The rescued woman was, on the surface, a genius surgeon from the Mochizuki Clinic.
In the shadows, she was a combat operative of a secret black organization, a warrior who set down the scalpel and took up the katana.
She had carried out "surgery" on the darkness itself. She had fought through countless life-and-death engagements, faced countless powerful enemies, and emerged battle-hardened.
Especially those members of the terrorist organization Syringe—every single one of them was frighteningly strong, far stronger than the enemies she used to deal with.
Yet even when facing the enemies she had encountered before, including the strongest among them, she had never felt anything like this.
The man before her looked a little younger than she was. He was not exactly muscular, but neither was he thin; his posture was straight and upright. To an ordinary person, he would seem… ordinary—just an everyday young man, or perhaps a university student.
But beneath that appearance lay power that surpassed human limits.
She had already watched, from a drone's perspective, how easily he "handled" the living dead, and she knew he was a formidable opponent. Only now, facing him directly, did she realize how severe her earlier judgment had been.
In the rescued woman's eyes, he was like a walking calamity.
If "presence" could be given visible form, then his entire body would be wrapped in a terrifying black aura, like a demon made flesh.
That was the sensation she felt.
And this demon was no ordinary demon—he was the kind that had slaughtered his way to the top among the unforgiven of hell, clawing out of the abyss and into the human world.
So now, every muscle in her body was drawn tight—tighter than it had ever been in her life.
She forced her mind into that razor-thin state where life and death were separated by a single instant.
As if one small lapse, one tiny mistake, would get her torn into pieces by the demon in front of her.
She tightened her grip on the sword in her hands. This time, she truly had to fight with everything she had.
Beside her stood a girl in goggles—Kiba Mikoto. She understood, too, that the danger this time was very real. Quietly, her hand moved toward the pair of Smith & Wesson Model 27 revolvers on her body.
Then, as if noticing the small movement, his gaze turned toward her.
In that instant, Mikoto felt as though her spine had been brushed by the finger of Death itself. A chill drove deep into her bones, and her mind went blank, deaf to everything.
For a split second, she had the illusion that she had already been killed.
Bang, bang—!
Two gunshots rang out, and Mikoto snapped back as if waking from a trance, staring in startled confusion at her own arms—both hands somehow already extended.
The two shots had come from the revolver in her hand.
She had fired first.
As the saying goes, even a cornered rabbit will bite. Mikoto had "bitten."
But it was not because her mind had reacted first—it was her body, driven by fear, reacting on instinct.
Put simply, it was a stress response from being terrified, not a deliberate attempt to seize the initiative.
Almost at the same time, the figure opposite vanished—and so did Yuko.
Mikoto's eyes darted in panic, searching, until she caught them.
Yuko was attacking him at a speed Mikoto had never seen before. Her blade became a storm of slashes, leaving only blurred afterimages.
Against the enemies she had faced in the past, that kind of assault would have reduced them to pieces in the blink of an eye.
But to Mikoto, it looked as though Yuko was only cutting at his shadow.
The next second—accompanied by a crisp, unnatural metallic ring—Yuko's attack stopped.
Mikoto saw it clearly: Yuko's sword had snapped.
The broken blade spun through the air like a boomerang before clattering to the ground behind Yuko.
Thud—!
A sound like flesh being struck.
Mikoto—and Ichika as well—saw a figure suddenly appear in front of them. It slammed into Mikoto, driving her backward several meters.
"Yuko!"
The cry tore from Mikoto's lips, because the one who had crashed into her was Yuko—blood spilling from her mouth.
The sword in Yuko's hand, already broken, had now been shattered further—hilt and all, nearly ground into fragments.
"Mikoto, hurry!!!"
For the first time, the rescued woman shouted at her companion in a voice that was almost a roar.
At the same time, she threw away the ruined hilt—still clinging to a short section of blade—and instead gripped the severed blade itself with both hands.
The hilt had snapped when he flashed past her; she had barely even perceived the motion.
And when the broken blade struck the ground, she had been kicked flying at just the right angle to snatch it out of the air the moment it passed.
Because it was a bare blade with no hilt, gripping it with both hands meant her palms were torn open by the razor edge. Blood ran freely, and she couldn't even feel the pain.
"No. If we go, we go together. Otherwise we die together!"
Yuko's intent was obvious: she meant to trade her life to hold him back and give Mikoto a chance to escape. But Mikoto could not do something like that.
The instant the words left her mouth, his silhouette "disappeared" from Mikoto's view—no, not truly. He was simply too fast.
In a daze, all Mikoto could see was the muzzle flash flaring from her revolver.
In the next moment, he was already in front of Yuko.
Their weapons met in an instant—sparks and steel in a single blink. Yuko was hurled backward again into Mikoto's arms, and this time he, too, took a step back.
Yuko had managed to strike him—Mikoto saw it: a vicious cut had opened across the exposed part of his body.
"Look carefully, Mikoto. That wasn't my doing!"
The rescued woman caught Mikoto's expression and followed the direction of her gaze, speaking sharply.
She had grazed him—when his movement stuttered for an instant, she had kicked the broken blade up from below, slicing through the bandages wrapped around his body, and drawing a shallow line of blood.
But compared to that horrifying wound, her cut was almost negligible.
Which meant his strength was even more beyond her imagination. He was fighting them like this while already carrying such an injury, and he was still this terrifying.
If he were uninjured, she would already be dead.
And yet—precisely because the wound had been torn further open, because blood loss was worsening and affecting him—she finally saw the smallest hint of hope.
"Ah…?!"
Mikoto's pupils contracted as she truly saw it, her face turning pale.
On that huge wound, she could see stitching—many of the sutures had been ripped open.
That could not have been caused by Yuko.
This man had been moving with such monstrous power while carrying an injury like that.
"You're with Black Label?"
He suddenly spoke, his tone oddly calm.
"Kiba Mikoto? And Yuko?"
Mikoto froze in shock as her name was called so clearly. Her public identity had been exposed.
Which meant he knew a great deal about Black Tag.
Had someone leaked Black Label's intelligence? Was there a traitor?
"Yuko," the rescued woman corrected quietly, supplying the proper name.
"And you," he added, "the rescued woman."
Right then—
"Hey. We've got trouble over here."
Another voice cut in—coming from his body, from something like a radio.
"Staying cautious when you don't know whether I'm enemy or ally is correct. But firing first only turns me into an enemy. You need more discipline, young lady."
Leaving Mikoto with words that sounded like a stern elder's admonition, he turned and melted into the night, vanishing as if he had never been there at all.
Only then did the rescued woman loosen her body—just a little.
He didn't look like an enemy… but that still didn't guarantee he was a friend.
"I'm sorry, Yuko."
"No need to apologize."
Yuko reached up and gently patted Mikoto's cheek.
Mikoto was still young. Faced with a terrifying monster like that, a fear-driven reaction was normal.
And the fact she could still shoot accurately at him was already impressive. If it were Kenda Iha—that foolish little idiot, that bomb-crazed idol—she'd probably have yanked out a pile of explosives and ended up taking her own people with her.
Still, even if he wasn't confirmed as an enemy, and not confirmed as an ally either, he looked like someone they could communicate with.
That meant the blurred line could still be changed.
It could be developed into friendship.
Follow him.
Because didn't his side just say they had trouble?
That was the opportunity to turn "not enemy, not ally" into an ally.
(End of Chapter)
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