A new life

Six years had passed since the day Mikimo's world collapsed. Six years of bloodshed, survival, and walking the razor's edge between life and death.

Now, he found himself in the streets of Yokohama, a place filled with criminals, lost souls, and those who had learned to adapt—or die trying. He strolled down the cracked pavement, his hood up, hands tucked into his worn-out coat. The air smelled of gasoline and rain, the neon lights above flickering in the damp night.

As he passed an alleyway, something caught his eye. Movement. Struggle.

He turned his head.

A woman—no, a teenage girl—was being pinned down by two older men. Their laughter echoed off the alley walls, sick and twisted. Her muffled screams clawed at Mikimo's ears.

For a moment, he simply watched. Not out of hesitation, but calculation.

Then, he stepped forward.

One of the men snapped his head toward him, eyes burning with aggression. "WHO THE F*** ARE YOU!?" he barked, straightening up, fists clenched.

Mikimo didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a rusty, metal dagger—old, chipped, yet sharp enough to do what needed to be done. He turned the blade in his hand, letting the dim light catch on its surface. Then, in a voice so quiet it sent shivers down the spine, he spoke.

"Now… who's up first?"

The man in front snarled, pulling out his own dagger. "You're a dead man." Without hesitation, he charged, swinging the blade with reckless fury.

Mikimo moved.

He ducked under the strike, swift and fluid. His dagger flashed—once, twice. The man's knees buckled as deep slashes tore through his kneecaps. He barely had time to scream before Mikimo's blade found his throat, slicing clean. Blood gushed out as he collapsed, choking on his own breath.

The second man froze. His bravado melted into pure terror. He staggered backward, shaking his head. Then, he turned and bolted down the alley, desperate to escape.

Mikimo didn't let him.

His eyes flicked to the side. A long, sturdy piece of string dangled from a broken section of the wall. He grabbed it in one swift motion, tied it to his dagger, and with pinpoint precision, hurled it forward.

The dagger whistled through the air, cutting through the darkness.

It struck.

The man gasped as the blade pierced the back of his neck, the impact sending him tumbling forward. His body twitched, then stilled. Blood pooled around his head, soaking into the pavement.

Mikimo stepped over the bodies without a second glance.

He turned toward the girl, who was now trembling, her back against the alley wall. Tears streaked her face. She looked young—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. From Nagayo, he guessed.

He gave her a single nod. "Stay safe."

She swallowed hard, bowed deeply despite her fear, and whispered, "T-thank you…" before sprinting away into the night.

Mikimo didn't watch her go. He simply walked forward, his mind already elsewhere.

He needed a place to stay.

After wandering for a while, he found a rundown hotel. The neon sign above buzzed faintly, some of the letters flickering, half-dead. The lobby smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol, the receptionist barely sparing him a glance as he booked a room.

That night, he lay on the stiff mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that—minutes, hours. Sleep barely came to him anymore. His mind always drifted back…to that day…to the blood…to the eyes of his sister, lifeless and cold.

Morning arrived in a dull gray haze.

Mikimo left the hotel and made his way to a weapon shop on the other side of town. The place was small but packed with an array of deadly tools—blades, firearms, even old-world relics. His eyes wandered over the collection until they landed on something unusual.

A dagger.

But not just any dagger.

Its design was sleek, sharp, almost mesmerizing. Strange Chinese characters were carved into the metal, glowing faintly under the store lights. Something about it felt…different.

Mikimo smirked.

In one smooth motion, he slipped the dagger from its display, tucked it into his coat, and walked out onto the sidewalk. The shopkeeper never even noticed.

He stopped outside, pulled the dagger out, and examined it closely. The weight was perfect in his hand. The blade, though slightly aged, was pristine.

A quiet satisfaction settled over him.

He smirked, then continued walking.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a warm, fading glow, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Maybe it was the past catching up to him.

Maybe it was the weight of everything he had lost.

Or maybe…just maybe…

It was the feeling that this was only the beginning.