I Am The Strongest Ghost Hunter

Chapter 9

Peace’s smile softened—just a hair, enough to feel almost real for once.

“As long as you don’t pull any runaway stunts and you follow orders,” she said, voice lighter now, “I promise you’re safe here. No one’s gonna touch you.”

She spun to Hank.

“Hank. Take him to Junior HQ. Babysit duty—keep an eye on the kid.”

Hank groaned low, rubbing the back of his neck like it already hurt.

“Come on,” he grumbled. “You know I’ve got a mission lined up.”

Peace arched one perfect eyebrow, stare turning lethal-sweet.

“Did I just hear a complaint?”

“No,” Hank muttered fast, dipping his head like a scolded dog. “We’re good. I’ll take him.”

He brushed past Raito without a glance—shoulder clipping air—boots thundering toward the exit.

Few steps in, he stopped dead and barked over his shoulder, “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Raito flinched hard, then scrambled after him, legs still wobbly from the emotional rollercoaster that just tried to kill him.

The corridor outside the hall stretched long and dim—torches flickering in wall sconces, shadows dancing like they had secrets. Stone floor cold under his shoes, air thick with that ancient, disciplined vibe.

Hank walked fast. Too damn fast. Not running, but his long strides ate ground like it owed him money.

Raito half-jogged to keep up, shorter legs scrambling, breath already short again.

Every echo of Hank’s boots felt like a countdown.

And Raito knew—deep in his gut—this was just the beginning of the real nightmare.

For some reason, the silence hanging between them felt heavier than Peace’s death threats. Hank didn’t look like the type to murder him on a whim—at least not right this second. That tiny shred of safety made Raito bold enough to open his mouth.

“So… uh,” he started, voice small and breathless between the half-jog pants, “what’s it feel like? Being a ghost hunter, I mean.”

Hank didn’t answer. Didn’t even flick a glance back.

“Come on, man, don’t be so grumpy,” Raito tried again, forcing a weak, nervous laugh. “I just wanna get to know you a little. What’s your rank? That sword your cursed weapon? …Obviously it is. God, am I dumb or what.”

He muttered the last bit to himself, cheeks burning hotter. Hank kept marching like Raito was a ghost himself—invisible, irrelevant.

Nerves twisted into frustration. He needed something, anything, to crack that ice.

“What does the sword even do?” he pushed. “Is it like Miss Peace’s dagger?”

Crickets.

Raito huffed, words tumbling out before his brain could hit the brakes.

“Guess you must be lower-ranked than her, huh? She snaps her fingers and you jump. You just stand there and take it.”

Hank stopped dead.

Raito’s stomach plummeted straight to the floor.

‘Oops. Definitely struck a nerve.’

Hank turned slow—eyes narrowed behind messy black strands, dark and dangerous. Two long strides and he was in Raito’s face.

First punch cracked across Raito’s cheek—head snapped sideways, stars exploding.

Second one buried deep in his gut—air whooshed out in a sharp gasp. He doubled over, coughing hard, copper flooding his tongue as blood speckled his lips.

Hank loomed, voice low and arctic-cold.

“Learn to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

Raito wiped the blood off his lip with a shaky hand, forcing a weak, wobbly grin through the throbbing pain.

“Finally,” he rasped, voice rough, “he speaks.”

Hank didn’t bite. Just turned his back again, digging into his pocket for a beat-up pack of cigarettes. Box worn soft at the edges, like it had lived there forever.

He tapped the bottom sharp—one cigarette popped out neat into his fingers.

“You know,” Hank said, voice low and gravelly as he slid the cigarette between his lips, “your life’s basically hanging by my thread right now.”

Flick—lighter sparked, flame dancing quick across his sharp face before he snapped it shut.

First drag long and slow, like he was tasting the threat itself. Smoke curled lazy into the dim corridor as he exhaled.

“I could cook up a thousand excuses to drop you here and now. ‘Kid tried to bolt.’ ‘Went feral—thought he was turning ghost and swung at me.’ Peace wouldn’t bat an eye. One quick report and poof—you’re history.”

He started walking again, slower this time, boots scraping rough against stone.

“But…” Sideways glance, eyes half-hidden behind drifting smoke. “I’m curious how far a scared little punk like you actually makes it in the GHO.”

Raito trailed a few steps back, rubbing his bruised gut. Pain throbbed steady—grounding, real, reminding him this wasn’t another nightmare.

“I don’t think Peace would take that lightly,” he said quietly, testing the edge again.

Hank barked a short, bitter laugh and stopped near a heavy metal door at the corridor’s end. Sunlight leaked through cracks, painting thin gold stripes across the floor.

“Yeah, well—don’t kid yourself thinking you’re special.” He flicked ash to the ground, watching it scatter. “You’re still breathing ‘cause she’s got some half-assed theory about you and wants to test it. The second she decides you’re dead weight? That's it.”

He crushed the cigarette under his boot, twisted hard, then raised a hand.

A yellow cab rolled up smooth on the quiet street outside, like it had been waiting.

“You’re not the first stray she dragged in on a hunch,” Hank added, voice flat as concrete. “And you damn sure won’t be the last.”

Raito’s chest squeezed tight.

‘I knew it,’ he thought, staring hard at the ground. ‘I knew this wasn’t mercy. I’m just an experiment. A curiosity.’

And experiments?

They get disposed of when they fail.

But running? Yeah, that wasn’t on the table anymore.

Not with Megumi possibly tied to him—still shielding him, even after everything. If he quit now, if he let them erase him… she’d disappear for good too. Gone like she never existed.

‘I can’t let that happen,’ he told himself, fists clenched so tight nails dug bloody half-moons into his palms. ‘I’m done hiding. Done being useless. I’m gonna get stronger. Prove I’m worth the life she saved. I’m gonna live—for her.’

For one sharp moment, the whole world froze around him. Distant city hum. Faint exhaust stink. Warm sunlight hitting his face like it meant something.

Everything felt heavier. Sharper. Real.

Then—

HONK! HONK!

The cab driver smashed the horn, impatient as hell.

Hank was already sliding into the back seat, one leg in, glancing out the open door.

“You getting in or what?”

Raito jolted hard, scrambling forward. He dove in beside Hank, yanking the door shut.

Cab pulled away smooth, merging into the lazy afternoon traffic.

The ride wasn’t long—maybe twenty minutes winding through narrow streets crammed with little shops, faded apartment blocks, random patches of green park—but it dragged like forever.

Raito stared out the window, eyes glued to normal life rolling by.

A young mom pushing a stroller, laughing at her kid.

Two teens cracking up over something on a phone.

Old man on a bench, tossing crumbs to pigeons like he had all day.

Normal. Easy. Safe.

Lives he’d spent three years hiding from, peeking at through cracks, pretending he wasn’t jealous.

Cab slowed, pulled up in a rundown neighborhood on the city’s edge. Weeds choking the sidewalks. Houses sagging, windows boarded or smashed, like nobody gave a damn anymore.

Hank tossed cash to the driver without a word and stepped out.

Raito followed, boots crunching gravel as Hank led him to the worst house on the block—two stories of peeling paint, roof caving in spots, front door hanging crooked like it was drunk.

“Wait here,” Hank ordered, jabbing a finger at the cracked concrete steps. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Raito nodded quick, dropped onto the step, pulled his knees to his chest. Air smelled dusty, stale, like forgotten things. A crow cawed somewhere close—sharp, mocking.

Minutes crawled.

Five.

Ten.

Silence itched bad.

‘What if he ditched me?’ Raito thought, glancing at the empty street. ‘Or worse—what if there’s a ghost in there and he’s fighting solo? That chill’s creeping up my spine again…’

Heart thudding loud in his ears, he stood.

Took one hesitant step toward the door.

Before his foot even touched the next step, the door swung open hard, creaking like it was pissed.

Hank strode out, looking seriously annoyed.

“I told you to wait here, didn’t I?” he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut.

“I—I thought something happened,” Raito stammered, heart still racing. “Or maybe you just ditched me. And… I don’t know, that weird feeling hit again. Like ghosts are close.”

Hank rolled his eyes so hard it was audible.

“Stop chasing every stray tingle you get, rookie.”

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pair of dark, dusty sunglasses. Wiped them clean on his shirt sleeve—slow, deliberate—then slid them on.

The look locked in: black hair messy over his forehead, black shirt tight across his shoulders, black jeans, black boots, that deadly black sword strapped across his back—and now matte black shades hiding his eyes completely.

Somehow? It fit him perfect.

Like he was born to step straight out of shadows and ruin somebody’s day.

“This is just an old safe house,” Hank muttered, already brushing past Raito like he was furniture. “Needed to grab something.”