***"CHANGE OF PLANS! WE HAVE TO RETREAT!"*** A voice roared across the battlefield with such desperate urgency that it cut through even the overwhelming presence of Draki's gathered power. The sound carried for miles, reaching Draki with crystal clarity. Just as Draki was about to unleash the accumulated energy that would have reduced Mikasa and Akira to history, a loud voice resonated throughout the clear, silent expanse of the wasteland that was once the Red Eastern Guild base. It was unmistakably Valachi's voice, but transformed by terror into something barely recognizable. The arrogant confidence that had defined Valachi was completely gone, replaced by raw fear that made his words crack. Valachi wasn't just calling for a tactical withdrawal or something along those lines—he was screaming for them to run for their lives, to abandon all their dignity in favor of immediate survival. Akira and Mikasa, frozen as they were, weren't able to detect the subtleties of the sound. T

Just the moment Draki and Valachi disappeared from the face of planet Terra, vanishing into the void that connected realms through their resignation technique and straight to where they came from, Ryder suddenly arrived at the exact location where they had been standing mere seconds before. The timing was almost perfect—if he had arrived just a heartbeat earlier, the outcome might have been entirely different. But fate, it seemed, had its own way. Ryder moved with that same terrifying fluidity that had characterized his transformation, each step covering impossible distances as he traversed the devastated landscape. His movements remained unnaturally smooth, and his legs were barely being stretched throughout his movement. The purple lightning that had been dancing around his form throughout his rampage continued to crackle with violent intensity that was oddly constant. Upon reaching the exact spot where Valachi and Draki had stood before their escape, Ryder came to an abrup

Saturday, August 2nd, 2005. Tokyo city, Japan. The morning sun cast long shadows across the bustling streets of Tokyo. The city was bustling with several million people, each hurrying toward their own destination, dressed decently and respectably. Yet among this sea of people, one figure stood apart like a sore thumb. A young boy, no more than ten years old, struggled against the weight of what appeared to be too heavy for his small size; however, he surprisingly could move it. His clothes, that were once probably shades of blue, had faded to a brown color, patched and re-patched at different angles. The shirt hung loose on his thin shoulders, too large for his questionably slender frame, as if he got it from some charitable individual or perhaps, a dumpster. The cart he dragged behind him was sticking out just like him, given that such was becoming rare these days. It was a wooden box designed for horses, with iron wheels that were already rusty. It groaned with ea

The Nakamura family—a name that carried weight in the shadows of Tokyo's city, whispered about in secrets and feared in back alleys. To the outside world, they were successful entrepreneurs, with their charitable donations making headlines in the news. But behind the gates of their mansion lay a truth so twisted that no one could guess or even imagine: they were a family that focused on making children and breeding them like livestock. The comparison to livestock wasn't some sort of exaggeration—it was generous compared to their treatment. Even cattle, after all, received more mercy than the Nakamura children. Consider the humble cow: it gets shelter built or designated specially for it in whatever weather. Though confined within their owner's boundaries, they still receive the privilege to roam freely within those limits, to graze and interact with their kind. They're fed regularly, given medical attention when needed, and generally kept in conditions that ensure their w

Nakamura began his long speech, spouting nonsense to the children and telling them the benefits of being beloved. The words rolled off his tongue like honey and poison at the same time—sweet enough to entice, but deadly to those who truly understood the whole picture, like Satoru. "My precious children," he began, his voice carrying across the massive hall with perfect clarity. "Today marks another milestone in your journey toward greatness." He gestured grandly with his arms, as if he were a speech of hope rather than addressing a room full of traumatized children who had been forced to survive in conditions that would make even criminals weep. "Each of you has faced challenges that would break lesser individuals. You have walked through fire and emerged as diamonds." "The path of the beloved child," Nakamura continued, a warm smile on his face, "is not merely about privilege." "Oh no, my dear ones," he demonstrated, spreading his hand wide open. "It is about acknowledgment