The blue, calming ripple of the portal remained behind, replaced by the hard, cold asphalt of Yoyogi Park.
The transition from the enclosed, stuffy space of the dungeon to the open world hit my senses like a blacksmith's hammer.
The first thing I felt wasn't fresh night air (it's rarely fresh in Tokyo anyway), but a dense, almost physically tangible wall of noise.
It was chaos.
Hundreds of camera flashes merged into one blinding stroboscopic wave, stinging my eyes even through the thick fabric of my blindfold.
The hum of voices, the wail of police sirens, the crackle of walkie-talkies, and the hysterical shouts of reporters trying to out-scream each other on live TV.
It seemed as if not just the press, but half the population of Kanto had gathered here.
I adjusted my slipped blindfold, took a deep breath, filling my lungs with city smog, and with demonstrative carelessness shoved my hands into my trouser pockets.
The very trousers that had miraculously survived the Acid Rot Queen's baths, although they had acquired a couple of new "designer" holes.
Beside me, emitting the sounds of a dying whale, hunched Takemichi.
He looked as if he had just returned from his own funeral procession, where he had starred as the main dish but for some reason hadn't been digested.
His school uniform hung in tatters, his face looked like an abstract painting drawn with dirt and tears, and on his shoulder, with the doom of Atlas, he held that foul-smelling, squelching sack of loot.
— "You... YOU!!!"
A scream that drowned out the noise of the crowd came from the right.
Rushing toward us, unceremoniously shoving aside dumbfounded reporters and literally knocking over the metal cordon barriers, was that very blonde — the leader of the "Silver Wolves" guild.
His face, purple with rage, harmonized perfectly with his polished armor decorated with gold filigree, which cost more than the entire district where Takemichi lived.
— "YOU! PIECE OF SHIT!" — he roared, stopping a meter away from me and spraying saliva so actively that I wanted to open an umbrella.
— "DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT YOU'VE DONE?! THIS WAS OUR RAID! WE PREPARED FOR IT FOR A MONTH! WE INVESTED MILLIONS IN GEAR!"
— "AND YOU JUST WALKED IN AND STOLE THE BOSS?!"
His deputies grouped around him — mages and swordsmen whose faces expressed a mixture of shock and a desire to immediately use us for experiments.
Cameras clicked in machine-gun bursts, capturing every second of this conflict. The journalists held their breath. This was the scandal of the century: a noname humiliated the A-rank elite.
I remained silent.
I didn't even turn my head in his direction. I just looked through him the way one looks at an annoying banner ad in a browser that has a broken close button.
The Six Eyes lazily scanned the structure of his aura:
«Lots of pathos, lots of expensive gear, but mana control is at the level of a stool.»
«Muscles are over-pumped, balance is shifted. Boring. Trash.»
In my world, creatures incapable of controlling their own emotions in the face of an enemy didn't even deserve a glance.
— "Hey! I'm talking to you, bastard in the blindfold!" — seeing my total, absolute ignoring, he went completely berserk.
A vein on his forehead bulged, pulsing in time with his shouting.
His hand in a gauntleted glove reached for the hilt of a huge two-handed sword behind his back.
— "Will you answer me or will I beat some respect out of you by force?! You violated the fifth article of the Hunter Code! You..."
— "Takemichi," — I said calmly, in an even voice, unceremoniously interrupting him mid-sentence.
I slowly turned to my "squire," turning my back completely on the enraged C-rank tank.
— "Which one is next?"
The head of the "Wolves" choked on air. His eyes popped out of his head from such cosmic, transcendent arrogance.
The silence that hung for a moment among the reporters was louder than any explosion.
Takemichi twitched, nearly dropping the sack of cockroach cores. He looked like he wanted to fall through the asphalt straight into hell just to avoid standing here, but the habit of obeying a stronger alpha (developed by years of humiliation in "Toman") worked faster than the instinct of self-preservation.
— "Huh?! Yeah... Just a sec... Satoru-kun, there..." — he frantically, with shaking hands stained in purple blood, pulled out his phone.
The screen lit up, showing a list of notifications. And at that moment, Takemichi's face went completely white.
Now he looked not just frightened by monsters or Hunters. He looked doomed.
Like a man who had learned the exact date and time of his death.
— "Oh god..." — his voice broke into a squeak. — "Hi... Hinata called. Five times. Five missed calls! And a voice message..."
He gulped, bringing the phone to his ear with a trembling hand. I (thanks to heightened hearing) and, it seems, the microphones of the nearest reporters (thanks to their audacity) clearly heard the furious female voice coming from the speaker:
«— Hanagaki Takemichi! I saw the news! If you don't explain right now why you are on TV on every channel, covered in blood and with some suspicious maniac, you can forget about a date for Christmas!»
«And about my cookies! And in general, don't call me anymore, idiot!»
— "I'm finished..." — Takemichi whispered, lowering the hand with the phone as if it were a gun.
A tragedy of Shakespearean scale could be read in his eyes.
— "I'll be killed."
— "First the monsters, then you, and if I miraculously survive — Hina will finish me off. Satoru, maybe we should surrender to the police?"
— "It's safer there... At least they feed you in prison..."
— "Coordinates, Romeo," — I urged him with an impatient gesture, snapping my fingers in front of his nose. — "We have a schedule."
— "Women love winners. Bring her a dragon's head or a diamond ring from the loot — she'll forgive you. Probably."
— "And if not — you'll find another. You're a celebrity now."
— "I... I'm not sure... A dragon's head?.." — he mumbled, completely confused by my logic, but his fingers were already reflexively typing a query into Google.
— "So... Forums say that the third Gate opened... in Roppongi. Right now. In an abandoned subway service tunnel. Coordinates 35.66..."
— "ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME OR NOT, PUPPY?!" — the Guild Leader roared, finally losing his mind over the fact that he, a hero of the nation, was being ignored for the sake of discussing girl problems.
He took a sharp step forward. His heavy hand in a gauntleted glove cut through the air with a whistle, intending to grab me by the shoulder and spin me around to face him.
— "WHAT SUBWAY?! YOU AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE! GUARDS, SEIZE THEM! I WILL PERSONALLY CHOP OFF YOUR..."
— "35.66, 139.73!" — Takemichi shouted, squeezing his eyes shut and hunching his head into his shoulders.
— "Perfect," — I smiled broadly.
In the fraction of a second when the fingers of the enraged "Wolf" were supposed to touch my jacket, I simply shifted my center of gravity. Lazily.
Barely noticeably.
His hand grabbed emptiness. The heavy armor played a cruel joke on him — by inertia, he lurched forward, losing his balance and looking maximally ridiculous in the process.
Paying not the slightest attention to him and the Association guards running toward us, I raised my right hand.
I put my middle and index fingers together. My signature gesture.
— "See ya, extras," — I threw over my shoulder, not even deigning the "elite" with a glance. — "Have fun staying in your sandbox."
I activated the technique. The remnants of mana in my body responded with a painful creak, but space obediently bent.
The world blinked, turning inside out. The noise of the crowd, the camera flashes, and the blonde's face distorted with rage vanished in an instant, dissolving into the black funnel of the transition.
— "...motherf*cker."
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
We were not standing in Roppongi. And not even in the subway.
Sound exploded around us, as if someone had cranked the volume knob to the maximum.
Instead of the dungeon echo or the shouts of journalists in the park, our ears were blocked by the hum of thousands of voices, the rhythmic beeping of traffic lights, and the rumble of advertising bass.
We were standing exactly in the middle of the famous diagonal crossing in Shibuya. The very one where hundreds of people cross the road every minute.
[ Sync System: Navigation Error. ]
[ Warning: Mana reserve (0.5%) is insufficient for a long jump. ]
[ Drop-off performed at the nearest point with high energy concentration. Say thank you that you weren't split into atoms, but just kicked out of the taxi in the middle of the route. ]
— "S-Satoru..." — Takemichi squeaked, pressing against me and using his smelly sack as a shield. — "Where are we?.."
The people around us froze.
Imagine the picture: in the center of the trendiest district of Tokyo, among stylish youth, tourists with selfie sticks, and tired office clerks, two people materialize out of nowhere.
One — tall, wearing a black blindfold and a designer jacket soaked in purple acidic sludge.
The second — a schoolboy with the face of a martyr, dragging a sack containing something that suspiciously resembles dismembered remains.
— "Shibuya," — I stated, shaking a piece of dried slime off my shoulder. — "The System decided we needed to take a walk."
At that moment, the giant screens on the Q-Front and Shibuya 109 buildings, which usually played cosmetics or anime ads, blinked synchronously.
An image appeared on them. Footage from a helicopter taken just a couple of minutes ago in Yoyogi Park.
My face (in the blindfold) in close-up, my middle finger raised toward the camera, and that very moment where I disappear into the portal funnel, leaving the leader of the "Silver Wolves" grasping at air.
The crowd at the intersection buzzed. People started pointing fingers at the screens.
— "Hey, look! It's that psycho from the news!"
— "He disappeared! Is that CGI?"
— "They say he stole a C-rank Boss!"
And then an annoying buzzing sound rang out over the intersection. I looked up.
A news service drone, blinking a red light, hovered right above us, aiming its camera.
The picture on the giant screens changed. Now they were showing a top-down view of the intersection. The zoom was rapidly approaching two figures in the center.
Us.
The crowd began to realize.
Hundreds of heads turned in our direction. Hundreds of smartphones flew up.
— "IT'S HIM!" — "HE IS HERE!" — "RUN, HE'S A MONSTER! NO, WAIT, TAKE A PICTURE OF HIM!"
— "I don't sign autographs," — I grumbled, grabbing the petrified Takemichi by the scruff of his neck. — "Move. We're cutting through the alleys before the fans surround us." +1
I dragged him through the crowd, which reflexively parted to form a corridor. No wonder — we reeked of death and a high-level dungeon.
By the railing, near a vending machine, stood a guy in a school uniform. He was the only one not filming us with a phone.
In one hand, he held a can of cloyingly sweet "MAX Coffee," and with the other, he was adjusting the slipping strap of his bag.
He had the eyes of a person who had learned the futility of existence back in kindergarten. Dead, fish eyes.
Hachiman Hikigaya.
He lazily shifted his gaze from the screen (where my "anime" disappearance was playing) to me, walking in reality.
— "Another bunch of 'riajuu' have gone completely off the rails," — he muttered under his breath, taking a sip of coffee.
My heightened hearing caught every word even through the noise of the crowd.
— "A high-ranking normie with the looks and techniques of Gojo Satoru... God-tier cosplay, of course. He even copied the aura of arrogance perfectly. But causing traffic jams in the city center for the sake of hype? I hate this society. I want to go home..."
He demonstratively turned away, showing with his whole appearance that his mental barrier of cynicism was impenetrable to any three-dimensional activity.
I chuckled. This guy was the only one here who saw the root of things, albeit through the prism of his sociopathy.
Passing by, I couldn't resist and, without turning my head, threw out:
— "It's hard being popular, isn't it, coffee guy?"
Hachiman choked on his drink, coughing, but by the time he turned around — I had already disappeared into the crowd.
We were pushing our way to a side street, away from the drones.
At the traffic light, huddled against a pole, stood a girl with a backpack. Dark hair, circles under her eyes, the look of a hunted animal. Miko Yotsuya.
She was trembling. Her eyes were wide open, but she wasn't looking at me. And not at Takemichi.
She was looking at the air around me.
The Six Eyes instantly analyzed the situation.
«A Seer. Perception Level: Critical. Psyche: On the verge of a breakdown.»
To ordinary people, I was just a guy in a dirty jacket. But to her... I currently looked like a walking nightmare.
The residual aura after killing the Rot Queen, scraps of cursed energy, small dungeon spirits that parasitized my clothes — all of this swirled around me in a black, foul-smelling cloud.
She saw this "filth".
— "I don't see it, I don't see it, I don't see it..." — Miko whispered soundlessly, squeezing her eyes shut and gripping her backpack straps so hard her knuckles turned white.
Tears flowed down her cheeks. — "It's just a cosplayer... Cabbage, carrots, stone... It's not there..."
Takemichi, noticing her state, twitched:
— "Satoru, we're scaring people! The girl feels sick!"
— "She's not sick," — I answered quietly, stopping for a second. — "She just sees too much."
I didn't want to scare her even more. My style is shock therapy for enemies, not for random civilians who are already unlucky with their gift.
Passing by her, I subtly snapped my fingers.
A short pulse of pure energy, focused and sharp as a scalpel, swept through my aura.
It sheared off all the sticking "spiritual filth," dispelled the small spirits, and cleansed the space within a two-meter radius.
The heavy, crushing atmosphere of death vanished instantly.
— "Breathe," — I whispered to her, leaning in slightly but not touching. — "There are no more monsters. I removed them."
Miko opened her tear-stained eyes. She stared at me — now clean, shining with an ordinary human (well, almost) aura.
The black cloud had disappeared.
Such shock and relief were reflected on her face, as if she had seen an angel. Well, or a very polite demon.
— "T-thank you..." — she exhaled with just her lips.
I merely winked at her with the only eye not covered by the blindfold (figuratively speaking, the blindfold was still in place) and, grabbing Takemichi, dove into the saving darkness of a narrow alley between the buildings.
The noise of the crowd and the drone's hum were left behind. We found ourselves in silence, broken only by the sound of dripping water and the distant wail of sirens.
— "You... what did you just do?" — asked Takemichi, trying to catch his breath. — "Do you know that girl?"
— "No. But sometimes it's useful to clean up your karma," — I adjusted my collar. — "Alright, exhale. We took a shortcut."
Now all that remained was to get to Roppongi without adventures.
Clang.
An empty tin can bounced off the brick wall, jingled along the asphalt, and rolled right to the toe of my boot.
I froze. Takemichi froze.
From the deep shadow, where the alley made a turn, came the sound of munching and dissatisfied grumbling.
— "...I'm telling you, Power, we're lost! This isn't Yoyogi Park! It smells like ramen here, not trees!"
— "Shut up, puny human! My nose is flawless! I smell... Oh!"
Two figures stepped into the dim light of the single streetlamp. A guy with a chainsaw cord on his chest and a girl with red horns.
I slowly raised my gaze to the sky (or rather, to the fire escape above us).
— "System, are you mocking me?"
[ Sync System: No, Host. This is called "Plot Gravity". Have fun.]