Chapter No.2 Out And About

Golden rays of the sun filtered through the dusty blinds, casting striped shadows across the wooden floor. Morning in Yokohama had a different rhythm—slow, purposeful, like the city stretched before it moved. Somewhere outside, a bicycle bell chimed. A dog barked once. The world stirred.

Sukehiro Yami lay on the futon, one arm draped over his eyes. The events of last night played on loop behind his lids—neon-soaked fists, old jazz, Souta's quiet grief.

How, by simply answering the supposed sponsor's strange questions, he landed here.

From Kaito to 'this' Yami.

But his train of thought derailed when, from the corner of his eye, he got a glimpse of a sealed envelope sitting upon his desk—pristine, white, and unmistakably new. It hadn't been there the night before.

Yami sat up slowly, the futon creaking beneath his weight. His bare feet hit the cool wood floor as he crossed the room. He picked up the envelope, its weight oddly heavy for something so thin. There was no name, no logo, no stamp. Just one word printed in clean, black ink:

"Congratulations."

Yami narrowed his eyes.

He broke the seal.

Inside was a neatly folded letter, thick ivory parchment that felt expensive. The words were typed, not handwritten:

—

To Sukehiro Yami,

We are pleased to see that you've made it to your destination in one piece. Consider this the formal acknowledgement of your acceptance. You've chosen the Dragon. Now let's see if the Dragon can survive the den.

As part of your initiation, we have gifted you certain enhancements—tools, if you will—to better your chances.

Included in this package:

1. Physique Upgrade – Tier: Legendary.You will find yourself stronger, faster, and more resilient than any man alive. Muscle memory has been preloaded. Movements you have never practised will come naturally—because you already know them.

2. Combat Mastery – Urban Environment, Eastern Styles, Improvised Weaponry.You can now read body language, anticipate strikes, and weaponise anything in reach. Bat? Knife? Mop? All lethal in your hands.

3. Instinctual Reaction SystemA split-second system override when danger is imminent. You won't have time to think. You won't need to.

4. Language Module – Japanese, Chinese (Cantonese, Mandarin), Korean.You are now fluent, culturally adaptive, and capable of code-switching as needed.

5. Starting Funds: ¥1,000,000 (Cash, unmarked)You'll find the briefcase beneath the floorboards. Don't ask how. Just check.

Final Note:This is not a game. There is no save point. The world is real, and consequences ripple. You are not immortal. You are not invincible. But for the first time—you are free.

Welcome to Yokohama, Dragon. Make your mark.

—Your Sponsor

—

Yami lowered the letter slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching in disbelief.

He stood and looked around the room again, this time with sharper eyes. His gaze fell to a faint outline on the floorboards near the desk.

He knelt.

Lifted.

Click.

Sure enough—a sleek black briefcase rested in a hidden nook below the wood. He popped it open.

A card—ID card on the neat stacks of ¥10,000 bills, crisp and tightly packed. He let out a slow whistle.

Yami lifted the ID card.

It's his Japanese proof of residency—everything official, from a government-issued ID number to a photo that matched his current face. The name on it read:

Sukehiro Yami.

Age: 20

Registered Address: Yokohama, Kanagawa Prefecture

Occupation: Self-Employed

Even the hologram shimmered correctly under the light. It wasn't just realistic—it was real.

"…What the hell are you?" he muttered, not to the card, but to whoever—whatsoever—was behind this.

Yami stood and crossed the room again, the letter still in hand. He dropped onto the futon and exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Legendary physique. Mastery of combat. Languages. Money.

He was a goddamn cheat code in the shape of a man. Whoever this sponsor was, they hadn't just dropped him into 1988—they'd prepared him. Like a weapon loaded into history.

He leaned back, the paper crinkling in his hand.

The morning air drifted through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of soy and smoke from early ramen stalls. Somewhere down the street, the sound of someone practising shamisen clashed beautifully with a distant radio playing Tatsuro Yamashita.

Yami's mind wasn't on the music. It was on the words burned into his thoughts.

"You are not immortal. You are not invincible. But for the first time—you are free."

That last line hit harder than all the others.

Because it was true.

No more orphanage curfews. No more grumbling stomachs. No more desperate, dead-end uploads at 3 a.m. to appease an algorithm that never cared. No more drifting.

He was free.

But freedom, he knew, always came with a price tag.

A knock on the door broke the stillness.

Three raps. Calm. Measured.

He slid the letter beneath his pillow, snapped the floorboard shut over the briefcase, and stood. No hesitation. His body moved like it knew what to do. A grace that hadn't been there yesterday.

He opened the door.

Souta stood there, arms crossed, holding a steaming mug.

"You slept like a corpse," the old man said, handing it to him. "Coffee. Strong enough to make a priest sin."

Yami accepted the mug with a small nod. "Thanks."

Souta gave him a look—curious, but not prying. "You get settled in alright?"

"As much as I could."

A pause. Then Souta grunted. "You look… I dunno. Different."

Yami raised an eyebrow behind his shades. "Different how?"

"Sharper," Souta said, squinting. "Like you finally stopped second-guessing yourself. Most folks never do."

Yami didn't answer. He just sipped the coffee. Bitter, scalding, perfect.

"Got plans today?" Souta asked, his tone casual.

"I was thinking of getting a lay of the land."

"Well," Souta said, "A good place to start would be Hamakita Park. You'll see everyone from street rats to old war dogs getting morning reps in. After that, Mirai Batting Centre. Folks there always have their ears to the ground."

Yami nodded slowly. "Anyone I should avoid?"

Souta snorted. "Everyone."

Then he stepped back, letting the morning spill into the room.

"Oh—and Yami," he added, turning halfway down the stairs. "Try not to punch anyone important. Word travels fast here."

Yami smirked. "No promises."

"Well, what can I say…" Souta said with a dry chuckle. "At least you've got the smile of someone who's about to get into trouble."

He disappeared down the steps, his voice trailing off behind the sound of the record player switching tracks. A mellow groove followed him, something old and smooth that made the walls of Club Silver Lotus breathe in rhythm.

Yami closed the door and finished his coffee in one long pull. He set the mug on the desk, ran his fingers through his silver hair, and took a long look in the cracked mirror above the sink.

No sleep lines. No grogginess. No tension in his jaw or sluggishness in his limbs.

The body reflected in the glass wasn't built for survival.

It was built for war.

And it wore the face of a man who had nothing left to lose.

Yami dressed with quiet efficiency—crimson button-up shirt, the same one from last night, now hanging crisply off his frame. Slacks, belt, watch. His fingers paused only once—over the sunglasses resting on the desk.

He stared at them.

Then slid them on.

***

Hamakita Park was already alive when he arrived.

Kids chased each other near the fountain, their laughter echoing over the cracked stone paths. A group of high schoolers practised their batting form with makeshift sticks while a small crowd of men in tracksuits did tai chi under the trees. Pigeons gathered like gossiping old ladies around the breadcrumbs near the benches.

Yami took it all in with quiet attention.

This wasn't some slick urban jungle—it was the heartbeat of Yokohama's early hours. Rough, honest, and full of eyes. People noticed him, of course. Hard not to when you look like a fashion magazine had a brawl with a dojo.

Two old men paused mid-stretch, giving him a side glance. A kid with a shaved head whispered something to his friend, who immediately started mimicking Yami's slow walk like it was a performance. He just ignored it.

Until—

"You from Tokyo or something?" a voice called out.

Yami turned slightly. A guy in his thirties, lean, tan, in a tank top with a towel around his neck, was looking at him from the chin-up bar. His accent was local. His tone? Half curious, half cautious.

"Not really," Yami said, voice even.

"You've got that look," the guy said, hopping down. "You've got that look, y'know? Like the sidewalk's lucky you're walking on it."

Yami shrugged. "Just walking."

The man eyed him for another second, then grinned. "Alright. Walk all you want. Just don't swing fists unless someone swings first. Park rule."

"Noted."

The guy jogged off without another word.

Yami took a slow breath. Every corner of this city had its own code. Even a place like this.

He moved on.

***

The Mirai Batting Centre was a few blocks northeast—its paint faded, its neon flickering above the entrance like a tired promise. The inside smelled like metal, sweat, and old gum stuck under the benches. Sounds of mechanical whirs, balls slamming into nets, and occasional grunts filled the place.

Yami stepped in and stood near the coin machine.

A woman behind the counter, mid-40s, tired eyes but good posture, looked up from a tabloid. "You new?"

"Yeah."

"Don't loiter. Buy a token or swing."

He bought a token.

Stepping into one of the cages, he stared down the pitching machine. His hands moved on instinct. No warm-up. No fear.

He stepped forward—

Crack.

First pitch. Direct hit.

The woman looked up from her magazine.

Yami kept going. Twelve balls. Twelve hits. No miss.

When he stepped out, the woman had her mouth parted as if

she had something to say, but couldn't quite find the words.

Instead, she just nodded slowly. "You played before?"

Yami shook his head. "Not really."

She blinked. "Then either you're lucky, or you've got some scary muscle memory."

He gave a small smirk. "Maybe both."

The woman leaned forward, "You looking for work?"

Yami pocketed the token receipt, expression unreadable. "Depends. What kind of work?"

She snorted. "Not that kind. I don't run errands for the underworld."

"Didn't think you did," he said, then added with a hint of curiosity, "But you've been asked before?"

The woman leaned her elbows on the counter, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Every other week, some punk walks in thinking this place's a front for something. Y'know what it really is?"

"What?"

"A batting centre. That's it. No drugs, no deals, no syndicate meetings in the back room. Just tired arms and broken machines." She straightened up, brushing a hand through her hair. "But... sometimes the right swing brings in the right kind of people."

Yami gave a slight nod, then glanced around. "So what—you vet people by how they hit?"

"I watch how they move," she said plainly. "The good ones don't waste energy. They hit like it means something."

Yami paused. "And what'd you see in me?"

She shrugged. "Power. Control. And someone who doesn't know if he's here for answers or a fight."

That earned the smallest of smirks. "What if it's both?"

"Then you're in the right city," she said, tossing him a card across the counter. "Guy named Shibata runs deliveries near Jinnai Station. Real work—nothing shady. Pays cash, no questions."

Yami caught the card. It was simple. Just a name and a number.

"Tell him Reina sent you," she added. "He likes people who don't waste breath."

Yami glanced down at the card, then back at her. "Thanks."

She waved him off, already reaching for her magazine. "Don't thank me yet. Shibata chews through rookies like sunflower seeds. You either keep up, or you're gone by sundown."

"Good," Yami said, already turning. "I don't do slow."

As he walked toward the exit, Reina called after him, "Hey."

He paused.

"Next time you swing like that, bring a damn glove. You're gonna wreck your hands."

Yami looked at his knuckles—already red and tight from the bat's grip. He flexed them once.

"Yeah," he said, flexing his hand. "Noted."

The city greeted him with warm asphalt and sharp glints of sun off rooftops. He tucked the card in his pocket.