Division One occupied the lower sector of the Tokyo Headquarters—a domain seldom entered unless calamity had already begun its descent. The elevator's passage downward was accompanied only by the deep, unceasing murmur of machinery resonating beneath the foundation, as though the building itself possessed a mechanical heartbeat.
For the first time, Kaito beheld the infamous Division One with his own eyes.
Corridors of glass extended in daunting symmetry, their lengths appearing almost infinite beneath sterile white illumination. Laboratories lay sealed behind reinforced panels of composite alloy. Researchers in immaculate white coats moved with urgent precision between stations and holographic consoles, while translucent projections of data floated mid-air, shifting and recalibrating in real time.
Division One bore responsibility for research and development. Weaponry. Technological innovation. Strategic analysis.
There was little—if anything—they did not know.
And that was precisely why Takihana had come.
He proceeded directly toward the central laboratory, where a figure stood whose presence alone compelled Kaito into a respectful bow.
First Division Vice Captain Shibata Ishida.
Tall. Lean. Impeccably composed within a lab coat tailored to his frame. A silver chain descended from his pocket watch into the breast pocket of his coat—an antiquated habit inherited from his lineage. His black hair was neatly parted, save for a singular rebellious strand that perpetually fell forward. He brushed it aside not with his fingers, but with the side of his wrist—his fingers perpetually occupied by a pen.
Rectangular spectacles rested upon his nose, magnifying eyes far keener than his fatigued demeanor implied.
When absorbed in contemplation, he tapped the bridge of those glasses twice.
He did so now.
Tap.
Tap.
"I have never encountered anything of this nature," Shibata murmured.
He lifted the plastic bag with meticulous care.
"Where was this obtained?"
"One of my men was struck by it," Takihana replied gravely. "His condition remains uncertain."
"I see. Containment tray," Shibata instructed calmly.
The bag was opened within a sealed chamber. Mechanical arms transferred the projectile into a transparent enclosure. Immediately, scanning apparatuses activated—slender blue beams traversing the bullet's surface with methodical precision.
Kaito observed from a respectful distance.
Even without physical contact, the black liquid suspended within unsettled him profoundly.
"Density inconsistent with metallic composition," Shibata noted. "It more closely resembles a reinforced silicate composite—yet its structural stability exceeds that of ordinary glass or crystalline matter."
"And the substance contained within?" Takihana inquired.
Shibata's reply was measured.
"It is negative energy."
An abrupt silence overtook the chamber.
Uncomprehending, Kaito ventured to speak.
"Negative energy… what precisely do you mean?"
Shibata turned toward him, adjusting his spectacles with deliberate calm.
"Our instruments have detected negative polarity coursing within that casing. Which suggests that this projectile possesses the capacity to permanently dismantle a Core Trait."
The implication settled heavily.
Kaito had never imagined such a construct could exist.
"And therefore," Shibata continued, "this is not merely a bullet."
"Then what is it?" Takihana pressed.
Instead of answering immediately, Shibata signaled for the primary display to activate. A holographic projection materialized above the containment chamber, revealing the bullet's internal composition.
The translucent exterior rotated slowly in three-dimensional display.
Within, the black fluid revolved rhythmically—almost as though it possessed intent.
Firearms had long since fallen into obsolescence. The discovery of core crystals had ushered in an era of virtually inexhaustible energy, rendering traditional munitions archaic. Modern weaponry was almost exclusively crystal-powered.
This was something else entirely.
"It is structured negative output," Shibata stated at last.
"Negative output?" Kaito frowned. "Is that not simply corrupted energy?"
Shibata regarded him coolly.
"That is a civilian misconception."
He approached a digital board and began to inscribe.
Core Energy exists in polarity.
— Positive Output: Trait Manifestation
— Negative Output: Trait Suppression
"Positive energy fortifies the Core Trait," he explained. "It stabilizes the pathway between user and ability. Negative energy, conversely, erodes synchronization. It introduces a foreign frequency which neutralizes both polarities simultaneously, resulting in permanent misalignment."
Core Energy indeed possessed two fundamental polarities.
Positive and Negative.
Humans could generate only positive output. Corrupted Core Spirits, however, wielded negative polarity exclusively—which explained their inability to manifest conventional Core Traits.
Takihana swallowed.
"Someone has engineered such a weapon under my command—and I remained oblivious."
"Who could accomplish something of this magnitude?" Kaito asked quietly.
"Your men are fortunate to have survived," Shibata replied, his gaze settling upon Takihana. "Most Core Wielders—particularly those of higher rank—would have perished."
He was correct.
Fourth graders or lower might endure limited exposure.
But third grade and above? Their immense positive output would have reacted catastrophically upon impact.
An internal detonation.
"Thank you, Shibata," Takihana said with a bow.
"You are welcome at any time," the Vice Captain replied evenly.
Yet as they departed, the gravity of the discovery lingered.
A projectile capable of erasing Core Traits.
A threat sufficient to annihilate high-ranking officers.
Kaito could scarcely grasp the scale of it.
Takihana dismissed him for the day. He had witnessed far more than he was intended to. Silence was expected.
And yet—
The bullet had felt… familiar.
Unsettlingly so.
The purple Core Crystal within his inventory came to mind.
He had contemplated selling it once he secured a suitable buyer.
He had even considered revealing it during the discussion—but suspicion would have been inevitable. The attack had occurred within his district.
In every conceivable sense—
It was checkmate.
"Why," he muttered bitterly, "is peace so persistently denied me?"
Tri-ring.
Since undergoing the limit-breaking process, the Daily Quest interface had ceased functioning entirely. No matter how frequently he accessed the tab, it refused to respond. The Limit Break gauge remained stagnant at zero percent.
Another consequence of neglecting to read the manual.
He exhaled slowly.
"Very well," he murmured to himself. "Then I shall discover the method… the old-fashioned way."