After picking up intel from our Red Guild contacts, I pull into a city hotel.
Ophelia’s staying here. We need to coordinate on the Hidden Flame.
I look up at the glittering high-rise. The Matz-Carlton. One of the world’s most prestigious luxury hotels.
“Never been in one of these places before,” I mutter.
“Meow,” says Ayano.
She starts clacking away on her typewriter.
[It can’t be helped. I’ve stayed at Matz-Carltons all over the world. I’ll give you a tutorial!]
“Matz-Carltons, huh? Figures. You ladies did travel a lot.”
Lady Ayano lifts her tail, proud and smug, and trots ahead like she owns the place.
I follow that confident puff of fluff.
“I’m sorry, but pets aren’t allowed in the hotel.”
“Meow meow!” (I’m no pet! I’m Ikaku’s master!)
“Hehe, what a cute kitty. She must be very attached to you. But rules are rules—you can’t just bring her in~”
“Meow meow!” (Leggo of me! Do you have any idea who I am?! Nooo~!)
Her protests are ignored. Two staff members scoop her up and carry her away.
Absolutely pitiful.
“Wait here, Milady. I’ll be right back.”
“Meow meow~!” (No way!)
I lock her in the NSX. She stares up at me, eyes round and tragic.
Can’t hear what she’s saying, but the emotion’s loud and clear.
I steel myself and head inside.
The lounge is at the top floor. Wall-to-wall glass shows off Akai City’s nightscape in full sparkle.
Smooth music plays. Air’s thick with money. Only rich folk here.
I scan for that posh British aristocrat.
“Look at that guy. Fur all over his clothes. What a scrub. What’s he doing in a place like this?”
The voice belongs to a couple in their early twenties.
The guy’s decked out in gold chains and a flashy suit. His eyes are locked on me like I’m something on his shoe.
Probably new money. Can’t buy class.
The girl tugs his arm. “Let’s go…”
He smirks when our eyes meet. “What? Got something to say?”
I step forward twice. I’ve got about eight inches on him. He realizes that too late.
His face tightens. He steps back.
“Y-you wanna fight…?”
I say nothing.
Sweat breaks across his brow. His pupils shrink.
A nearby waiter starts hovering like Great, now we’ve got a situation.
Then the man collapses.
Clutches his chest, falls to his knees, and lets out a strangled scream.
The lounge breaks into panic.
The waiter stares in shock. The girl backs off fast.
Only the guy’s acting like he’s dying—left hand over his heart, mouth foaming, eyes vacant.
Then—snap. He’s back.
Shaking, he lurches to his feet. Eyes wild. Looks at me.
“Wait… didn’t you… hit me?”
We all look at each other—me, the waiter, his girlfriend. Shared confusion.
He shouts, “No, I felt it! You stopped my heart!”
“Sir, please calm down.”
The waiter tries to reason with him. The guy starts thrashing.
Crowd gathers fast.
“What’s all this noise? Did some stray animal sneak in?”
A sharp, icy voice cuts through the chaos.
It’s Ophelia.
Standing arms crossed, perfectly poised, perfectly annoyed.
She’s beautiful enough to cancel out her awful personality.
“Oh my, Mister Akamuro, so you were the one barking like a dog.”
“Do I look like I’m barking to you, Lady?”
I keep my tone light, my smile tighter.
Ophelia hides a grin behind her fingers. “My mistake. How rude of me.”
What exactly did you mistake, I wonder?
“You hit me, didn’t you?! You did it! Right?!”
The guy’s still yelling. He grabs for my collar.
Finally.
There are three kinds of people I can hit: Demons, criminals, and anyone who swings first.
I start clenching my fist—but I don’t need to follow through.
Thwack.
The flat of a silver blade slaps him across the face. He sails across the lounge and hits the floor hard, nose bloodied, out cold.
“Uh… Lady Ophelia…?”
“Don’t bother my attendant. I despise loud fools.”
She slides the sword back into its compact hilt, pockets it, and strolls off.
Waiters freeze. Then they part like curtains.
The crowd clears for her. I follow in her wake, breaking through like she’s parting the sea.
I ask, “Who’s whose attendant?”
“You should feel honored, Mister Akamuro.”
“…I’m deeply, deeply honored.”
“Of course you are. Hehe.”
We sit at a private table in the back.
“So, did you hit him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Really?” She narrows her eyes. “You lie so smoothly. Hard to trust a word you say.”
“When have I lied?”
“Oh, please. Start with the unlicensed Exorcist thing.”
“I never said I was licensed. I just didn’t correct anyone. That’s not a lie, it’s tactful omission.”
“What a childish excuse.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“That smart mouth of yours…” She sighs and folds her hands over the table. “So. What did you do?”
“Still hung up on that?”
“It looked like something.”
“Oh?”
For her to pick up on that... She knows how the body moves. Regular folks don’t see that sort of thing.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Have you trained in martial arts?”
“Rapier, smallsword, longsword. Halberd, axes. A bit of everything, really. Just hobbies.”
Just hobbies, huh? I doubt that.
“Okay. Then I’ll teach you. It’s not a secret technique. Not that you’ll understand it even if I explain.”
“Are you underestimating me?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t dance around. Spit it out.”
“All right. First, we start with presence…”
There’s a technique. Void and Substance.
Void means erasing your presence. Substance means broadcasting it. Combine the two right, and you’ve got a powerful combat tool.
But there’s more.
A trick beyond both called Phantom.
If Void is zero percent presence, and Substance is one hundred, Phantom is two hundred.
It’s a feint. A perfect feint. You move in a way that makes your opponent’s body predict an outcome—like getting hit. You show them a false future.
What I hit him with was a Phantom-enhanced Cannon Strike. I made him believe his heart had been crushed.
“—and that’s what happened. That’s why he dropped.”
“You’re serious?”
“Of course.”
“That’s even possible?” Her face says nope. Her voice says maybe. Her brain’s still catching up. “…It’s magic, isn’t it?”
“It’s Kung Fu.”
“It’s magic.”
“It’s Kung Fu.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“No. Kung. Fu.”
To prove it, I hit her with a Phantom. Show her the illusion of me tapping her shoulder.
She flinches. Reaches up, startled. “Did you just touch my shoulder?”
“Yes. I touched it.”
“Pervert.”
“No, that was Phantom! Just an illusion—”
“Kung Fu is quite profound, isn’t it?”
“…Yeah. Exactly. Deep as hell.”
She bought it. Huh.
“You showed me something interesting.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“Shall we order? My treat.”
“I’m good. Let’s get to the meeting.”
“If you insist.”
“There’s tea, though.”
“Thanks.”
I pour myself a cup. Add sugar, then milk—British style, just to be petty. Not necessary, but hey.
Ophelia nibbles a scone and watches me prep my tea with raised brows.
She looks mildly impressed.
Damn right she should. That’s how capable I am.
I say, “Here’s the intel from our agents.”
“Nice work.”
Their haul’s bigger than Ophelia’s interrogation batch. Not full hideouts, but known safe houses—like Neon Circle—and plenty of personnel profiles.
Most important? The execs. We’ve got faces on every one.
“‘The Ember Creed.’ That’s their leadership. They pulled data from fourteen phones, cross-referenced everything. Backgrounds, abilities, all here.”
“All this in one day? Fuji must have a particularly skilled team working behind the scenes.”
“Let’s review them one by one, starting with the worst of the lot. First…”
We begin profiling the five execs holding this cult together.