Chapter 5: The White Stones

In the dim outskirts of Futagawa Train Station, the air hung heavy with uncertainty. Dence stood quietly by the entrance, setting up his small amplifier beside a worn-out pillar. His katana was slung casually on his back, but tonight, his guitar took the center busking stage. It had been a long day.

Tips were few. Songs were raw. But his soul? It was still humming.
Suddenly a group of seven men appeaared from the shadows ― Vietnamese, dressed identically in a navy-blue working uniforms stitched with a logo: "X-Spence Corp."

They didn't approach like fans. They moved like a crew with a mission.

Vietnamese 1 (in broken English):
"Hey, you... we... need... stone!"
Dence (confused):
"Tone?" (Stepping back) "What tone?"
Vietnamese 2 (still in broken English):
"Stone! White stone! You give... or we make you give."

Before Dence could react, one of them lunged forward. He grabbed for his katana, but another struck from the side. The world turned blurry in a flurry of fists, kicks, and muffled commands. Within moments, the busker fell, his last sight -- his guitar case flipping open on the pavement.

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[Blackout]

Then... a dim light.

Dence's eyes fluttered open—blurry, bloodshot, stinging from the warehouse's acrid air. He was bound tightly to a rusted metal chair, wrists raw from struggling. Overhead, flickering fluorescent bulbs buzzed like dying insects. Around him, shadows loomed. Crates were stacked like a maze—splintered, stained, and strangely glowing from within. Inside them, faint green pulses—cubes, humming softly. In front of him stood seven men. Foreign. Aggressive. Broken English spilling from tense lips as they circled like wolves.

"You... give stone. Where? Stone?"

Dence groaned, blood trailing from the corner of his lip.
"I don’t sell songs… not my originals."

The men cackled. The largest among them—shoulders wide as doors, face like a cracked boulder—stepped forward. He spat, sneering:

"We don’t like songs. S-T-O-N-E… stone!"

Dence blinked, confused. No clue what they meant.

Before he could shout—CRACK!—a heavy fist collided with his jaw.
The chair tipped backward slightly, metal screeching against concrete.

Then... black.

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[Second Blackout]

He came to, still bound, now gagged. Head throbbing like a war drum. His breath shallow. Desperate. Across the room, under a piercing work light, one of the men examined something like it was sacred.

Dence’s guitar—his heart—lay disassembled on a metal table.
A man tapped at its bridge pins with gloved fingers.

"White Aragonite... this is it!"

No idea what it meant—but it felt like theft. Violation.

Dence’s eyes darted around. No exits. No allies. Just shadows and silence—

CLANG!

The warehouse's massive sliding door screamed open. A gust of air burst in. A figure emerged—hooded, swift, calm like the eye of a storm. Before anyone could react, she moved. A blur. A whirlwind of precision strikes—knees, elbows, sweeps. Three men dropped instantly. Another reached for a pipe—too slow. A spinning heel kick sent him crashing into crates. The leader growled and lunged—but she landed in front of Dence like lightning, blocked him mid-swing, then pivoted. One brutal elbow to the throat.

THUD.

Silence.

The hooded figure stood between Dence and the wreckage. She turned. Knelt. A single flick of her knife—his ropes fell away. Dence coughed, tearing the cloth from his mouth. He stood, shaking, bloodied but standing.

“…Who are you?” he asked, voice low, heart pounding.

She pulled back her hood. Eyes sharp. Familiar.

“Someone who heard your song.”

The mysterious hooded character doesn't answer directly. Instead, from her pocket, she pulled out a black calling card, threw down exactly in-between Dence's left and right foot. It has a "#" symbol etched in silver. The figure walks toward the sliding door exit but stops at the doorway, and without turning back says:

"Light listens. Dark follows. Protect the chord."

A female voice. And just like that, she vanishes into the night.

Dence was exhausted. Physically drained and aching. But something inside had shifted. Dence looks down at his guitar ― had a few scratches, strings were cut, bridge pins were separated in a cloth. He picks it all up and holds it close. Kept the calling card inside his pocket and slowly walked outside the warehouse. The bridge pins of the guitar glow faintly. Something has awakened.

He whispers, almost in disbelief:"White stones..."

(To be continued...)
(Next: The Broadcast)