Chapter 5 : The Devil's City

The sun blazes mercilessly above Juárez, drenching the city in a sweltering haze. The streets are restless, filled with the chaos of a place long surrendered to violence. Stray dogs scavenge near overflowing dumpsters, children with hollow eyes dart through alleys, and the poor sleep under collapsing roofs of corrugated steel. Above it all, bodies swing from the bridges—naked, mutilated, strung like grotesque ornaments meant to whisper terror into the bones of anyone who dares look up. Juárez is a kingdom of death, and in its darkness, a secret worth a billion dollars lies hidden.

Inside a battered black SUV rolling steadily down the highway, six figures travel together—five shinobi cloaked in the shadows of the Blood Raven and one broken man, Manuel Rojas, whose life has been reduced to bargaining chips and secrets. Behind the wheel, Habura keeps his focus sharp on the horizon, every glance into the rearview mirror searching for tails. Beside him sits Sakumo, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed with the perpetual vigilance of a commander. Rojas occupies the middle, flanked by Reiko, Tokuro, and Mitsuki, each of them silently measuring every shadow the desert sun throws across the cracked road.

The hum of the engine fills the tense silence until Sakumo breaks it, his voice a sharp blade cutting through the thick air.

“Rojas,” he says without turning his head, “why Juárez? Of all places, why hide the deadliest weapon the world has ever known in a city where death already breathes in every alley?”

Rojas exhales slowly, his voice hoarse, each word dragged out by exhaustion and guilt.

“Because Juárez is chaos itself. The cartels fight over every block, every street corner. Their war blinds them to everything else. No one here questions another corpse. No one here cares about secrets buried in plain sight. In their eyes, the city bleeds too much already to notice another wound.”

Reiko scoffs, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Smart. Or suicidal. You hide a god of death in a graveyard and pray no one digs too deep.” Her tone drips with sarcasm, her words slicing deeper than any blade.

Tokuro chuckles softly, though the sound is hollow. “Well, Reiko, maybe sometimes the devil hides his crown in the cemetery. Who would dare look there?”

Sakumo remains silent, but the grip on his knee tightens. His mind churns, calculating risks, weighing the inevitable storm that lies ahead. He finally speaks, his voice low and commanding.

“Red Stone will not stop hunting. If they suspect where we’re going, Juárez will not be chaos—it will be a battlefield. We must pray they are blind for once.”

Habura glances at Rojas through the rearview mirror. His voice is steady, but his eyes burn with quiet accusation.

“What ties do you really have with Red Stone? Because whether you admit it or not, blood already stains your hands.”

Rojas drops his gaze to the floor, his shoulders heavy under the invisible weight of memory. His voice cracks.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen… Bolivia… it was never supposed to end like that.”

The SUV grows quieter as his words hang in the air. Mitsuki leans forward, placing a firm hand on Rojas’ trembling shoulder, urging him to continue.

Rojas closes his eyes. “A month ago, Red Stone found me. They wanted me to lead them to Black Rose. I didn’t want to cooperate, but refusal wasn’t an option. I agreed to guide them through Bolivia, through cartel territory. But… I set the path wrong. I thought I could buy time, but it was a death sentence. The cartels ambushed us. Bullets rained down. I fled. Some of their shinobi died because of me. I never meant for it to happen. Their blood… it wasn’t supposed to be spilled that way.”

Silence smothers the vehicle like a shroud. Reiko’s eyes narrow, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel. Tokuro shakes his head slowly, the faintest shadow of disappointment clouding his expression. Sakumo remains still, studying every flicker of guilt on Rojas’ face.

Mitsuki breaks the silence with a calm, resolute tone. “War devours the innocent and the guilty alike. Do not bury yourself in blame for a storm you could not control.”

Rojas swallows hard, his eyes glistening. “You don’t understand. I should have died with them.”

Sakumo finally speaks, his voice unwavering, a commander’s decree. “No. You live because fate demands it. You live because Black Rose cannot fall into hands that would set the world aflame. If Red Stone seeks vengeance, let them come. Blood Raven will stand in their way.”

The weight of his words fills the vehicle, and for the first time, Rojas lifts his head—not with pride, but with a fragile ember of hope. He whispers, “Thank you… for believing me.”

Habura doesn’t reply. His eyes return to the road, but inside, his thoughts churn. He feels Takeshi’s face drift into his mind—the boy back at the compound, the boy he calls little brother. Habura clenches the wheel. I promised myself I’d come back alive. I must. For him.

The SUV speeds deeper into the heart of Juárez. Around them, the city swells with cartel soldiers, graffiti-marked walls, and the constant hum of gunfire echoing in the distance. Above, vultures circle lazily in the sky as though already anticipating a feast. The Blood Ravens press forward, cloaked in the knowledge that they carry both salvation and destruction with them.

None of them say it aloud, but the truth whispers in every heartbeat: the path to Black Rose is not simply a mission. It is a descent into the jaws of hell. And only the strongest—or the most damned—will walk back alive.

Two hours pass since they first left the desert highway, the steady hum of the SUV blending with the roar of wind that sweeps over the barren land. The men in the back—Reiko, Tokuro, Mitsuki, and Rojas—doze in uneasy slumber, their heads bobbing with every bump on the cracked road. The heat outside is oppressive, yet inside the car, tension is colder than steel.

Habura’s hands grip the wheel tightly, his eyes scanning the horizon. Beside him, Sakumo remains awake, silent and vigilant. The commander’s gaze sharpens as the jagged silhouette of a city emerges in the distance—Juárez, a beast of stone and steel, where cruelty parades itself openly.

Sakumo’s voice breaks the silence. “We’re close.”

The others stir, rubbing the heaviness of sleep from their eyes. Rojas straightens, his face grim. He stares out the window at the sprawling city, his words dripping with dread. “There it is… the beast itself. Juárez.”

Mitsuki adjusts the strap of his gear and leans forward, his eyes fixed on the skyline. His tone is calm, but laced with the weight of history.

“In the early 1900s, President Taft of the United States visited President Díaz of Mexico here. Taft brought four thousand troops with him. Four thousand—for a single visit. Do you think he felt safe? No. He knew this city has always been a powder keg, even then.”

Reiko snorts quietly, her sarcasm slicing through the heavy air. “Well, at least we don’t have four thousand soldiers painting a target on our backs. Low profile is our only blessing.”

Tokuro smirks but his eyes dart uneasily across the horizon. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

As they enter the outskirts, Juárez greets them with its grotesque welcome. On a bridge ahead, five naked corpses hang from nooses, swaying slightly in the hot wind. Their skin bears bruises and burns, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition.

Habura mutters under his breath, his voice rough. “Humans are far crueler than demons.”

Mitsuki exhales slowly, his face impassive but his tone steady. “Demons only take what they need to survive. Men take for pleasure.”

The SUV rolls deeper into the city, where graffiti scrawls across crumbling walls, every tag a signature of warring cartels. On the rooftops, cartel lookouts linger with rifles slung across their shoulders. Their eyes follow the SUV as it passes. The shinobi can feel the heat of those gazes like crosshairs pressing against their skin.

Sakumo’s voice is sharp, quiet but commanding. “Prepare yourselves. Katana, shuriken, chains. Hide them, but keep them close. These vultures may decide they want to meet their gods before dinner.”

The team nods, their hands instinctively brushing against hidden weapons beneath their civilian cloaks. Every shinobi in the vehicle is a storm waiting to be unleashed, silent thunder wrapped in human flesh.

Rojas exhales, sweat dripping down his temple. He points to the maze of buildings ahead. “The cache is in there, within the heart of the slums. Hidden beneath an old cantina. It is where no sane man dares look.”

Reiko lets out a low laugh, bitter and sharp. “Perfect. Hide the world’s deadliest weapon in a gutter. Ingenious… or catastrophic.”

No one replies. The SUV slows as they approach the edge of the cartel’s territory, where crumbling houses lean into narrow streets filled with dust, garbage, and the scent of decay.

Habura pulls the vehicle to a stop beside a broken wall. The team steps out, the heat of Juárez slamming into their bodies like a furnace. Sweat beads instantly on their foreheads, but their movements remain calm, deliberate. They conceal their weapons beneath dark jackets and scarves, their faces blank masks betraying nothing.

Together, they move into the labyrinth of the settlement. The streets are alive with wary eyes—children with dirt-streaked faces stop their games to watch the strangers pass. Women clutch babies tighter, disappearing into doorways. Men stand idly by, tattoos crawling across their skin, their gazes sharp and hungry.

The shinobi ignore the stares. Every step they take is measured, every sense stretched to its limit. They hear the click of safeties being disengaged on rooftops, smell the acrid smoke of cheap cigarettes mixing with blood and dust.

Sakumo walks at the front, his posture steady, his gaze cutting left and right. Behind him, Reiko and Tokuro flank Rojas closely, their hands never straying far from hidden blades. Mitsuki lingers near the rear, scanning rooftops and alley mouths with sharp precision. Habura walks just behind Sakumo, his shoulders tense but controlled, his eyes fixed forward.

For Rojas, every step into this place feels like sinking deeper into a grave he dug himself. His voice cracks slightly. “This is it. This is where I buried the rose.”

No one answers. They keep moving, every second another roll of the dice in a city where chance and death share the same face.

Above, vultures circle lazily in the sky, their wings catching the burning sun. To them, the arrival of six strangers into Juárez is not curiosity—it is inevitability. Flesh always finds its way to bone, and bone always finds its way to the earth.

The Blood Ravens walk forward, silent shadows stepping into the jaws of a beast that has devoured countless souls before them. And though none of them speak it aloud, each knows the truth: once you enter Juárez, there is no guarantee you ever leave.

The sun scorches the narrow alleys of Juárez, its rays baking the rusted sheet metal roofs until they shimmer like molten steel. The Blood Ravens move carefully through the labyrinth of crumbling streets, their formation tight and deliberate. Rojas walks in the middle, flanked on either side by Reiko and Mitsuki, while Tokuro guards the rear. At the front, Sakumo strides with his hand resting on his concealed katana, Habura shadowing him like a silent wolf. Every step is heavy with tension; every eye from doorways and rooftops tracks their progress.

The stench of sweat, dust, and rot clings to the air. A group of tattooed men emerges from the shadows of a half-collapsed building. They block the narrow path, their leader swaggering forward with a pistol raised lazily toward Sakumo’s chest. His grin is wide, yellow teeth flashing in the heat.

“Money,” he growls in Spanish. “All of it. Or you don’t leave here breathing.”

Sakumo tilts his head slightly, his lips curling into the faintest smile, one that carries no warmth. The world stills. Then, with the speed of a striking viper, he seizes the man’s wrist, twists it backward until bones crack, and slams him face-first into the dirt. Before the gang leader can even scream, Sakumo’s katana flashes free, its edge kissing the trembling skin of his throat.

The man’s companions lunge forward, but Habura is already moving. His chain uncoils with a metallic hiss, wrapping around one thug’s arm before snapping taut. With a brutal yank, Habura drags the man off his feet and drives a knee into his ribs, the sickening crunch echoing down the alley. Another comes at him with a knife, only to be caught by Habura’s elbow across the jaw, teeth spraying onto the ground. Habura follows through with a slash from his kunai, carving a bloody line across the man’s cheek before he hurls him into a wall.

Sakumo tightens his grip on the gang leader’s throat. His voice is calm, but cold enough to freeze the blood of every onlooker. “You have two choices. Give us the road… or meet your god before your mother even realizes you’re late for dinner.”

The gang leader whimpers, nodding frantically. Sakumo releases him with a shove. Habura unwraps his chain from the last groaning thug and lets him crawl away. The group scatters in panic, disappearing into the slums like rats.

The villagers who witness the scene turn away quickly, pretending not to see. No one dares challenge strangers who fight like phantoms. Silence reclaims the alley, broken only by the flutter of ragged laundry on rusted lines.

They move on, deeper into the belly of Juárez, until a looming warehouse rises before them. Its walls sag with age, windows broken, the entire structure reeking of decay.

“This is it,” Rojas mutters, his voice tight.

The Blood Ravens push the heavy doors open. The air inside is rank and suffocating, thick with the stench of rot. A wave of nausea hits Tokuro instantly, bile rising in his throat. Rats scurry across the floor, their bodies swollen and slick, some gnawed by their own kind. Their carcasses lie in twisted heaps, writhing with pale maggots.

Tokuro stumbles, gagging, and Reiko quickly guides him outside into the fresher air. Mitsuki pulls a cloth over his face, while Habura and Sakumo press forward, their boots crunching over bones and filth.

“Here,” Rojas says, pointing with a trembling hand toward a mound of debris in the center of the floor. “Underneath.”

They waste no time. Habura grips a rusted shovel left abandoned in the corner and begins to dig, each strike sending up a fetid spray of dust and mold. Mitsuki joins him, his hands working quickly, sweat pouring down his brow. Sakumo stands guard, his katana drawn, eyes darting between the dark corners of the warehouse. Every shadow feels alive, watching, waiting.

The earth yields slowly, the stink intensifying as layers of refuse are pulled aside. Finally, wood thuds against steel. A buried crate.

Habura and Mitsuki heave it out, the weight enormous. They brush away grime, revealing blackened planks reinforced with rusted metal bands. With a deep breath, Sakumo pries the lid open. Inside lies a smaller box, cold and seamless, matte black in color. Its surface is etched with warnings in three languages—English, Russian, and Chinese.

⚠ DO NOT OPEN.

The letters scream against the silence, stark white against black. The very air seems to tighten, heavy and suffocating, as if the object itself resents being unearthed.

Mitsuki’s voice is a whisper. “This is it… Black Rose.”

Rojas swallows hard, his face pale. “Handle it with care. If the seals are broken, none of us walk away alive.”

They lift the black case together, muscles straining beneath its unnatural weight. The wood of the larger crate splinters under their effort, collapsing into rotten fragments.

Outside, Tokuro leans weakly against the wall, breathing heavily while Reiko steadies him. The smell has drained the color from his face. When he sees the others emerge with the black box, he straightens despite his nausea, eyes narrowing.

“So it’s real,” Tokuro mutters. “The world’s dirtiest rumor… sitting in our hands.”

Reiko’s gaze lingers on the markings. Her voice drips with unease. “If hell had a lockbox, this would be it.”

The Blood Ravens gather in a tight circle, their breaths heavy, sweat streaking their faces. Around them, the slum continues its grim existence, unaware that within this decayed warehouse, a weapon capable of reshaping history has just been pulled from the dirt.

For a moment, none of them speak. The only sound is the faint scratching of rats retreating back into the dark. Then Sakumo exhales, lowering his blade slightly but never taking his eyes off the prize they now carry.

“We move,” he orders. “Stay close. Stay sharp. This box doesn’t just hold a weapon. It holds the weight of every soul that will die if it falls into the wrong hands.”

They step out into the blistering light of Juárez once more, carrying the Black Rose between them. Every face in the street watches their passage, suspicion and fear hidden behind blank stares. None of the villagers know what lies within that box—but every instinct tells them it is something that should never have been found.

The streets of Juárez hum with tension as the Blood Ravens emerge from the rotting warehouse. The cursed black box lies heavy in Habura’s hands, its weight more than physical—it is the burden of countless unseen deaths. Sweat glistens on their brows, dust clings to their suits hidden under civilian coats, and every step carries them closer to the edge of danger.

But danger is already here.

Figures appear ahead in the alleyway. Men in cheap shirts, jeans, and worn shoes—blending seamlessly into the local crowd—step out of the shadows. Yet there is nothing ordinary about their stance. The way they carry themselves, the way their eyes lock on the Ravens, the way their hands hover too precisely near concealed weapons. Shinobi instincts recognize shinobi.

Red Stone.

Sakumo’s hand drifts to his blade as his eyes narrow. Habura stiffens beside him, his muscles tightening around the black case. Tokuro and Reiko instinctively shift closer to Rojas, forming a protective barrier.

From the front, a tall man emerges. His eyes burn with cold fury, his presence commanding even without the crimson armor of his clan. This is Hozuki—the commander of the Red Stone detachment.

His voice cuts through the hot, dusty air. “Hand him over. Hand over Manuel Rojas. This is not Blood Raven business. It never was.”

Sakumo steps forward, katana unsheathed in a single breath, steel flashing in the dim light. His tone is steady, but every word sharp as a blade. “Rojas is under our protection. He carries information vital to the future of all clans. That alone makes him our mission.”

Hozuki’s expression hardens. Around him, his disguised shinobi spread like wolves circling prey. “Information? Lies.” He spits the word. “Do you even know what he carries? Do you know the blood already spilled because of him?”

Habura tightens his grip on the black case. Rojas lowers his gaze, shame flickering in his swollen eyes. “It wasn’t meant to happen…” he mutters.

Hozuki snarls. “Not meant to happen? Five of my brothers dead in Bolivia, ambushed because of your careless tongue. Their bodies rotted in foreign soil while you ran. And now you hide behind Blood Raven like a coward.”

Tokuro raises his hands in a placating gesture. “We don’t deny your loss, Hozuki. But this doesn’t have to end in more death. We can—”

“No.” Hozuki’s voice is final, thunderous. “The curse in that box belongs buried. And the man who unleashed it… dies with it.”

A thick silence falls, broken only by the distant bark of stray dogs and the hum of cartel motorcycles in the distance. Then Sakumo exhales slowly, his gaze unyielding.

“Black Rose,” he says. “It is real. Rojas told us everything. A Cold War experiment, stolen from the Soviets, hidden for decades. And now here, in Juárez, we stand at the edge of unleashing it again. If you want to bury it, we agree. But we cannot kill the only man who knows how to keep it sealed.”

For a moment, doubt flickers in the eyes of some Red Stone shinobi. But Hozuki does not waver.

“You think I care for your history lessons?” His voice drips with venom. “Blood Raven or not, hand him over. Or we carve you all into the dirt of this city.”

Sakumo’s jaw tightens. He glances at Habura, Reiko, and Tokuro. The message is clear, unspoken: Run. Protect Rojas. Take the box.

Habura nods once. Without another word, he seizes Rojas by the arm and pulls him backward. Reiko and Tokuro close ranks around them, their weapons hidden under coats, ready to strike if pursued. The trio moves quickly down a side alley, boots pounding against cracked pavement.

That leaves Sakumo and Mitsuki standing alone before Hozuki and his men. Two against a dozen.

Hozuki smirks, drawing his twin lava katanas, their blades shimmering faintly as if heat itself courses through them. “So be it. Blood Raven dies in Juárez.”

The world explodes into motion.

Sakumo charges first, his katana slicing through the air in a downward arc. Sparks erupt as steel meets the burning crimson of Hozuki’s blade. Mitsuki darts sideways, hurling a volley of shuriken that whistle like a deadly storm. Two Red Stone shinobi fall, steel embedded in their throats before they can even scream.

But the others close in fast. Mitsuki spins, his kunai chain flashing, wrapping around one shinobi’s ankle and yanking him off his feet. He slams his skull into the ground, bones cracking, before whipping the chain upward into another attacker’s face. Blood sprays.

Sakumo fights like a storm contained in human form. His strikes are precise, economical, brutal. Each slash opens flesh, each step anticipates the next attack. But Hozuki is relentless. Their blades clash again and again, the alley ringing with the metallic scream of katana on katana. Sparks fly like fireflies in the dark.

“You’re protecting a curse!” Hozuki roars, pressing Sakumo back. “Do you even know what will happen if Black Rose breathes again? Millions will choke on its poison!”

Sakumo grits his teeth, blocking another flaming strike. “And do you know what happens if it falls into the hands of men like Menendez, or the syndicates? We guard it because we must. We bleed now so others don’t drown in blood tomorrow!”

Their blades lock, faces inches apart, both dripping sweat and fury. Hozuki’s voice is a growl. “Words won’t save you. Only graves.”

With a roar, he shoves Sakumo back, then lunges, twin blades spinning like a firestorm. Mitsuki intercepts, catching one blade on his chain, sparks dancing as his muscles strain. Sakumo pivots, using the opening to slash across another Red Stone shinobi, spilling crimson onto the dirt.

The fight rages, alley turning into a killing ground. Blood spatters the walls, bodies collapse, screams echo into the hot Juárez air. But amidst the chaos, Sakumo never once glances back. His duty is clear: hold the line, no matter the cost.

Habura slams the driver’s side door shut, his breath heavy, and the engine roars to life. Dust explodes beneath the wheels as the car lurches forward, headlights cutting through the crowded alleys of Juárez. Rojas, cradling his bruised ribs, twists in the back seat, his voice shaking.

“We can’t just leave him! Sakumo—he’s still back there!”

Tokuro, sitting beside him, grips his katana hilt tightly, his jaw hard as stone. “We don’t leave anyone behind,” he growls. “We’ll meet him at the extraction point. That’s the plan.”

Rojas opens his mouth to argue, but Habura presses harder on the accelerator, weaving through the chaos of the slums. His eyes remain fixed on the cracked, narrow road ahead.

Meanwhile, behind them, chaos reigns.

The clash of steel against steel fills the neighborhood. Sakumo’s blade whirls like lightning, striking against the molten arcs of Hozuki’s lava katanas. Sparks burst in showers as steel meets searing heat, and the air crackles with the sound of war.

Mitsuki darts between shadows, his kunai chain slicing through the air, entangling two Red Stone shinobi and ripping them to the ground. He spins, his movements like a storm, each strike precise, his breath sharp and steady. “Sakumo! We can’t hold them forever!”

Hozuki snarls, his muscles rippling as he slashes horizontally. His blade shears through two thick electrical poles, sparks showering the ground as live wires snap and dance across the dirt, hissing like serpents. The street explodes into a maelstrom of sparks and falling debris. Sakumo and Mitsuki leap backward just in time, the molten blade cutting the air inches from their faces.

Sakumo’s patience breaks. “Enough,” he whispers, his voice low but burning with fury.

Mitsuki hears the change in his tone and understands. For days, weeks, months, they have tempered their strength, holding back their true potential for the sake of secrecy. But here, surrounded, hunted, with no other way out—restraint is death.

Sakumo lifts his blade and nods once at Mitsuki. Together, they move.

Blood Raven’s Lightning Technique.

Their bodies blur, speed transforming them into phantoms. To Red Stone eyes, they vanish. Confusion erupts among the enemy shinobi. Five of them whirl in panic, scanning the alleys, hearts racing as unseen predators close in. Then, in perfect unison, Sakumo and Mitsuki strike from impossible angles—blades whispering through flesh, leaving only red arcs across the dusty night.

One by one, the Red Stone shinobi collapse, their blood painting the dirt.

Hozuki roars in rage, charging forward, his twin katanas slashing furiously. But Sakumo is already there. With a fluid step, he sidesteps the molten swing and drives his elbow into Hozuki’s chest. The force reverberates through the commander’s armor, sending him crashing backward through the thin plaster wall of a poor family’s home. The wall caves in, debris scattering as Hozuki disappears into the darkness inside.

Mitsuki wipes blood from his face, panting hard. “Sakumo—it’s time. We can’t linger.”

Sakumo nods, his eyes scanning the burning streets. “Go.”

They sprint together, vaulting over fences, leaping walls, their boots landing lightly on tiled roofs. The barrio of Juárez becomes their battlefield, the labyrinthine rooftops their only path to survival.

But Red Stone is relentless.

“After them!” Hozuki’s roar tears through the dust as he emerges from the ruined house, blood dripping from his mouth, his eyes ablaze with vengeance. His remaining shinobi obey, vaulting after Sakumo and Mitsuki, hurling shuriken that slice through the night sky like black stars.

Metal sings as Sakumo deflects two shuriken midair, his blade moving faster than sight. Mitsuki lashes out with his chain, catching another and whipping it back toward its sender, burying it into the shinobi’s throat. Blood sprays, a gargled scream fading into silence.

From the corner of his eye, Sakumo spots salvation. Down below, headlights cut through the gloom—their car. Habura, Reiko, Tokuro, and Rojas are racing through the barrio, dust and smoke curling behind them as they speed toward the rendezvous.

“Now!” Mitsuki shouts.

They leap, timing their descent with surgical precision. Shuriken whistle past their heads, slicing fabric and skin, but they push forward, falling like shadows from the sky. Their boots slam onto the roof of the moving car, the impact rattling the metal frame.

“Drive!” Sakumo shouts down through the open window, gripping the roof as Habura swerves to stabilize the car. The Red Stone shinobi behind them give chase, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, refusing to relent.

Bullets suddenly crack the air—cartel men from nearby houses join the chaos, drawn by the noise, by the sight of blades flashing in their neighborhood. The streets of Juárez erupt into pandemonium: cartel gunfire, Red Stone shuriken, Blood Raven steel, all colliding in the suffocating heat.

Inside the car, Rojas trembles, his hands clutching the black case. “This… this is madness,” he mutters, his voice breaking.

Reiko presses a hand to his shoulder, her gaze cold but steady. “Welcome to the world you helped create.”

Sakumo and Mitsuki drop down into the car, breathing heavily, their faces streaked with blood and sweat. Mitsuki wipes his blade clean, eyes still burning with the adrenaline of the fight. Sakumo looks at Habura, his tone sharp but calm.

“Keep driving. Don’t stop. Not until we’re out of this city.”

Behind them, Hozuki lands on a rooftop, his molten blades glowing like twin suns in the dark. His chest heaves with rage as he watches the car speed away, disappearing into the labyrinth of Juárez streets.

His voice is low, guttural, and filled with promise. “This isn’t over. Blood Raven will pay. And that cursed box will be ours.”

The chase fades into the distance, but the war has only just begun.

The streets of Juárez burn with chaos. Sirens howl in the distance, cartel pickups roar through the labyrinth of barrios, their mounted guns spraying bullets wildly at the night. Red Stone shinobi still lurk among the rooftops, their shuriken glittering under the broken moonlight. And in the middle of it all, one battered sedan tears through the streets—Habura at the wheel, his jaw clenched, every muscle in his arms straining to keep the car steady.

“Faster!” Reiko yells from the back, her voice barely audible over the roar of gunfire.

Habura slams the gas pedal to the floor. The tires screech, rubber peeling against broken asphalt as the car darts into a narrow alley. Sparks fly as the side mirror scrapes a wall of crumbling bricks. Rojas clutches the black case tighter against his chest, sweat dripping down his face.

“They won’t stop,” he mutters, his voice trembling. “Red Stone won’t stop until they have this.”

Sakumo sits in the passenger seat, blood streaking his cheek, his blade resting across his knees. His eyes are calm, but his voice is sharp. “Then we make sure they don’t leave Juárez alive.”

Behind them, headlights flare—a convoy of cartel trucks, engines howling like predators on the hunt. Gunfire erupts, bullets smashing into the rear window, shattering glass across Tokuro’s lap. Tokuro immediately pulls a smoke bomb from his pouch and hurls it out the back. The street behind vanishes into a thick black cloud, swallowing their pursuers.

But not for long.

The trucks burst through the smoke, silhouettes glowing in the light of their own headlights. On the rooftops above, shadows race—the unmistakable figures of Red Stone shinobi, vaulting across tiles, keeping pace. One hurls a flaming kunai, the explosive tip embedding into the hood of the sedan.

“Mitsuki!” Sakumo barks.

Mitsuki leans halfway out the window, his kunai chain flashing through the night. With perfect precision, he loops it around the embedded weapon and yanks it free just before it detonates, flinging it back into a cartel truck. The explosion tears the vehicle apart, flames devouring it as bodies scatter into the street.

But two more trucks replace it instantly. The chase has no end.

Habura growls through gritted teeth, sweat pouring down his temple. “We won’t survive this in the open. We need cover!”

Sakumo scans the map in his mind, remembering every alley and street from their intel. “Left! Now!”

Habura wrenches the wheel. The car swerves violently into a side road, nearly toppling as its tires screech. The convoy overshoots the turn, giving them precious seconds. Still, the shinobi above remain. Hozuki himself appears, his glowing lava blades slicing through a rooftop as he lands heavily, sprinting toward them like a demon set ablaze.

He leaps.

His katana plunges into the asphalt inches from the car’s trunk, leaving molten cracks behind. Habura shouts, “Hold on!” and jerks the wheel again. The car barrels down a set of stairs, sparks flying as the undercarriage scrapes stone steps, bouncing wildly. Everyone inside grips the seats or the frame, holding on for dear life.

They crash into a lower street, nearly colliding with a fruit stand, sending crates of oranges scattering into the night. Habura regains control, tires screaming as he pushes forward.

Finally, out of the labyrinth of streets, they see it—the abandoned hacienda on the outskirts. Their designated safe house. Stone walls rising like a fortress in the desert night.

“Almost there!” Reiko shouts, her heart hammering.

Cartel trucks still chase, but Blood Raven discipline shines through. Tokuro and Mitsuki lean out, their shuriken slicing through tires, kunai chains ripping weapons from enemies’ hands. One by one, the cartel vehicles crash into each other, spiraling out of control in a chorus of fire and metal.

But the Red Stone shinobi remain. Hozuki’s roar echoes behind them as he and his men close in, vaulting the last rooftops, blades glinting under pale moonlight.

Habura guns the engine and the car bursts through the hacienda gates, wood splintering on impact. Dust clouds the air as they skid to a halt in the courtyard. Immediately, everyone piles out.

“Inside!” Sakumo orders.

They rush the heavy doors of the hacienda, slamming them shut just as shuriken clatter against the walls outside. Mitsuki and Tokuro drag wooden beams into place, barricading the entrance. The room falls silent except for the ragged sound of their breathing.

Rojas collapses onto a chair, clutching the black case, trembling. “We made it,” he whispers, though his voice lacks conviction.

Sakumo kneels in front of him, his eyes piercing. “No. This is only the beginning.”

Habura places a hand on the case, his expression grim. “We have Black Rose. But Red Stone won’t stop. And neither will the cartels once they realize what’s inside.”

Reiko looks around the room, her katana still drawn. “So this is it. The real war begins here.”

For a moment, silence reigns. Dust drifts in the moonlight cutting through the broken windows. The weight of their mission, the danger of the weapon in their possession, and the blood already shed hangs heavy over them all.

Sakumo finally rises, his voice low, commanding. “Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we prepare. Because once Red Stone comes… there will be no hiding. Only survival.”

Outside, faint howls echo across Juárez, mingling with the distant crack of gunfire. Somewhere out there, Hozuki sharpens his blades, vowing revenge.

And inside the safe house, the Blood Raven shinobi gather around the cursed box that holds Black Rose—the weapon that could set the world aflame.

the shadows of war have only just begun.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***