Kyuroto moved like a shadow through the neon-lit streets, his presence almost nonexistent. Even at 1% of his 1,000,000% power, the air seemed to bend subtly around him. Probability threads hummed softly, revealing paths no one else could see.
The killer had hidden well, but arrogance always left traces. Kyuroto traced micro-distortions in reality—tiny gaps where reality bent slightly, as if someone had stepped through time wrong.
He paused near an abandoned skyscraper. The building was old, cracked, and seemingly empty, yet the threads told him otherwise. Layers of illusions masked the space. A faint memory shimmered: a pair of hands, a voice, a final scream that was erased from everyone else's memory.
Kyuroto smirked.
"This is amateurish… yet clever."
He extended his senses, letting probability threads sweep through the building. Every floor, every corner, every hidden panel revealed traces of tampering. The killer had erased physical evidence, but reality itself remembered.
A whisper in the threads.
"You shouldn't be here."
Kyuroto's blue eyes glimmered. He didn't flinch. Shadows curled around him like living things, revealing the faint outline of a hidden trap—a paradox loop designed to erase intruders from history itself.
Even at 1%, Kyuroto countered instinctively. Threads of probability bent around him, folding the trap back onto itself. The floorboards did not collapse. The air did not poison. The loop did not activate.
He stepped forward.
"This is all you've got?" he murmured, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of inevitability. "I've walked through shadows older than your cunning."
Kyuroto moved into the heart of the building. Rooms layered inside rooms, impossible spaces folded into one another, hiding the killer's presence. Yet the threads led him forward, each step pulling him closer to the origin of the erasure.
A faint pulse resonated through the air. Kyuroto tilted his head. Not a power signature. Not yet. This was something else—a will beyond ordinary omnipotence, something calculated, patient, and meticulous.
Kyuroto's fingers brushed the edge of a wall. Shadows peeled away, revealing a hidden door etched with ancient Mitsuyo runes that did not belong to his clan.
He paused.
"This mark… clever. But you forgot one thing: every action leaves a trace. Even eternity cannot hide from me."
With that, he opened the door. Beyond it lay a chamber frozen in time, untouched by reality—perfectly preserved. On the floor, remnants of a past long erased shimmered faintly.
Kyuroto inhaled, his katana at his side, ready.
"The first act of this hunt… begins now."