The golden-ringed man walked through the hollow streets of Shibuya, the neon lights flickering above him in fractured reflections against rain-slick pavement. He moved without hurry, hands tucked into his coat pockets, twisting and turning through the narrow backstreets that branched away from the chaos of the main crossing.

  Laughter echoed from somewhere distant. A drunk couple stumbled past without noticing him. He continued on.

  Eventually, he reached a back alley just off Shibuya Crossing, where the bass of heavy music pulsed through brick and steel alike. The sound grew louder as he approached a discreet steel door, tucked between two graffiti-marked walls.

  Above, on the terrace and rooftop, silhouettes swayed under flashing lights. The party was relentless; music blaring, glasses clinking, voices rising into the Tokyo night.

  He stopped at the door.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Passcode.”

  The voice on the other side of the steel door was flat. Mechanical. Guarded.

  “The Shogun Never Dies.”

  A pause.

  “Intention?”

  “To meet Haruomi Kanzaki.”

  Silence followed.

  Then—

  “…Give me a moment.”

  Muted shouting erupted behind the door. Not organised. Not disciplined. Raw voices arguing over who he was, whether he was expected, whether anyone without an invitation should be allowed to speak to the “Shogun.”

  The golden-ringed man waited patiently.

  A few moments later, the lock clicked.

  The door swung open to reveal a young man dressed in loud, colourful party clothes. An open shirt, layered chains and rings on nearly every finger. Platinum-blonde hair framed his pale face, black sunglasses resting lazily over his eyes despite the dim lighting of the alley.

  If not for the faint, unnatural stillness in his posture, he would have looked painfully average.

  But his aura betrayed him.

  A subtle dread lingered around him like cold mist.

  “Yo, yo, yo, what’s up, homie! Name’s Taiki.” He jabbed a thumb toward his chest, flashing a sharp, slightly elongated grin. “You came to meet the boss, right?”

  “Yes. I would be grateful if I were granted an audience with your Monarch,” the golden-ringed man replied politely.

  “Damn, aren’t you formal.” Taiki slung an arm around his shoulder with exaggerated familiarity. “Relax yourself. Mi casa is your sucasa. Or however it’s said.”

  He led him inside.

  Up narrow stairs vibrating from the bass above.

  With every step, the music intensified, a prelude to the heavy and primal vibe created upstairs.

  They emerged onto the rooftop.

  It was chaos.

  Packed wall to wall with bodies.

  Neon lights cut through artificial fog. Music pounded relentlessly. Drinks sloshed from glass to glass, staining fingers and lips in deep crimson.

  But they were not ordinary drinks; every glass held that same perverse red tint.

  The metallic scent in the air was unmistakable.

  He scanned the rooftop calmly.

  Every single one of them was a vampire.

  Laughing. Grinding. Feeding discreetly behind pillars. Engaging in degenerate displays of excess under the open Tokyo sky.

  He suppressed his natural aura instinctively, folding it inward so as not to draw attention. There was no need to cause a scene, not yet at least.

  “Ayo, by the way, the boss was expecting you,” Taiki added casually as they climbed the final set of stairs.

  They emerged at the highest section of the open-air rooftop club—a raised platform separated from the chaos below. The music still pulsed, but up here it felt distant, muted by intention rather than walls.

  A single guard stood at the entrance.

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  He was enormous. Nearly twice the size of both of them.

  A long European-style sword rested at his side, its blade fully wrapped in cloth. Not a katana. Not Japanese. Old and deliberate.

  His entire body was concealed beneath dark grey fabric, layered and draped from head to toe. No skin visible. No expression readable.

  But it wasn’t his height that commanded attention.

  It was his aura.

  Dense. Focused. Cultivated.

  The golden-ringed man could tell immediately that the guard was suppressing it. Toning it down out of courtesy or discipline, yet even restrained, it felt like compressed steel. Power preserved over generations, sharpened and folded inward countless times.

  A warrior as refined as he was dangerous.

  “Ayo, Astolfo, let him through. Shogun’s order, remember?” Taiki said with a lazy wave.

  Astolfo shifted without hesitation.

  He stepped aside with perfect precision and offered a polite, controlled bow.

  No wasted movement.

  No unnecessary hostility.

  “Interesting…” the golden-ringed man muttered quietly, his azure eyes lingering for a fraction longer on the cloaked bodyguard.

  Astolfo returned to his position the moment the man passed, posture immaculate, gaze forward.

  He paid no extra mind to the power that had just walked into his Monarch’s personal domain.

  “Yo boss, I finally got him, just as you expected!”

  “As expected of you, Taiki. You may be dismissed.”

  The voice was calm. Even. Yet it carried the unmistakable weight of authority that did not need to be raised to be felt.

  “Gotcha.”

  Taiki straightened instinctively. That was rare praise. He shot the azure-eyed man a quick grin and an encouraging pat on the back before slipping away without hesitation. He had no desire to linger where Monarchs conducted their business.

  Taiki was the rare type of Duke who preferred the thrill of indulgence over the theatre of war.

  “So you’re the one that set up Kinuko to get killed, huh?” a feminine, moody voice cooed.

  The golden-ringed man turned his gaze toward the maiden draped across the Monarch’s chest.

  Her hair flowed black at the crown, fading into deep violet at the ends. Real bone fragments adorned her locks as accessories, pale against her ghostlike skin. Sharp red eyes studied him with detached amusement. Her gothic makeup framed her beauty in deliberate darkness, and her web-like black dress clung tightly at the midriff, the exposed skin accentuated by a delicate piercing that gleamed under the rooftop lights.

  She smiled.

  Cold.

  Not grieving.

  “Good work, you know. I would have killed that disgusting creature myself if I’d been given the chance. But alas… she was quite diligent at making my dresses, so I let her live.”

  “How bold,” the golden-ringed man replied evenly. “To say you would kill a fellow Lord in front of your Monarch.”

  “What is done is done,” the Shogun answered before she could respond. “I care not for failures.”

  His tone did not shift.

  He reclined against the couch, fingers tangled loosely in the back of the Duchess’s hair, holding her close without effort. He was striking with long black hair tied neatly into a low ponytail and youthful features that suggested a man in his early twenties. His skin was pale, eyes a vivid crimson that seemed almost polished.

  He wore an expensive black three-piece suit, red tie perfectly centred, subtle crimson accents woven throughout the fabric.

  At his side rested a katana in a matte-black sheath, its presence quiet but undeniable.

  There was no overt menace in him.

  Only composed certainty.

  “Mysterious man,” the Shogun said, lazily circling his finger around the rim of a wine glass. “Why do you hide your power before me?”

  “Out of respect for your domain, of course. I wish no ill will.”

  “Good. It seems we are aligned.”

  “Are you not offended at the death of your Duchess?”

  “Of course,” he replied, though his expression did not change. “But that can be amended for. She was diligent… though largely unnecessary in the grand scheme of things.”

  He shrugged faintly as the Duchess adjusted his tie with delicate fingers, and he stroked her hair absentmindedly.

  “So it seems you have been watching me,” the golden-ringed man continued. “I am surprised you caught me so quickly.”

  “Mhm.” The Shogun’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “I see and hear about everything in this city. Nothing moves here that I do not allow.”

  His tone remained casual.

  But the threat beneath it was unmistakable.

  “Yes. Your familiars are quite effective at spying,” the golden-ringed man observed calmly. “Witchcraft from an older era would have been far more efficient, though.”

  The air tightened.

  It was a subtle statement, but deliberate. An acknowledgment that he knew, a warning against subtle threats.

  Azure met crimson in a silent, violent blink.

  The Duchess on the Shogun’s chest stilled, her fingers pausing mid-adjustment of his tie.

  “Well,” the Shogun said lightly, though something colder flickered beneath his tone, “you have finally come to meet me. Why?”

  “I simply wish to make a deal.”

  “A deal?” The Shogun tilted his head slightly. “I assume this concerns the boy. I already have one of my Dukes on his tail for captu—”

  “I am aware.”

  The interruption was quiet, controlled.

  Yet it shifted the balance instantly.

  The rooftop felt smaller.

  “That,” the golden-ringed man continued, voice smooth, “is not the deal I wish to present.”

  For the briefest fraction of a second, the Shogun’s eye twitched.

  Then he recomposed himself flawlessly, vampiric elegance settling back over his features.

  “Then what is it you wish to align for?”

  A faint smile curved along the foreigner’s lips.

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

  The words that followed were exchanged softly, meant only for the four within that secluded perimeter. Even the music below seemed to dull in deference.

  The Duchess’s red eyes widened ever so slightly.

  “I see…” the Shogun murmured after a pause, leaning back once more as the meaning settled in.

  A bright, sinister smile slowly spread across his face.

  “How marvelous.”

  Under the moonlight of Shibuya’s skyline, a pact was formed.

  A false covenant.

  One that promised to turn the human city of Tokyo into ash as consequence.