The streets of Tokyo were no longer the solid, dependable veins of a metropolis; they were a patchwork of reality and bleeding static. To a normal salaryman rushing home, the Shibuya Crossing was just a busy intersection. But to my eyes—eyes that had stared into the heart of the System Core—it was a mess of "bad code" struggling to hold its shape.
Every few minutes, a neon advertisement for a luxury watch would flicker, displaying a string of green binary or a distorted scream instead of a price tag. A pedestrian would walk past, and for a split second, their shadow would lag behind, three seconds late to follow the movement of their feet. The sky didn't turn blue or grey; it stayed a permanent, bruised shade of slate, humming with a low-frequency buzz that made my teeth ache.
"We can't stay in hotels, and we certainly can't go back to our apartments," Maki said, her voice low. She had her collar turned up to hide the sharp line of her jaw, her eyes scanning the rooftops for the glint of a lens. "The Jujutsu High elders have already flagged our credit cards, our IDs, and even our school records. They're tracking the 'cursed signatures' of anyone over Grade 1. To the world, we don't exist. To the sorcerers, we're targets."
"Then we go where the cameras can't see," I said, stopping in front of an old, rusted subway entrance that had been boarded up since the late 1990s. The wood was rotten, smelling of damp earth and neglect. "Megumi, can you feel that? The air feels... hollow here."
Megumi stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the gaps in the boards into the absolute darkness below. "It's a 'Null Zone.' The residual energy from the System crash folded the space here during the reboot. It's a pocket dimension—a glitch in the city's geographical map that the Architect forgot to delete."
We tore away the boards with a communal effort, the wood splintering like bone, and descended into the damp, bone-chilling dark of the underground.
The Underground Agency
The station was frozen in a moment that never quite happened. Old movie posters for films with gibberish titles lined the tiles, the ink still wet and swirling. But as we reached the bottom of the escalator, the air began to hum with a familiar, deep vibration. The tracks didn't lead to a dark tunnel; they led into a swirling mist of violet and grey light that looked like the surface of a stormy sea.
This was the Ghost Station. Because of my deep, lingering connection to the Void, the station seemed to recognize me. It responded to my presence like a loyal dog. The old, flickering fluorescent lights overhead suddenly turned a soft, steady purple. The rusted, jammed turnstiles clicked open without a single coin being inserted.
"It's not much, and it's probably haunted by half-deleted data, but it's hidden," I said, my voice echoing across the wide, empty platform. "The elders' tracking spells are based on traditional logic. They won't work here. The Void energy acts as a natural dampener—it masks our souls."
"I'll take the staff room," Nobara said, already hauling her gear into a corner. "I need a place to store my hammers and a mirror that doesn't glitch out and show me a different face every five minutes."
Toge nodded, pointing to the old broadcasting booth perched above the platform. It was soundproof and fortified with old lead lining—perfect for a man whose single word could accidentally level a city block.
The First Contract
We had barely dropped our bags when a sound echoed through the vaulted station that made our blood turn to ice. It wasn't the roar of a monster or the heavy boots of an execution squad. It was the shrill, persistent ringing of an old-fashioned, chrome payphone at the far end of the platform.
We all froze. Every hand went to a weapon. Nobody—not even Gojo—should have known we were here.
I walked over to the phone box, the glass cracked in the shape of a spiderweb. The small digital screen on the phone was flickering wildly, showing a series of shifting katakana symbols that eventually settled into a clear, chilling English phrase: [INCOMING MESSAGE: THE PATCH].
I picked up the receiver. There was no voice at first, only the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing and the frantic click-clack-ping of an old manual typewriter.
"The Architect is gone, but his 'Errors' are hungry, Void-Walker," a distorted, modulated voice finally whispered. It sounded like a man speaking through a fan. "In the ruins of the Shibuya 109 building, a Level 99 Error has manifested. It is a logic bomb. It is eating the memories of everyone within a three-block radius. If you don't delete it within the hour, ten thousand people will wake up tomorrow with no names, no families, and no souls. They will be empty shells for the next virus to inhabit."
"Who are you? How did you find this frequency?" I asked, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the plastic phone.
"I am the one who cleans the data after the crash," the voice replied, slipping into a digital hiss. "The elders want you dead because they fear change. I want the world to stay online because I have nowhere else to go. There is no reward, Ren. No levels. No gold. Only the work. Do you accept?"
The line went dead with a sharp click. A small, thermal slip of paper printed out from the coin return slot. It was a map of Shibuya, but with a red, pulsing "X" blinking over the iconic 109 Building.
The Shibuya Error
"A Level 99?" Megumi asked, reading the thermal paper over my shoulder. His face was grim. "Ren, we don't have the System to tell us its weaknesses anymore. No elemental charts, no weakness scanners. We don't even know if our physical attacks can land on something that high-level without the HUD to bridge the gap."
"We have to try," I said, feeling the Void pulse in the center of my chest. It felt different now—less like a tool I was wielding and more like a second heart. "If we're going to be rogues, we might as well start by hunting the biggest nightmare in the city."
We left the Ghost Station, surfacing into the heart of a nightmare. The air in Shibuya was cold—an unnatural, sterile chill that felt like a refrigerator. As we approached the crossing, the bustling city became a tomb. Thousands of people—shoppers, tourists, office workers—were standing perfectly still. Their eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, their faces blank as if they had forgotten how to feel.
Above them, perched atop the curved roof of the 109 Building like a gargoyle of the future, was a massive, flickering shape. It looked like a giant, many-armed clock made of translucent bone, but instead of numbers, its face was a swirling, screaming vortex of human faces. Its hands were made of thick, silver threads—the same threads the Puppet Master had used, but these were pulsing with a sickening, rhythmic red light.
[ERROR DETECTED: THE CHRONOS-VIRUS]
[LEVEL: 99]
[ABILITY: MASS MEMORY DELETION / REALITY OVERWRITE]
"Maki, Yuta, take the ground level! Protect the civilians—if those threads touch them again, their personalities are gone for good!" I shouted, the violet light beginning to swirl around my fists, crackling with a weight that distorted the air. "Nobara, Toge, get to the rooftops! We need to cut the main feed coming off the antenna before the whole district is erased!"
As I looked up at the massive, glitching monster, a strange calm washed over me. I didn't need a level-up notification to tell me I was ready. I didn't need a quest reward to motivate me. I was the Glitch in their perfect system. And I was about to show this virus why the Architect failed to delete me.