The night was cold and silent, the soft light of the moon giving a gentle touch to the sleeping city. Inside the car, Hikaru rested with tired eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. The faint hum of the engine and the rhythmic vibration beneath him blurred into the background as the vehicle carried him across a long, unseen distance.
After a few more minutes, the car came to a smooth halt.
Hikaru opened his eyes.
Before him stretched a wide beach, endless and dark, the sand pale beneath the moonlight. A cool wind swept across the shore, whispering through the air. The moonlight shimmered on the restless surface of the water, silver reflections dancing with each small wave. The salty scent of the ocean mixed with the cold night air, filling his lungs.
Beside his car, many others were parked in a long horizontal line, their dark silhouettes resting quietly on the sand. Farther ahead, dozens of figures stood in loose groups, shadows moving beneath the moon. Beyond them, four massive airplanes waited on the open ground, their metal bodies faintly gleaming, engines silent yet imposing.
Hikaru stepped out of the car without a word.
The cold sand shifted beneath his slippers as he walked forward, each step sinking slightly. The wind pushed against his body, sending a chilling shiver along his spine. His hood fluttered and snapped softly in the breeze, fabric brushing against his cheeks. He kept his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead.
As he reached one of the gathered groups, an elderly man dressed in formal attire stood at the front. His posture was straight, his presence heavy, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd.
He raised his voice.
"Is my voice crystal clear?"
The group responded in unison with a loud,
"YES!"
Hikaru remained silent.
The instructor continued, his voice steady and commanding.
"As you all know, you did not travel this far to stand on a beach at midnight for nothing. You are here because you seek to become professional hitmen. And to earn that title, you must pass the Specialized Assassination Operatives Entrance Test—S.A.O.E.T."
The wind carried his words across the shore.
"This entrance test is held once every four years. Each time, around two hundred to four hundred candidates step forward. Only twenty to forty succeed."
A brief pause.
"The rest return home."
His tone dropped, sharp and cold.
"Either dead… or barely living."
A heavy silence fell over the crowd. The distant crash of waves against the shore felt louder than before. Some candidates swallowed hard. Others clenched their fists.
The instructor raised his hand slightly.
"So, your first journey ends here. Your second begins now. Enter your allotted seats in the airplanes. We will continue toward the island—also known as the Island of Death."
The wind surged again, tugging at clothes and hair.
His voice rose high.
"So, are you ready?"
The crowd roared back,
"YES!"
With that, the candidates began moving toward their respective airplanes, footsteps crunching against sand, shadows stretching long under the pale moonlight as the path toward their fate slowly unfolded.
As the airplane engines roared to life, the deep mechanical growl vibrated through the metal bodies of the aircraft. The wind around the runway grew violent, sand lifting and spiraling into the air as the planes prepared to take off toward their next destination.
The scene shifted.
Far away from the city, deep within the heart of a dense jungle, stood a warehouse hidden by towering trees and thick undergrowth. The moonlight barely pierced through the tangled canopy above, leaving the area cloaked in shadows. Insects chirped endlessly, their distant hum blending with the rustle of leaves swaying in the night breeze.
The warehouse itself looked forgotten by time.
Its walls were cracked and stained, layers of dust clinging to every surface. Rust crept along the metal doors, and faded paint peeled in long, brittle strips. Inside, the air felt heavy and stale, carrying the sharp scent of rust, mold, and old concrete. Thin cobwebs stretched across dark corners, trembling whenever a faint draft passed through. A few tube lights flickered weakly overhead, buzzing softly, casting uneven pools of pale light across the floor.
The atmosphere was calm…
Yet suffocating.
As if something unseen lurked between every shadow.
Inside a small cabin room, three beds were arranged in a straight horizontal row.
On two of the beds lay Aki and Mike.
Their chests rose and fell slowly, breaths steady but shallow. Their faces were pale, skin marked with dried blood and layered bandages. Clear tubes ran from hanging IV bottles, transparent liquid dripping slowly through thin pipes and disappearing into their veins. Heart monitors beside them beeped rhythmically, the soft electronic sounds cutting through the silence like a fragile promise of life.
On the third bed lay another person, unconscious.
Two doctors stood near him, hands stained with fresh blood, carefully stitching deep wounds. The faint metallic scent of blood mixed with antiseptic filled the room, sharp and biting. Two nurses assisted in silence, passing instruments, pressing gauze against open flesh, wiping sweat from their brows. The only sounds were the soft clink of metal tools, the tearing of bandage wraps, and the low hum of the flickering lights.
But the most horrifying sight was not on the beds.
Near the far wall, three figures were tied tightly to chairs with thick, heavy chains.
Their arms were bound behind their backs. Their clothes were torn, dirty, and soaked with sweat. Mud-stained rags were stuffed into their mouths, muffling every cry, every desperate whimper. Their faces were twisted in terror, eyes wide, glistening, darting toward anyone who moved.
One was a powerful businessman.
The other two were politicians.
Men who once lived above the law.
Now reduced to trembling shadows, helpless, breathing fast through their noses, their bodies shaking as they struggled uselessly against the chains. Tears streaked down their faces, mixing with grime and dust.
They begged.
Not with words.
But with their eyes.
Yet no one looked at them.
Not the doctors.
Not the nurses.
Not a single person in the room acknowledged their existence.
The monitors continued to beep.
The lights continued to flicker.
And the jungle outside whispered endlessly, as if the world itself had already decided their fate.
Suddenly, a deep, mischievous, and wicked voice drifted through the air, low and melodic, as if someone were singing a twisted lullaby.
"All lights dim… moon grows dark~
The hope vanished…
The circus is full of fools~~
Where is the jesterrrr?"
The words slithered through the room, wrapping around every corner, seeping into every shadow.
The tube lights flickered violently.
For a moment, the businessmen and the two politicians froze.
Their eyes slowly turned toward the door beside them.
Behind it—
Only darkness.
Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
The song abruptly stopped.
A few seconds of suffocating silence followed.
Then, slowly…
A soft, distorted laughter echoed through the room.
"Eh… eh… eh…"
The sound scraped against their ears.
Panic exploded inside the three men.
They thrashed violently against the chains, chairs screeching across the floor. Their muffled screams grew louder as they twisted their bodies with desperate strength, veins bulging, sweat pouring down their faces.
But it was useless.
A figure stepped inside.
He wore a crimson red and dark blue vertically striped overcoat, a deep red shirt beneath it, black cargo pants, and slippers. A low-brimmed black hat cast a shadow over the upper half of his face.
A wide, twisted smile stretched across his lips.
Not joyful.
Not playful.
Insane.
One eye glowed blue.
The other burned red.
They shimmered faintly in the dim light, locking onto the three chained men like a predator choosing its prey.
The air instantly felt heavier.
Colder.
Thicker.
Even the heart monitors seemed to beep a little faster, as if they, too, sensed the arrival of something bad.
The Jester had arrived.