Shinjuku Underground – Abandoned District 9
It smelled of rust, rain, and rot.
The old tunnels, built when Tokyo first dreamed of expansion, had long been forgotten. Flooded. Lost.
But now, they pulsed.
Dark Reikon, tainted, twisted, breathed through the corridors like fog.
And at the center of it sat something that should not exist.
A Yōma. No, something worse.
It sat cross-legged on a ruined station bench, humming softly to itself. Its body stitched from dozens of different shapes, arms too long, teeth too many, eyes blinking out of sequence. In its chest, a Reikon core, corrupted and hybridized, something no natural Yōma could possess.
It smiled.
Wide. Human-like.
"Soon," it whispered, voice like wet gravel. "Soon I will split the Veil myself."
From the darkness, others stirred, lesser Yōma crawling toward the aberration like moths to a flame.
The Veil weakened here.
And something was trying to tear it open.
Meanwhile – Tenka Academy
Arata stood at the edge of the training field, watching his students limp back toward the dormitories.
Despite the bruises and wounded pride, their spirits were... sharper. Cleaner.
He felt a tug at his sleeve.
"Shinkai-sensei!"
It was Rika, breathless but determined.
"Will you really only ever use one hand when fighting?" she asked.
Arata turned, expression unreadable.
"Only if the enemy deserves a second hand," he said, voice dry.
The students laughed awkwardly, the tension easing for a heartbeat.
And then...
A pulse.
Faint. Distant.
Arata’s expression changed instantly.
His eyes narrowed, body tightening.
Dark Reikon surge. South. Shinjuku direction.
He turned toward the Headmaster, who had already emerged onto the porch.
"Permission to engage?" Arata asked simply.
The old woman’s gaze was grim.
"You already left, didn’t you?"
A ghost of a smile played on Arata’s lips.
"I’ll be back by dinner."
Shinjuku District 9 – 45 Minutes Later
The ruined station flickered under the broken lights.
Arata walked calmly down the flooded stairwell, coat swaying behind him.
His boots splashed quietly through the ankle-deep water.
The corrupted Reikon here scratched at his skin, cold and biting.
This wasn't a normal Yōma nest.
He reached the bottom step, and saw it.
The hybrid Yōma stood up from the bench.
Towering. Misshapen. Smiling wider now.
"Welcome, little teacher," it rasped. "Will you teach me too?"
Its Reikon flared black and red, distorting the air.
Without a word, Arata slipped his left hand deeper into his coat, leaving only his right hand free.
"One hand is enough," he said quietly.
The creature shrieked and lunged.
Arata didn’t dodge.
He walked forward.
The Yōma's claw, big enough to crush a man whole, swung down.
Arata caught it with two fingers.
The ground cratered under them, but he didn’t move an inch.
"You are not even worthy of one lesson."
He twisted his wrist.
The Yōma’s arm shattered at the joint with a sickening crunch.
Before the creature could scream, Arata blurred, moving past it, fingers slicing clean through the corrupted Reikon core in its chest.
The Yōma stumbled, blinking stupidly.
And then fell apart like wet paper.
Gone.
Arata stood alone in the mist, breathing steady.
But his eyes stayed sharp.
Because even as the hybrid’s corpse dissolved...
He felt others watching.
Something smarter.
Something patient.
The Veil… wasn’t just weakening by accident anymore.
Elsewhere – Unknown Location
"He dispatched the hybrid without drawing Kigyō," a voice murmured.
"As expected. Shinkai Arata... the Dreadbringer of the Last Age."
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"He is the key. The door cannot open unless he falls."
Cloaked figures gathered around a vast black mirror, its surface rippling with dark light.
The war for the Veil had already begun.
And the Hand That Strikes the Veil… would soon be tested.
Tenka Academy – Festival Grounds
The school courtyard had transformed overnight.
Banners of deep crimson and gold hung from ancient oaks. Lanterns floated in the air, bobbing with the breeze. Stalls lined the stone paths, each run by excited students, offering charms, fortune readings, and traditional sweets. The Festival of Threads, a centuries-old tradition celebrated the binding of the Veil and the unity between the Yōjin clans.
The air buzzed with excitement and high Reikon energy.
For many students, it was the first time they'd see each other outside of brutal training sessions.
For others, it was the last chance to pretend the world wasn't growing darker.
And standing casually near the main torii gate, sipping a new can of soda, was Shinkai Arata.
His messy, textured two-block hair ruffled in the breeze. His coat hung loose, formal yet relaxed. He watched the students with an unreadable expression, calm, polite...
But his other side?
Already plotting.
"Maybe I’ll swap all the charms with prank talismans," he mused under his breath.
As he watched Rika and Yamato arguing over a prize booth, he smiled faintly...
but then...
He felt it.
A flicker.
Wrong.
The thin silver threads of the Veil around the academy, normally shimmering and strong, wavered.
Just a hair.
His gaze sharpened immediately.
Something slipped inside.
Center Plaza – Festival Ceremony
The Headmaster stood before the gathered crowd, her cane tapping three times against the polished stone.
"On this day, we remember our founders. We honor the Veil, which protects both the Seen and Unseen Worlds."
The students bowed their heads respectfully.
All except one.
A student near the back, hood up, face hidden.
And then...
Chaos.
The student's body burst apart, not blood, but threads, thick, dark cords of cursed Reikon.
A monstrous Yōma hybrid formed instantly, dozens of grasping arms and stitched-together faces screeching in agony. It slammed into the crowd, scattering students and teachers alike.
"It’s inside the Academy!" someone screamed.
"Protect the Headmaster!" another roared.
The air fractured as protective barriers sprung up, but too slow.
The Yōma hybrid roared, blasting a corruption wave outward.
Students froze in terror.
But one man moved.
Arata.
He flicked his soda can away, it spun through the air, landing perfectly in a trash bin with a soft clink.
Then he rolled his shoulders once, casually.
Left hand slipped into his coat.
Right hand loose and easy.
He stepped forward.
Battlefield – Seconds Later
The hybrid lunged.
Arata moved between heartbeats.
He stepped low, right hand sweeping upward, and struck the hybrid’s nearest arm with his palm.
BOOM.
A shockwave blasted out, flattening the nearest stalls and sending petals flying like a storm.
The hybrid stumbled back, screeching.
But Arata didn’t give it space.
He sprinted forward while it reeled, his movements sharp and economical, each step slicing the distance.
His right hand blurred.
Palm>elbow>wrist>tap>strike.
Every hit targeted weak points, Reikon channels, nerve nexuses.
He wasn’t just fighting...
He was dismantling.
Above, the students watched in awe as Arata broke down a monster three times his size using only a single hand.
Even mid-battle, he was relaxed.
When the hybrid tried to release another corruption wave, Arata simply lifted a finger, and pierced its Reikon core directly with a sharp, invisible thread of his own energy.
The hybrid spasmed.
And collapsed.
Silence reigned for a breathless moment.
The only sound was the fluttering of a festival banner torn loose in the fight.
Arata dusted off his coat, straightened it, and turned to the shocked students.
"Lesson two," he said, smiling slightly.
"Never let your guard down. Even on a festival day."
Later – Tenka Academy Infirmary
Several students were being healed. Minor injuries. Shaken, but alive.
Arata leaned against a wall, arms crossed.
The Headmaster approached him.
"It knew where to strike," she said darkly.
Arata nodded once.
"This wasn’t random. It was testing us."
"It’s only the first hand moved on the board."
He glanced at the night sky, where thin strands of Reikon still floated uneasily.
"The Veil is fraying faster than we thought."
Elsewhere – Deep Veil
A figure, cloaked in living threads, watched through a pool of black Reikon.
"Interesting," it whispered.
"The Veilborn is strong... but strength alone cannot stop what is coming."
The figure raised a hand.
Behind it, dozens of hybrid Yōma twisted and grew.
The War of Threads had officially begun.
Tenka Academy – Midnight
Rain whispered against the rooftops.
The campus slept uneasily after the attack at the Festival.
Lanterns still burned low across the grounds, casting long, lonely shadows.
Arata walked the stone paths alone, hands tucked casually into his coat pockets.
His sharp gaze swept over every building, every corner.
After the hybrid’s infiltration, the entire barrier system had been fortified, woven with ancient rites and Reikon seals. Even so… he could feel it.
Tension.
Not just from fear.
From expectation.
"They’ll try again," he murmured to himself, voice low.
"But next time, they won't just send hybrids."
Security Room – Tenka Academy
The Headmaster and senior instructors gathered around a large projection of the Academy grounds.
Pulsing dots marked Reikon signatures, students, staff, barrier nodes.
A cluster of static distortions hovered near the old library ruins.
Suspicious.
The Headmaster tapped her cane once.
"Shinkai-sensei," she said formally. "Investigate immediately. Do not engage unless necessary."
Arata smiled slightly, that glint of mischief flickering behind his calm eyes.
"Understood. I shall behave."
(Lie.)
Old Library Ruins – 30 Minutes Later
The ruins were soaked in mist and moonlight.
Most of the old structure had collapsed decades ago, massive stones, broken pillars, a few surviving archways covered in ivy.
Arata stepped lightly over the debris, moving without a sound.
He could feel it already:
Reikon threads. Twisted. Tense.
Someone, or something had been weaving in secret.
He knelt near a fallen column, running a finger across the faint, hidden sigil burned into the stone.
"Thread Binding Formation," he muttered. "Crude, but effective."
This wasn’t just an attack.
This was preparation.
A binding technique designed to anchor something bigger inside the Academy grounds.
Suddenly...
A faint noise behind him.
He turned.
And caught the dagger aimed at his back with two fingers.
"Amateur," he sighed.
The attacker, a masked figure, cloaked in ritual garb tried to yank the weapon free, but Arata twisted his hand sharply.
Crack.
The figure crumpled, wrist broken.
Arata casually knocked him unconscious with a light tap to the neck.
But more footsteps echoed in the mist.
Seven. No, eight others.
All masked. All humming with corrupted Reikon.
They circled him silently, blades flashing.
"You misunderstand," Arata said, sounding almost bored. "I don't need two hands for this."
He smiled.
"I need half a hand."
Battle – Old Library Ruins
The masked assassins lunged as one, blades glinting silver.
Arata moved like flowing water.
A step to the left.
Two fingers flicked...
A mask shattered, Reikon scattering.
He ducked low, grabbed a loose stone, and threw it lazily.
It pierced straight through another attacker’s shoulder, pinning him to a crumbling pillar.
In mere seconds, half the group was incapacitated.
The rest hesitated, fear creeping into their Reikon signatures.
Arata cocked his head slightly, smile widening.
"If you’re going to ambush someone, at least bring snacks."
He blurred.
Palms. Knuckles. Elbows.
Every motion crisp, decisive, and devastating.
When the last masked figure fell, gasping and twitching, Arata straightened his coat and looked around thoughtfully.
Then he noticed it:
One of the fallen assassins wore a pendant.
A black shard, no bigger than a coin, inscribed with a single, ancient kanji:
裂 — Rend.
He pocketed it with a faint frown.
"‘Rend’... Not a Yōma word," he muttered. "This reeks of something older."
Something before the Yōjin Clans.
Before even the Academy.
A shadow deep within the Veil itself.
Meanwhile – Deep Within the Veil
In the endless mist between worlds, cloaked figures gathered in a vast chamber woven from living threads.
At the center, a massive mirror of black glass pulsed.
Through it, they watched Tenka Academy.
"The Dreadbringer moves faster than we expected," one whispered.
"Let him come," another hissed. "The deeper he steps into the Web, the tighter it will bind."
And beneath the mirror’s surface...
a massive, slumbering shape shifted.
Something old.
Something bound by Threads of Sacrifice.
Waiting to awaken.