Tanaka leaned into the microphone, voice steady but carrying the weight of no turning back.
"We've spent days telling the public this was a tragic animal attack or mass hallucination. That was a lie to buy time. The evidence doesn't support it."
Reporters exploded with questions, but he pressed on.
"Aiko Tanaka was killed because she uncovered proof of something hidden in plain sight for centuries. The wounds on her body—dozens of perfect, invisible perforations—match patterns in classified files going back generations: cases where supposed demons, vampires, or worse turned up dead, cleanly executed, with no human suspect ever found."
He clicked the remote. Screens behind him lit up with declassified images: ward shimmers in tunnels, dissolving black residue, the recovered note with "aura fng" scrawled in panic.
"Her research, her contacts, old records we've now unsealed—all point to one truth."
The room went deathly quiet.
"The 11 hidden villages are real."
Chaos erupted—shouts, cameras flashing wildly, the government official lunging for the podium but too late.
Tanaka didn't stop.
"They exist alongside us—underground, in remote wilds, places we can't reach. They guard ancient artifacts of unimaginable power. They hunt the monsters that slip into our world so we never have to know they exist. And when someone like Aiko photographs a breach, gets too close to their wards… they eliminate the threat. Silently. Precisely."
Rena stepped forward, voice clear. "The weapon signature matches relics described in their lore—the Aura Fang. Teleporting strikes, multiple invisible penetrations. It's not a game. It's real."
Miyazaki added, "We've protected humanity from the dark for centuries. But secrecy has a cost."
The feed cut abruptly as censors finally reacted—but clips were already spreading like wildfire online, unstoppably.
Within minutes, social media collapsed under the truth.
#HiddenVillages trended globally in seconds.
News helicopters swarmed suspected sites.
Governments worldwide scrambled emergency meetings.
People flooded streets—some protesting, some praying, some demanding contact.
The age of secrecy was over.
And deep in Lumora, the first alarm bells began to ring—low, urgent, impossible to ignore.
The surface knew.
The compact was broken.
And everything was about to change.
In minutes, the world's most powerful leaders were yanked from whatever they were doing—holidays, family dinners, sleep—and bundled onto private jets. No press, no entourages, just the bare minimum security and a single encrypted brief: "Global security threat. Neutral ground. Now."
One hour later, the skies over Europe were dotted with unmarked government aircraft converging on Switzerland like iron filings to a magnet. By dawn, they touched down in Geneva—US President, Chinese Premier, Russian President, Indian PM, European heads of state, and a dozen others—whisked by motorcade through empty, snow-silent streets to a nondescript conference center deep under the Alps, a Cold War bunker retrofitted for exactly this kind of emergency.
The meeting hall was stark: long oval table, no flags, no nameplates, just water glasses and secure tablets. The air hummed with tension thick enough to taste.
The UN Secretary-General opened without pleasantries.
"Less than twelve hours ago, Japanese authorities held an unsanctioned press conference revealing the existence of eleven hidden villages that have allegedly protected humanity from supernatural threats for centuries. The broadcast went viral before it could be contained. Markets are in freefall. Riots in major cities. Religious groups declaring end times. We have credible intelligence that these villages are real, and that exposure risks either war with them… or the unleashing of whatever they've been keeping locked away."
The US President leaned forward, voice low. "Satellites picked up energy spikes in eleven separate global locations matching old classified maps. We're talking underground caverns, orbital anomalies, impossible heat signatures in Antarctica. They're lighting up like Christmas trees right now—probably alarms."
The Chinese Premier's expression was stone. "Our cyber teams confirm the Japanese leak is authentic. Victim's files, forensic matches, historical patterns. These 'wardens' have been cleaning up demonic incursions for generations. Quietly. Until now."
The Russian President drummed fingers on the table. "Question is: do we demand contact, try to negotiate, or prepare for conflict? Because if they've killed to keep this secret before, they won't hesitate now that the entire planet knows."
Silence stretched, heavy as the mountain above them.
The Indian PM spoke softly. "Or we acknowledge we've been living under their protection without knowing it… and ask how we move forward without destroying everything."
Outside the bunker, snow fell harder, blanketing the world in uneasy white.
Inside, the most powerful people on Earth sat in a room that suddenly felt very small, debating whether to reach out to shadows they'd never believed existed.
While far below, in Lumora and ten other hidden places, councils were already gathering, alarms still ringing, deciding the same thing from the opposite side.
The age of secrecy was dead.
What came next would decide if the age of humanity survived.
The bunker hall under the Swiss Alps felt colder than the snow outside, every word hanging in the air like frost.
The US President leaned forward, fingers steepled, voice low and deliberate.
"Satellite reconnaissance confirms eleven distinct energy signatures—exactly matching the old classified maps the Japanese leaked. These aren't research facilities or military bases. They're the villages. And our analysts have finished the threat assessment."
He tapped his tablet; a holographic projection bloomed above the table—eleven red pulsing dots scattered across the globe: deep under Hokkaido, the Himalayas, Sahara, Amazon, Siberia, Antarctica, even one orbital anomaly.
"Each site houses at least one artifact classified as apocalyptic-level. We're talking weapons that can unmake reality in localized zones—or worse, chain-react globally if mishandled. The villages have kept them sealed for centuries. If they decide humanity is now a threat…"
He let the silence finish the sentence.
The Chinese Premier's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Eleven sites. Eleven artifacts. And only a few thousand wardens total, spread thin. We have 198 nations, an average of twenty-five registered Chōjin per country—over four thousand superhumans combined, plus conventional militaries. We take them before they decide to take us."
A few leaders shifted uncomfortably; others nodded.
The US President raised a hand, calm but firm. "It's not that simple. These aren't uneducated tribes clutching dangerous toys. They've operated in total secrecy for generations, neutralizing threats we didn't even know existed. Every demon incursion, every near-apocalyptic event in folklore—they handled it. Quietly. Perfectly."
He met the Premier's gaze.
"Put those weapons in the hands of governments, corporations, or anyone driven by politics, profit, or fear? We won't survive the learning curve. One artifact misfired in the wrong hands could end continents. We capture them, someone reverse-engineers, someone else steals the plans, someone panics and pushes the button. Mutually assured oblivion."
The French President spoke softly. "So we… do nothing?"
"No," the US President replied. "We talk. We offer partnership, transparency, shared oversight. We acknowledge we've been protected all this time—and ask to stand beside them, not above them. Because the alternative isn't conquest. It's suicide."
The Russian President gave a grim smile. "Pretty words. But they just killed a civilian journalist to protect their secret. You think they'll trust us now that we've ripped it open?"
The Indian Prime Minister's voice cut through gently. "Then we give them a reason to. We show restraint. We broadcast a global stand-down. And we send one message—through every channel we can find: 'We know. We are grateful. We wish to speak. Not as conquerors. As survivors who finally see the guardians.'"
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
The UN Secretary-General finally nodded. "Draft the message. Unanimous. We reach out before anyone does something stupid."
Above them, the Alps stood unmoved.
Below, in eleven hidden places, councils listened to the same words echoing through intercepted broadcasts—and wondered if the surface world had finally grown up… or simply signed its own death warrant.
The bunker's air grew thicker, the holographic map of the eleven pulsing red dots casting an eerie glow on every tense face.
The Russian President broke the heavy silence first, his voice gravelly and unapologetic.
"We have thousands of nuclear warheads pointed at each other right now, and we've never used them because we know it ends everything. But these villages? Eleven targets. Finite. We could end them in minutes—glass the sites, bury whatever's left, and take the artifacts for ourselves. Superior firepower. Superior numbers. Why negotiate when we can simply… remove the threat and claim the power?"
A few leaders exchanged uneasy glances; others leaned in, intrigued.
The US President's expression hardened. "Because those 'artifacts' aren't conventional weapons. One miscalculation—one warhead detonates too close to whatever they're guarding—and we don't get a controlled takeover. We get an uncontrolled release. Think Chernobyl times a thousand, or worse: reality-warping events that make nuclear fallout look quaint. We've seen the residue from their clean-ups. It dissolves matter. Warps space. If even one artifact destabilizes under bombardment, we're not conquering anything. We're erasing ourselves."
The Chinese Premier nodded slowly, but his eyes gleamed with calculation. "Still, the Russian point stands. Negotiation is ideal, but weakness. We send the message—gratitude, partnership, shared oversight. They accept: we gain allies and access. They refuse…" He spread his hands. "Then we act. Coordinated strikes. Special forces insertion teams backed by Chōjin units. Capture the sites intact. Secure the artifacts before they can trigger any failsafes. Minimal nuclear option—only if they force our hand."
The French President frowned. "And if they see our preparations as aggression? They've survived hidden for centuries. They'll know we're mobilizing."
The Indian PM spoke calmly. "Then we make the message genuine. No hidden fleets. No preemptive positioning. We broadcast openly, give them time to respond. If they reject peace… only then do we move to containment and capture. Not annihilation. Capture keeps the artifacts safe—and gives us leverage."
After minutes of sharp back-and-forth—objections, counter-proposals, grim what-ifs—the room settled into reluctant consensus.
The UN Secretary-General summed it up. "We offer the hand first. Publicly. Sincerely. A global ceasefire on any military movement toward the sites. Invitation to dialogue. But if they refuse, or if they retaliate… we authorize joint operation: non-nuclear precision strikes, Chōjin-led capture teams, secure the artifacts at all costs."
The US President nodded. "Motion carried. Draft the message. Send it on every frequency, every channel we can reach. And quietly… prepare the contingency."
The leaders rose, faces grim, as aides scrambled to relay orders.
Above them, the Alps kept their ancient silence.
Below, the eleven villages listened to the same broadcast—and began their own preparations.
The clock was ticking.
Seven days.
That's all it took for the surface world to unravel the secret humanity had clung to for millennia.
Seven days of broadcasts, emergency summits, stock crashes, protests, and that single, fateful global message: gratitude, partnership… or else.
In the hidden village of Lumora—nestled not underground this time, but woven seamlessly into an ancient, mist-shrouded forest where trees grew taller than mountains and light bent strangely through perpetual canopy—the council chamber was alive with urgent voices.
The chamber itself was a living thing: walls of interwoven living wood, glowing moss for lanterns, roots forming natural seats around a circular table grown from a single ancient heart-tree. The air smelled of pine, earth, and tension.
Lord Eldrin, village head and Yōsei's father, sat at the head—tall, silver-streaked hair tied back, expression grave but steady. Beside him, Master Yoriichi, arms folded, face carved from stone. Flanking them were three aged masters—white-haired, eyes sharp with centuries of wisdom—and two academy teachers, younger but no less serious.
And at the edge of the circle, standing respectfully because he hadn't been offered a seat, was Kanashimi—still bandaged under his dark robes, gray eyes lowered, but present because Yoriichi had brought him.
Eldrin's voice cut through the murmurs.
"The surface knows. They've seen our wards. They've named our weapons. They've counted us—eleven villages, eleven artifacts. And they've issued their ultimatum: join them openly… or be taken."
One aged master, Elder Thorne, snorted. "Taken. By children who only yesterday believed us myths. Arrogance."
Another, Elder Lira, leaned forward. "Yet their numbers are vast. Their Chōjin many. Their nukes can reach even here if they find the heart-tree roots. We cannot fight the entire world."
Yoriichi spoke for the first time, voice calm but carrying like a blade. "We do not need to fight the world. We need to remind them why the compact existed. One demonstration of an artifact's true power—"
"No," Eldrin interrupted firmly. "That path leads to the very chaos we've prevented for ages. We do not become the monsters they fear."
He turned to the academy teachers. "But we also cannot remain frozen. The young ones feel it most—their world has changed overnight. They want to act, to protect, to understand."
One teacher nodded. "The students are restless. They see the surface news on smuggled devices. They want to prove we're not afraid."
Eldrin exhaled slowly, then looked directly at Kanashimi—the only non-council member in the room.
"Kanashimi has already tasted the surface's new reality. He completed his mission perfectly… and returned changed."
Kanashimi bowed his head deeper, silent.
Eldrin continued. "We need new blood on missions. Supervised, careful, but active. Therefore, I propose a new law: effective immediately, those aged sixteen and above may join supervised missions. No longer confined to training. They will see the surface, learn its new rules, and—if needed—remind it of ours."
Murmurs rippled—some approving, some wary.
Yoriichi's gaze flicked to Kanashimi, unreadable.
Elder Thorne grumbled. "Sixteen? They're barely past academy."
"They're past hiding," Eldrin replied. "And Kanashimi proved at sixteen what many twice his age could not."
All eyes turned to the quiet boy at the edge.
Kanashimi felt the weight, but didn't flinch.
Eldrin smiled faintly. "The law passes. Beginning tomorrow, supervised teams will scout surface reactions near our borders. Kanashimi—" he said gently, "—you will lead the first, under Yoriichi's watch."
Yoriichi inclined his head. No objection.
The council dispersed with new purpose.
And outside the heart-tree chamber, Yōsei—who had definitely been eavesdropping behind a root curtain—grinned wide.
Her butterfly boy was going to see the sky again.
And this time, she was coming with him.
The council chamber fell quiet as Lord Eldrin's words settled: Kanashimi would lead the first supervised scouting mission to the surface.
Yoriichi's gaze shifted to his student, calm but probing. "You will not go alone yesterday's route," he said, voice low and precise. "Did you assume you would be the only one?"
Kanashimi straightened, bowing slightly. "I… had not assumed, Master. I await orders."
Eldrin leaned forward, fingers laced, his tone gentle yet firm. "No, you will not go alone. To keep the mission balanced and the young ones safe, several academy students of suitable age will accompany you. The teachers have selected them for skill and discipline."
One of the academy teachers, Master Hoshino—a stern woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a tight knot—unrolled a small scroll. "The team will consist of five, including Kanashimi. The others are…"
She paused for effect, then read the names clearly.
"Akira Voss. Ren Kurogane. Hana Shirakawa. And Sora Takemi."
The air in the chamber seemed to thicken.
Kanashimi's expression didn't change, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides. Those four names belonged to his old classmates—the same ones who had spent years avoiding him, whispering "cursed" behind his back, flinching when he walked past, blaming every minor misfortune on the boy born holding the Katana of Death.
Akira—the loudest, always quick with a sneer.
Ren—cold, competitive, convinced Kanashimi's existence cheapened real talent.
Hana—sharp-tongued, never missing a chance to remind everyone he wasn't truly "one of us."
Sora—quiet but cruel in subtle ways, the one who started the rumor that even looking at Kanashimi brought bad luck.
Elder Thorne chuckled dryly. "Interesting choices. They've made no secret of their… feelings toward the boy."
Master Hoshino met the elder's gaze without flinching. "Precisely why they were chosen. The surface has changed. Old prejudices must be confronted, not sheltered. They are skilled, and they will learn—under supervision—what it truly means to serve Lumora."
Eldrin's eyes softened as they landed on Kanashimi. "This mission is not punishment. It is opportunity. For all of you. You will lead, Kanashimi. They will follow. And perhaps, on the other side of fear, they will finally see you."
Yoriichi's voice cut in, quiet steel. "And if they do not follow willingly?"
Eldrin smiled, small but certain. "Then they will learn the same lesson you taught your student long ago, Yoriichi: duty binds tighter than dislike."
Kanashimi bowed deeply, hiding the storm in his gray eyes.
"Yes, my lord."
Inside, his heart beat a single, complicated rhythm: dread at facing those four again… and a tiny, defiant spark of curiosity about what the surface—and his old tormentors—would look like when forced to stand beside him.
Yōsei, still eavesdropping behind the root curtain, clenched her fists in silent triumph.
Her butterfly boy was going back to the sky.
And this time, he wouldn't be alone.
Kanashimi walked half a step behind Yoriichi as they entered the practice temple, the familiar scent of moss and polished wood wrapping around him like an old cloak. The vast space was empty, shafts of soft forest light filtering through the high canopy windows, dust motes dancing in the quiet.
Yoriichi stopped in the center circle, arms folded. "Warm up. Basic forms only. Your ribs are still healing."
Kanashimi bowed and began moving—slow, precise katas that made his bandages pull but kept the pain manageable. The rhythm was comforting, almost meditative.
Until the heavy wooden doors creaked open a few minutes later.
Four figures stepped in, silhouettes against the green-tinted light.
Akira Voss—tall, broad-shouldered, red hair tied back, smirk already in place.
Ren Kurogane—lean and dark-eyed, expression cold as winter steel.
Hana Shirakawa—graceful, silver hair in a high tail, chin lifted like she owned the air.
Sora Takemi—quiet, sharp-featured, hands in sleeves, gaze flicking everywhere at once.
They stopped just inside the threshold, eyes locking on Kanashimi.
The silence stretched, thick and hostile.
Akira broke it first, voice dripping mockery. "Well, look who's leading the big important mission. The cursed wonder himself."
Ren's lip curled. "Guess standards really have dropped."
Hana gave a soft, poisonous laugh. "Don't worry, we'll make sure he doesn't trip over his bad luck and get us all killed."
Sora said nothing, but his stare could have frozen water.
Kanashimi kept moving through his kata, not missing a beat, face blank. Inside, old scars tugged.
Yoriichi didn't turn around. His voice cut through the temple like a blade through silk.
"Enough."
The four stiffened.
Yoriichi finally faced them, arms still folded, presence filling the space like a storm cloud.
"You were chosen because you are skilled. Not because you are liked. Not because you are kind. You will follow orders. You will protect each other. And you will treat your team leader with the respect due his position."
He stepped forward, eyes sweeping over them one by one.
"Fail in that, and you will answer to me. Not the council. Not Lord Eldrin. Me."
Akira swallowed, smirk faltering.
Ren looked away first.
Hana's chin lowered a fraction.
Sora inclined his head, barely.
Yoriichi's gaze settled on Kanashimi, softer by a hair only his student would notice.
"Continue your forms. All of you. Pair up. Kanashimi, you will rotate partners every ten minutes. They will learn your rhythm. You will learn theirs."
He paused, voice dropping just enough for the four to hear the warning.
"Consider this practice in more than combat."
Kanashimi bowed. "Yes, Master."
The four hesitated, then moved to the circle—reluctant, bristling, but obeying.
Akira cracked his knuckles as he stepped opposite Kanashimi first. "Try not to bleed on me, bad-luck boy."
Kanashimi met his eyes calmly. "Try not to slow me down."
Yoriichi allowed himself the faintest exhale—almost approval—as the first strikes began to echo through the temple.
Old hatreds wouldn't vanish in a day.
But under his watch, they would learn to fight beside each other… or break trying.