Prologue: The Last Shot

“If I die doing what I love, then I win, don’t I?”

—Tōjō Sousha

Tokyo – Shibuya Ward. Friday. 7:14 PM. The streets buzzed with life: glowing signs, clicking footsteps, the low hum of traffic, and the sizzle of yakitori from corner stalls. A typical Tokyo evening.

Tōjō Sousha, age 15, stood outside a convenience store sipping from a can of coffee. He was the definition of unremarkable—average grades, average height, average everything. Except for one thing:

He was obsessed with guns.

Not in the creepy way—he wasn’t a lunatic. It was the craftsmanship. The design, the engineering, the raw power in each component. Especially the GLOCK 17 Gen5. He could name every part, describe every model, and quote performance specs like it was scripture.

“Someday,” he often mused, “just once, I want to see one up close."

He got his wish far sooner than expected.

The convenience store door flung open. A man burst out, hoodie drawn low and duffel bag bulging under his coat. His hand clutched something black and angular.

A GLOCK 17 Gen5.

Sousha’s eyes widened — not in fear, but admiration.

“Gen5... no finger grooves... oh man, that’s a real one!”

“Outta the way!” the man barked, shoving past.

Sirens blared in the distance. The thief panicked, eyes darting.

And then—the shot.

BANG.

Sousha’s body jolted. His can hit the ground with a metallic clunk. Blood spread through his shirt, staining the pavement beneath.

Strangely, it didn’t hurt as much as he expected.

“Wow…” he chuckled, breath shallow. “I never thought I’d actually get shot by a real Glock... It looked so cool…”

His vision blurred. The city lights dimmed.

“Mom... Dad...” he whispered. “You always said that if I was ever in a moment that could be my last, I should be doing something I love...”

He grinned.

“You guys were right.”

And then—nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, the pain was gone.

The sky was endless blue, the clouds gentle pastels. Wind rustled through golden grass that stretched for miles. Flowers bloomed in impossible colors.

And in front of him stood a silver-haired goddess with eyes like the night sky.

“Welcome, Tōjō Sousha,” she said softly. “Would you like another life? A second chance to live freely, doing what you love?”

He stared at her, dazed.

Then he narrowed his eyes.

“Will there be guns?”

The goddess blinked—and then smiled.

“Yes. There will be guns.”

Sousha’s eyes lit up. “I’m in.”

And so, the boy who admired a Glock… would become the man whose weapon would save the world.