On a dimly lit street, a man stood at the edge of a bridge, lost in thought. His eyes were weary, his fists clenched as if holding back something ready to explode from within. His breathing was heavy. His mood was as dark as the sky, which was slowly being swallowed by dusk.
Ignoring the noise around him, he shouted as loud as he could. But the roar of passing vehicles drowned his voice, making it seem as if he had never spoken at all. He looked down from the bridge.
"Pretty high," he muttered.
His right hand rose to his forehead, slapping it repeatedly as if trying to wake himself from a reality he refused to face. Then he looked up, his gaze fixed on a nearby leaning utility pole. Something about its damage caught his attention.
He turned his gaze back to the bridge, then to the pole again. His brow furrowed slightly.
"Really tall," he repeated.
The traffic grew heavier. The night deepened. But the man remained there, as if time had stopped for him. His fists tightened even more before, without warning, he punched the pole with all his strength.
"Argh!" he groaned, feeling the sting of pain.
This time, his voice was loud enough to catch the attention of a passing motorcyclist.
"Beep! Beep!" A horn blared.
The rider stopped, eyeing the man with a mix of curiosity and caution.
"Stop that, or I'll record you and make it go viral!" the motorcyclist warned, raising his phone.
The man at the bridge turned toward him with an empty stare.
"Even dying is a hassle," he said flatly.
He punched the pole again, harder this time, until blood started dripping from his knuckles. His breathing grew ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
The motorcyclist became even more intrigued. He unlocked his phone, preparing to record. But before he could say anything else—
A loud thud echoed.
From behind, a mysterious figure appeared and struck the somber man's head with a long metal rod.
The man collapsed instantly, knocked unconscious.
The attacker chuckled.
"People can't even do things in peace these days... what a rotten country," he sneered.
Without hesitation, he swung his rod toward the head of the recording motorcyclist.
A metallic clang rang out.
The motorcyclist wasn't an ordinary person.
The attacker narrowed his eyes.
"Huh? Who the hell are you?" he asked.
"Looking for a fight?" he continued, preparing to strike again.
But suddenly, another voice spoke.
"Not really."
The man who had been knocked out was now standing.
"Tch."
He clicked his tongue.
The attacker couldn't believe it. He swung his rod again, this time with greater force.
A sharp whoosh cut through the air.
But the revived man blocked it with his bare hand. The impact pushed him back, nearly sending him over the bridge's edge.
The attacker refused to back down. With a final swing, he slammed his weapon into the man's chest.
"Argh!"
The man's body was sent tumbling over the railing.
The attacker burst into laughter.
"Ha! Now you get what you deserve!"
He leaned over the edge, satisfied with his work.
"Serves you right, punk!"
But—
A sickening crack echoed.
The sound of bones snapping back into place.
A voice rose from below, calm yet menacing.
"If I've been alive since the Edo period, do I still count as a punk?"
The attacker flinched.
"You're still alive?! Damn, you're tough! Who the hell are you?" he stammered.
The man who had fallen now stood below, barely injured.
"That doesn't matter," he replied. "What matters now is your death."
He pointed upward.
A shiver ran down the attacker's spine.
He had no intention of sticking around. With quick movements, he turned and ran.
But—
"Pointless."
A sharp whisper cut through the night air.
Out of nowhere, a Japanese sword appeared in the man's hand.
In an instant, he scaled the bridge railing with astonishing speed.
"You can't escape."
Blood suddenly pooled around the attacker's feet.
He trembled, trying to process what had just happened.
"What… what did you do?" he asked, his voice shaking.
The swordsman smirked.
"Nothing much," he said casually. "I just cut your 'that'."
The attacker turned pale.
"No way… You… You're the Watcher!"
The swordsman looked confused.
"No. I don't even know who that is."
He shrugged before adding nonchalantly,
"Nice to meet you. My name is Yoshimura Adit."
The attacker's body quivered.
"Don't lie! You have to be the Watcher! You're… You're Saitou Yorugume!"
Adit raised an eyebrow.
"Who's that?" he asked blankly.
Then, he chuckled.
"Sounds like an interesting guy."
The attacker clenched his teeth.
"He's just like you! A monster!"
Adit's expression remained neutral.
"I'm human," he said calmly.
The attacker shook his head furiously.
"No! You're a monster!"
Adit chuckled.
"Fine," he said. "At least I still have things to do in this world."
He locked eyes with the attacker, his gaze sharp.
"Thanks for the info, bro."
And in an instant, his silhouette vanished.
Yoshimura Adit strolled through the city as if nothing had happened.
He briefly wondered about this "Watcher" but quickly dismissed the thought.
The city was filled with giant video billboards and vending machines lining the streets.
For a moment, Adit questioned—was this really not Japan?
Breaking news flashed on a videotron screen.
"This morning, a high school gang attack resulted in property damage. A local resident, whose house was wrecked in the incident, speculated that the violence was fueled by peer pressure and the growing culture of aggression in the area."
He glanced toward a street corner.
A newly opened mall stood there, already swarmed by visitors.
The crowd seemed unusual.
Shouldn't it be less crowded than this?
The sheer number of people surprised him—it was something he had never seen in his former city. A truly broken place.
Still, he didn't dwell on it.
He decided to enter the mall.
But he couldn't.
The crowd was too dense, surging forward in waves, making entry impossible.