Chapter 17: I Give You My Word as Director Hakuba

Shinjuku.

One of the core districts of Tokyo, it boasts a full range of commercial and entertainment facilities, as well as several prestigious schools. Its strength is formidable, with an astonishing daily population of half a million.

But this fame is not just due to Shinjuku’s bustling streets; it is also home to an overseas civilization enclave.

Kabukicho.

As Shinjuku’s brightest marquee, it harbors around three thousand establishments—bars, clubs, inns of every style. Here, one can experience the most primal pleasures between men and women, as well as face-offs of sword against sword and shield against shield in professional arenas. Many entertainment venues are closed to foreign travelers, requiring special member referrals to gain access.

Naturally, such a chaotic area draws the eyes of many factions. The Yamaguchi-gumi, the Hashiriyoshi-kai, and the Inagawa-kai stand in a three-way power struggle, beneath them a dozen or so smaller yakuza groups each command their own territories. In such a dense yakuza atmosphere, periodic reshuffles among the smaller gangs are inevitable: either they rise or they fall into oblivion.

Of course, there is another option—if a big player takes notice and recruits them as their “glove,” it can be a blessing.

Amidst the dazzling lights and intoxicating atmosphere, Yamada Ryoka strode steadily without pause, his eyes filled with contempt as he observed everything.

“Yakuza.”

That was his mission.

Though news articles occasionally surface about former yakuza bosses washing people’s backs in bathhouses, stealing watermelons or rice, or even running bubble tea shops—stories that bring laughter and lament the decline of Japan’s yakuza—those living within this island nation do not believe such tales. If they did, the countless concrete pillars beneath Tokyo Bay would weep.

Rather than the yakuza being forced by life to enter the bubble tea business, it is more accurate to say the yakuza have ventured into the bubble tea industry, applying their violent methods to a field where many have no backing. Naturally, their bubble tea business flourishes.

With resolute steps, Yamada approached a bar where three or five yakuza members squatted or leaned, smoking and speaking in unsavory tones.

“Hey, kid, not open yet. Come back later, okay?”

“Is this the territory of the Wild Dog Society?” Yamada asked politely.

A delinquent with dyed yellow hair boasted, “Of course. This place is proof of our Wild Dog Society’s strength. There are three more bars nearby under our control. If you want, I can introduce you to something fun.”

Indeed, bars and clubs in Shinjuku rake in vast sums daily. A small gang holding ground in Shinjuku has every reason to be proud.

“That will do,” Yamada murmured softly.

“Huh?”

“Bang!”

Before the delinquents could react, darkness engulfed them; they collapsed, powerless on the ground. Yamada opened his palm, absorbing their souls, but his expression was one of disappointment.

“They are evil, but not heinous enough.”

This was expected. These small-time thugs were never his real target.

He looked up at the tightly shut door before gently pushing it open.

---

On the floor, on tables, on chairs, yakuza members lay sprawled in disarray. Most were killed with a single strike, a few were mangled beyond recognition. Even the chandelier had crashed down, shattered in the center of the dance floor. Nearby, exposed wires sparked and neon lights flickered, creating an eerie, cyberpunk atmosphere.

In Shinjuku, Asakawa Yuuya frowned as he surveyed the wreckage of the Wild Dog Society’s bar. Leading the team, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“Chief, something’s wrong here,” a team member whispered.

Several members of this squad had been involved in the earlier “Three-Tailed Bone Cat” incident. The Metropolitan Police Department had assigned them here, believing their experience gave them some immunity to supernatural occurrences, though they themselves were reluctant.

Asakawa nodded slightly.

As a non-professional officer who had risen to police inspector in Tokyo—a place where everyone had their own niche—he harbored no sympathy for the yakuza. He cared not how many of them died; his only concern was whether Yamada Ryoka had entered an uncommunicative state.

At the heart of the dance floor, Yamada held the Wild Dog Society’s leader by the face with one hand, murmuring softly,

“Not enough.”

After ransacking the entire Wild Dog Society, only two could truly be called monstrously evil.

Not enough, not enough. At this rate, how long before he could bring his mother back?

Watching Yamada’s back, Asakawa took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Yamada-kun, thank you for your outstanding contribution to Tokyo’s public safety. Could you spare us just two words?”

“I have no time for you. You’d better not try to stop me, or I’ll come to the Metropolitan Police Department myself.”

Being able to communicate was a good sign. As for threats—ha! Anyone who could hold a position like his wasn’t afraid of threats.

Taking a deep breath, to the shock of the surrounding officers and Yamada’s puzzled gaze, Asakawa slowly knelt before the high schooler who could have been his son.

“Yamada-kun, I know you are dissatisfied with the government, and I have no right to ask for your forgiveness on their behalf, but I am a police officer. There is a bound spirit causing havoc in Adachi Ward. A patrolman entered to rescue people and never came out. I beg you to intervene. If you do, the Metropolitan Police Department will do its utmost to meet your demands. I guarantee this in the name of Director Shirakuma.”

Yamada’s expression shifted—not because of the police’s offer, but because of the bound spirit.

A bound spirit that had drawn the Metropolitan Police Department’s attention and already killed a patrolman and several others must have been truly evil in life.

“Where?”

“Arakawa Ward.”

Beneath Yamada’s feet, a swirling black vortex appeared, like black mud collapsing after rain. Amid the stunned gazes of all present, it split into several streams, scattering in all directions.

The officers were dumbfounded by the spectacle, while Asakawa exhaled deeply, his face etched with worry.

He must have agreed.

“Chief, what now...?”

Looking at his incoherent subordinate, Asakawa nodded.

“This is all I can do for now.”

Having personally experienced supernatural events and seen footage of the earth spider wreaking havoc and Yamada commanding spirits to slaughter through the Self-Defense Forces, he no longer trusted the handgun at his waist—even the latest unmodified model.

Sighing, a sense of confusion washed over him.

If such beings continue to increase, where will this nation be headed...?

---

Meanwhile, atop a skyscraper’s rooftop, Mizunotsuki Shiro watched Yamada Ryoka’s rapid movements through his glass of cola.

“Has his potential been awakened?” Mizunotsuki pondered.

So far, he had witnessed Yamada develop three abilities: first, summoning an army of spirits to overwhelm ordinary people; second, compressing spirit power into a part of his body to unleash in close combat; and lastly, the ability to transform into shadows and move swiftly—this last power enabling him to dash through Tokyo in moments.

“Quite capable. Next, it’s time to stir the land and sea.”

Having relied on steady, methodical work in the early stages and stored enough willpower as a safety net, it was only natural that the people of this era must fully experience the mighty power of the supernatural.