The air was thick.

  Not with gold, not with the soft, shifting glow that usually defined the Chūkan. Here, the mist was heavy—a crawling, inky bckness that slithered through the air like it had a will of its own. The usual warmth was absent, repced with something colder, more oppressive. It clung to the ground, coiling around the jagged stone like a living shadow.

  This was the Chūkan.

  But not the one we knew.

  A vast hall stretched forward, veiled in that dark mist. Torches flickered against the walls, their light swallowed by the oppressive gloom rather than casting it away. And within that training hall, six figures knelt—three on one side, three on the other—silent, unmoving, their heads bowed in perfect discipline.

  Then, footsteps.

  Steady. Unhurried.

  A single figure strode into the hall, the sound of his boots striking against the cold stone reverberating through the space. As he passed between the kneeling warriors, their names might as well have been engraved above their heads, stamped into the very air like an unspoken presence.

  On the right, Taro.

  And further up, the others—silent, waiting.

  One of them—Taro—tilted his head up ever so slightly, just enough to see the figure approach. His lips curled into a smirk.

  “Hey, boss. What took you so—”

  His words never finished.

  In a blur, the Shingan’s hand shot out, seizing the side of Taro’s head. And then, with a single, effortless motion, he smmed it into the ground.

  A sickening crunch filled the space. Blood spttered across the stone as a few teeth scattered from the impact. The others remained kneeling, unfazed.

  The Shingan slowly lifted his hand, the moment already dismissed.

  Taro let out a groan, lifting his head slightly, a broken grin splitting his bloody mouth. “Damn, boss… always aggressive.” He reached up, gripping his own twisted neck. “Can never just say hi, huh?”

  With a sickening pop, he twisted his head back into pce.

  The Shingan kept walking.

  Finally, he reached his seat. And the moment he sat down, the other five warriors lifted their heads in unison.

  “Idiot,” one of them muttered, gring at Taro. “You know not to speak before the Shingan is seated.”

  “Or lift your head,” another added, eyes narrowed. “Are you stupid?”

  Taro scoffed, wiping some of the blood off his chin. “The boss gets to show up te, but if I showed up te, I’d get killed—how is that fair?”

  A pause.

  Then, without hesitation, the sixth warrior stepped forward.

  His hand shot out, gripping Taro’s head in an ironcd grasp. Taro barely had time to react before—shhk—his head was ripped clean off.

  The body slumped forward. But it wasn’t over.

  With the same eerie efficiency, the sixth warrior drove his fist straight through Taro’s chest, splitting through flesh and bone like it was nothing. Blood sprayed against the stone as he let the corpse drop unceremoniously.

  Then, as if nothing had happened, he wiped his hand clean, returned to his spot, and knelt once more.

  Silence.

  Then, the Shingan finally spoke.

  “Thank you.” His voice was calm. “I was getting ready to do it myself.”

  The one who had delivered the kill bowed his head slightly. “Of course, Master. I sensed your hostility. I did not want you to waste your time.” A brief pause. “That man was not worthy of the Death Phantoms.”

  A faint smirk ghosted across the Shingan’s lips. “No, he was not.” He exhaled slowly. “We can find another number six. I already have one in the works.”

  The remaining five warriors spoke in perfect unison. “Yes, Master.”

  Then, the Shingan leaned back slightly. His gaze drifted across the room before settling. “I don’t see Hyouma here.” A slow blink. “I assume we’ve had another failure?”

  The same warrior who had executed Taro lifted his head. “Yes, Master.” His tone remained steady, unwavering. “Word has reached me that he was apprehended by the Fifth Gate. He used his st measure there.”

  The Shingan sighed. “A shame.” He tapped a single finger against the armrest of his seat. “He had the potential to rise within the Death Phantoms… if only he had mastered that final step.”

  One of the other warriors—one of the five remaining—spoke next. “Master, do not worry. The ones we will have soon… will be perfect.”

  The Shingan’s fingers stopped tapping.

  He exhaled slowly, letting the words hang in the air.

  “Perfection?” His voice was soft. “No.” He raised his hand slightly, feeling the weight of the air itself between his fingertips. “Right now, we do not need to aim for perfection.”

  A pause.

  Then, he lowered his hand, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

  “We need to aim for inevitability.”

  Silence fell once more.

  Then, the Shingan lifted his hand into the air again, as if grasping at something unseen. His fingers moved slightly, feeling the very fabric of this pce—the pulse of the Chūkan, the shifting of realms.

  A low chuckle.

  “This realm will soon be ours.”

  One of the warriors, leaning zily against a pilr, speaks up after the meeting is about to end: “So, can we at least go py with the kid?”

  The room falls silent.

  The Shingan—who had been closing the discussion—pauses. Finally, he answers. “Fine. But don’t kill him. And do not underestimate the Jūmonban.” The warrior grins.

  Cut to bck.