Morning rises over Okayama with a slow, deliberate gentleness—like a curtain being pulled open by invisible hands. The sky glows in a muted blend of lavender and gold as the first rays crawl over the rooftops and slip into the windows of the Hisashi home. Inside, warmth blooms from the kitchen, where steam rises from bowls of miso soup and soft aromas of simmered vegetables mingle with the faint scent of tatami mats warmed by the sun.
Renjiro Hisashi sits at the dining table with the rigid composure of a man who has lived half his life on the battlefield. His posture is perfectly straight, shoulders squared, elbows kept neat at his sides. He lifts his chopsticks with steady precision—movements drilled into him from the days when even the smallest shift of weight could give away a hiding place or alert an enemy. Those habits never truly leave a shinobi, even after fifteen long years.
Socha moves around the kitchen with quiet grace, setting out small plates of grilled fish and rolled omelets. Her expression is soft, but her eyes flicker with alertness—an instinct sharpened by decades of living beside a shinobi, of surviving the collapse of the clans, of raising a son whose blood burns with inherited potential.
And then there is Gaku—seventeen, restless, hungry for strength, and right now trying desperately to appear like a normal teenager who slept peacefully through the night. He sits down with an innocent yawn (too forced), scratches the back of his neck (too often), and tries to meet his father’s eyes with the ease of someone who absolutely did not break into a museum six hours ago.
The television in the corner of the room fills the quiet with a crisp, professional voice.
“Breaking news this morning: another invaluable Feudal Era painting has been reported stolen from the Okayama Historical Museum. This marks the sixth incident in six months. As with all previous cases, authorities report no signs of forced entry. Each stolen artifact was returned within forty-eight hours, untouched and undamaged. Investigators are baffled by the motive and identity of the perpetrator…”
Gaku’s chopsticks freeze.
A faint tremble runs through his fingers before he forces them still.
Renjiro slowly looks up from his meal. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing the way they once did when he sensed an enemy hiding behind a tree or crouching beneath the fog. “This isn’t some petty theft,” he says, voice low, calm, but carrying the weight of someone who instantly recognizes expertise. “This is someone with precision. Someone who understands timing, shadows… silence.”
Socha sets down her teacup more firmly than usual. “Or someone who has forgotten their place,” she mutters. “If this really is a shinobi, then they are being foolish. Careless.” She shakes her head, frustration building in her voice. “We’ve spent years—years—trying to bury the remnants of the old world. Whoever is doing this could expose every surviving shinobi in Japan. One mistake is enough to bring the wrong attention.”
Gaku swallows, though the rice feels like stone in his throat.
He keeps his eyes down, pretending to study the pattern of the wooden table.
Her words sting, not because she is wrong—
but because she is right.
Socha continues, “This isn’t bravery. It’s not honor. It’s arrogance. Whoever it is… clearly doesn’t understand the consequences.”
Gaku tries to breathe quietly, but guilt and shame twist together in his chest.
Still, another stubborn feeling burns beneath it.
You don’t understand… we’re not doing this for arrogance.
Renjiro leans back slightly, watching his son with the kind of gaze that sees past the surface. The Ghost Wolf’s eyes carry years of instinct—trained to read micro-expressions, subtle breaths, tremors beneath skin.
“Gaku,” he says at last, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, “do you know anything about last night’s theft?”
The question crashes into him like cold water.
Gaku lifts his head slowly. His expression is calm—far calmer than he feels. “No,” he says, steadying his voice with practiced ease. “Not at all. I went to bed early.”
Silence follows, stretching thin like wire pulled taut.
Renjiro does not speak. He simply watches, studying the blink patterns, the breathing rhythm, the tilt of his son’s shoulders. Searching for cracks. For truth. For guilt.
After several long seconds, he returns to his meal—but Gaku knows the suspicion hasn’t left. Not even slightly.
Socha rubs her arms, trying to dispel the tension. “Whatever the thief’s intention is,” she murmurs, “they’re playing with fire.”
Gaku’s stomach twists again. He presses his lips together and keeps eating.
He cannot reveal anything.
Not this time.
Not yet.
But a small spark of defiance lingers in his chest.
If the adults refuse to see what’s coming… then it’s up to us to prepare.
Across Okayama city, the atmosphere in the Kimura household is just as heavy.
Wataru Kimura adjusts the collar of his shirt, hair still slightly damp from the shower, as he reviews printed reports and spreadsheets spread across the dining table. Haru stands beside him, tall and composed, scrolling through a data set on his tablet while quietly explaining the day’s workflow. He speaks with a calm intelligence that belies his age—an inheritance from both his father’s analytical mind and the discipline of shinobi blood.
The news report continues behind them:
“…security systems recorded abnormal light interference shortly before the blackout. Cameras detected no visible intruders, and guards failed to locate signs of tampering. Authorities believe the culprit possesses extraordinary technical skill—or non-conventional capabilities…”
Haru closes his eyes for a brief moment. He does not need to think long.
He knows exactly who did it.
He knows the timing.
He knows the pattern.
He knows the idiotic sense of ‘honor’ behind it.
He almost wants to slam his head against the nearest wall.
Wataru sighs heavily. “Who steals expensive artifacts just to return them untouched?” he mutters. “It’s not criminal behavior. It’s… pathological.”
Haru mutters, “Or brilliant. Brilliant and unbelievably stupid.”
Wataru glances at him. “What was that?”
Haru straightens his posture. “Just talking to myself, Dad.”
But inside, he groans loudly.
Gaku… you absolute moron. And Hatsuko letting herself be dragged into this? You two are going to get us all killed.
He rubs his forehead.
And the worst part?
He knows they won’t stop.
Not until something terrible happens.
Not until the truth breaks open.
Not until the shadows of the shinobi world stir again.
The school morning unfolds under a sky washed pale by the late-rising sun, warm light spilling across the courtyard as students hurry through the front gate. Laughter, chatter, and footsteps merge into a lively hum that vibrates through the hallways. But Hatsuko Hatabe moves through the noise as though separated by a thin veil, her pace faster than usual, her breath caught somewhere between fatigue and adrenaline. She slips out of her shoes and into her indoor slippers with quick, practiced motions—motions she would normally perform with calm grace, but today her nerves are a beat off, her balance subtly shaken.
The bell rings.
The sound cuts clean through the school corridors, sharp and heavy, announcing the beginning of first period. Hatsuko winces internally; she has never been late a single day in her school life. She prides herself on punctuality, on discipline, on composure. But with barely five hours of sleep after darting across museum rooftops, disabling patrolling guards, and fleeing with an antique scroll pressed against her chest, her body simply collapsed into sleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
She pushes open the classroom door.
Yumiko Hisama looks up immediately, surprise flashing across her expression. Her friend’s eyes widen even more when she realizes just how close Hatsuko is to being marked late.
“Hatsuko,” she whispers sharply as the door clicks shut behind her. “You’re late. Late. You’re never late.”
Hatsuko forces a breathless, apologetic smile as she takes her seat beside her. “Sorry. I stayed up studying.”
Yumiko blinks, confused. “Studying? But you’re already—” she lowers her voice, leaning closer, “—basically a genius. Why would you study that long? You always understand things faster than anyone.”
Hatsuko gives a soft laugh, carefully maintaining her mask. “Being good at something doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. I don’t want to get lazy.”
But Yumiko continues to frown as the teacher begins the lesson. She watches Hatsuko from the corner of her eye, trying to make sense of her friend’s strange behavior. Meanwhile, Hatsuko keeps her eyes trained forward, though her mind drifts to last night—the flicker of the museum lights, the thrill of landing silently beside Gaku on the cold tiles, the exhilarating rush of moving through shadows like a whisper. Her muscles still hum with residual tension, her heartbeat fluttering from the remnants of that adrenaline.
By midday, exhaustion morphs into hunger as the lunch bell rings, sending a wave of students spilling into the cafeteria. Hatsuko moves with Yumiko toward their usual table where Kikuro, Daisuke, Mai, Aoi, and Rikumo are already unpacking their meals. The cafeteria buzzes with energy—students calling across tables, trays clattering, chairs scraping across the floor—but Hatsuko feels strangely detached, as though her mind sits a few steps behind her body.
“So,” Aoi says suddenly as everyone settles in, her voice eager and bright. “Did you all hear about the museum? Another artifact vanished last night!”
Every head at the table lifts. Conversations around them dim slightly as other groups begin murmuring about the same topic.
“Sixth one this year,” Daisuke mutters. “Six. And not a single clue left behind.”
“It’s so weird,” Mai adds, stirring her soup absentmindedly. “Who steals something that valuable just to put it back? It’s like the thief isn’t even trying to sell it. It’s like… like they just want to show they can.”
Rikumo leans in closer. “I’m telling you—there’s no way that’s a normal thief. No broken glass, no alarms, no nothing. It’s like they phase through walls.”
Yumiko laughs lightly, though there’s a trace of nervousness in it. “Phasing through walls? Come on, Rikumo, what are they—a ghost?”
“No,” Rikumo replies firmly. “Something else. Something weird.”
Hatsuko lifts her chopsticks with steady hands, but her heart gives a small, stinging kick at the idea that they’re talking about her. About what she and Gaku did last night. She keeps her expression soft, her smile gentle, but inside a coil of panic slowly tightens.
If they only knew.
If any of them guessed.
Even Yumiko—her closest friend—has no idea that the thief sits right beside her eating rice with feigned innocence. Hatsuko presses her lips together and nods at the conversation when appropriate, pretending to be surprised, curious, concerned. But her chest tightens at every assumption they make.
She wonders if she should feel proud of how invisible she is.
Or terrified.
Across the cafeteria, at a table packed with seniors from Class 12-B, the conversation carries a far sharper tone.
Gaku Hisashi sits among Haru Kimura, Hakuma, Sizumi, Haturo, Takeda, and Hamura—his posture relaxed on the outside, but every instinct inside him alert, listening, calculating how much they know. Haru sits beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes far too perceptive for Gaku’s comfort.
Hakuma slams his palm lightly against the table. “It has to be a shinobi,” he insists. “Who else could pull this off? The museum keeps upgrading their security, and the thief breaks in every time. Clean. Quick. No fingerprints. No footprints. This is training-level precision.”
Sizumi nods. “Yeah. And don’t forget—the artifacts are from the Feudal Age, right? Old shinobi eras. There’s symbolism in that. Maybe the thief is leaving a message.”
Haturo leans back with a grin. “Or maybe he’s just showing off. Either way, a normal thief couldn’t bypass those cameras.”
Gaku forces a scoff. He leans forward, arms crossed casually. “A shinobi? You guys are reaching. Shinobi haven’t existed in fifteen years. After the Blood Shadows hit, the clans scattered. No one’s practicing anymore.”
Takeda shrugs. “Still… the timing, the skill—it fits too well.”
Gaku shakes his head, keeping his tone light. “Even if shinobi did still exist, why would they steal museum pieces? That’s the fastest way to expose themselves. This whole thing is stupid. Reckless. Not logical at all.”
Haru turns his head slowly.
Very slowly.
His gaze cuts through Gaku like a blade sharpened with accusation.
“Oh, I agree,” Haru says, voice dripping with calm sarcasm. “Whoever did this is unbelievably reckless. Someone who thinks sneaking into a heavily secured building at night is heroic. Someone who thinks they’re doing something impressive, when actually—” he pauses, his eyes burning directly into Gaku’s, “—they’re nothing but an idiot.”
The table bursts into laughter, assuming Haru is just being his usual deadpan self.
But Gaku’s smile falters.
He feels the weight behind those words.
Haru’s gaze doesn’t waver.
Doesn’t blink.
Haru knows.
Or at least he suspects.
Gaku looks away, jaw tightening as he stabs his chopsticks into his rice. His heartbeat pounds painfully fast, and yet he forces himself to breathe slowly, evenly. If he reacts too much, Haru will know for sure. If he reacts too little, Haru will still know.
Across the cafeteria, Hatsuko suddenly glances toward the seniors’ table—an instinctive pull, as though she can sense Gaku’s rising tension.
She doesn’t know what’s happening yet.
She doesn’t realize the danger forming.
But she feels something shift in the air.
Something small, but sharp.
The first crack in the secrecy of their midnight world.
The fluorescent lights in the boys’ restroom hum faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow across the tiled walls. A distant echo of running water bounces off the stalls as Haru Kimura steps out from one of them, adjusting the sleeves of his uniform with calm precision. He moves to the sink, washes his hands slowly, deliberately, as if he has all the time in the world. His expression remains unreadable, eyes half-lidded with their usual contemplative calm.
Then the door slams open.
Gaku Hisashi enters with a force that shakes the metal frame, his footsteps heavy, his jaw clenched, the breath in his chest sharp with restrained anger. He doesn’t bother looking around. He walks straight toward Haru, stopping a foot away from him—too close, too tense, too personal.
The quiet in the room thickens.
Gaku is the first to speak.
“What the hell was that, Haru?” he demands, voice low but trembling with emotion. “What was that back in the cafeteria? What did you mean by all that? Talking like you know everything—talking like you’re hinting something only I’m supposed to understand. If you’ve got something to say, say it to my face. Don’t play around.”
Haru dries his hands with a paper towel, tosses it into the trash, and only then turns to face him. He doesn’t flinch at Gaku’s aggressive proximity. He doesn’t even blink. Instead, he offers a small, calm smile—the kind of smile that carries no warmth, only truth.
“I don’t need to pretend, Gaku. And you don’t need to either,” Haru says softly. “You know exactly what I was talking about.”
Gaku’s fists clench at his sides.
Haru continues, voice smooth, almost too steady. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Everyone else might be clueless, but I’m not. You pretending in front of the others—saying the thief isn’t a shinobi, saying shinobi are gone, acting offended about the whole thing? Really, Gaku? That was your plan?”
Gaku scoffs, but the sound is brittle. “You’re reading too much into it. You don’t know anything.”
Haru laughs. Quiet. Sharp. Without humor.
“I know enough,” he says, stepping forward, now inches from Gaku’s face. “Let me guess… the thief last night wasn’t a shinobi, right? Just some idiot thief with circus-level acrobatics and an obsession with looking cool? The same idiot who’s been breaking in for the past six months, stealing priceless antiques only to put them back like some kind of dramatic performance?”
His smile drops.
“Come on, Gaku. Drop the act.”
Gaku tries again, though his voice wavers. “Haru, stop making assumptions—”
“Assumptions?” Haru cuts sharply. “You think I don’t recognize your footwork? Your timing? Your patterns? You think I don’t know exactly where you disappear to on certain nights? I’ve known you since we were kids. You’re not subtle.”
The air freezes.
Gaku’s chest rises in a slow, shaky breath. His anger mixes with something else—fear, guilt, pride, shame—swirling chaotically beneath his skin.
Haru sighs, but it’s not a soft sigh. It’s disappointment wrapped in exhaustion.
“And honestly?” he says, voice lowering, “I wouldn’t care that much if it was only you. If you were risking only your own stupid neck doing your stupid midnight ‘missions.’ Fine. Let the idiot get himself caught. Let him deal with the consequences.”
Haru’s tone shifts, hardening with a razor edge.
“But last night,” Haru says, stepping even closer, “you didn’t go alone.”
Gaku’s eyes widen.
Haru’s voice tightens. “You brought Hatsuko.”
The silence slams into Gaku like a punch to the gut.
Haru doesn’t stop.
“That was the sixth time, Gaku. Six times. Six times you dragged her into that crap. Do you have any idea how idiotic that is?” His voice rises—not loud, but sharp with real anger. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re risking her. Her parents. Everything her father sacrificed to keep her safe. Hatsuko is trusting you, and this—THIS—is what you do?”
Gaku steps back, breathing unsteady, guilt slicing through him. “Haru, I—”
“No. Enough excuses,” Haru snaps, voice trembling from frustration he tries to keep contained. “Every time I confront you about this, you say the same damn thing. ‘It’s for training.’ Training? That’s your excuse? How many times have you used that? Five? Ten? You think that makes it less stupid?”
Gaku looks down, unable to meet his friend’s eyes.
Haru watches him, chest heaving slightly. “The only reason I haven’t reported you is because—somehow—I still believe you’ll stop before something horrible happens. Before someone gets hurt. Before something spirals out of control and destroys your family—and hers.”
Gaku’s jaw tightens, but his voice cracks when he speaks. “I know. I know, Haru. I messed up. What I did… it’s not—” he pauses, searching for words, “—it’s not what I thought it was.”
“Then what is it?” Haru demands coldly.
Gaku swallows hard. “I don’t know anymore.”
The admission—a rare moment of vulnerability—hangs heavy in the air.
Finally, Gaku lifts his eyes. “Once I return the painting… I’ll stop. I swear.”
Something in Haru snaps.
With a sudden burst of movement, Haru grabs Gaku by the front of his uniform, slams him hard against the tiled wall, and pins him there. The impact echoes through the bathroom, rattling the stalls.
Gaku gasps softly, startled.
Haru’s expression is harsher than Gaku has ever seen—brows drawn low, jaw clenched, eyes burning with a fury he’s been holding back for months.
“No,” Haru says, voice low and dangerous. “You’re not just swearing to me. You’re making a promise. And if you break it—if you even think about pulling this crap again—I will handle it myself. Or I’ll march straight to your parents and tell them everything.”
Gaku’s breath catches. He knows Haru isn’t bluffing.
“And trust me,” Haru adds, tightening his grip for emphasis, “your father finding out would be a thousand times worse than getting arrested.”
Haru finally releases him.
Gaku stumbles forward, catching himself against the sink, lungs shaking as he struggles to steady his breathing.
Haru walks toward the door without looking back.
Just before leaving, he stops, one hand on the doorframe.
“Think about Hatsuko,” he says quietly. “Not yourself.”
The door swings open.
Haru steps out, leaving Gaku alone with nothing but the buzzing lights, the sting of guilt, and the crushing weight of a promise he now has no choice but to keep.
The dismissal bell rings with a long metallic reverberation that rolls through the corridors like a slow wave, shaking loose the noise of hundreds of students rushing out of their classrooms. Hatsuko and Yumiko step out from Class 10-B together, the hallway still buzzing with chatter as books are shoved into bags and shoes clack Sharp rhythms against the floor. Yumiko rambles cheerfully about a girl in their class who mispronounced the teacher’s name, while Hatsuko forces soft laughter to keep her company, though her mind aches slightly from lack of sleep. Beneath her practiced smile, shadows of last night’s mission cling to her eyes.
They barely get ten steps into the courtyard when a familiar figure detaches himself from the wall near the entrance pillars—tall, calm, carrying an expression that is far less soft than usual.
Haru.
His presence alone makes Hatsuko’s shoulders stiffen, and Yumiko’s steps falter. He walks toward them with the quiet precision of someone who is used to people listening when he speaks. His gaze meets Hatsuko’s first—firm, unwavering, and just a little too knowing.
“Hatsuko,” Haru says, voice low but clear, “I need to talk to you for a moment.”
Yumiko blinks, surprised. “Eh? Only her? Did something happen, Haru-neesan?”
“It won’t take long,” he replies. “It’s something private.”
Hatsuko swallows. Yumiko glances between them anxiously, but Hatsuko musters a small smile and touches Yumiko’s arm gently. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”
Yumiko reluctantly nods and stays behind near the gate, her expression filled with unease as she watches Haru lead Hatsuko away. The school slowly empties behind them until they reach the side corridor near the science building—shaded, secluded, and quiet enough that even the distant noise of students fades into a dull hum. The wind slips through the narrow passage, stirring dust and carrying the faint scent of chalk and cut grass.
Haru stops walking.
And turns.
The silence between them tightens.
He does not raise his voice.
He does not scold.
He simply speaks the truth—cutting and clean.
“Hatsuko,” he says, “I know you were with Gaku last night. At the museum.”
Hatsuko freezes.
A pulse jumps in her throat.
Her hand tightens around the strap of her bag.
“…I don’t know what you mean,” she says weakly, trying to maintain a calm facade. “I went to bed early. I didn’t go anywhere.”
“Stop lying.”
Haru’s voice slices through her excuse instantly.
Hatsuko looks up and instantly regrets it. Haru’s usual calm eyes now hold a severity that makes even a trained shinobi-in-her-prime feel exposed. His expression is not angry, but deeply disappointed—something far worse.
“I don’t have time to play games,” he continues. “And I don’t want to hear the same nonsense Gaku tried to say earlier. You were there. I saw the signs. I recognized the patterns.”
Hatsuko opens her mouth, but no words come out.
Haru speaks again before she can attempt another lie.
“Your footsteps were lighter this morning.”
His voice stays steady, analytical.
“You tried to hide how tired you were, but your eyes gave you away. That rooftop dust on your shoes wasn’t from school buildings. And Gaku’s behavior today? Exactly the same as every time he screws something up.”
Her breath trembles.
Her body goes still.
Haru’s tone drops lower.
“So I’ll say it clearly: I know you joined Gaku in stealing that painting.”
Hatsuko’s heart sinks. She bows her head slightly, cheeks warming with shame, her fingers twisting together nervously. Her throat feels tight, too tight to speak.
Haru crosses his arms. His disappointment doesn’t rise like heat—it sinks, heavy and cold. “Hatsuko, what you did last night wasn’t brave. It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t training. It was reckless. And stupid.”
She winces.
But she knows he’s right.
“I-I’m sorry…” she whispers, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I didn’t want to—”
Haru stops her with a small gesture.
“Hatsuko,” he says, his tone softening for the first time, “your father has already walked through hell. You know that better than anyone. He lost family, friends, clans, and almost lost his life—twice. He fought to give you a peaceful life. A life far away from blood and shadows.”
His gaze deepens, heavy with sincerity.
“Don’t throw that away because of Gaku’s idiocy.”
Hatsuko squeezes her eyes shut, tears forming at the edges.
She bows her head further, her bangs hiding her expression.
“I’m sorry, Kak Haru… I didn’t think it would—”
“No. You didn’t think at all,” Haru cuts in. Not cruelly. Just honestly.
“And that’s the problem.”
He steps closer—close enough that Hatsuko can sense the warmth of his presence, close enough that she feels the weight of his words anchor into her.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to protect you,” he says quietly. “Your father would break if anything happened to you. Do you understand that? Truly understand it?”
Hatsuko nods shakily, her voice cracking. “Y-Yes. I won’t do it again. I swear.”
Haru studies her a moment longer. After confirming the sincerity in her eyes, he finally nods.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then let’s go.”
He turns toward the gate, but then adds, without looking back, “And Gaku is not taking you home today. Or any day soon. I don’t trust him with you right now.”
Hatsuko softly murmurs, “…okay.”
When they return to the front of the school, Yumiko practically jumps toward them, concern plastered across her face. “Hatsuko! Are you okay? What did Kak Haru say? Why do you look like you cried?”
Haru places a hand on Yumiko’s shoulder gently. “It’s nothing serious. Just… extinguishing a spark before it becomes a wildfire.”
Yumiko blinks, confused but relieved that Hatsuko looks unharmed.
Together, the three of them walk away from the school gates.
Haru stands on their right, Hatsuko on his left, Yumiko beside Hatsuko—three silhouettes stretched long by the evening sun, moving slowly down the sidewalk toward home.
A silent guardian.
A remorseful shinobi-in-training.
And an innocent friend who has no idea how close the world came to cracking open again.
Night settles over Okayama like a deep velvet curtain, swallowing the rooftops and painting the sky in layers of quiet blue-black. The cicadas have gone silent, replaced only by the faint hum of streetlamps and the distant murmur of passing cars. Inside the Hisashi residence, every room sinks into peaceful darkness—except one.
Gaku’s room.
The light beneath his door spills faintly into the hallway, flickering every now and then as he moves around. Inside, Gaku stands before his mirror, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound as he adjusts the final straps of his shinobi suit. The black material hugs his frame perfectly—lightweight, reinforced, flexible. But tonight, it feels heavier than ever.
In his hands rests the rolled painting, bound carefully in protective cloth.
The sixth piece he stole.
And the last he intends to return.
He lifts it slowly, almost reverently, before sliding it into the secure carrier strapped across his back. His reflection stares back at him—a young man who has inherited talent, technique, and instincts from a lineage that no longer exists. But all he can see is a fool.
And he whispers bitterly to himself, “I should’ve never brought Hatsuko…”
That mistake haunts him. Haru’s anger. His father’s suspicion. Hatsuko’s shaken expression. Every consequence of his recklessness presses into his chest like a fist. Returning the painting alone won’t erase what happened, but it is the bare minimum he owes her—and himself.
He steadies his breathing and tightens the final strap of his mask.
One last infiltration.
One last risk.
Then he’s done.
He opens his window slowly, letting the cold night air wash over him. The quiet hum of the neighborhood lays spread out below—dim porch lights, parked cars, silent houses lined neatly along the street. Gaku scans the area with trained eyes. No movement. No footsteps. No curious gazes. Only emptiness.
Good.
With practiced ease, he slips out of the window and lands silently on the roof tiles, the painting secured against his back. He crouches, listening once more. Still nothing. Then he moves—swiftly, silently—darting across rooftops, leaping over alleyways, letting the night swallow his figure as he disappears into the shadows of Okayama City.
The museum awaits.
The Okayama Historical Museum stands tall under the moonlight, floodlights illuminating its stone facade. Inside, a team of seasoned security guards patrol the floors, their nerves stretched thin. This is the sixth time they’ve dealt with this madness—six stolen artifacts, six miraculous returns within forty-eight hours. And now, they wait again.
One guard yawns widely, rubbing his eyes as he leans against a railing. “Do you think he’s coming tonight? It’s been twenty-four hours…”
Another shrugs, voice low. “Your guess is as good as mine. But if he does come—stay awake. This thief isn’t normal.”
Even in their exhaustion, they know better than to lower their guard. Every guard carries a flashlight, and every corner has cameras—all useless the previous five times. Still, they stand ready, eyes sweeping the hallways.
And then—
The lights flicker.
Just once.
Then again.
The guards freeze.
Their hands tighten on their flashlights.
“…He’s here.”
A faint sound echoes through the hall—a sharp hiss, followed by the scratchy screech of two alley cats fighting outside. A deliberate distraction. The guards turn instinctively toward the noise, a reflex born from weeks of tension.
That single moment of distraction is all he needs.
High above, clinging to the steel beams that cross the ceiling, a shadow slithers through the darkness. Gaku moves like a whisper—swift, fluid, nearly invisible as he glides across the framework of the museum. His masked face remains calm, eyes focused. He knows exactly where the guards stand, how they’ll turn, how long he has. Every pattern is memorized. Every step is calculated.
He passes directly above them.
One guard flashes his light upward, but the beam lands on nothing—just metal beams and shadow.
Gaku is already two meters away.
Then—
A shrill alarm blares through the museum halls.
The fire alarm.
The guards jolt in panic.
“What—?! Where’s the smoke?!”
“Check the system! Is this a malfunction?!”
But it isn’t.
It’s Gaku’s doing.
The guards scatter, rushing toward the emergency panels, radios crackling with frantic voices. None of them notice the silent figure slipping into the restricted Gallery of Feudal Artifacts.
Inside the gallery, moonlight spills through the long glass skylight, illuminating empty pedestals—displays missing their stolen treasures. Gaku approaches the one labeled “Ink Landscape of the Hoshitani Era — 1532.” The linen cover remains in place, untouched since he snatched it last night.
With careful movements, he unstraps the painting, unrolls it gently, and returns it onto its frame with precise placement, mimicking every angle, every fold, every line. The painting settles perfectly, as though it had never left the museum.
He steps back.
One last job.
One final return.
Footsteps echo in the distance.
He hides instantly, vanishing into the shadows behind a tall stone statue as a guard storms into the gallery. The man’s eyes widen as he spots the newly restored artifact.
“No way…”
He stares, stunned.
“Guys! It’s back! The painting is back!”
More guards rush in, disbelief spreading across their faces.
“How the hell…?”
“T-The fire alarm—was that him?!”
“Where did he go? How did he get in without setting anything off?!”
But Gaku is already gone.
A shadow slips along the far wall, silent as breath, gliding through the darkness behind the overwhelmed guards. No one hears him. No one sees him. Not even the cameras catch him—their screens still looping, interfered with just moments earlier.
And in one fluid motion—
He leaps through an open maintenance window, disappears onto the roof, and vanishes into the night without leaving a single trace behind.
Only the faint whisper of wind remains.
And the restored painting, sitting quietly in its rightful place once again.
Gaku crouches atop a distant rooftop, hidden by the shadows cast from the museum’s towering structure. Below him, chaos blooms like wildfire. Police cars screech into the parking lot one by one, red-and-blue lights splashing across the museum walls in frantic streaks. Fire trucks roll in behind them, firefighters rushing out with equipment, confused and irritated as officers shout conflicting commands. A detective storms into the entrance, barking orders as if he’s chasing a phantom.
A phantom Gaku himself created.
He watches silently from above, heart sinking with every siren that blares. Six months. Six ridiculous, reckless months of slipping into the museum, taking ancient relics, returning them, and convincing himself he was doing something clever—something meaningful. But as he watches fully armed officers spill through the glass doors, he finally sees the truth:
He has been an idiot.
Not a vigilante.
Not a genius.
Just a young shinobi drunk on adrenaline and inherited skill.
And he dragged Hatsuko into it.
Shame rises in his throat like bile. He grips the ledge until his knuckles go white, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. Enough. Tonight is the last time. After this, he will stop. No more thefts, no more trouble, no more danger—
He turns to leave.
But the moment his foot pivots—
A whisper cuts through the wind.
Fffwhip—
A kunai slices through the air straight toward his skull.
Gaku reacts on pure instinct. He jerks his head down and twists his body, the blade brushing past his hair and embedding itself deep into the concrete behind him with a violent crack. His heart lurches. His breath catches. His pupils contract sharply.
He whips around.
And freezes.
Standing on the opposite end of the rooftop is a figure—tall, draped entirely in black. A shinobi suit clings to his frame, reinforced, seamless, without a single reflective surface. But what stops Gaku cold is the mask.
A smooth onyx-black mask with sharp, demon-like contours… and two empty eye slits that seem to swallow the moonlight whole.
Two katanas crossed on his back.
Posture loose but predatory.
A presence that suffocates the air around him.
A hunter.
A killer.
A shinobi.
Gaku’s voice cracks. “W-Who the hell are you?”
The masked shinobi doesn’t answer.
He simply tilts his head—studying Gaku the way a wolf studies a wounded deer.
Then he draws one of his katanas.
And charges.
Gaku barely jumps back in time as the blade whistles past his face, carving a streak of silver in the dark. Panic floods his veins, and he sprints across the rooftop, leaping toward the next building with everything he has. His legs burn, his lungs scream, but he keeps going, instincts screaming at him to run.
He glances back—
The masked shinobi follows effortlessly, sprinting along the roof’s edge with terrifying precision, closing the distance with every stride.
Gaku leaps to a lower rooftop, rolls, and jumps again, trying to break the line of sight. He dives into a narrow alleyway and uses the walls to propel himself upward, clawing for height. But every time he tries to disappear, the masked shinobi is still there—moving above him, shadow to shadow, ghost to ghost.
Shuriken whistle through the air.
Gaku twists mid-leap, barely avoiding the storm of spinning blades—but one catches him.
A sharp sting—followed by wet warmth.
His left knee buckles.
The shuriken buries itself deep into the soft tissue of his knee. Gaku lets out a strangled cry and collapses onto the rooftop edge, barely grabbing the gutter to keep himself from falling several stories down. Pain shoots through his leg like lightning.
He claws himself up, breathing raggedly, blood seeping through his suit.
He can’t run anymore.
He can’t even stand properly.
The masked shinobi lands silently behind him.
Steps slow.
Steps deliberate.
A predator savoring the moment.
Gaku forces himself upright, one knee trembling violently, and raises his fists in a clumsy stance. He doesn’t have his father’s mastery. He doesn’t have Takeshi’s brutality. But he has pride—and he refuses to die on his knees.
The masked shinobi lifts his katana.
He’s seconds away from ending Gaku’s life.
Then—
Sssshhhk— WHIP— WHIP— WHIP—
A volley of shuriken tears through the air from somewhere behind the assassin. The masked shinobi spins and deflects them mid-flight with swift, precise sweeps of his blade. Sparks scatter across the rooftop.
Gaku’s eyes widen.
Footsteps approach fast—too fast for a normal human.
And then—
A blur of silver and white crashes onto the rooftop from above.
Two katanas gleam in the moonlight.
Gaku’s breath stops.
“Otou-san…?”
Renjiro Hisashi stands between his son and the masked assassin, body lowered into a stance Gaku has only ever seen in old clan battles—one reserved for fighting enemies too dangerous to show mercy to. His white wolf emblem painted faintly across his armor glows under the moon.
Renjiro doesn’t look back at Gaku.
His voice is low, sharp, and commanding.
“Gaku. Run.”
The masked shinobi turns his head slightly, acknowledging the new threat. Slowly—almost with anticipation—he raises his katana again.
Renjiro’s expression darkens.
Not with fear.
But with something older.
Something deadly.
“You want a fight,” he murmurs, sliding his foot back. “You get one.”
The masked shinobi lunges.
Renjiro meets him head-on.
Steel slams against steel, ringing across the silent rooftops. Renjiro’s strike carries the weight of years on the battlefield—sharp, disciplined, vicious. He follows with another slash, then another, forcing the masked shinobi backward before finishing with a brutal spinning kick that hurls the assassin into a brick wall hard enough to crack it.
Gaku, clutching his bleeding knee, watches in awe—shock flooding his chest.
His father…
His calm, disciplined father…
Has returned to the battlefield.
The masked shinobi rises slowly from the debris, cracking his neck to the side. No pain. No fear.
He lifts his sword again.
Challenges Renjiro without words.
Renjiro’s fingers tighten around both katanas.
His stance shifts—the stance of the Ghost Wolf himself.
“Gaku,” he says without turning. “Go. Now.”
Gaku stares at the two figures facing each other on the moonlit rooftop—
his father,
and the mysterious shinobi who hunts in the dark.
A storm is about to break.
And he knows this fight…
is only the beginning.
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