I Am The Strongest Ghost Hunter

Chapter 10

He headed down the cracked sidewalk toward a beat-up motorcycle parked under a leaning carport, half-buried under a ratty tarp.

Raito hurried after him—because what else was he gonna do?

“One more stop before we hit the base, I've got a mission” Hank muttered, sliding a dusty key into the ignition.

The engine coughed once, hacked like it resented being woken up, then roared to life—vibration rumbling through the frame like a pissed-off beast finally let out of its cage.

He jerked his head toward the back seat. “Hop on.”

Raito climbed on awkward as hell, hands gripping the edges tight, knuckles already white.

Hank twisted the throttle hard.

They shot forward—tires spitting gravel before grabbing smooth asphalt. Wind slammed into Raito’s face, cold and sharp, whipping his hair wild, carrying that faint, distant smell of coming rain.

City outskirts blurred past—flickering neon on rundown convenience stores, quiet residential streets with kids’ bikes dumped on lawns, overgrown empty lots—until buildings grew taller, cleaner, shinier.

Raito held on tighter, engine thrumming through his bones like a second heartbeat.

For the first time in years, he felt like he was actually moving forward.

Literally.

And maybe—just maybe—in every other way too.

Hank slowed, pulled into the parking lot of a sleek four-story building—glass and steel, all polished and expensive-looking. Late-afternoon sun bounced off the doors. Sign out front some boring corporate name nobody remembered.

Everything screamed ordinary. Safe. Normal.

Hank killed the engine, swung off smooth.

“Wait here,” he said, voice flat as pavement. “Don’t follow me this time.”

Raito opened his mouth to argue—then caught the look Hank shot him. Cold. Warning. Shut-up-or-else.

He nodded quick, stayed put, leaning against the still-warm seat, feeling tiny and out of place in the fancy lot.

Hank strode through the automatic doors like he owned the building—shades on, hands in pockets, total badass energy.

Minutes dragged.

Raito counted cars. Watched clouds crawl. Fidgeted anyway.

Then—

THUD!

A heavy impact echoed from inside—muffled but solid, no mistaking it.

Then another.

A low grunt followed, swallowed quick by the walls.

Raito’s skin prickled bad. That familiar chill slithered up his spine—stronger this time, colder, like icy fingers dragging slow across his neck.

“I knew it,” he whispered, heart kicking hard. “Something’s wrong. Hank’s in trouble.”

Another crash—louder, closer. Glass rattled somewhere deep in the building.

He couldn’t just stand there like a statue.

Raito bolted for the entrance, pulse hammering in his ears. He shoved the glass door open and slipped into a pristine lobby—shiny marble floors, fancy potted plants, reception desk empty and quiet. Too quiet.

The noise came from deeper in, down a side corridor.

He followed it, footsteps echoing way too loud, until he hit a half-open office door.

Pushed it wider.

And froze.

Hank stood back to the doorway, thin line of blood sliding from his hairline down his temple. Shades still perfect on his face.

In front of him? A blue-aura ghost—tall, warped, limbs stretched too long, face twisted into pure mindless hate.

“Come on, ghosty,” Hank taunted, voice lazy, mocking, like he was bored. “That all you got?”

The ghost shrieked—inhuman, grating, nails-on-chalkboard bad—and lunged.

Grabbed Hank by the throat. Slammed him into the floor hard enough to crack tiles.

Dust and debris exploded up in a cloud.

Raito’s eyes blew wide, horror punching him in the chest. He took one instinctive step forward, hands up useless.

Hank hit the ground heavy.

But instead of pain? A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

For a split second, his gaze flicked sideways—straight at Raito in the doorway.

Smile vanished.

Expression locked into something sharp. Focused. Deadly.

One fluid motion—fist drove upward, slammed dead-center into the ghost’s chest.

Impact rocked it back, blue aura flickering wild.

Hank rolled to his feet smooth, hand already on the sword hilt.

Drew it in one clean arc—black steel flashing cold under the fluorescent lights.

The ghost roared, charged again, claws out hungry.

Hank didn’t flinch.

Raised the blade calm.

Almost casual.

Like he was daring it to try.

Slash.

The sword cut clean—straight through the ghost’s center like it was paper.

For one frozen instant, the thing hung there, split perfect in half, blue aura flickering wild.

Then—crumble.

Fine gray dust poured out, scattering across the wrecked office floor, vanishing into nothing before it even settled.

Silence rushed in hard, ringing in the ears.

Hank sheathed the sword with a soft, deadly click.

Turned slow to face Raito.

Blood still dripping from his forehead, sliding down and staining the edge of his shades.

“I thought I told you to wait outside,” he said, voice low, anger sharp under the calm.

Raito swallowed hard, hands shaking bad.

“I… I heard the crashing,” he managed. “Thought you might need help.”

Hank wiped the blood with the back of his hand—smearing it red across his skin.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” He stepped closer, towering, shadows swallowing Raito whole. “Rule one here: you do what you’re told. No questions. No playing hero. Zero room for disobedience.”

He brushed past, shoulder clipping air, heading for the exit.

“Next time you ignore an order,” he threw back without looking, “you deal with the consequences yourself.”

Raito’s throat locked tight.

“Okay… sir,” he mumbled, hurrying to catch up.

They walked back to the motorcycle in thick, heavy silence—no words, just boots on pavement and the distant city hum.

Hank swung on first, kicked the engine to life—growl filling the air.

Waited.

Raito climbed on behind, gripping tighter this time.

Not just for balance.

Because the world suddenly felt massive. Colder. Way more dangerous than it had an hour ago.