The chamber was deep beneath the Kamaguchi estate, carved into stone and sealed by layers of tradition and silence. Here, in the dark-slick interior lit by a hanging paper lantern, three of the Five Immortal Vassals had gathered in uneasy quiet. The air buzzed with heat, the kind that came not from temperature—but from suppressed fury.
Masaki Kamaguchi stood near the head of the low table, arms folded, glasses catching the soft glow of the lantern above. His voice broke the silence first.
"So," he said. "It failed."
Reika Minazuki sat to his right, legs crossed with a fan resting loosely in her palm. Her long black hair was tied into a precise braid that curved over one shoulder. Her sharp red eyes narrowed.
"Your precious Tsujihara heir spent how long planning that ambush? Only to come back with two operatives broken and the Tatsugami boy unscathed?"
"Not unscathed," Masaki replied calmly. "He took damage. But not enough."
From across the table, the hulking figure of Genzou Araragi said nothing. His presence alone took up more space than anyone else, massive arms crossed like twin steel girders across his chest. His expression remained unreadable—until Masaki said.
"That Tatsugami boy he used at least four different fighting styles in under thirty seconds. That's not instinct—that's mastery."
Something shifted in Genzou. Not his stance, not his face—but something deeper. A crackle, almost felt rather than seen. It was as if the brute force he embodied stirred slightly in anticipation. No words escaped his mouth, but the way his jaw clenched, the way the lantern's flame flickered unnaturally for a moment near him—spoke volumes.
Masaki noticed. Reika did too.
"So even the beast wakes at that name," she muttered. "Is he really that dangerous to stir interest in you, Genzou?"
The silence from the Araragi patriarch was answer enough.
Masaki turned his gaze to the table.
"We underestimated him," he said simply. "Not because he's strong—though he is. But because we assumed the Tatsugami died like dogs in the mud. We failed to account for the boy's persistence. He's learned to survive in the underworld. Worse, he's hunting now."
Reika scoffed. "Then we crush him. Put a price on his head that would make devils drool. I'll have my men spread across every district."
"And escalate things prematurely?" Masaki countered. "That's what he wants. That's what a Tatsugami thrives on. War. Chaos. We need control."
Masaki said "The Kurohane don't want a fire yet. They want smoke—quiet suffocation."
Reika snapped her fan closed with a click. "Then
Tsujihara should've killed him instead of testing him"
"Because he's precise," Masaki answered. "He isn't just lashing out. He's studying him. Like a surgeon picking the right place to cut."
A pause.
Genzou shifted. His massive fingers flexed—cracking with the sound of stone breaking.
"Next time," Masaki said, eyes still forward, "we don't test."
---
Elsewhere, beneath the neon-bled canopy of a sleepless city, Ryuji Tatsugami moved like a blade drawn in silence. His shoulder ached from where the assassin's blade had skimmed bone. The stitches still tugged against his flesh, but he moved regardless. Slower than usual. But focused.
Kaito walked beside him, hoodie up, eyes flicking left and right as they navigated through the entertainment district.
"This place is owned by Minazuki, right?" Kaito asked quietly.
Ryuji nodded. "On paper, it's a production studio. Behind it—broadcast rights, magazine syndicates, media contracts. The doctor said they bought silence after my family died. Paid off networks, redirected headlines, and buried any survivors."
Kaito's voice dropped lower. "That's... cold."
"It's how they stay clean. The Minazuki-kai don't use blades. They use stories. Silence. Memory."
The building loomed ahead—four floors of modern glass, nestled between two taller complexes. Ryuji stopped across the street and watched.
"What now?" Kaito asked.
"I will go inside. Not to fight. To listen."
Kaito blinked. "You serious? You're just walking into their territory?"
Ryuji's lips curled faintly. "I have an appointment. Under a fake name."
Kaito's jaw dropped. "You sneaky bastard."
Ryuji didn't smile. His eyes were fixed on the building.
---
Minutes later, inside the front lobby of Mirai Media Group, Ryuji sat on a leather couch. The lobby was too white. Too clean. It reeked of sterilized lies.
A receptionist gave him a tight corporate smile. "Mr. Takaoka? They'll see you now."
He rose slowly, adjusting the collar of his black suit. The briefcase in his hand contained nothing—just a prop. He followed her down a hall, passing framed headlines and celebrity portraits.
His eyes scanned the floor plan.
Second floor. Editorial wing.
Third floor. Private conference rooms.
Fourth floor—restricted access.
That was where the real secrets lived.
When they reached a conference room, he was ushered inside. The man who greeted him was middle-aged, glasses, polite demeanor. A producer on paper. A Minazuki vassal in reality.
"You're here for the freelance offer, correct? Media coverage of your startup project?"
Ryuji bowed slightly. "Correct."
They talked. Nothing real. All a script. But Ryuji listened. Watched. Learned. The producer let slip more than he realized—naming a subsidiary that handled "special content approvals."
By the end of the meeting, Ryuji knew where he'd go next.
---
Night fell. The building closed. And somewhere on a rooftop across from Mirai Media, Ryuji stood again, this time not as a guest—but a predator.
Kaito joined him, holding binoculars.
"That guy from earlier? He's having dinner with a few suits from the Minazuki side. One of them's packing—checked his waistband."
Ryuji folded his arms.
"This place is a gate. Not a fortress. I need what's beyond it."
"And what's that?"
Ryuji's eyes narrowed.
"The truth they buried with my name."
A pause.
"The next time I walk into that building—it won't be with a fake name."
---
Back at the Tsujihara estate, Shigure sat alone in a dim dojo. The blade before him gleamed faintly—his father's sword. Forged by fire. Stained by history.
He lifted it with care, then brought it to his knees. He meditated in silence.
His thoughts were not of discovery—but confirmation.
"He didn't forget who he is," he murmured. "Not even for a second."
Shigure's hands tightened.
"You live, Tatsugami... but for how long?"
He stood, blade in hand.
The dance was coming.
---
Back on the Tokyo streets, Ryuji stood at the edge of a pedestrian bridge, the city glowing beneath him.
He touched the edge of his jacket—feeling the stitch marks, the echo of violence.
His mind flashed.
---
A dim shrine.
A bloodied child.
His father's corpse before him.
A dagger in hand. The oath spoken. Not in words—but carved in flesh.
I will not die until they do.
---
Ryuji opened his eyes.
He looked out toward the skyline, the largest silhouette being the Minazuki tower in the distance.
"One by one," he whispered.
The Black Vow stirred.
The city held its breath.
The threads had begun to unravel.