Takeshi stood atop the stadium, the wind blowing through his long black hair.

His expressionless face twitched slightly.

He appeared almost troubled, which was very uncharacteristic.

The wind dragged a loose sheet of tarp across the metal plating with a scraping hiss. He listened, head tilting. Even without sight, his senses painted the world in texture, sound, and pressure.

A cold gust swept across the roof, lifting his robes, brushing against the blindfold tied firm across his eyes. He inhaled through his nose, long and slow. The air tasted wrong.

Something's coming - he could feel it.

His jaw tightened.

That gnawing feeling clawed at him like an itch under armour.

He couldn't shake it.

The last time dread coiled in his gut like this was in New York - when he'd sprung into a fight that levelled skyscraper windows, split streets, and forced even the association to pause and watch.

A battle that shook an entire city.

He exhaled, forcing his shoulders to drop, posture straightening.

He remained calm as always. Cool like the wind. That was his creed. The wind did not panic. It simply was - inevitable, unseen, unstoppable.

In his mind, he pictured her again, Sayuri. Her gentle smile, her quiet footsteps, the warmth in her voice he'd memorised and would hear everything went dark. He remembered the exact cadence of her breath when she meditated at dawn, the way she said his name like it carried weight but not worry.

A calming presence.

A safe harbour.

If only he knew what had happened after he left Japan.

If only he knew.

A flicker of guilt passed like a fish beneath frozen water. Gone before it broke the surface.

-

In his floating silver airship lab, Nyx grinned at the live feed. The hum of advanced machinery surrounded him, but his attention was razor-thin, fixated, delighted.

"We'll see how long you can keep your composure, Blindfolded Swordsman," Nyx murmured, tone playful, dangerous. "My gift for you is already on its way."

-

BOOM!

Thunder cracked like a hammer blow to the sky - too loud, too close, too deliberate.

The air itself seemed to recoil, electric tension prickling across the skin of the world.

This wasn't weather.

London was grey, yes - but this? This was a declaration. A calling card written in raw voltage, delivered with villainous flair.

A bolt of lightning speared down from the clouds, carving the sky into jagged white fractures. The ground shuddered. Static rippled outward like a spreading web, climbing radio towers, skimming car roofs, crackling through ungrounded metal. The city didn't just witness the strike - it felt watched, measured, weighed like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

No natural thunderstorm would behave like this.

This was someone.

And that someone wanted to be seen.

Yet Takeshi did not move.

He didn't take the bait. Even now, he refused to be predictable. The wind curled around him like an old ally waiting for a command he hadn't given yet.

His thoughts stayed calculated, sharp, ordered. This was too coincidental. Too theatrical. Too perfectly timed.

Nemesis or not, he refused to be jerked by a string.

There was only one conclusion - they were expected.

And if that was the case, if he chased his enemy blindly like in New York, he would leave those he cared for blindly. It was ironic that the man without vision was worried about losing sight of what was important.

A swordsman protects. He does not dance for others.

Then, the logic snapped.

Because he saw him.

A distortion in the air. A shape parting clouds. A storm-bright outline that burned into his senses even without sight.

The man cutting across London's sky like a streak of electric arrogance - the Thundercutter himself, Ryuunosuke.

Trouble had a face. A very punchable face.

Even the skyline seemed offended by his arrival.

Down below, at the service gate, Sven and Isaac arrived just in time to witness the lightning's wake.

"What's that lightning bastard doing here?!" Sven barked, hand already on his dagger strap. His coat billowed dramatically despite being nowhere near the height for such theatrics.

Isaac stared upward, hair ruffled by distant static. "…I don't know," he said, his grip around his metal pole tightening. "But Takeshi seems to."

Before either could blink, Takeshi launched off the stadium roof - body gliding forward, carried by wind, momentum, and something like inevitability. The jump wasn't loud. It was elegant. Precise.

The air softened his passage like it respected him more than it respected physics.

"Guess it can't be helped," Isaac murmured, tone dry enough to season chips.

Sven threw his arms up. "Typical. Dramatic exits right when we need you most!" Then, quieter, a sigh dragged from him like an accordion deflating. "…Well. Guess it's just the two of us."

They weren't backing down. This was their window, their chance, and they would take it. Their mission name was stupid, yes, but their resolve was embarrassingly real.

Isaac sank into the pavement, phasing into the earth like a ripple fading into still water. The stone accepted him without complaint.

Sven burst forward with explosive acceleration, clearing distance in a blink before vaulting the stadium gates - landing in a crouch, dust scattering from his shoes. A nearby sign wobbled from the shockwave and politely collapsed.

-

Meanwhile, Nyx leaned back in his leather swivel chair on his airship, feet kicked up like a man enjoying cinema.

One main screen for Takeshi. One for Sven. One for Isaac.

Perfect framing. Always perfect framing. He even adjusted one monitor a millimetre to the left for symmetry, whispering, "There we go…" like an artist finishing a brushstroke.

"It's time for Round 2," Nyx murmured, munching on popcorn - kernels crunching between his teeth as lightning flashed across multiple monitors. A casual cruelty glinted in his eyes, like a child eager to break a toy just to see how it shattered.

-

Up in the sky, Takeshi met his past head-on.

Ryuunosuke floated toward him, a woven lattice of lightning crackling beneath his feet, hair tied back, coat flapping like a villain who knew he was one. The electricity arced around him like an overexcited pet recognising its owner.

"Takeshi," Ryuunosuke said, voice easy, conversational. "You've made a swift recovery since our last bout. I see Sayuri patched you up nicely."

At the mention of her name, that name, Takeshi's heart slammed once against his ribs. The rhythm was wrong. A half-beat stagger. A human error in a man who didn't make them.

A spike of emotion tore through him, hot, sharp, immediate.

His blade was drawn in a flash of steel whispering against wind, reflecting storm-light that wasn't storm-light at all.

"Whoa, calm it down, Takeshi," Ryuunosuke chuckled, palms raised in mock surrender. "You might cut someone with that."

Ryuunosuke could read the posture, the intent, the controlled fury bleeding through Takeshi's silence. He could read everything but the words. He could read the wind's subtle acceleration, the way it curled like it wanted to become a blade itself.

"Don't worry, brother," Ryuunosuke said, tossing a woven basket toward him mid-air. "I didn't hurt her. I'm not here to cause trouble. I've just come with a gift."

Takeshi caught it one-handed, body still drifting on the wind, other hand holding his katana firm - cautious, alert for sudden betrayal. The basket sizzled faintly from static, but he didn't drop it. He wasn't rattled.

Not yet.

He slowly opened the lid.

Inside?

Something that caused something deep and dark within Takeshi to stir...

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