Arch 1: "Arrival at the new dawn."— Chapter 1: "The radiance of the first blow."

("Why am I going through this?")



In the narrow alley, lit only by a single broken streetlamp, the three tall, menacing silhouettes stand rigid before him—their hands moving with cold, professional precision as they comb through every pocket and rummage through his backpack’s compartment. Yet his glassy eyes pass right over them; pain sears through every inch of his body, plunging him into a state of utter isolation where nothing exists but the fight to stay conscious.



His thoughts drift like scattered clouds across a storm-wracked sky, too weightless to pull his focus from the reality crushing down on him. Physical agony and mental torment surge over him like a sudden, scorching fever—heating his skin until it burns, rising so fast it steals the very breath from his lungs.



He feels the torment spread from his abdomen to the tips of his fingers, an intensity with no name. His hands shake violently, fingers stiff as thin glass ready to shatter under the overwhelming pressure; in that moment, the thought of blacking out and vanishing forever feels like a blessing beyond measure.



He is drained to the bone, as if he’d run the full 42 kilometers of an Olympic marathon in less than twenty minutes. His mind flees to imagined worlds where this alley, these attackers, and this pain are nothing but faded memories; even the spark of survival is slowly being snuffed out, consumed by suffering.



In his head, the pain is like the whir and pressure of a drill boring through his skull—unbearable, unceasing. The stab wounds from minutes earlier have left his body frail, with no strength left to defend itself.



("My body... it hurts... so much...")



The torn fabric of his dark sweatshirt lets rivers of blood spill across his stomach, just as they had when the metal tore through his skin. He lies crumpled in the alley’s darkest corner, back pressed against a building’s cold wall—defenseless against the weight of the moment.



For someone in his state, the sensation has become unendurable; red blood and clear sweat mix on his skin and the cold tiled ground, like pigments on a canvas, painting a dark, jagged pattern beneath his battered form.



("I don’t understand why...")



He tries to open his mouth to protest, to ask why so much harm has been done to him—but instead of words, a flood of blood gushes out, staining his shirt and the stone beneath him. He tries to push himself up, his trembling arms braced against the ground, but when he finally manages to lift his gaze to his attackers...



—Crack!—



A leather boot slams hard into his nose, sending him crashing back down. The impact rattles every bone in his face.



Thief: ["—Stay still, you damned fool!"]



He spits out more blood, which drips from his lower lip to his chin. The broken nose keeps him from even moving his head with the resolve he’d found seconds before; his face is now swollen and twisted, its ugly shape hidden from his own eyes.



If he could look at himself in a mirror, horror would surely wash over him at how his face had been transformed.



Blood begins to seep slowly from his nostrils and mouth, while a large dark purple bruise blooms on his left cheek—marked with the clear print of a shoe.



("Really... why is this happening to me?")



Not even years of boxing training had helped against three armed men. Though he’d kept his body sharp—hitting the corner boxing club on weekends, working out at home on weekdays—he’d never stood a chance against the surprise and sheer numbers arrayed against him.



("I can’t breathe anymore...")



When he saw one of them pull the box from his backpack and pass it to the tallest of the group, a wave of humiliation cut through him to his core. He’d worked for months, taking double shifts at the electronics shop, just to save enough for the thing he’d wanted so badly.



—They’d planned to steal exactly what he’d bought that very day: a collectible piece with only 300 unrestricted units in the entire region, valuable for its handcrafted details and sheer rarity. They were making off with the display box of an anime figure—a female character with removable clothing accents.



???: ["—Wh-what did I do... to you?"]



This time, no blood came when he spoke; he gathered his last strength to form words that could be understood, even as his voice came out ragged and weak. His attackers did not ignore him this time.



They paused, exchanging glances with a flicker of confusion on their unrecognizable faces—but almost at once, they burst into mocking laughter that echoed through the empty alley.



[Ha, ha, ha!]



Thief: ["—This moron actually thinks we’ll explain ourselves to him..."]



The slimmest of them—who seemed to be the leader—spoke first, his tone scornful and sharp as a blade, as if he were watching a cockroach twist in poison he’d poured himself.



[Ha, ha, ha!]



All three laughed again in perfect unison. The burliest one—broad-shouldered with a protruding gut—flipped him an obscene gesture as he stared down at the dying young man; in that moment, another kick would have been an act of kindness compared to such raw contempt.



"Shut up..."



The young man closed his eyes for a moment, replaying every bill he’d tucked away, every extra hour he’d slogged through to get that figure. Its worth wasn’t just in its price tag—it lay in how hard it was to find, in perfect condition at a price he could afford.



"Why do I have to suffer like this?"



Tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his bloodstained cheeks, blurring his sight and turning the alley’s night darkness into a thick, hazy mass—denser than the fog of pain clouding his mind.



—He was crying, tears mixing with blood on his face.



The three attackers already had their prize and were preparing one final act of humiliation for the dirty, wounded young man. The rush of their shared cruelty had clouded the caution that should have guided even hardened criminals.



But...



Something sliced through the moment clean and sharp: sounds that might have been ambulance sirens, but with a higher, steadier wail... He could barely make them out over the ringing in his ears and the thieves’ voices.



(Staccato sounds, fast and unrecognizable at first)



The screech of patrol car tires skidding to a halt at the alley’s mouth cut off the thieves’ laughter—now clear panic crossed their faces. If they didn’t move fast, they’d be caught.



"They’re going to save me..."



A flash of hope surged through the young man briefly, as he finally recognized the sound of police sirens—a sign that his agony was coming to an end.



Meanwhile, just meters from where he lay, the trio moved quickly toward their black motorcycle, parked in the shadow of a tree near the entrance. The burliest thief grabbed the figure’s box and headed the other way: a simple ploy to draw the police away while the other two made off with the prize.



The young man tried to drag himself toward the patrol cars, parked a hundred meters off, pushing his body forward with his forearms. But the two remaining thieves acted fast: the shorter one leaped onto the motorcycle and roared the engine to life with a deafening growl.



—Vroom, vroom!—



The motorcycle shot out onto the main street, and a chase began.



The police took the bait, their cars following the bike in the direction the thieves wanted. The few officers left behind started searching for the victim in the alley’s opposite corners.



The young man’s fist clenched weakly as he watched them drive off, the box with his figure secure in their grasp. The handful of passersby who’d come out to see what was happening were too caught up in the chase and commotion to notice the beaten young man huddled in the far-left corner of the empty alley.



???: ["—No..."]



He’d already lost too much blood. His voice was now no more than a faint whisper, and the strength that had let him drag himself was gone entirely.



But even so...



???: [—I’m dying...]



Even on his deathbed, on the cold, blood-soaked ground of the alley...



—Tsumiya Higeri did not want to die.