After a dinner filled with laughter and steaming roadside ramen, the mood turned mellow as Fujisawa invited Ren and Kiriya for some casual post-match banter. Of course, his flamboyant outfit prompted Kiriya to joke, "You’re seriously beach-mode, not battlefield-ready."
"Man, what a day!" Fujisawa chuckled, slapping Ren on the back. His skin was warm with fatigue, but his eyes still held that wise glimmer.
"Same here! Oh, by the way... you should really rethink your outfit," Ren added, glancing down at Fujisawa’s loud floral shorts, glowing under the soft streetlights.
"Seriously," Kiriya snorted. "Those contestants earlier couldn’t even process how you eliminated them wearing that getup."
Fujisawa flashed a wide grin. "Hey, don’t lecture me about style, alright? I wear what I want with confidence. Now scram—it’s late. Your folks are probably looking for you by now!"
"Okay, take care of yourself, Ossan!" Kiriya replied, voice teasing but warm.
"Later, Fujisawa-san! Hope we meet again!" Ren called out with a big wave.
Fujisawa watched their backs disappear into the night from his spot at the roadside table. He let out a long sigh, eyes drifting toward the quieting street.
"Hah... not likely," he murmured to himself. His voice was low, touched with weariness—the weight of a mercenary returning to the world’s grim chessboard. Today had been the best day he’d had in a long time. No bullets. No orders. Just honest laughter.
Starting next week, he would return to his security firm—Sparta Ares. His contract wasn’t over. David, the team captain and company director, had granted him a rare week off to visit home: dust out his parents’ old house and stop by their graves.
All Fujisawa had wanted... was to feel like a kid again, even for a little while. But the contracts of the world never left room for peace—only brief pauses.
Inside a dull, brown-toned operations room at the national army base, the mood was deadly serious. A senior officer—old, tired-eyed—pointed to the face on the screen before a unit of soldiers.
"’Senjō no Akuma’—the Demon of the Battlefield. That’s the name they gave this man. A brutal asset in the Asian front. He was active in the Middle East as a mercenary for the private firm Sparta Ares. Recently, he executed a UN staff member in Iraq. We cannot allow him to slip through. We will bring him to justice—on home soil."
The room fell silent under the weight of his words.
"Sir!" the special forces responded in perfect sync. The air was thick with focus and obedience.
The officer continued, "Target location: Intelligence says he’s re-entering the country via domestic sea routes. His trail was found at one of the major harbors. We’ll conduct a full perimeter encirclement and capture operation there!"
The screen displayed Fujisawa’s face—cold, tired, the expression of a man who had seen far too much. He’d saved lives. Taken them too. "This is our suspect," the officer declared, pointing at the image.
It wasn’t a studio photo—it was the face of a mercenary, accused of betraying his homeland for a life of violence and coin. The unspoken question lingered: Does a man even deserve trial?
The operation room lights beamed down on a spread-out map of the harbor and the inbound sea route. Red lines marked key points of the planned operation. Surveillance cameras. Strategic positioning.
No one in the room cracked a smile.
And only one thought lingered like a shadow: Would Fujisawa—the man who just last night laughed and joked like an old friend—soon become the next target of his own nation’s military?
Late that night, after a half-hearted apology for getting home late, Ren returned to his bedroom—a clean, orderly space now, without the usual piles of wires or electronics cluttering the corners. All of that had been moved to his hidden lab, leaving his room neat and quiet, ready for rest.
He sat at his desk and powered on the monitor. With his extraordinary skills—a fusion of science and self-coded algorithms—Ren accessed multiple platforms with ease, including secure government systems. Within seconds, a full dossier on "Fujisawa Naru" lit up his screen.
Ren exhaled slowly as he read the real name: not Fujisawa, but Fujiwara. Still, the nickname "Senjō no Akuma" remained etched in military reports. One particular document officially linked him to the fatal shooting of a UN secretary in Iraq—a real, horrifying incident.
A flick of his wrist, and more data appeared—security clearances, shadow op records, even classified recruitment files. It was all laid bare before him. This wasn’t just the backstory of an eccentric friend—this man had lived on the edge of real battlefields. From within the silence of his room, Ren stared at the screen with a mix of awe and unease.
"This... is insane," he whispered, heart pounding. These weren’t just data points—they were the trail of someone who had laughed with them, joked over ramen, and now... might be the target of a national military operation.
And as he scrolled further, the list just kept going—mission logs, commendations, operation results. It was a long, bloody résumé of a man who had lived more than one lifetime on the front lines.
Ren leaned back in his chair, his body sinking slightly into the cushion. The monitor now dimmed, leaving only the faint reflection of his own face on the black screen. In his mind, Fujisawa’s figure replayed like a silent montage—his laid-back grin, the ridiculous outfit, that warm, approachable demeanor that had made them feel so at ease.
Now, all of that felt like a mask—one that had finally slipped, revealing something colder. Darker. Deadlier.
"I really didn’t see that coming..." Ren murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the stillness of his room. "It started as curiosity, a little snooping—and now it’s like I opened Pandora’s damn box."
He exhaled, staring up at the blank ceiling. His eyes were dull, but his mind was racing, constructing scenarios, worst-case outcomes. If Kiriya finds out... he’ll freak out. He’s too idealistic when it comes to friends.
Ren closed his eyes for a moment and sighed inwardly.
And if this is all true... if the government knows... There’s gonna be chaos. But... can Japan really capture someone like him? Fujisawa’s like a damn super soldier...
Slowly, he got up, set his glasses on the table, and lay down on his bed. "Haah... this world really is messed up," he muttered as he let his eyes close, letting the night carry him off—even if his mind was far from peace.
On that particular day, Fujisawa really did have to leave. He was supposed to transit through China, where his contact would pick him up. The plan? A simple boat ride. But then, his contact called with bad news—there was a planned military operation to capture him at the harbor.
So now, his only shot was the Ryukyu Islands. His contact would reroute and pick him up there instead. The problem? The only port leading to Ryukyu was already swarming with troops. Time wasn’t on his side—and Fujisawa knew that.
Which meant one thing: he’d have to fight.
He stood still for a moment, staring at the horizon. The salty wind brushed against his face. One kilometer out, three snipers lay hidden in strategic positions. Fujisawa recalled their posture—silent, cold, deadly. He did the math in his head, then began moving slowly along the concrete harbor wall. Each step was silent, calculated—like a shadow made flesh.
Reaching the first sniper, Fujisawa slipped up from behind and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck—no warning. The sniper went limp in silence. The other two? Dispatched just as quickly—one taken down with a swift flip, the other with a precise chokehold. No alarms. No noise.
With the path clear, Fujisawa moved forward, crouching past a squad of patrolling soldiers. Slipping through unnoticed, he yanked one of them aside into a shadowed container and stripped him of his uniform.
Now disguised, he moved quickly toward his destination.
But just as he reached the boatyard—trouble. More guards than expected. A dozen full-uniformed soldiers surrounded the two remaining boats. Worse yet, Fujisawa only had one boat prepared for escape.
Quick mental calculus: If I board now, they’ll know something’s off. They’ll give chase on the other two boats. This is bad—really bad, he muttered internally.
But he’d come too far. Retreat wasn’t an option.
His gaze darted across the area, rapidly assessing the terrain. Activating the tactical overlay he’d trained into muscle memory over the years—his personal visual combat AI—he calculated angles, bomb bounce trajectories, gas leak risks, and even wind direction for optimal smoke cover.
I need to disable those two boats... but without a huge explosion. Too much attention.
His eyes locked onto a fuel drum near the dock pillar. A stack of thick ropes on the third boat’s deck. A portable generator humming on the second boat. And near both boats’ hulls—small gas canisters, likely for onboard cooking.
Moving with surgical speed, he crept toward the ropes first, tying them tightly around the second boat’s propeller. Next, he snuck toward the fuel drum, rigging a low-yield fire chain with an improvised ignition rig—enough to start a fire, not a spectacle. Lastly, a quick snip on the gas line near the generator.
"This has to be perfect," he whispered.
Everything was timed to the second. As he lit the makeshift firestarter, the gas caught. Flames crept up the dock. A soft boom echoed from the fuel drum, halting two guards mid-step. The rope tangled in the propeller squealed and snapped. Chaos.
Fujisawa took the window. He darted across the pier toward his own boat—the only one left intact. Swiftly, he unfastened the mooring, secured the canvas cover, and slammed the motor control.
Smoke flooded the dock behind him, masking the flame-scorched wreckage of the other boats. His small escape boat pulled away, cutting through the debris and black haze.