April 3, 2103 — 09:12 Imperial Standard Time
Phoenix Capital
Six months had passed since the night the Empire lost its composure.
In Phoenix Capital, no one pretended otherwise.
The artificial city still glittered as it always had—layered towers of glass and steel rising above controlled waterways, neon reflections trembling across polished stone—but the mood had shifted.
Where confidence once lived, vigilance had taken its place.
People listened more than they spoke. Doors closed a second earlier.
Screens were checked twice before being turned away.
The Nightmare of Kurogane had not faded with time.
It had matured.
The Empire insisted it had been contained—an unfortunate convergence of errors, a regrettable loss of personnel, nothing more.
But Phoenix remembered what came after: elite units redeployed without explanation, emergency doctrines quietly amended, and finally, the moment that unsettled even the most loyal—
The Imperial Minister–Shogun himself had appeared.
A show of force, they called it.
To Phoenix Capital, it felt like a warning.
Was this preparation?
A message to the clans?
The opening move of a war no one was ready to name?
Loyalty to the Yoshima ran deep here. Not the loud kind. The lived-in kind. Protection paid for not with speeches, but with years of peace bought the hard way. And when rumors began circulating—whispers tying Ichiro Yoshima to the Nightmare—concern followed close
behind.
If the Empire was sharpening its knives, then sending Ashigaru into the artificial cities felt less like policing and more like provocation.
The patrol moved through the lower market ring just after morning trade began.
Ashigaru—auxiliary troops, newly deployed, unfamiliar with the terrain and worse, with its customs. Their armor was clean, their posture loose, authority worn like a borrowed coat.
They stopped at a long-standing shop near the canal.
"Inspection," one said, already stepping inside.
The owner did not bow.
He did not smile.
"We're compliant," the man said evenly. "Our dues are current."
The Ashigaru frowned. "There's a new fee."
"No notice," the owner replied.
"You don't need notice."
A pause.
Behind the counter, the owner's hands remained still.
"This is Yoshima territory," he said.
That was when the Ashigaru lost patience.
The table flipped.
Goods crashed to the floor. A rifle butt slammed into the counter. The sound echoed down the street, sharp and wrong.
People stopped moving.
The Ashigaru breathed hard, irritation bleeding into anger. "You think they can protect you from us?"
Footsteps answered instead.
Not rushed. Not loud.
Six men entered the street as though they had always been there.
Long coats. Unmarked. Tattoos visible without apology.
Yoshima.
The Ashigaru turned, confused first—then uncertain.
One of the them scoffed. "What is this? You lost?"
The yakuza at the front smiled faintly. "Depends," he said. "You planning on leaving?"
The Ashigaru laughed. "You think you can interfere with Imperial operations?"
Another stepped forward, hand brushing his rifle. "You people really don't know your place."
A man at the center stepped forward.
Yamada.
No bandages. No visible injuries. Standing straight, relaxed, as though rumors of his critical condition had simply missed him entirely.
"Operations?" Yamada repeated lightly. "No. This is extortion."
The Ashigaru bristled. "You think you have authority here?"
"Ah," he said, scratching the back of his head, expression mild. "You must be new."
The Ashigaru looked at him.
"You see," Yamada continued, conversationally, "this street pays protection. Just not to you."
The Ashigaru's smile vanished. "You threatening us?"
Yamada smiled back, just a little.
"Even Agents don't behave like this in our streets."
That was the last warning.
The Yoshima moved.
Not explosively—methodically.
One Ashigaru was slammed into the wall, rifle stripped and dismantled in mid-motion.
Another went down with his legs taken out, his helmet cracking against stone. A third was lifted and driven face-first into the pavement hard enough to leave him gasping.
No punches wasted. No movements theatrical.
Within moments, the Ashigaru were disarmed, sprawled, pinned in ways that made resistance impossible and humiliation complete.
The street remained intact. The message did not.
One tried to crawl away.
Yamada stepped on his sleeve.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice calm. "If this becomes a report… if this reaches a desk that asks questions… we will find you."
He crouched.
"And when we do," he added pleasantly, "we will skin you alive and return what's left to your superiors as an apology."
The Ashigaru nodded frantically.
"We understand. We'll stay out. We swear."
Yamada stood. "Good."
He gestured, and the Yoshima released them.
They fled.
An elderly woman approached, hands
shaking as she bowed. "Thank you," she said. "You've protected us for years."
Yamada nodded. "This won't happen again. We'll cover the damages."
People began to gather, murmurs rising now that fear had loosened its grip.
"Is it true?" someone asked. "About the young Master Ichiro?"
Yamada looked toward the water.
"He'll be fine," he said. "Ignore the rumors."
The crowd slowly dispersed.
Yamada remained by the canal, staring across the water that separated Phoenix Capital from the mainland—toward the distant silhouette of the Imperial Capital.
Toward Falconry.
"Good luck," he murmured. "Try not to burn it down."
Morning continued in Phoenix Capital.
And far away, on the same day, Ichiro Yoshima stepped into the Empire's most dangerous institution.