[1] : You Call This an Onmyōji?

Nighttime in Sumida Ward, Tokyo.

Under a thick layer of dark clouds, the gleaming pinnacle of a 634-meter tower reaches into the sky—like a blazing sword about to slice open the heavens.

This is the very top of Tokyo Skytree. Fierce gusts howl through the high altitude, accompanied by the faint sound of someone tearing open hamburger packaging—

—and the muttering complaints of a teenage boy.

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"Ugh—Rias said the target would show up sometime between five and eight, but it's already after seven. Couldn't the intel be a bit more precise? We've been waiting here over two hours. I'm starving, so whatever… I'm eating first."

Taking a bite from the double cheeseburger he'd bought two hours ago at the shopping arcade below, the boy's dark eyes aren't focused on the bright Tokyo nightscape or its endless city lights.

Instead, his gaze is locked on a distant, abandoned harbor—shrouded in darkness.

He barely has time to savor the bite when his eyebrows twitch. It seems he's finally noticed something unusual in the far distance, and he lets out a small, annoyed click of his tongue.

"Speak of the devil—couldn't they have let me finish my meal first?"

With that, he steps forward, merging with the wind. His figure vanishes into the night like a dark ink wash.

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Meanwhile, at the abandoned harbor, layers of waves crash against the pier. The black surface of the water reflects the distant, glowing Skytree.

Bright headlights cut through the darkness. Four black sedans cruise in staggered formation along the harbor road, swinging onto the shoreline. Traveling at about forty miles per hour, they pull up to the dock and come to a stop.

All the doors open at once, and the car lights flare. Under that bright but gentle illumination, sixteen men in sunglasses and suits—looking very much like bodyguards—step out in unison.

It has all the hallmarks of some shady underworld deal.

"Finally, you're here. Took you long enough…"

The rough-sounding voice that rings out doesn't come from any of the sixteen men.

It doesn't even come from the shore—but from the water.

By the glow of those four sedans' headlights, one can just make out a small, powered-off speedboat floating quietly near the dock.

Inside, a burly man—easily over six-and-a-half feet tall, with a wild beard and corded muscles—lounges on his back, legs crossed, arms folded behind his head. A locked briefcase beneath him serves as a makeshift pillow.

He only opens his eyes when he hears the footsteps of the men disembarking. A pair of almond-shaped, emerald-green irises gleam in the light.

He wastes no words. The Wolf-eyed man flips upright in one fluid motion, grabs the briefcase, and steps ashore to face the group of suited bodyguards. He sets the briefcase down at their feet.

The dull thud of metal against concrete makes the nearby bodyguards instinctively flinch half a step back.

"This is what you wanted. I brought it—where's my payment?"

"H-Here it is…"

After a brief silence, one of the suited men summons the courage to step forward. He sets his own briefcase on the car's hood and pushes it toward the Wolf-eyed man.

"Mm."

The Wolf-eyed man doesn't say much. He lifts the lid, and emerald-green eyes scan the stacks of ten-thousand-yen bills neatly arranged inside. Satisfied there are no decoys, he closes it again.

Then he slides the briefcase he brought onto the hood in exchange.

"All right, that settles our deal—"

"Ciao~ You came all this way, and you're leaving already?"

Before the Wolf-eyed man can finish, a slight sound of footsteps comes from behind the bodyguards—somewhere between the dockside warehouses. Along with it, a young voice calls out, muffled by food, tinged with a Kyoto accent.

"Who's there?!"

"Identify yourself!"

As though struck by sudden thunder, all sixteen men—who mere moments ago had been fixated on the Wolf-eyed man—spin around, guns already drawn. Flashlights mounted beneath each barrel flare to life like stage spotlights, illuminating the newcomer.

The voice belongs to a boy of about seventeen or eighteen. He's tall but not lanky, dressed casually, as if he just finished a workout. He's still holding half a burger, and his cheeks are puffed slightly with un-swallowed food.

"Bokue Keikain—current acting Onmyōji of the Kyoto-based Keikain Clan. Dedicated to serving high-net-worth clients, undertaking all manner of exorcism and purification work. My personal phone number is 185… Ah, sorry, force of habit. Ignore the rest."

He rattles off his "Ad pitch" as though he's reciting from a script, with all the enthusiasm of someone forced into it. Then he takes another bite of his burger, raises the remaining half—still partly wrapped in paper—and waves it nonchalantly.

"All right, back to business. Any actual 'Human' here can leave, but you'll be leaving the goods behind. And you—yes, you over there with those Wolf eyes, you Stray Devil—you're coming with me. Oh, and bring along both of those briefcases, too. I'm in the middle of dinner and don't have free hands. If you cooperate, Rias might consider sending you back to the Underworld more gently. Next time you want to come up to the human world, please register properly at the Demon District first—thank you."

He sounds utterly arrogant. With just a few words, the two briefcases apparently belong to him now.

Of course, real life isn't some over-the-top power fantasy where everyone bows to an intimidating main character. If these men were so easily cowed, they wouldn't be criminals.

"Stray Devil?"

One of the bodyguards frowns.

"Mhm." Bokue Keikain shrugs, eyes flicking past them toward the Wolf-eyed man—who stands out like a high school athlete among a crowd of grade-schoolers.

"Come on, you don't honestly think those eyes belong to a normal human…? Let's make this quick and painless, okay? Otherwise—"

"..."

"..."

It's not a negotiation—it's a threat.

And that's more than these bodyguards can tolerate. They know how brutal their employer is.

If they fail to deliver the goods intact, there's only one fate that awaits them:

Death.

Silence tightens like a vise. The atmosphere crackles with tension.

"BAKA—! (Idiot)"

Without warning, one of the bodyguards snaps an insult in Japanese and pulls the trigger.

As if on cue, all sixteen bodyguards open fire simultaneously.

They're just using semi-automatic handguns, but sixteen of them firing at once creates a barrage rivaling a submachine gun in a short burst.

"Tch—time for some overtime," the boy mutters under his breath, ignoring the hail of bullets raging toward him.

He sighs faintly—then stuffs the remaining burger into his mouth.

In the next instant, Golden Spiritual Power flares up around him like a tangible blaze.

There's no explosive flash. The burger wrapper in his hand incinerates to ash in the blink of an eye.

At the same time, the bullets reach him—

—and vanish.

To be exact, they melt.

A high-speed camera would show each bullet liquefying the moment it nears Bokue Keikain, turning into molten iron. Then, in the next breath, that molten iron vaporizes into the air.

The boy walks forward step by step, spiritual pressure surging ever higher around him.

Logically, temperatures like that would scorch everything in sight. Yet the asphalt under his feet remains perfectly intact—no sign of melting or even softening.

The Wolf-eyed man grimaces, sweat trickling down his forehead.

This level of power… from an Onmyōji? Is that even possible?

He knows he can't win in a direct fight. As a Stray Devil, he's never been in the upper echelons of the Underworld. He fled here precisely because his demonic constitution gives him an overwhelming advantage over ordinary humans—making shady business a breeze.

Killing, robbery, you name it…

But surrender? Absolutely not. If the Devils send him back to the Underworld, he'll be stuck under the thumb of some other demon lord, eking out a life of servitude.

He can't accept that.

He can't win, doesn't want to submit—so there's only one choice left:

'RUN.'

As a Wolf-type devil, he's confident in his speed.

Buzz… buzz…

Just as the Wolf-eyed man has that thought, the boy's phone suddenly vibrates.

"Huh?"

Bokue raises an eyebrow, perplexed.

He figures it can't be Rias or Akeno-senpai texting—those two are staking out elsewhere. But they wouldn't message now if they know he's already pinned down the target.

Unless…

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens the message. Sure enough, it's from someone else entirely.

[Onee-chan's been home for ages, nyan. Where are you, Hana? Aren't you coming back? (cat emoji)]

Emmmm…

His lifted brow relaxes, and he taps the mic for speech-to-text. He lifts the phone to his mouth, about to record a reply.

"Yeah, I'm still out—I'll be back soon, maybe fifteen minutes. Also, please don't touch that big delivery box in the living room; it's a new TV, and you already broke the last one—"

Now's my chance!

Seizing the split second while Bokue's attention is on his phone, the Wolf-eyed man's eyes blaze with renewed determination.

"Move!"

Abandoning all civility, he shoves aside the nearest bodyguard. No longer hiding his Demonic nature, his face contorts—his nose extending forward, jaw retracting as his entire head morphs into a colossal Wolf muzzle.

His body swells with muscle, ripping his clothes apart. Coarse black fur erupts across his skin, while razor-sharp claws burst from his fingertips and toes.

In under half a second, the hulking man is gone—replaced by a four-meter-tall werewolf. A savage curve of talons hooks the handle of the briefcase as he slams one foot onto the hood of the sedan.

The roof crumples instantly beneath the crushing weight. Meanwhile, every muscle in his legs bulges as if about to tear through the skin.

He's gathered enough power that even a single leap should let him clear the rooftops—and once he's sprinting, he's confident no mere human, no matter how much spiritual power he wields, can easily catch him…

…or so he thinks—until his train of thought is severed by a single finger.

A fiery, Golden Spiritual glow engulfs that outstretched fingertip as it presses squarely against the werewolf's brow. The moment it touches, an overwhelming force slams down on him like a mountain, freezing him in place.

He can't move a muscle.

Is this kid… even Human?!

Above him, the boy's casual voice drifts down.

"Hey, mutt—what exactly do you think you're doing?"

His words barely fall before a flood of Golden Spiritual Power, thousands of times stronger than before, erupts at the dock. It shoots skyward, coalescing into a gigantic lotus of golden energy—towering like a mountain—then crashes down on the deserted harbor—

Illuminating All Rivers!

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