Mainland, Hayashi Settlement
October 17, 2100 — 11:20 IST
Inoue Territory, Southern Coastal Route — En route to a classified Yoshima airstrip.
The convoy slowed as it reached the coastal highway.
To their left, the artificial shoreline dropped sharply into dark water, waves crashing far below against reinforced sea walls and jagged cliffs of alloyed stone. To the right, the skeletal silhouettes of Inoue factories loomed—half-lit, half-abandoned, pretending to sleep while quietly feeding the black markets of Neo-Japan.
Ahead, the road curved along the cliffside like a blade drawn tight against the sea.
Ichiro sat back against the armored seat, with the girl by his side, her weight light against him. She hadn't spoken since the port. Her breathing was even now, exhaustion finally winning over fear.
Yamada watched her for a moment—then looked back out the window toward the distant glow across the bay.
Tokyo Bay was alive.
The Imperial Capital, seen from afar, rose above the water like a crown of fire and light, towers reflected across the dark surface in rippling gold. Traffic lanes glittered in the sky, airships drifting in slow, elegant arcs. Fireworks bloomed faintly above the skyline—muted at this distance, but unmistakable.
Yamada broke the silence first.
"You know," he said calmly, "this is the first time I've heard your father sound… careful."
Ichiro glanced at him. "Careful isn't the word I'd use."
Yamada smiled faintly. "It is when it comes from Kaede Yoshima."
The vehicle rolled onward, tires humming against reinforced asphalt.
"I knew your father before I ever wore Yoshima colors," Yamada continued. "Before I was Wakagashira. Before I left the Empire."
Ichiro said nothing.
"I was an Imperial Agent then," Yamada said quietly. "I was sent to observe him. Later… to kill him."
Ichiro turned fully now.
"And yet," Yamada went on, eyes still on the horizon, "here I am. Because Kaede Yoshima doesn't bend unless the ground beneath him is about to break."
He finally looked at Ichiro.
"He wouldn't ask you to leave that girl behind unless there was a reason. A real one."
Ichiro exhaled through his nose, almost amused.
"You're overthinking it," he said. "We're Yoshima. Nothing bad happens unless we allow it."
Yamada chuckled softly. "That confidence is very on-brand."
Ichiro's gaze drifted back toward the bay. The capital looked brighter than usual tonight—celebratory. Alive.
"…It's livelier than normal," Ichiro said.
Yamada nodded. "Because it is."
He tapped the window lightly.
"The Kensei Convergence," Yamada responded. "Empire-wide martial exhibition. Old schools. New forms. Every style Neo-Japan has cultivated over centuries—polished, televised, glorified."
Ichiro raised an eyebrow. "That explains the fireworks."
"For the first time since the Revolution," Yamada added, "the Hayashi clan sent a representative."
Ichiro's posture stiffened slightly.
"…Akira," he said.
Yamada smiled sideways. "Akira Hayashi. Your fiancée."
Ichiro scoffed quietly.
"I've never even met her in person."
Yamada glanced at him, amused. "You've shared a name on paper for a while now, fought on opposite sides of history, and you've never stood in the same room."
Ichiro groaned. "She is not my fiancée."
"Strange," Yamada said mildly. "Because the paperwork says otherwise."
"That's politics," Ichiro said flatly. "Not a relationship."
Yamada glanced down at the girl resting against Ichiro's arm.
"So," he said lightly, "you save a silver-haired mystery girl from an Inoue warehouse, defy the Empire, ignore your father… and now you're turning your back on your fiancée?"
Ichiro shot him a look. "You really enjoy provoking me."
"I enjoy pointing out patterns," Yamada replied. "And you do have a talent for collecting complications."
Ichiro looked down at the girl again, his voice lower now.
"She's been through something," he said. "I don't know what yet—but it's not something you abandon people over."
Yamada studied him for a long moment.
"…Careful," he said. "That's how stories like this start."
The convoy slowed further as lights appeared ahead—low, concealed, embedded into the cliffside itself.
The airstrip waited just beyond the curve.
And above Tokyo Bay, the fireworks bloomed again—unaware of how close the night was to tearing itself open.
11:28 pm IST
The mainland coast lay shrouded in smoke and ash, faint moonlight glinting off the distant waters of Phoenix Capital. From here, the city was visible, a distant monument to civilization—but tonight, all that mattered was the small Hayashi village.
The walls, once symbols of centuries-old strength, burned under the first explosions. Black smoke rose like banners of defiance, twisting into the night. The Imperial armada descended, an endless tide of flying battleships, mechanized combat rigs, and soldiers, each movement calculated to crush resistance.
Yet the Hayashi warriors did not flinch. Fewer than a thousand remained, but each bore the weight of centuries, the legacy of those chosen to protect the emperor himself. Their dulled katana blades cut through the air with devastating precision, disarming, disabling, and incapacitating enemy after enemy. Blood streaked the wooden walls and ground, a testament not to fear, but to ruthlessness refined by discipline.
Masato Hayashi, the clan leader, scanned the battlefield. His voice cut through the roar. "Where is my daughter?"
"She remains in the Imperial Capital, sir," a warrior answered, tension tight in his voice. "The tournament… she is protected, for now."
Masato's jaw tightened, but his gaze did not waver. "Contact the Yoshima. Ensure she is secured immediately."
"She's already taken care of, sir. Master Kaede told us to assure you of this. "
One of the few Yoshima fighters moving alongside the Hayashi lines answered this without pause, striking down enemies with calm, lethal efficiency.
Masato's eyes flicked back to the battlefield. The Hayashi warriors surged forward, dulled katana blades and bodies moving as one. The Imperial soldiers poured through the breaches, but each assault was met with deadly counters. Every Hayashi warrior was a force unto themselves—fast, disciplined, unyielding, turning the chaos of fire and smoke into a dance of lethal control.
Flying units strafed the village; mechanized rigs stamped the earth with mechanical fury. Yet the Hayashi warriors pressed, their skill unmatched, their resolve absolute. They were not frightened. They were the defenders of a legacy, the apex of martial prowess in the empire. Every strike disarmed, every counter incapacitated, every kill precise.
The battle became a blur of steel and shadow. The walls fell, and the village burned, but the Hayashi remained, unbroken. Even as numbers pressed them to the brink, their formation held, their counterattacks lethal, their presence a warning: this was no ordinary militia, no frightened village guard.
And then… the smoke thickened, obscuring the battlefield. Shadows of the remaining Hayashi and their few Yoshima allies moved through the burning village, their numbers diminished, yet every motion deliberate, every stance deadly.
The outcome hung in the night, unresolved, uncertain.