The Prime Minister of Japan, Kimoto Yasuo, was having a catastrophic day.
He sat rigidly in the back of his armored limousine, his usually perfectly coiffed hair damp with cold sweat. His hands, resting on his tailored knees, trembled imperceptibly as the car navigated the congested Tokyo streets, making its way toward the Central Hospital.
For the past week, his political empire had been burning to the ground.
Damning articles had hit the presses the previous days—a meticulously coordinated media carpet-bombing. They detailed his corruption, his offshore accounts, and the exact, down-to-the-yen figures of the bribes he had taken. It was terrifyingly accurate. Information that only his most trusted, inner-circle confidants knew was being broadcasted to the world. Paranoia gnawed at his stomach. He didn't know who had betrayed him, or why.
The entire nation had seemingly turned on him overnight. The streets were filled with protests demanding his immediate resignation.
The only reason Yasuo was still sitting in the Prime Minister's seat was the sheer, terrifying backing of the Himejima clan, whose backing he has gotten. But even their influence had its limits. If the public outcry continued at this frenzied pace, he would be forced to vacate the office before his term even reached its halfway point.
And then there was him. Shukaku.
A nobody. A thug rising from the backward, unremarkable prefecture of Kuoh, who was suddenly gaining massive, inexplicable popularity with the masses. Shukaku was on national television constantly, aggravating Yasuo's cabinet, pushing an aggressive reform agenda. Yasuo could understand a populist gaining traction, but what terrified him was the opposition party. They were giving Shukaku a clean go-ahead. Even Yasuo's fierest political rivals had suddenly sidelined themselves to let Shukaku shine.
There has been an unspoken rule that the Prime Minister must have the backing of one of the five clans—or rather, four now, ever since one went into hiding. Are they making a comeback?
Yasuo had ordered his intelligence agencies to dig up dirt on this upstart. But the entire Kuoh prefecture was a black box. Nothing came out. Operatives went in and found nothing, or they simply didn't report back at all. Even the mighty Himejima family was suddenly hesitant to interfere directly. If they had intervened, they could have at least silenced the media, but they were holding back. Someone—or something—was keeping them at bay.
And to push Yasuo over the edge of despair, yesterday, his youngest son was attacked. A knife in a crowded mall. The boy had barely survived and was now recovering in the ICU.
Yasuo's bloodshot eyes flicked to the small television screen embedded in the car partition. The news anchor's voice was tense.
"...the attacker fled the scene, allegedly screaming 'Death to Kimoto Yasuo.' Has Japan completely turned against its Prime Minister? As you can see, the Prime Minister's son remains in critical condition behind me, and an unprecedented crowd has gathered outside the hospital..."
The camera panned to show a sea of furious faces, waving placards and shouting at the hospital gates.
Beside Yasuo, the Head of Security ande high-ranking spellcaster for the government—leaned in.
"Sir, we are arriving," the security chief said, his voice clipped and serious. "Please remember the protocol. There are too many cameras and civilians. We cannot use magical barriers to protect you in the mundane eye. You must walk straight from the car through the doors. Do not stop. Do not address the people."
Yasuo let out a ragged, bitter breath. "Yes. I wasn't planning to. You would have a riot on your hands if I even opened my mouth."
The armored limousine pulled up to the hospital entrance. The noise was deafening.
It was a frenzy of flashing camera lenses, screaming protesters, and shouting reporters pressing violently against the police barricades. There was no affection here, none of the adoration from his campaign days. Just raw, unfiltered hatred.
The security chief opened the door, stepping out first to form a human shield with four other suited bodyguards. Yasuo stepped out into the chaotic blitz.
"Move! Keep moving!" the chief barked, pushing a path through the screaming throng.
Yasuo kept his head down, walking briskly toward the pristine glass entrance of the hospital. The architectural design featured a large, modern revolving door—a choke point that meant only one or two people could enter at a time.
The bodyguards peeled back slightly, forced to separate for a fraction of a second to allow the Prime Minister to step into the glass cylinder first.
Yasuo stepped inside. The heavy glass rotated. For one, singular second, he was sealed inside the glass chamber. The screams of the crowd were momentarily muffled. He let out a sigh of relief, reaching his hand forward to push the door into the lobby.
The air split with a sharp crack.
The reinforced glass of the revolving door shattered instantly, exploding inward. The heavy, armor-piercing round crossed the massive distance and struck Kimoto Yasuo perfectly in the side of the head. The kinetic force was absolute. The Prime Minister's skull tore apart in a sickening spray of crimson, coating the interior of the glass cylinder in a thick, wet mist.
His headless body slumped against the rotating glass, smearing blood down the pane as it slid to the floor.
For two agonizing seconds, the world stopped.
The security detail, the media, the furious protesters—everyone froze, their brains failing to process the sudden, lethal event. The silence was absolute, broken only by the tinkling of falling glass.
Then, a woman in the front row screamed.
Absolute chaos erupted. The crowd shattered, people fleeing and trampling each other in blind panic. Reporters dove to the concrete, screaming into their microphones, broadcasting the brutal assassination live to the entire nation.
But the security chief moved faster.
Ignoring the screaming civilians, he turned, scanning the skyline. His fingers traced a sigil inside his pocket. The spell settled over his eyes—distance collapsing, edges sharpening, light bending into clarity.
A flicker caught.
Far out—2.5 kilometers—a shard of reflected light pulsed from a darkened window. An high-rise apartment building . The outline resolved: a long barrel resting in shadow. He tried to increase spell power to see the face of attacker.
The image held for a fraction longer—
—and became the view through the scope.
The fallen body lay centered in the crosshairs.
Jin remained still.
He cycled the bolt in one smooth motion; the casing spun free, a brief glint before it vanished. The safety clicked into place. The rifle lowered, just slightly.
Target eliminated. The board was cleared for Shukaku.
Jin dismantled the heavy rifle with practiced, mechanical efficiency, packing the pieces into a nondescript duffel bag. He didn't leave a single trace of his DNA. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out an incendiary c4 attach to grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the center of the room.
He didn't wait for the explosion.
Jin sprinted toward the opposite side of the apartment. He burst through the hallway, the window facing the alleyway already open, and launched himself out into the open air.
Flames erupted in the room behind him, destroying the sniper's nest and any lingering signatures.
Jin plummeted four stories. He coated his legs in a thin layer of Touki and Haki. He hit the solid asphalt of the alleyway with a heavy thud, his superhuman physiology and the energy coating absorbing the kinetic impact effortlessly.
A sleek, unmarked car was parked precisely where he had left it.
Jin opened the door, tossed the duffel bag into the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. As the sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing across the Tokyo skyline, Jin casually put the car in drive and pulled out into the traffic, melting away into the city like a ghost.