her mind from horror.
At last they reached the gates of a great city—Attrea. Rot festered within its walls. He saw armed guards checking papers and, beyond, slaves paraded by their masters. The main gate was out of the question.
"Hold tight," he whispered.
Before she could reply, he was sprinting up the shadowed wall, hands and feet finding impossible purchase, landing soundlessly in a narrow alley inside.
"We need to turn this in for money," he said, patting the bundle with Columbus's head.
"Wait here. Don't wander."
He left a confused Stella in the alley and strode to the Attrea Adventurers' Guild. He tossed the bounty to the desk, ignored the staff's shock and horror, and walked out with a heavy purse—one hundred million Gold.
He returned to find Stella cornered by three roughfaced adventurers. "Hey, sweetheart. Lost? Come with Uncle—we'll buy you candy," one cooed, filthy hand reaching.
"Hhelp…" she peeped, shaking.
"Do you have business with the child?"
His voice—flat, cold—cut the air. The men turned. They saw a skinny boy. But in his eyes—something empty, dark, lethal—made their napes prickle. The aura of a killer who had stared down death a thousand times. Wordless, they backed away and bolted.
"Let's go," Ritsuki said to Stella as if nothing had happened. "First, we buy you clothes."
In a clothing shop, for the first time in her life, Stella felt the happiness of choosing something for herself. With bright, awkward enthusiasm, she picked a comfortable childadventurer set. Ritsuki paid, tipping the kindly old shopkeeper extra.
Their next stop was a crowded little restaurant. He ordered a full kids' meal with roast meat for Stella, and a plate of salad for himself.
"RRitsukisama… why only vegetables?" she asked around a mouthful. "I'm used to it," he said with a small smile. "Eat plenty. You need it."
As she ate, he probed gently. "Stella, have you ever heard the name Violet in Targon?" "Violetsama? Of course. She's one of the Fifteen Royal Guardian Knights—the strongest one who wields shadow as her weapon."
Royal Guardians. Shadow technique. The direction was set.
That night in a plain inn room, he watched Stella sleep, wrapped around a small doll they'd bought in the market. For the first time in years, her face was peaceful.
He sat by the window, staring at the moon. The Myanmar mission was over. It had handed him a new responsibility—and a precious clue. The road to Targon would be hard; the gate was guarded. But now he had a stronger reason to break through. Somewhere in another realm, a Shadow Knight named Violet held a key to his past. And now he also carried a small 'star' to protect.
—
The restaurant had been lively, but at their little table, it felt like another world. Lanternlight danced in Stella's eyes as she finished her last bite.
"How was it? Good?" Ritsuki asked, that rare thin smile on his lips. She nodded furiously, cheeks puffed. "Umu, umu!" "Good. Want more?" She shook her head fast. "Nno, Ritsukisama. I'm very full." "I'll order one more to pack for the road," he told the server, already guessing catfolk appetites were bigger than they looked.
Night had fallen. Attrea's night market blazed to life with a thousand lanterns. Laughter and hawkers' shouts clashed cheerfully—the sharpest contrast to the life Stella had left.
"It's late," Ritsuki murmured. The gate to Targon is locked tight. Best time to slip in is three a.m., at shift change. Which means: sleep now.
"Let's find a small inn," he said.
As they wove through the crowd, a harsh voice snapped behind them. "Halt! You with the beastkin child!"
A city patrolman in scuffed leather strode their way, eyes hard on Stella. In this city, a beastkin child without a collar was either a runaway or illegal property.
Ritsuki didn't flinch. He reached into his purse and—casually—tossed a handful of gold into the street. "Hey! Someone dropped money!" he shouted.
CLINK—CLATTER!
The music of coins on stone outsang sirens. In an instant, the crowd became a greedy tide. The patrolman's line of sight was swallowed.
"Nothing to see—just a normal market scene," Ritsuki said mildly, tugging Stella down a narrow alley.
Fifteen quiet minutes later, they found a tiny inn run by a kind old man. The room was narrow: one bed and a wooden chair.
"We rest here tonight," he said, unwrapping his red scarf.
Stella nodded and, by instinct, curled up on the floor. He sighed. "What are you doing?" "Ssleeping, Ritsukisama." "The bed is there," he said, pointing. "Not the floor." "Bbut you should take the bed. You must be so tired…"
Before she could finish, he swooped her up and set her gently on the mattress. "I'm used to sleeping anywhere—rooftops, tree branches, even hanging. Don't worry about me."
He doused the oil lamp. Moonlight seeped through the window. He lay on the floor, bag for a pillow.
Silence settled—only their breathing. "Ano… Ritsukisama?" she asked timidly.
"Hm?" "Why… are you so kind to me?"
He stared at the cracked ceiling. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Maybe because children who should be laughing shouldn't be trapped in darkness. You're free now,
Stella. That's what matters."
"Ritsuki-sama's childhood… what was it like?"
Something throbbed in his mind. "I… don't really remember," he said softly. "I remember every technique. Every teacher's face. But not why I began. Not my parents. Not if I ever had a family. My memories are fog—bit by bit gone—leaving only knowledge and scars."
"So… you were alone since you were little?" "You could say that," he said. "Don't think about it. My past doesn't matter. I'm probably just a stray."
Silence again—heavier. "Ffor some reason… I'm hungry again," she squeaked.
He laughed—warmth filling the room. "I thought so. Catfolk have a second stomach, huh?" He fetched the packed food and handed it to her.
While she ate on the bed, he sat at the chair in moonlight, opened his journal, and wrote—maps, estimates, plans built from scraps of knowledge about Targon and Violet.
"That red scarf," she said between bites. "It really suits you." He touched it. "This? I don't even know where it's from. As far back as I can remember, it was always with me. Maybe… a gift from someone special—now forgotten."
When Stella fell back into deep sleep, he tucked the blanket around her and slipped out like a shadow.
He moved into Attrea's darkest quarter where information was bought like spice. A cramped shop reeked of incense and strange artifacts. Behind the counter, a witch with eyes that seemed to see through souls was waiting.
"I know everything," she said. "Even a kingdom the world swears doesn't exist." "Then tell me everything about Targon," he said, dropping a heavy purse on the table.
For hours she spoke: Targon's history, its Fifteen Royal Guardian Knights, its harsh laws, and the secret portal accessible only to high officials. As he turned to go, she caught him. "A bonus: I'll read your future." "Best not," he said.
She ignored him, set a palm on a crystal ball. It cracked—then shattered into glittering dust. "Wwhat—!?" she gasped. "I warned you," he said, already leaving. "My fate can't be read."
He returned at one a.m. With the witch's data, he refined his plan. At three, he fell asleep on the floor—short, deep.
At four he rose and gently woke Stella. In the cramped washroom, he bathed her. That's when he saw it in full: her back crosshatched with sutures, burns, and gouges—one more cruelty carved in: the stump where her tail had been hacked off.
"My tail… they cut it as punishment," she said, seeing his face—voice flat as if reporting the weather.
He said nothing, but his hands shook as he rinsed the wounds. Inside, a cold, quiet fury lit again.
"You were sleeping so soundly, I hated to wake you," he joked weakly as he toweldried her hair when they were ready to go. "You even said my name in your sleep." Her face flushed scarlet. "Yyou're lying!" "There was drool, too," he added.
"SSTOP IT, RITSUKISAMAAAA!"
In the hush before dawn, their small laughter was the only warmth—promise of a new beginning as they stepped out to challenge fate.
—
Night still owned the sky when they slipped from the inn. Four a.m. air bit to the bone. Attrea's streets were empty, lanterns flickering, throwing long ghostshadows. Their goal was a tightly guarded government research facility on the city's fringe—the only known Gate to Targon.
The concrete bastion loomed behind a tenmeter wall. Two guards stood rigid at the main gate; a third traced the wall with a lantern.
"Stay behind me and don't make a sound," he whispered. Stella nodded from his back.
He waited until the patrolman reached his farthest point. Then he scaled the wall like a spider, toetips finding tiny holds, weight light as breath. At the top, he lowered Stella, dropped, and without a sound they were in.
The patrol came back. When the lantern beam crossed a deep shadow, Ritsuki slid out and tapped the nerve at the base of the man's skull. The guard fell bonelessly—but his lantern hit the ground with a soft thud.
"Who's there!?" one of the gate guards shouted, moving toward the sound.
Time thinned. No time to drag the body. Ritsuki flicked a pebble at a stack of empty cans across the yard. The clatter pulled both guards' eyes. When one turned, Ritsuki was already behind him, striking the same nerve. Two down. No blood. No alarm.
They slipped into a side vent and crawled through the metal gut until they reached the ceiling of a bright, sterile lab. Below, five whitecoats hovered at a huge console; in the room's heart, a stone ring pulsed with unnatural blue light—the Gate to Targon.
"Portal activation in five minutes for routine supply transfer," one scientist called.
Their window. Ritsuki popped the vent cover and tossed three black marbles. Smoke bloomed into a blind fog. Amid screams and scrambling chairs, he dropped, grabbed Stella's hand, and sprinted toward the throbbing blue light.
"Hold on!" he yelled.
Passing the Gate felt like being squeezed by an invisible fist and torn sideways. Blinding colors screamed past. Falling and dragging and ripping—then it was over.
They slammed onto springy moss. The first thing he noticed was the air—purer, heavier, shot through with wild, living energy. The sky above was indigo, ruled by twin moons. Ancient trees roofed the world. This was Targon.
"We made it," he breathed.
GROOOOAR!
The ground shivered. From the trees, three ogres lumbered out—three meters tall, skin like stone, muscles knotted like cables, each hefting a nailstudded club.
"Stella—close your eyes. Don't move from behind this tree," he ordered, setting her down.
The first ogre swung, air splitting hard enough to fell saplings. Ritsuki rolled forward, feeling the wind graze his back. Their raw strength was beyond blocking. He couldn't meet force with force.
The second hurled its club like a spear. He leapt aside; the weapon rammed a tree behind him. Midair, he snapped two shuriken—both buried in the thrower's eyes. It bellowed, blinded, thrashing.
Chaos was the opening. He landed, drew an inner breath, flooded his palm with power. When the third ogre charged, he didn't retreat. He slipped under its arm and thrust that shining palm into its gut.
BLAM.
No thunderclap—just a wet, heavy sound. A hole blew through the ogre's belly; its insides liquefied. It stared down at the void and toppled.
The first, halfblind, roared and charged again. Ritsuki drew his katana. Against the giant it looked like a needle. The club came down. He didn't block. He waited for the last instant and flashed forward—an iaijutsu cut that severed both hamstrings. The beast crashed to its knees. Before it could move, he was behind it, and a clean horizontal stroke sent its head rolling.
He stood among three dead colossi, breath steadying. One sharp flick wiped the blade clean.
"Stella. It's safe."
She peeked out, eyes huge with terror and awe. "A-amazing… Ritsuki." "This is only the beginning," he said. "According to my intel, Violet doesn't live at the palace anymore. She exiled herself to a nearby swamp."
They hiked two hours through Targon's savage green. The swamp was a world of fog and murk, full of strange noises and shapes moving under the skin of the water. At last they saw it: a lonely wooden hut on a dry patch, as if the world had swallowed it and gagged it back up. A thin smoke ribbon curled from the chimney.
"The only house in a cursed place," he murmured. "We're here."
He lifted Stella and tiptoed the gnarled roots to the door. He drew a long breath, steeling himself to meet one of Targon's strongest—a master of shadow who had chosen exile.
He raised his hand to knock.