Tokyo Bay, Neo-Japan —October 18, 2080
The Imperial Capital ablaze. Smoke curled over the water, choking the skyline, painting the night in strokes of black and crimson. Cries of panic and terror pierced the chaos, but above it all, a deeper, colder presence moved.
From the shadows, they came.
At first, nothing could be seen—only the unnatural hush in the midst of screaming. Then, a rhythm. Footfalls perfectly synchronized, silent, yet heavier than any human stride. Shapes emerged from the haze—tall, armored, in black that seemed to drink the light. Their bodies encased in segmented plating of matte-black alloy that whirred with the tension of synthetic muscle. Their faces were hidden behind war masks—monstrous mempo forged from cold metal—where optical sensors bled a predatory red light into the haze. They did not breathe like men; they hummed with the mechanical hunger of a new age. These were the Agents of the Empire—modern samurai, perfected, remorseless.
Each carried weapons unlike any civilian had seen. Blades that vibrated with a hum, rifles that fired with preternatural accuracy. They moved with inhuman speed, surrounding the city's defenders, their presence alone spreading fear. The ground trembled faintly under their disciplined march. For those who glimpsed them for the first time, a single thought ran through their minds: This is death incarnate.
And yet, among the chaos, a paradox unfolded.
Through a narrow alleyway, a group of men moved with purpose—but not for conquest. These were Yakuza, the remnants of what would later form the Yoshima clan. They fought not for territory, not for profit, not for blood—but to shield the fleeing civilians. Children were guided past toppled walls, the elderly hoisted to safety. Sparks from fallen torches glimmered on their dark coats, and yet their eyes held something impossible: nobility, courage, compassion.
The irony was not lost on anyone who saw it: these men, branded criminals, were the city's true guardians tonight.
The palace of the old world breathed its last.
On the high, white steps of the Imperial Sanctum, the last of the Hayashi warriors stood in a single, unbroken line. Their ceremonial silks fluttered in the heat of the rising inferno, a stark white contrast to the encroaching tide of black-armored Rebel Agents.
The Hayashi did not move. They did not speak. As the rebel wave hit the foot of the stairs, a dozen blades left their scabbards in a single, metallic chime. For the first time in centuries, the Hayashi lifted their steel.
They fought like a single unit—a wall of silver that refused to yield. For every rebel that reached the top, three were sent tumbling back down the marble. But for every man the Hayashi cut down, ten more rose from the shadows. One by one, the line thinned. Silks were dyed red. The silver arcs slowed. By the time the massive doors behind them were breached, the steps were slick with the blood of a dying era.
Behind the bloodshed, a single figure moved gently behind the warriors. She was fragile, almost ethereal. Short silver hair framed her face, her pale skin untouched by the world's cruelty, and her eyes—blue and wide—took in the scene with quiet curiosity. This was the princess, the Emperor's sacred daughter, miracle made flesh, the first to be cured by Angel's Blood. She offered no weapons, no shield, only the soft touch of her presence. Her trust in the Hayashi warriors was absolute.
In the palace beyond, the Emperor prepared his farewell. With his daughter hidden safely, he held her hand, pressing it gently against his chest.
"Go," he whispered, his voice trembling only slightly. "You carry the hope of all that we fought for. Even if I am gone… live, and remember who you are. Live, Hikari."
Tears glimmered behind the mask she still wore—her secret face, known only to him.
The flames swallowed the palace. Smoke filled the streets, masking the sound of retreating footsteps. Hikari fled under the cover of destruction, leaving behind the mask that had concealed her miracle, now charred and warped by fire.
The Emperor remained, sword in hand, facing the advancing Agents. With every ounce of courage, he raised his voice one final time:
"Neo-Japan… may you never forget the price of hope!"
Steel clashed. Fire roared. And in the shadows, Rin Takeda, Warlord of the Rebellion, arrived at the scene. He stopped where the throne room had once stood. There, half-buried in a pile of cooling embers, his eyes settled on the smoldering mask. A grin stretched across his composed face. Around him, the "New Order"—his loyalists, his imperial agents—stood in the shadows of the crumbling pillars, awaiting the word that would change history. He stood above the city. It was a sea of fire and shadows, the old world screaming its last. Rin Takeda looked out over the horizon of his new Japan, standing victorious over the pyre of the past.
The fire was dying, but for Rin Takeda and the fate of Neo-Japan, this was only the beginning.