Chapter 18: Cosplay Festival V

The sound of footsteps echoed like water dripping in a hollow room. Lying on the cold ground, Rey watched Tachibana disappear into the crowd without looking back. That was the moment he understood.

Then he forced himself to his feet, legs trembling beneath him.

In front of him stood the one-man army who had taken down Butler Jin.

“Oooh… so your little friends abandoned you, didn’t they? You poor little soul.”

The soldier’s voice was cold, almost amused. “Don’t worry about them. My men will capture them in a blink of an eye.”

“Shut up. They didn’t—” Rey shouted, but the words caught in his throat.

He clenched his fists.

His body moved before fear could stop it. With a raw shout, Rey swung, throwing everything he had into the punch. He didn’t get far.

The soldier caught his fist effortlessly.

In one sharp motion, the man twisted Rey’s arm. Pain shot through Rey’s hand, but he grit his teeth and lashed out with a kick. The soldier blocked it without even shifting his stance.

A hand slammed around Rey’s throat, crushing his breath.

“Let me teach you a lesson, brat—”

The pressure tightened. Rey’s vision began to blur. His fingers clawed uselessly at the soldier’s arm.

So this is it, Rey thought.

Not heroic. Not meaningful. Just… small.

All that running. All that fear. All that believing someone would come.

He had always been protected. Always shielded. And the moment that shield fell, he realized how helpless he truly was.

There was no escape left now. Only the reality in front of him.

The world began to fade. Then—

CLANG.

The sound was sharp as hell.

“DIE, YOU FUCKING RAGDOLL!!”

Anya’s voice snapped from behind as she swung Memeko’s frypan with both hands.

The soldier froze as the impact crushed his cervical vertebrae. He collapsed instantly.

The brand name “Xerox”, labeled into the frying pan’s handle, caught the light and shined like a quasar star.

The pressure on Rey’s throat vanished.

Air crashed back into his lungs as he dropped to the ground, coughing violently.

A complete knockout.

“…Huh,” she said quietly. “Well, that was louder than I expected.”

She tapped the metal of the pan twice, as if testing it.

Rey stared.

Not at the unconscious soldier. Also not at the frying pan still shining from the impact.

At her.

Anya noticed his stare and turned, squinting slightly. “Hey? Who are you?”

“I-I’m… um— I’m Rey Hoshimora,” Rey answered, the words tripping over each other.

“Huh?” Anya looked him over, suspicion creeping into her eyes. “And what’s a kid like you doing here? Isn’t this place supposed to be dangerous? Where are your parents?”

Rey frowned. “Hey, excuse me!? You look the same age as me.”

“What!? What did you say?” Anya snapped.

“Anyways… what’s your name?” Rey asked, changing direction like his survival instinct suddenly remembered it existed.

“Me?” Anya pointed at herself. “Well… I’m Anya Yomizaki.”

She lifted the frying pan slightly, the metal catching the light as if it actually deserved applause.

Rey deadpan. He stared at the pan. Then at her face. Then back at the pan.

But they both almost forgot about some

thing.

Then Anya suddenly remembered. They were surrounded by Abyss soldiers, guns already pointed at them.

“…Whoopsy,” Anya said, deadpan. “I guess we’re dead.”

At NSIA Headquarters…

The room was tense and silent, broken only by the glow of computer screens and the rapid clatter of keyboards.

Tsumori Yanagihara, Division Two’s intelligence analyst, typed furiously, her short hair barely moving as her eyes flicked across multiple monitors. At the desk beside her, Jessie Blacklash worked quietly at her PC. Tall and composed, her long hair, gold fading into silver, fell down her back as the screen light reflected off it. She looked focused, though the faint tension in her posture suggested she was already annoyed.

Zen Yoshiro, another Division Two analyst, lounged back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. His raven-black hime cut tapered into a soft wolf-cut at the back. Sharp eyes locked on the screen, he looked utterly bored.

Nearby, Kai Yanagi scrolled through documents, her light black hair marked by a single pink streak running straight down. Kanzaki Kenzai, brown-haired with perpetually sleepy eyes, was completely passed out at his desk, unnoticed by everyone. Overseeing them all stood Division Head Satome Saorin, quietly observing.

“Shit! The network’s been jammed at the cosplay festival in City Z. We can’t connect with Kanako and Kisara from Division One. They were patrolling there,” Tsumori snapped, eyes darting between screens.

“What about the satellite channel?” Zen asked calmly, cutting through the tension.

“That’s not responding either,” she replied, slamming her fist onto the console.

The metal door screeched open. Miyori entered first, with Shun Aizawa right behind her.

“It’s them,” Miyori said, her expression unreadable.

“Then… an Abyss case?” Satome said. “That means this should be handed over to Division One, right?”

“No,” Aizawa replied. “The higher-ups decided this case will be handled jointly by Division One and Division Two.”

Jessie Blacklash groaned, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. “Eww. Working with you guys? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Come on, Jessie. Don’t be so dramatic,” Zen said smoothly, smirking as he leaned back. “Besides, sitting around all day was getting boring. Honestly, it’s almost cute how Division One thinks they can handle this alone.”

“Zzz… Did someone say another assignment?” Kanzaki muttered, still asleep at his desk.

“Hey. Don’t sleep during work hours. Jeez,” Satome said flatly.

Kai glanced up from her screen, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Hey… would Kenoshita be involved in this mission? If so, I’m in.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the festival…

Kanako and Kisara sprinted toward the sound of gunfire, the fox masks from the ring toss game still clinging to their faces.

Chaos swirled around them—civilians fleeing, stalls overturned. They arrived at a scene of organized terror: Abyss soldiers sweeping through the crowd.

Kisara’s eyes snapped to a bamboo pole propped against a takoyaki stall. She snatched it up, falling into the poised stance of a trained kendōka.

In a fluid series of movements, she swept forward—striking wrists, disarming rifles, and knocking weapons from the soldiers’ hands with the crack of bamboo against metal. She moved with a fencer’s precision, every motion clean and controlled. For a moment, she was untouchable.

But the bamboo was not definitely steel. After deflecting several blows, it finally splintered and broke in her hands.

Before she could recover, the remaining soldiers closed in, trapping both girls in a tightening circle.

Kanako’s mind raced. Her eyes tracked each soldier’s movement, their glances, their subtle shifts in posture. One figure stood slightly apart—never aiming, only observing, his gestures small but commanding.

Gotcha.

A smirk touched her lips as she drew her pistol in one theatrical sweep, leveling it at the leader’s forehead.

“Don’t move,” she said coolly. “One twitch and your commander loses his head.”

“Everybody freeze!” she announced, voice dripping with smug confidence. “See this? It’s pointed at your boss’s brain. And lemme tell ya—I scored top of my class in marksmanship. They called me ‘One-Shot Isuha.’ So unless you wanna clean his thoughts off, drop ya’ weapons. Now.”

She paused, savoring the stunned silence. Kisara just stared, wide-eyed.

“What?” Kanako added, tilting her head. “You think NSIA sends amateurs to a terrorist festival? Please. I’ve been waitin’ for a moment like this.”

The leader hadn’t flinched. His eyes narrowed.

That’s when Kanako noticed—the gun felt too light. The grip was slick, almost… plasticky.

Her bravado faltered. A cold realization dripped down her spine.

Miyori-san’s voice echoed in her memory: “You’re underage. Regulation 7-B: no live firearms. You’ll carry dummy trainer models only.”

It was a toy gun.

“DAMN YOU MIYORI-SAN!!!”

Before she could lower it, Kisara blurted out, “Kanako—that’s the practice pistol! It’s not real!”

Dead silence.

Kanako shot her partner a look of utter betrayal. Kisara froze, realizing her mistake too late.

The squad leader smirked.

Every remaining gun in the circle swung toward them.

The leader’s eyes hardened, locking onto Kanako and Kisara. “Inspectors huh?” he grunted into his comm. “Probably young ones.”

A cold, staticky voice crackled through his earpiece: “Eliminate them.”

Rifles tightened. Fingers brushed triggers. Kanako braced, Kisara shifted in front of her—

FWWWMP—

A blinding flash erupted between them, followed by a thick cloud of smoke that swallowed the circle whole.

Gunfire rattled—wild, unfocused—as the Abyss squad stumbled back, disoriented.

Through the haze, two figures emerged wearing fearsome red-and-black demon masks.

Five minutes earlier…

Shina and Memeko had been pushing through the crowd, following the gunfire.

“There—up ahead!” Shina pointed toward the stalled confrontation.

Memeko’s eyes darted to a costume stall nearby, its owner frozen in fear. Without breaking stride, she snatched two demon masks off the rack.

“Hey—!” the stall owner started.

Shina didn’t even look back. She tossed a wad of cash over her shoulder; Far more than the masks were worth.

“Keep the change!”

The owner stared, speechless, as the two vanished back into the chaos, masks now hiding their faces.

Back to the Present…

The smoke began to fade. Kanako and Kisara, crouched low, could now make out the two masked figures.

Kanako whispered, “Who are those?”

Kisara shook her head sharply. “Can’t tell. But they’re definitely not one of us.” She took her stance.

Before the Abyss squad could regroup, every soldier’s earpiece was flooded with an automated voice: “Error 404: Channel not found.”

One soldier cursed, tapping his comm. “Command, do you copy? Hello—?”

Memeko’s shoulders shook with silent laughter beneath her mask.

At the metro station, Platform A…

All Abyss soldiers lay on the ground. Only Blade the Donkey and Eyepatch the Neko were still standing.

“That sure was a tough one,” Blade said, panting.

“Yeah, it sure was,” Eyepatch replied, his voice calm.

Silence.

Then, dozens of footsteps echoed through the station. They were suddenly surrounded by NSIA agents, guns drawn.

“Don’t move! Freeze where you are!” one agent commanded.

“Agh, shit… How do we get out of this?” Blade whispered, still catching his breath. He reached for the hidden chain inside his jacket—

But Eyepatch stopped him with a sharp look. “Don’t—”

Before Eyepatch could finish, a faint, almost inaudible hum filled the air. Time seemed to slow.

A small, cylindrical object drifted into view above them, as if suspended by invisible strings.

It was a flashbang… but no one had thrown it. No one had even seen where it came from.

A searing white light and deafening roar burst over the platform.

By the time the inspectors’ vision cleared…

Blade and Eyepatch were gone.

Meanwhile, outside the station…

Tokio, Blade, and Eyepatch sprinted through a narrow service alley, masks still clutched in their hands. The sounds of the festival and the NSIA faded behind them.

“That was a close one,” Blade muttered, finally pulling off his donkey mask. “How the hell did you manage that flashbang, dude?”

Tokio shook his head, a slight smirk on his face. “Glad Hibe slipped it to me before he jumped off. I almost dropped it.”

“Yep”