The night air in Shizume City carried a peculiar quality that I'd never experienced in my previous life. It wasn't just the usual urban atmosphere, car exhaust and restaurant smells and the faint ozone scent of too much electricity. There was something else underneath, something that most people couldn't perceive but those with supernatural awareness could feel like a low hum in their bones.
Power. Concentrated, barely contained, always present.
This city was home to two of the seven Kings. Mikoto Suoh, the Red King, whose domain centered around the bar called HOMRA in the entertainment district. And Munakata Reisi, the Blue King, whose Scepter 4 headquarters occupied Mihashira Tower in the business district. Two Kings, two colors, two philosophies about how to handle supernatural power.
And between them, countless opportunities for disaster.
I stood atop a fifteen-story building in the warehouse district, looking down at the neon-lit streets below. This vantage point gave me a clear view of both HOMRA's territory and the outer edges of Scepter 4's patrol routes. The wind tugged at my clothes, traditional Japanese garments I'd commissioned from a tailor who didn't ask questions, all in dark colors that blended with shadows. My mask rested against my face, the porcelain cool against my skin despite hours of wear. The wide straw hat cast everything I saw in a slight shadow, a constant reminder of the persona I'd crafted.
This was my identity now. Not Kurogane Rei, the ordinary young man who lived in a modest apartment and worked part-time at a bookstore to maintain his cover. That was just the disguise, the civilian identity that let me move through society unnoticed when I didn't want attention. That was the mask I wore during the day, smiling at customers, recommending books, pretending to be normal.
But at night? At night, I became something else entirely.
No, this was my true identity. The demon mask with its white porcelain and crimson markings that seemed to shift in different light, painted in patterns that resembled both flames and blood, curving across the surface like the marks of ancient demons from forgotten myths. The horns that curved upward toward the heavens, giving me a distinctly otherworldly silhouette that made children gasp and adults take involuntary steps backward. The straw hat wide enough to hide my face even without the mask, the kind worn by wandering ronin in centuries past, by masterless samurai seeking redemption or death.
This was the real me. The person I'd chosen to become. The bridge between the powerless man I'd been and the hero I desperately wanted to be.
I was the Shadow Clan made visible. The legend made flesh. The story come to life. The impossible made possible.
And tonight, I was going to make sure everyone knew it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, a cheap burner device I replaced every few weeks to avoid tracking, another layer of paranoia that kept me alive. The screen showed a message in encrypted text that would self-delete in thirty seconds, characters that would mean nothing to anyone intercepting them but everything to me. It was from Kage-7, one of my fellow Shadow Clan members, though we'd never met in person and never would.
Despite everything—despite the severing, despite my exile, despite the collective's rejection, a few members still sent me information. Not out of approval for my actions, but out of something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps a secret, unspoken hope that I might actually succeed where they'd been too afraid to try.
The message was brief, clinical, devoid of any warmth:
Gold King's Rabbit investigating Shadow Clan legends. Pattern analysis suggests they're close to identifying common factors in historical sightings. Increased surveillance in major cities. Three separate intelligence agencies have launched new investigations. Be careful.
I read it twice, committing it to memory, then watched as the characters dissolved into meaningless noise and the message deleted itself. I felt a pang of something—not quite gratitude, not quite sadness. These anonymous messages from fellow Shadow Clan members were the only connection I had left to my heritage. Brief. Professional. But still there.
Be careful. Such simple words, but coming from someone who'd disowned me, they carried unexpected weight. Maybe they did care, just a little. Or maybe they just didn't want the spectacle of my failure to bring more attention to the Clan.
Either way, the warning was noted.
The Shadow Clan operated in cells, scattered across the world, communicating through encrypted channels that changed constantly. We didn't have meetings. We didn't have a headquarters. We didn't even know how many of us there were. The oldest among us—those who'd lived for centuries through means I didn't fully understand, something to do with transferring consciousness between bodies or existing partially outside normal time—maintained the communication network and little else.
They were furious with me.
Every message from the Shadow Clan collective since I'd announced my intentions eight years ago had been variations on the same theme: Stop. Stand down. You're violating every rule we've maintained for centuries. You'll destroy everything we've built.
I ignored them all. They couldn't stop me, not from halfway across the world or wherever they actually were. They could cut me off from the collective knowledge, which they'd done. They could stop sending me information, which they'd mostly done. But they couldn't take away my abilities or prevent me from acting.
This message from Kage-7 was different, though. Practical rather than disapproving.
Gold King's Rabbit investigating Shadow Clan legends. Pattern analysis suggests they're close to identifying common factors in historical sightings. Increased surveillance in major cities. Three separate intelligence agencies have launched new investigations. Be careful.
I smiled beneath my mask. Of course they were investigating. Adolf K. Weismann—the Gold King, the Silver King, the oldest and most knowledgeable of all the Kings—would naturally be intensely curious about the one group that predated even his own century-long reign.
Let him investigate. Let him find the breadcrumbs I'd been carefully leaving over the past six months. Let him piece together the pattern and come to the inevitable conclusion that the Shadow Clan was real and that one of us had decided to step into the light.
It was all part of the plan.
I typed a quick response before the message deleted itself: Acknowledged. Proceeding as planned.
Then I destroyed the phone—a simple matter of channeling electrical energy through it until the components fused—and dropped the melted slag into a dumpster four stories below. Tomorrow I'd get another one from a different store in a different city, paid for with cash, never used in the same location twice.
Paranoia? Perhaps. But in a world where the Gold King had a Strain called Rabbit who could analyze patterns across decades of data, where the Blue King commanded an entire paramilitary intelligence organization, where even the Green King—who I knew from the anime would appear later—had a surveillance network that covered most of Japan, you couldn't be too careful.
I activated my spatial awareness ability, expanding my perception in a sphere around me. This power, copied from a Strain I'd met in Tokyo three years ago, let me sense everything within about two hundred meters in perfect detail. Not just sight—though that was part of it—but a complete three-dimensional map of all matter, energy, and movement.
Right now, I could feel the seventeen people in the warehouse below me, going about their illegal business—looked like a Strain trafficking operation, which meant it would need to be dealt with soon. I could feel the passing cars on the street three blocks over, each one a distinct pattern of metal and motion. I could feel the faint electromagnetic signature of security cameras and cell towers. I could even feel the subtle distortions in space that indicated someone nearby was using supernatural abilities—probably a minor Blue clansman on patrol two blocks to my east.
Everything. All at once. The first few times I'd used this ability, the information overload had given me splitting headaches. Now, after years of practice, it was as natural as seeing with my eyes.
I checked my watch—a vintage mechanical piece with no electronics to hack or trace. 11:47 PM. Almost midnight.
Almost time.
The intelligence I'd gathered through various sources—some through my hacking abilities, copied from a tech-savvy Strain in Akihabara; some through simple observation; some through the few Shadow Clan members who still sent me information despite disapproving of my actions—indicated that a Scepter 4 convoy would be moving through this district in exactly thirteen minutes.
They were transporting something dangerous. My sources weren't clear on exactly what—the information was classified at the highest levels—but the security profile was extreme. Three armored vehicles, six motorcycle escorts, at least a dozen Blue clansmen, possibly including one or two of Scepter 4's most skilled combatants.
And according to my intelligence, a group of five Strains was planning to attack them.
In the original timeline—the anime I'd watched in my previous life—this event hadn't been shown. It was background noise, one of countless minor incidents that happened in a world filled with supernatural conflict. The kind of thing that might be mentioned in a brief news report or a classified file but never explored in detail.
But for the people involved, for the Scepter 4 members who would be killed or injured, for the civilians who might be caught in the crossfire if the fight spilled out of the warehouse district, for the families who would mourn their losses—for them, it was everything.
I could stop it. And in doing so, I could announce myself to the world in a way that couldn't be ignored or dismissed as another urban legend.
I activated my precognition, looking three seconds into the future. This ability, a baseline power that all Shadow Clan members possessed to some degree, showed me branching timelines of potential futures. Not fate—nothing was truly fixed—but probabilities based on current conditions.
I saw the convoy entering the district. I saw the ambush. I saw the initial moments of the attack playing out in dozens of slightly different variations depending on exact timing and positioning.
And I saw myself intervening.
Perfect.
I settled into a meditation stance, sitting cross-legged on the rooftop with my hands resting on my knees, and waited. To any observer with thermal imaging or other surveillance tech, I would appear as nothing more than an odd cold spot—another Shadow Clan ability, the power to exist slightly outside normal space, making me difficult to detect through technological means.
The city hummed around me. Cars passed on distant streets. People laughed and argued in bars and restaurants. A siren wailed somewhere to the south, probably an ambulance. The ordinary life of an ordinary city, unaware of the extraordinary violence about to unfold just beneath their notice.
I thought about the Strains who were planning this attack. According to my intelligence, they weren't evil—or at least, not purely evil. They were desperate. Supernatural individuals who'd been hunted, persecuted, forced to live on society's margins because they had powers they didn't ask for and couldn't fully control. Scepter 4, for all its stated purpose of maintaining order and protecting civilians, was feared among Strains. There were stories of Strains being imprisoned indefinitely without trial, of powers being suppressed through experimental procedures, of interrogations that bordered on torture.
Some of those stories were true. Most were exaggerated. But fear didn't care about statistics or reality. Fear fed on the worst examples and grew until it consumed rational thought.
These five Strains attacking the convoy weren't monsters. They were frightened people lashing out at a system they saw as oppressive. They probably even had noble intentions—maybe they thought the artifact being transported was dangerous and needed to be destroyed, or maybe they planned to use it as leverage to demand better treatment for Strains across Japan.
It didn't matter. Their intentions were irrelevant. Because their actions would get people killed. Scepter 4 members who were just doing their jobs. Civilians who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe even themselves, if they fought hard enough to force the Blue King to intervene personally.
I would stop them. I would defeat them as efficiently and non-lethally as possible. And I would do it in a way that left no doubt about what I was.
Midnight arrived. My spatial awareness picked up the convoy before I heard it—three heavy vehicles moving in tight formation, surrounded by six motorcycles in a standard protection pattern. Professional. Coordinated. Exactly what you'd expect from the paramilitary organization tasked with maintaining order among supernatural elements.
They entered the warehouse district, moving along the predetermined route that my hackers' abilities had extracted from Scepter 4's encrypted databases. The lead vehicle was reinforced beyond military standards, probably capable of withstanding a direct hit from a tank shell. The middle vehicle—the one carrying the artifact—was even more heavily armored, with what my enhanced vision suggested were additional energy shielding systems powered by Blue clan abilities.
The rear vehicle was a troop transport, carrying the bulk of the security force.
The Strains attacked exactly when and where I'd predicted they would.
They'd positioned themselves well, I had to admit. Three on the rooftops flanking the street, two on the ground level hidden behind dumpsters and cargo containers. They'd chosen a narrow section of road with limited escape routes, with tall warehouses on both sides creating a perfect kill box.
The one with electromagnetic pulse abilities struck first.
A wave of invisible energy erupted from the rooftop to my right, washing over the convoy. The vehicles' electronics died instantly—engines cutting out, security systems failing, electronic locks releasing. The motorcycles fared worse, their riders losing control as power steering and stabilization systems failed. Three bikes went down hard, their riders tumbling across asphalt in showers of sparks.
The Blue clansmen were well-trained, though. Even as they fell, they were activating their abilities, surrounding themselves with protective blue energy that absorbed the worst of the impacts. They rolled to their feet, swords already drawn, blue power crackling around the blades.
But the second attacker was already moving. The earthquake Strain—a massive man who looked like he ate steroids for breakfast—slammed his fists into the ground. The street buckled and cracked, fault lines racing outward from his position. The disabled vehicles lurched and tilted as the ground beneath them became treacherous terrain.
The Blue clansmen stumbled, their formation breaking apart. Years of training told them to regroup, to form a defensive perimeter around the artifact vehicle, but the ground kept shifting beneath their feet, making it nearly impossible to maintain stable footing.
The third attacker—the one with superhuman strength and durability—leaped from the rooftop. He was built like a tank, easily over six and a half feet tall, with muscles that strained against his reinforced clothing. He landed in the middle of the scattered clansmen with enough force to crack the already-damaged pavement, then immediately charged toward the artifact vehicle.
The fourth attacker provided covering fire. The sonic screamer—a young woman with cybernetic implants visible on her throat—unleashed a focused blast of sound that physically manifested as distorted air. The Blue clansmen tried to defend, raising sword and barriers, but the sonic attack bypassed physical defenses and struck directly at their inner ears. Several fell, clutching their heads, blood trickling from their noses.
And the fifth attacker—the leader, the one with shadow manipulation—moved like liquid darkness across the battlefield. His ability let him travel through shadows, appearing and disappearing, striking from unexpected angles. He was heading for the artifact vehicle, just like the strongman, moving to support the breach.
It was a good plan. They'd clearly scouted the convoy route, studied Scepter 4's response protocols, identified the optimal ambush point. Against a normal security force, they might even have succeeded.
But they'd made one critical miscalculation.
They'd assumed they were the only wildcards in play tonight.
I stood up from my meditation stance and activated three abilities simultaneously: enhanced reflexes, spatial awareness, and minor precognition. The world slowed down around me—not literally, but my perception sped up to the point where it seemed like everyone else was moving through honey. I could see every detail of the battle below, predict every move three seconds before it happened, and track every individual's position in perfect three-dimensional clarity.
Then I stepped off the building.
I didn't fall so much as descend deliberately, using my reality anchoring ability to reduce my effective weight to almost nothing. I drifted down through the night air like a leaf, landing silently behind the shadow manipulator just as he emerged from a pool of darkness near the artifact vehicle.
He sensed me somehow—good instincts—and spun around, shadows already lashing out in lethal whips.
But I'd seen this attack coming three seconds ago, seen every possible variation of his response. I activated probability manipulation, the power I'd copied from a Strain in Yokohama two years ago. The ability didn't let me control probability directly—that would be too powerful, too reality-breaking—but it let me nudge outcomes within reasonable parameters. A 10% chance of something happening could become 15% or 5%. A 50% chance could shift to 60% or 40%.
The shadow whips that should have struck me missed. Not by much—just inches, fractions of degrees—but in combat, inches were the difference between life and death.
Before he could attack again, I moved. Enhanced reflexes pushed me forward at speeds that appeared superhuman to normal observers. My hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, and in that moment of contact, I activated Rob.
The sensation was always strange, always fascinating. His shadow manipulation ability flowed into me like water pouring from one container to another. I felt it settle into my consciousness, joining the dozens of other powers stored there, instantly understood and accessible. The ability to manipulate shadows, to travel through them, to make them solid and sharp.
He still had his power—that was important to understand. I didn't steal abilities; I copied them. His shadows were still his to command. But now they were mine too.
His eyes widened behind his mask, whites showing all around the irises. "What... what did you just—"
Instead of answering with words, I demonstrated. His own shadows rose up around him, controlled by me now with the same proficiency he'd developed over years of practice. They wrapped around his body like serpents, binding his arms to his sides, his legs together, completely immobilizing him without causing injury.
He collapsed to the ground, shock and fear warring across his face. "Impossible. You can't—nobody can—"
I released him and stepped back. "Stay down. This doesn't have to end with you in a Scepter 4 cell."
Then I turned my attention to the other four Strains.
They'd noticed me now, all of them. The battle had frozen for just a moment as everyone—Blue clansmen and Strains alike—stared at the figure who'd appeared seemingly from nowhere. A figure in traditional dark clothing wearing a demon mask with crimson markings and curved horns, topped with a wide straw hat that made his features completely invisible.
The whispered legend. The urban myth. The impossible story made real.
The Shadow Clan.
"Impossible," breathed the sonic screamer, her modified voice carrying even at conversational volume. "The Shadow Clan is just a legend. They don't really exist."
I tilted my head slightly, letting my body language convey amusement even though my face was hidden. When I spoke, my voice was calm, almost gentle, made slightly hollow and distorted by the mask.
"Stories have to come from somewhere."
The strongman recovered first. He roared—actually roared, like an animal—and charged at me with fists raised. The ground cracked under his footfalls. His approach was more freight train than human, pure momentum and power.
I activated the ability I'd copied from a Strain in Kyoto—probability manipulation—and combined it with enhanced reflexes. His fist, which should have pulverized my skull, missed by three inches. I could feel the wind of its passage, the raw power behind the strike.
Before he could recover his balance, I touched his shoulder and activated Rob. His superhuman strength and durability flowed into me, adding to my collection.
His eyes went wide. "What the hell did you just do to me?"
"Borrowed your power," I said simply. Then I demonstrated his own ability by grabbing him and throwing him—using his own supernatural strength that I'd just copied—into the earthquake Strain thirty feet away.
They went down in a tangle of limbs, the earthquake Strain's concentration broken, the street finally going still.
The other three Strains were already converging on my position. The EMP user fired another pulse directly at me—I could feel it washing over me, trying to disrupt any electronic systems I might be carrying. But I'd anticipated this. I activated energy redirection, a power I'd copied from a minor Strain last year, and caught the electromagnetic pulse, channeling it harmlessly into the ground.
The sonic screamer unleashed a focused blast that should have ruptured my eardrums and liquified my internal organs. But I'd already seen it coming with my precognition. I activated short-range teleportation—copied from a Strain in Nagoya—and blinked three meters to the left, appearing beside the EMP user instead.
I touched his arm. Rob activated. His electromagnetic manipulation ability joined my collection.
He tried to run. I understood the instinct—faced with something completely outside your understanding, flight was a reasonable response. But I couldn't let them escape, not yet. This needed to be witnessed. This needed to be undeniable.
I teleported in front of him, touched his chest gently, and projected a wave of overwhelming terror using empathic projection—copied from a Strain in Hiroshima. It wasn't real fear, just a mental suggestion, but it was enough. His legs gave out and he collapsed, hyperventilating.
The earthquake Strain had recovered and was preparing another attack. I could feel the power building in his arms as he prepared to strike the ground again. Instead, I used reality anchoring to exist slightly outside normal space, making me effectively immune to ground-based attacks. When his fists struck the pavement and the street tried to buckle beneath me, I remained perfectly stable, standing on solid ground that existed in a slightly different phase of reality.
He stared at me in disbelief. I teleported to his position, touched his forehead, and copied his earthquake ability before he could react. Then I used his own power against him—a minor tremor, just enough to knock him off his feet without causing injury.
The sonic screamer was backing away now, smart enough to realize she was outmatched. Her enhanced vocal cords were powering up for another attack, one that would probably bring the entire warehouse district down on our heads if I let her unleash it.
I didn't let her unleash it.
I combined three abilities in rapid succession: probability manipulation to ensure my trajectory would be perfect, teleportation to close the distance instantly, and empathic projection to flood her with overwhelming calm instead of terror.
She collapsed mid-scream, her attack dying in her throat, her body going limp as artificial tranquility washed over her consciousness. I caught her before she hit the ground, touched her temple, and copied her sonic manipulation ability. Then I laid her gently on the ground, unconscious but unharmed.
The strongman was charging again—stubborn, I'd give him that. But I now had his own strength plus my copied abilities. I teleported to his position, grabbed his outstretched fist with my hand, and stopped him dead. The shock on his face was almost comical as his momentum was completely arrested by someone who looked significantly smaller and weaker.
I spun him around and put him in a submission hold that would have been impossible without supernatural strength. He struggled for a moment, then went limp when he realized he couldn't break free.
"Stay down," I said quietly. "This is over."
The entire fight had taken less than ninety seconds.
I stood in the center of the battlefield, surrounded by five unconscious or immobilized Strains, while the Scepter 4 members slowly picked themselves up. They stared at me with a mixture of awe and fear, their training warring with their instincts. Some had their swords raised defensively. Others looked like they wanted to run.
The convoy commander—a lieutenant I recognized from the anime, though his name escaped me—stepped forward cautiously. His hand rested on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw. He was middle-aged, graying at the temples, with the bearing of a career soldier. His blue uniform was dusty from the fight, but his eyes were sharp and assessing.
"Who are you?" he demanded, voice steady despite the circumstances.
I could have disappeared. Could have teleported away and maintained the mystery, letting them wonder and speculate. But that wasn't the point. The point was to be seen. To be witnessed. To establish beyond any doubt that the Shadow Clan was real and that we were no longer hiding.
"You already know who I am," I said, my voice carrying clearly despite the mask. "You've heard the stories. Every intelligence agency in Japan has files on the legends. Every clansman has heard the whispers."
"The Shadow Clan," he breathed, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Yes."
Around us, the other Blue clansmen were slowly forming a perimeter, not quite threatening but ready to act if I proved hostile. Professional. Well-trained. Exactly what you'd expect from Scepter 4.
The lieutenant studied me for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. "You just saved us from a coordinated Strain attack. Defeated five hostiles in under two minutes using abilities that shouldn't be possible. Multiple power types, far exceeding normal Strain capabilities." He paused. "Why?"
"Because they would have killed some of you," I said simply. "And possibly injured or killed civilians if the fight had escalated. I don't want unnecessary deaths."
"And the Strains? What should we do with them?"
I glanced at the five incapacitated attackers. "They're not evil. Just desperate and frightened. Strains living on society's margins, convinced that your organization is their enemy. I've neutralized them without permanent harm. What you do with them now will determine whether my assessment is correct."
The lieutenant's jaw tightened. "Are you questioning Scepter 4's methods?"
"I'm suggesting that how you treat defeated enemies says more about you than about them." I turned my masked face toward him fully. "Treat them with mercy and justice, and you prove that Scepter 4 protects everyone, not just clansmen. Treat them with cruelty, and you prove their fears correct."
Silence stretched between us. The other Blue clansmen were listening, I could tell. Some looked uncomfortable. Others looked angry at the implied criticism. But the lieutenant just nodded slowly.
"I'll take your suggestion under advisement." He straightened. "Now. The Gold King will want to know about this incident. About you. Will you come peacefully to make a statement?"
"Tell your King," I said, making sure every Blue clansman present could hear me clearly, "that the Shadow Clan is no longer hiding. We've watched from the darkness for centuries, but that ends now. We exist. We are real. And we are watching."
I paused, letting the words sink in.
"Tell him that we mean no harm to those who maintain order and protect the innocent. We respect Scepter 4's mission, even if we sometimes question its methods. We have no desire for conflict with any of the Seven Kings."
Another pause.
"But tell him also that we answer to no King. We are older than the Slates. We existed before the first Sanctum was formed, before the first Sword of Damocles appeared in the sky. We are not bound by your laws or your hierarchies. We are independent."
The lieutenant's expression was unreadable. "And if the Gold King insists on meeting with you? If he considers your existence a security threat?"
"Then I will meet with him. Tomorrow at noon, I'll come to Mihashira Tower voluntarily. Alone. Unarmed, in the sense that I'll carry no weapons." I gestured to myself. "Though as you've seen, I hardly need conventional weapons."
"That's acceptable," the lieutenant said after a moment. "I'll relay your message and arrange the meeting."
"Good." I took a step back, preparing to leave. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"In approximately two months and three weeks, something terrible is going to happen in this city. I can't prevent it—the timeline is too rigid, the event too important to the overall flow of cause and effect. But I can help minimize casualties if your King is willing to trust me when the time comes."
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. "You're claiming precognitive abilities now?"
"I'm claiming knowledge. How I acquired that knowledge is my business. Whether your King chooses to heed my warning is his."
Before he could respond, I activated my teleportation ability and vanished, appearing on a rooftop four blocks away. I stayed long enough to watch the Scepter 4 members secure the scene, calling for backup and medical support, treating the captured Strains with—I was pleased to note—reasonable restraint and professional courtesy.
Then I vanished again, teleporting across the city in a series of short jumps, making sure I wasn't followed. Finally, I arrived at a small apartment I maintained as a safe house in a quiet residential district far from any clan territories.
I removed my mask and hat, looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Kurogane Rei stared back at me—a young man with dark hair and unremarkable features, someone you'd pass on the street without a second glance.
But I'd just done something unprecedented. I'd revealed the Shadow Clan to the world. I'd demonstrated abilities that shouldn't exist. I'd defeated five dangerous Strains without killing anyone. And I'd issued a warning about the future to the Gold King himself.
The ripples from tonight's actions would spread. By morning, every intelligence agency in Japan would know. By tomorrow afternoon, every King would have been briefed. Within a week, the entire supernatural community would be talking about nothing else.
The Shadow Clan was real. They'd finally been seen. And one of them—the one with the demon mask and straw hat—had abilities that defied explanation.
I smiled at my reflection. Phase one complete.
Now came the hard part: actually changing the future.