Broken Oaths, Burning World (Remastered)

On 22nd May 2042, 10:30 pm, in the drawing-room of the Amigu‑Rumi mansion, Mr. Amou and his most trusted political ally, Simiyo Saragachi, sat amid hushed splendour. Heavy drapes filtered the lamplight, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany floor.

"So, Simiyo," Mr. Amou began, raising a slender crystal glass, "how fares your campaign for tomorrow's election?"

Simiyo Saragachi—no mere politico, but the hidden hand of power—smiled wryly, his tailored jacket immaculate. "Mr. Amou, I'm as poised as the Felis tree in bloom," he replied, "yet your support will ensure my victory."

Mr. Amou closed one eye thoughtfully. "Rest assured—we shall deliver. My men will vote en masse. And SSCBF? They'll remain suitably… indifferent."

Simiyo nodded, his gaze steely. "Your assurance is most comforting. The Bureau won't meddle—unless the need arises."

Mr. Amou chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "Now that's the kind of assurance I like to hear."

After Simiyo departed, Mr. Amou summoned his inner circle—Katoge, Wanaka, Noda, Harai, Kazuki, and several lieutenants. His voice was firm: "Tomorrow, at dawn, you cast your votes for Simiyo. Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir!" echoed around the room.

 Why would a crime family engage in politics?

Influence & protection: Simiyo's electoral success ensures SSCBF oversight remains lax.

Contracts & concessions: Political backing yields lucrative municipal projects controlled by Amigu‑Rumi.

Buffer against rivals: Political power buffers legal vulnerabilities.

Yet, dawn on 23rd May brought unexpected calamity. Simiyo never appeared at the polling station. Anxiety sent ripples through the mansion. Mr. Amou, brow furrowed, instructed: "Katoge, Harai—go to his residence. Find out what's become of him."

Before they could depart, the television came alive with a breaking report. A polished newsroom, a sober reporter:

"Police have discovered Simiyo Saragachi's body this morning. A knife—blood-stained—lies nearby. Fingerprints suggest a single set matches the victim. Authorities are treating the death as a suicide, but circumstances remain opaque."

Silence descended. Katoge's jaw clenched; Noda's eyes flickered with unease. Even Katoge's usual reserve quavered.

Mr. Amou, pinching the bridge of his nose, announced: "I don't believe this is suicide. Someone—has orchestrated this." His gaze swept the room like a hawk sizing up prey.

Katoge swiftly initiated covert inquiries. His findings confirmed Mr. Amou's suspicions: Simiyo's death was no suicide. Instead, it was the work of Demon, the notorious A‑rank Sinner. A brute relentless as a maelstrom, bearing the moniker Brute‑Devastation. Witnesses and forensic reports described katana‑like lacerations and kinetic strength far beyond mortal capabilities—indicative of Demon's swift, brutal artistry.

The night in Jai‑Jong District was alive with murmurs—narrow alleys awash in flickering neon, steam rising from grates like restless spirits. Shadows pooled at every turn as Katoge, Harai, and Wanaka crept between graffiti‑scarred walls, weapons at the ready. The scent of ozone lingered from a distant storm.

Katoge's jaw clenched. "Our informant says Demon's here—along with his gang." He flexed his fist, knuckles whitening with barely controlled fury.

A dull voice slithered through the darkness:

"Welcome, pests. You've got courage—or reckless foolishness—to come here."

Wanaka stiffened, senses on edge. He froze beside Katoge and Harai. Immediately, a grenade thundered from the rooftop, plastering walls with debris.

Harai wheezed, "What the hell—a grenade?"

Wanaka and Katoge rushed to him, brushing debris from his collar.

"We're fine," Katoge confirmed, rage in his eyes.

The same voice sneered, and Wanaka glimpsed a shadowy silhouette atop the building. He leapt down, vanishing into the smoke.

Footsteps measured and deliberate broke the tension. Then he emerged: Demon—towering, white‑haired, haloed by lightning. A gleaming katana hung at his side. His voice came, granite‑hard:

"You've got nowhere to run, blaggards. Let's finish this."

Harai's breath caught. "Oh bloody hell…that's Demon."

Demon fixed on Wanaka.

"You must be the sword‑master of Amigu‑Rumi," he said, voice dead‑flat. "Show me your skill."

Wanaka squared himself, drawing his blade.

"I'm the one who'll end your spree—starting with Simiyo's killer!"

Demon's crimson eyes flickered. "Very well."

Scene opens slow-motion: stone dust drifts, lightning silhouettes the fighters. Sparks crack as steel meets steel.

First clash: Wanaka scores a heavy blow, slicing Demon's sleeve—but Demon parries with a fluid pirouette, steel singing.

Exchange intensifies: Wanaka lunges; Demon counters with savage precision. Water drips from the edge of each blade, turning droplets into lethal projectiles.

A swirling dance: sparks fly, each move choreographed. Wanaka strikes a lightning‑fast combo—DemRon blocks with brutal force, but Wanaka's edge cuts across Demon's shoulder: crimson blossoms on pale flesh.

Demon halts. A scarlet thread trickles. He smiles—cold, appreciative.

"Impressive… but not enough." With a whoosh, he vanishes—no flicker, no echo. Just gone.

Wanaka stands panting, chest heaving, blade quivering.

Harai, wide‑eyed:

"Did you…did you see that? He blew right through him…and then…disappeared?!"

Katoge laid a steadying hand on Wanaka's shoulder:

"You nicked the bastard, though. We're done here."

Wanaka exhaled heavily:

"He's hurt—I saw it. But he'll vanish into the ether."

They gathered themselves, adrenaline still thrumming in veins.

Their walk back through the narrow labyrinths of Jai‑Jong was tense—no triumph in their stride, only the weight of what lay ahead.

Wanaka's voice was soft but resolute:

"We struck blood from Demon, but he's still at large."

Katoge's tone was quieter, stoic:

"We go back, regroup. We've sent a message."

Harai nodded, resolve fierce:

"Justice won't sleep tonight."

They stepped onto the balcony of the Amigu‑Rumi mansion—the city's neon jungles sprawling beneath them. The moon obscured, the thunderheads rolling.

Their mission had succeeded, but an uneasy realisation simmered: Demon had been wounded. Next time, he would be the predator.