Tokyo: Proving one's position from behind the scenes

A few days later, Adachi Ward.

The drab three-story building looked even more dilapidated at night than during the day. The "Ayase Financial Consultation Office" sign at the entrance was dark, but a dim light still shone from the windows on the second and third floors.

The office on the second floor, towards the back, was filled with smoke.

Tanaka Hiroaki sat in a worn-out office chair, the armrests worn smooth and shiny. He was thirty-seven years old and had been in the industry for twelve years, rising from a low-level debt collector to his current position as a small-time boss, handling at least a hundred "cases." A section of a Hannya tattoo was visible on the back of his neck, which he had gotten when he was twenty, and the color had now faded somewhat.

A boy in a school uniform, about seventeen or eighteen years old, stood across from the desk, his head down and his shoulders trembling slightly.

"Yoshida, the money your father owes, including interest, totals four million three hundred thousand yen."

Tanaka pushed a piece of paper to the edge of the table, speaking in a flat tone, as if to say that the weather was nice today.

"We also regret what happened to your mother, but money is money and people are people, they are two different things."

The boy suddenly looked up, his eyes bloodshot. His name was Yoshida Sho, a second-year high school student, who had just held his mother's funeral three days ago. It was called a funeral, but it was really just the cheapest kind subsidized by the ward office; the urn was the smallest size, and they couldn't even afford a decent burial plot.

"I've already given you the house," Yoshida Sho's voice was hoarse. "It was my family's only possession—"

"The house?" Tanaka interrupted him, took out a cigarette from the pack, lit it, took a puff, and then slowly said, "That apartment is rented; the property isn't in your father's name. What your father used as collateral was completely fake; we're victims too."

Yoshida Sho's lips trembled slightly.

He knew the other person was lying. His father had bought the apartment ten years ago, and he had seen the property certificate with his own eyes. But after his father died, the property certificate disappeared, replaced by a pile of loan contracts he couldn't understand. He had checked at the ward office, and the name on the property registration had indeed been changed, and the change date was before his father's death.

"I have nothing left," Yoshida Sho said, his voice so low it sounded like it was being squeezed from his throat. "What else do you want from me?"

Tanaka exhaled a puff of smoke, which slowly diffused in the dim light. He flicked the ash into an empty beer can, then took a piece of paper from a drawer and placed it on the table.

"The shrimp fishing season is about to begin on the fishing boats in Hokkaido," Tanaka said. "We're short-handed, but the pay is good. If you work there for a year or two, you might be able to pay off most of your debts. We can discuss the rest later."

Yoshida Sho stared at the paper—a labor contract. His gaze swept over the lines of text, his face paling slowly. The contract was densely packed with clauses, but he only understood a few key words: shipboard work, breach of contract compensation, and self-funded insurance.

"I'm not going." Yoshida Sho took a step back.

Tanaka didn't speak, but glanced towards the door. Two men in black T-shirts walked in and stood on either side of Yoshida Sho. They both had tattoos on their arms, and one of them had thick calluses on his knuckles.

"Yoshida, to be honest with you," Tanaka stubbed out his cigarette in his beer can, stood up, and walked over to Yoshida Sho. "We did get involved in your sister's matter. That kid is fourteen years old this year? She's good-looking. She was sent to Gifu. I don't know exactly what she's doing there, but since you signed this contract, I can help you find out."

Yoshida Sho's body suddenly stiffened.

He looked up at Tanaka, but only a low, guttural sound, like someone being choked, escaped his throat.

Tanaka gave the two men a wink.

One of the men in the black T-shirt raised his hand and punched Yoshida Sho in the temple. The movement was clean and swift, clearly something he had done many times before. Yoshida Sho's eyes rolled back, his body went limp, and he was caught by another man.

"Murata, how many times have I told you? You can't fight like this, it could kill someone."

Tanaka sat back down in his chair and lit another cigarette.

"Lock him in the storage room on the third floor. The bus leaves at 5:30 tomorrow morning. Don't let him escape."

The two men dragged the unconscious Yoshida Sho out of the office, their footsteps fading into the distance. Tanaka smoked a cigarette, gazing out the window at the night view of Adachi Ward. The distant neon lights blurred into colorful patches in the rain and mist, like the last colors of something rotting in the darkness.

Third floor, storage room.

It was called a storage room, but it was actually just an empty room about the size of a six-tatami mat. The windows were boarded up, there were several cardboard boxes piled up in the corner, and a thin layer of tatami mats was laid on the floor with several dark stains on it, I don’t know if it was blood or something else.

Yoshida Sho was thrown onto the tatami mat, and the door was locked from the outside. The sound of the two men talking in hushed tones drifted down the hallway, followed by footsteps coming downstairs, and then silence.

About ten minutes later.

In a corner of the room, the air suddenly distorted slightly.

It wasn't a visibly obvious distortion, but rather a subtle, almost imperceptible wave of heat rising from the road surface in summer. A figure emerged from nothing, first a blurry outline, then gradually becoming clearer.

Nagayama Akira stood in the corner of the room, enveloped in a faint golden light. It was a concealment spell he had cast, a low-level technique that any cultivator in the early stages of Qi Refining in his previous life could use. Its effect was merely to conceal his form in the eyes of mortals, which could not fool cultivators, but it was more than enough to deceive these extreme cultivators.

He walked from the apartment to here, avoiding several security cameras along the way. It wasn't a problem that the cameras could capture him—his form wouldn't be reflected in mirrors or lenses due to concealment spells. Rather, the cameras themselves were connected to the network, and if someone later reviewed the footage and noticed occasional light distortions in the footage—though the probability was extremely low, it was still a potential concern.

His experience from his previous life over two hundred years taught him a lesson: caution is not cowardice, but a prerequisite for longevity.

Akira Nagayama looked down at Sho Yoshida, who was lying on the tatami mat.

The boy looked terrible, with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones, as if he hadn't eaten properly for days. The cuffs of his school uniform were worn white, and one button was missing from his collar. His right hand was clenched into a fist, which remained even in his unconscious state, his nails digging into his palm until a little blood seeped out.

Akira Nagayama crouched down, extended his right hand, and gently touched Yoshida Sho's forehead with his index and middle fingers together.

His senses extended along the magical power, probing into the other person's body. His meridians were unremarkable, he possessed no special physique, and his dantian was empty—just an ordinary seventeen-year-old boy. But these were not the things Yongshan Akira wanted to investigate.

He wanted to investigate Yoshida Sho's destiny.

In the past, there was a consensus in the cultivation world: one's destiny determines what kind of true qi one can cultivate. When one's destiny and true qi are in harmony, drawing qi into the body can be twice as effective; when destiny and true qi clash, forcibly drawing qi can damage the meridians at best, and even lead to immediate death at worst. This rule will not change even in this world where the spiritual atmosphere is dead.

Akira Nagayama took out three copper coins and tossed them lightly to divine Yoshida Sho's destiny. A moment later, he opened his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

【Zhen Water】Chong 【Zi Fire】.

【Zui Huo】is a flickering fire, and this person also possesses 【Zhen Shui】, which represents a clash between water and fire.

But having the virtue of water is enough.

Akira Nagayama didn't need Sho Yoshida to master any profound techniques, or even to truly enter the path of cultivation. He only needed a catalyst, a pebble thrown into stagnant water.

He withdrew his fingers and formed a simple mudra with his hands.

A wisp of extremely faint magical power separated from the dantian and flowed along the meridians to the fingertips of the right hand. This was not for attacking, but for entering dreams. In his previous life, the [Ghost Gold] cultivator had a minor technique called "Dream Induction," which was originally intended to manifest supernatural powers and collect incense offerings and prayers in mortals' dreams.

The magic power silently seeped into Yoshida Sho's brow.

Dream.

Yoshida Sho found himself standing in a hazy, gray fog.

He didn't know where he was, nor did he remember how he got there.

The sound of water came from deep within the fog.

It wasn't the sound of a river, nor the sound of rain. It was the sound of the sea, deep, slow, and carrying a bottomless sense of oppression. The tide lapped against something again and again, as if calling out to something.

Yoshida Sho unconsciously walked towards the direction of the sound of water.

The fog gradually dissipated. He found himself standing on a mudflat, his feet sinking into wet sand, with the greyish-white sea stretching out in the distance. The sky was grey too, making it impossible to distinguish where the sea ended and the sky began. The tide surged in from afar, washing over his ankles, its chilling waters biting.

A person was standing on the intertidal mudflats.

No, it's not a person.

The figure was a full head taller than him, its body bloated and enormous, like a combination of a waterlogged corpse and a fish. Its skin was grayish-blue, covered with a thin layer of shimmering water, making it impossible to tell whether it was scales or something else. Its eyes were two deep black orbs, without pupils, simply staring fixedly at Yoshida Sho.

Lord Umibo.

The name inexplicably popped into Yoshida Sho's mind. When he was a child, his grandmother told him the legend of Umibozu, a sea monster that would capsize fishing boats and drag fishermen into the water. His grandmother said that Umibozu only appeared on stormy nights, but for some reason, it was standing motionless on a calm mudflat, watching him.

"Do you want revenge?"

The sound did not come from the mouth of the sea monk, but from the surging tides from all directions. It was deep and murky, like a thousand people speaking at the same time underwater.

Yoshida Sho's pupils suddenly contracted.

He remembered his mother hanging from the ceiling. That day, he came home from school, opened the door, and saw the living room light on. His mother was hanging from the beam next to the light. There was a letter on the table with only one line: "I'm sorry, Mom really can't pay back the money." The handwriting was messy, and his hand was shaking uncontrollably when he wrote the last word.

He thought of his younger sister. The fourteen-year-old girl who liked to buy 100-yen ice cream after school. Three days after their mother's death, his sister disappeared too. He went to the police station to report it, and the police said they would investigate. A week later, a man claiming to be one of Tanaka's men came to him, saying he knew where his sister was, but only if he "cooperated."

"I think so," Yoshida Sho said, his voice dry like sandpaper.

The sound of the tide grew louder.

"And the price?" the voice asked again. "Revenge comes at a price. What are you willing to pay?"

Yoshida Sho remained silent.

"Anything is fine," he said. "I have nothing left."

The sea spirit's two black eyes stared at him, as if confirming something. Then, the bloated figure began to dissipate, turning into gray mist that blended into the tide on the mudflats.

reality.

Akira Nagayama opened his eyes, removing his fingers from Sho Yoshida's brow. The dream-entering technique had consumed more mana than he had anticipated; the spiritual atmosphere of this world was deathly still, making even such a minor technique require extra effort. But it didn't matter; he still had enough mana in his dantian.

He took the bottle of "Intertidal Mudflat Qi" out of his pocket.

Uncorking the bottle released a damp scent. It was the smell of the mudflats—salty, fishy, ​​damp, and cold, a mixture of mud and seawater. The aroma filled the room, and even the cardboard boxes piled in the corner were covered with a thin layer of water droplets.

Akira Nagayama aligned the bottle opening with Sho Yoshida's dantian (lower abdomen) and tilted the bottle.

A grayish-blue aura flowed from the bottle; it was neither liquid nor gas, but a viscous, slowly flowing substance somewhere in between. It settled on Yoshida Sho's abdomen, and instead of dispersing, it began to seep into his skin as if it were alive.

Akira Nagayama pressed his right hand against Sho Yoshida's dantian, while his left hand formed a hand seal, guiding the magical power along Sho Yoshida's meridians.

He did not teach any techniques.

Cultivation techniques require practice, involving daily accumulation of breathing exercises, visualization, and circulation. Yoshida Sho didn't have that time. What Nagayama Akira wanted to do wasn't to make him a cultivator, but to forcibly create a pathway in his meridians and dantian using his magical power, allowing the [Intertidal Mudflat Qi] to circulate within his body on its own.

This is the most brutal approach.

In the cultivation world of the past, cultivators occasionally used this method to create "Taoist-transformed demons"—forcibly infusing true qi into the bodies of mortals and using magical power to expand their meridians, granting them extraordinary power in a very short time. The price was that the recipient's meridians would collapse within a few days, their dantian would shatter, and their soul would be completely eroded by the true qi. In short, it was a one-time consumable.

This substance also occurs when ordinary cultivators make mistakes during practice, or when advanced cultivators fail to advance.

However, when "returning the Dao to Heaven", these temporary cultivators can exert the same abilities as ordinary cultivators.

His magical power flowed along Yoshida Sho's meridians, forcefully breaking through any blockages it encountered. Each time it broke through a blockage, Yoshida Sho's body convulsed violently. Even while still unconscious, his brows furrowed tightly, and a trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth.

One by one, the meridians were opened up. From the dantian to the limbs, and from the limbs to the top of the head, Nagayama Akira used his magical power to forcibly create a path for the circulation of true qi within Yoshida Sho's body. This path was rough and fragile, and could not be maintained for long, but it was enough for the [intertidal mudflat qi] to circulate within it.

The last meridian is connected.

Nagayama Akira withdrew his hands, simultaneously imprinting an extremely simplified circulation route deep into Yoshida Sho's consciousness. It wasn't a complete technique, but merely a subconscious, instinctive way of operating—inhale, rotate, release—just three steps. In his previous life, it was called the "Minor Tide Technique," the most basic water-based breathing method, not even meeting the entry-level requirements. Its only advantage was that, as a [Zhenshui] technique, it took its name from the ebb and flow of tides, requiring no active cultivation. As long as there was [Zhenshui] power within the body, it could resonate with the tides and operate automatically until the power was exhausted or the host died.

The grayish-blue magical power slowly circulated along the meridian channels opened by Nagayama Akira. With each inch of circulation, Yoshida Sho's skin changed. Fine scales began to appear on his arms, not fish scales, but something somewhere between fish and snake, grayish-blue with pale edges. Transparent webbing grew between his fingers, and his nails thickened, sharpened, and turned dark gray.

Yoshida Sho's eyes snapped open.

The pupils are no longer round like those of a human, but rather vertical and elongated, like the eyes of a deep-sea fish. The whites of the eyes have turned pale yellow, and the irises are grayish-blue.

A low groan escaped his throat.

It wasn't pain, but an instinctive, primal sound, like it came from the deep sea. His body began to swell, the seams of his school uniform making a tearing sound as if it couldn't bear the weight. It wasn't the expansion of muscles, but the entire body growing larger—bones, skin, muscles, all twisted and deformed under the erosion of the Dao.

Akira Nagayama had already stood up, taken a step back, and cast the concealment spell again. His figure blurred once more, disappearing into the shadows in the corner of the room.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

The two men in black T-shirts had clearly heard the commotion. The lock turned, the door was flung open, and the light from the hallway shone into the storage room.

They saw Sho Yoshida.

Or rather, he saw what Yoshida Sho was becoming.

"What—"

The first person didn't finish speaking.

A hand covered in greyish-blue scales gripped his face. The hand was twice the size of a normal hand, its fingers webbed, the sharp claws at the tips digging into his cheek, piercing from left to right. Blood seeped from between the fingers, dripping onto the tatami mat.

Yoshida Sho—if he could still be called that—stood up from the ground. He was already over two meters tall, his back hunched, the vertebrae of his spine protruding from under his skin like a row of serrated teeth. Some human features remained on his face, but his mouth had split open to his ears, revealing two rows of sharp, jagged teeth.

The man in the black T-shirt was lifted up, his feet off the ground. His hands were still waving futilely in the air, trying to grab something, but he couldn't even grasp the cold, damp scales on Yoshida Sho's arm.

The second man in the black T-shirt turned and ran.

He didn't run three steps.

Yoshida Sho threw the first person against the wall; the body hit the concrete with a dull thud and then lay still. Immediately afterward, the half-human, half-fish figure darted out of the room with a speed that shouldn't belong to a creature of that size, catching up with the second person in the corridor.

The screams echoed throughout the entire building.

In the office downstairs, Tanaka Hiroaki suddenly stood up, his chair overturning to the floor. He recognized the voice—it was one of his men, the man who had trained in boxing for three years and broken countless bones, screaming in a voice he had never heard before.

It wasn't a scream of pain.

It was a scream of terror.

The screams lasted for about fifteen seconds, then stopped abruptly.

Tanaka stood there, reached into the drawer, and found a short knife. He gripped the hilt, his palms sweaty.

Wet footsteps echoed down the corridor. They were heavy, each step causing the floor to vibrate slightly, as if something enormous was approaching. Accompanying the footsteps was a low, indistinct roar, its human voice unclear.

The footsteps stopped at the office door.

A pool of grayish-blue liquid seeped in from the crack beneath the door. It wasn't blood; it was thicker and carried a strong, fishy smell from the mudflats.

The door was slammed open.

In the corner of the room, Akira Nagayama stood in the shadows, his concealment spell blending him into the darkness. His gaze passed over the monster pushing open the door and landed on the two mutilated corpses at the end of the corridor.

Akira Nagayama sensed something. He extended his senses to probe the surrounding spiritual atmosphere.

Then his brow twitched slightly.

The stagnant pool of water stirred.

The fluctuation was extremely faint, so faint that he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't deliberately probed it. But it definitely moved—the instant Yoshida Sho tore apart the first person, the moment the man in the black T-shirt breathed his last, a barely perceptible disturbance appeared in the surrounding spiritual atmosphere. It was like someone throwing a grain of sand into a stagnant pool; the ripples were so weak they vanished in an instant, but the surface of the water was indeed broken.

Return the Way to Heaven.

No, the death of mortals cannot be considered "returning to the heavens," but at most "dispersing their vital energy into the wilderness." Mortals do not possess true vital energy; after death, only a negligible amount of life essence can be released. But even this negligible disturbance is enough to verify Nagayama Akira's conjecture.

Throwing a stone into water doesn't make the water flow itself, but the moment the stone hits the water, ripples appear on the surface. If enough stones are thrown in, and they are large enough, the ripples overlap, and stagnant water can indeed become flowing water.

Akira Nagayama withdrew his senses and his gaze returned to Sho Yoshida.

The demonic entity born from the [Intertidal Mudflat Qi] and the "Minor Tide Technique" had already pushed open the office door. Tanaka Hiroaki charged forward with his sword raised. The monster's body swayed, and it glanced down at the wound on its chest—the scales at the wound had shattered, revealing grayish-white flesh underneath. But after only a few seconds, the shattered scales began to regrow, and the grayish-blue liquid stopped oozing out.

The monster grabbed his wrist, the one holding the knife, and squeezed it lightly. The sound of bone cracking was exceptionally clear in the quiet office. The knife fell to the ground, and Tanaka let out a short scream, but the sound was cut off before it could fully escape his lips.

The office lights flickered twice and then went out.

In the darkness, only the sound of chewing and the occasional gurgling sound coming from Tanaka's throat could be heard.

Akira Nagayama turned around, his figure disappearing through the third-floor window and landing lightly on the roof of the adjacent building. The glow of concealment magic swirled around him, and the moonlight cast no shadow on him.

He didn't look back at the building again.

Based on the operating speed of the "Minor Tide Technique" and considering the spiritual atmosphere of this place, Yoshida Sho's [Intertidal Mudflat Qi] can last for about two more hours. After two hours, his meridians will collapse, his dantian will shatter, and his half-human, half-fish body will rapidly deflate like a burst bubble, turning into a pool of grayish-blue liquid and a bloated corpse. A Qi Refining level [Zhenshui] spiritual object will appear on the ground, and the surrounding spiritual atmosphere will become a water-evil land.

Before that, he will kill everyone he can find.

Akira Nagayama walked silently along the edge of the rooftop. The night breeze swept through the streets of Adachi Ward, carrying the damp scent of early summer. In the distance, a convenience store shone with its bright white lights, its automatic doors opening and closing, with people occasionally going in and out.

He needed to go back and think it over carefully. The first pebble was thrown in, and the spiritual atmosphere was indeed disturbed, but the disturbance was too weak. The "dispersal of Qi into the wilderness" when Yoshida Sho killed someone, plus the "return to heaven" when his meridians collapsed, his dantian shattered, and his true Qi dissipated when he died, these two disturbances combined barely caused a ripple in the stagnant water.

Far from enough.

Next time, you'll need bigger stones, or even more stones.