Back to the Stage

“The pattern’s clear,” Desolator said, “Your supply lines aren’t just disrupted; they’re being deliberately targeted.”

“Do you have a theory? A name?”

"My job is not to think for you." Desolator allowed himself a brief pause before continuing “A theory, yes. Names, not yet. But the pattern suggests a group with resources and experience. They’re not amateurs.”

Sandatsu exhaled heavily, the sound more of a growl than a sigh. He pushed his chair back and rose to his full height. “Resources and experience,” he muttered, pacing slowly around the table. “That narrows it down to... everyone.”

"You need a clearer picture before taking action."

“You’re telling me to wait,”

“I’m telling you to think,” Desolator corrected, meeting his glare without flinching. "This isn’t a case of opportunists stumbling into your domain. They’re methodical. Which means they have history.”

Sandatsu tilted his head slightly, the motion almost predatory. “History we can trace?”

"Not exactly. Experience. Because of your displays of strength, among the groups in Japan few would dare to target yours directly."

"Right. They know better.”

Desolator inclined his head. “That narrows the pool. Domestic operations would rather stay in their lanes than risk confrontation. But foreign elements…”

“They don’t know the rules,” Sandatsu finished. “Or they think they can break them.”

“Foreign syndicates would explain the tactical precision and the lack of identifiable patterns in their movements. They’re not operating like locals—they’re adapting as they go.”

“They’d need connections on the ground,” he said after a moment. “Someone familiar with the terrain, the culture. But not too familiar, or they’d stick out.”

Desolator nodded. “A middleman. Someone with just enough local knowledge to facilitate their operations without drawing attention.”

Sandatsu nodded, his gaze narrowing as though he were staring past the room, into something only he could see.

“There’s no middleman,” he finally said abruptly.

Desolator raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained otherwise impassive. “You’re sure?”

"The Wild Hunt’s alliance with the Night Parade isn’t exactly a secret. Word travels fast in these circles. No one with half a brain would risk stepping into that storm for something as simple as money.”

“The Wild Hunt doesn’t hold territory,” he stated plainly. It wasn’t a question; it was a reaffirmation.

“No.”

“And yet,” Desolator continued, “someone is treating you like a territorial force. Like your operations need to be dismantled. Why?”

Sandatsu frowned slightly. He had already considered that question, but hearing Desolator phrase it like that made him look at it from another angle.

The Wild Hunt wasn’t a syndicate. It wasn’t an organization with a hierarchy or long-term goals of expansion.

“If someone wanted to establish themselves,” Sandatsu mused, “they wouldn’t go after us. There’s no gain in it.”

Desolator nodded. “And anyone with common sense would go through the Night Parade first.”

That was another angle. The Night Parade was the real power here, the ones with the reach and resources to control the underworld. If a new group was trying to carve out a place for themselves, they would be dealing with them, not the Wild Hunt.

“No ambition. No territorial gain,” Sandatsu muttered. “Then what’s left?”

Desolator remained silent, letting the question hang.

His mind ran through the possibilities like a machine, cutting through unnecessary details and isolating the core problem.

The Wild Hunt’s operations weren’t large. The damage done by disrupting them was minimal. And yet, someone was putting in the effort, taking risks, and exposing themselves just to create that disruption.

Then there was the nature of the attacks.

Not direct. Not open.

It wasn’t the style of hot-blooded villains looking for a challenge. Those types would have announced themselves, would have thrown themselves at him directly.

This was different. Subterfuge. Interference. A slow, methodical approach.

Why?

If it wasn’t about profit, and it wasn’t about power—

Sandatsu’s expression darkened slightly. “It’s about me.”

Desolator gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“They don’t care about the Wild Hunt,” Sandatsu continued, his voice slower now, more precise. “They just want to hurt me.”

But that didn’t fit either. It was personal, but distant. There was no direct hostility, no grand declaration of vengeance. If someone had a grudge against him, they would have made it known. This wasn’t revenge.

It was opposition.

Not to what he did, but to what he was.

Sandatsu closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling.

The underworld was a stage. That was the metaphor Desolator had taught him, one that had stuck with him ever since. A stage with spotlights and shadows, where every action, every move, was a performance for an audience that was both invisible and omnipresent. There were roles to play, implied motives to maintain, and a constant, shifting dynamic between those who watched and those who were watched.

Every figure who stepped onto that stage was playing a part, willingly or not. Even those who operated in the shadows still had a presence, a role dictated by how others perceived them.

And perception was everything.

He imagined the stage now, in his mind’s eye. The Wild Hunt had no territory—no physical claim to any part of the underworld’s landscape. That meant, in the grand play of criminal enterprises, they weren’t a kingdom or an empire. They were something else entirely.

A storm. A specter. A force of nature that swept in, did its work, and disappeared.

The Wild Hunt was the absence of a set role. They were incredibly chaotic, but had overwhelming combat power. That was why they were dangerous. And that was why no one ever tried to disrupt them. There was nothing to gain from it.

And yet, someone was interfering. Someone had stepped onto the stage and was actively working to throw obstacles in his way.

Sandatsu pictured them, faceless figures moving in the dark. They weren’t stepping into the light. They weren’t making themselves known. That was the first inconsistency.

They wanted him to see the effects of their actions, but not them.

That meant they weren’t interested in playing a role that could be defined. No reputation, no claim, no ambition.

And yet, they were still acting.

They had stepped onto the stage. That meant they had a purpose. A message.

Desolator watched him in silence, waiting.

“What are they presenting themselves as?” Sandatsu muttered.

Someone trying to make his life harder with no clear demands, no declaration, no face.

But that wasn’t true, was it?

They were still doing something. Every action had consequences. That meant there still was an implicit message, even if they didn't intend to tell him anything.

No, he was wrong.

Because their actions weren’t about him. Not really.

They had already decided who he was.

They weren’t doing this because they saw an opportunity. They were doing it because they believed they had to.

"It’s belief."

Desolator didn’t react with surprise. His piercing glare remained unreadable. But the way his fingers tapped against the table suggested interest.

Sandatsu continued. "A cult. That's why they haven't made open contact with the big players. They’re acting in a closed system. Keeping interactions to a minimum, avoiding leaving too much behind. The target is me, but the message is for them."

Desolator gave a slight nod. "That would explain their methodology. Cults, particularly the serious ones, don’t seek out external contact unless absolutely necessary. The more they interact with the outside world, the more they risk contamination. They engage only from a position of control."

"And they do have control," Sandatsu muttered. "Or at least, enough to make trouble without exposing themselves. They aren’t trying to win anything. They’re just trying to hurt me. Even if it's only a little."

"Faith is a powerful motivator," Desolator said simply. "More so than greed, more so than ambition. If they believe you are something that must be opposed, their reasons do not have to make sense to you. Only to them."

Sandatsu exhaled slowly. This wasn’t new to him.

He had already been the object of focus for one cult—Ivan’s. That had been different, though. Ivan’s followers had wanted him. They had helped him. It had been faith, but it had also been obsession.

And now?

He had only grown since then. His power, his reach, his collection of exceptions to the natural order.

It wasn’t unthinkable that he would begin to figure into the beliefs of other modern fringe religions.

He already had a rough idea of some of the new public religions in Kyoto. Faith movements, revivalist cults, even some of the newer ideological sects. But those were just the ones that operated in the light.

Desolator spoke, his voice steady. "Don’t limit yourself to domestic groups. You should be looking for foreign ones as well. The underworld is global. If they are acting in Japan, it does not mean they originated here."

"I’ll send Drekus and Feral to check some out," he decided. "The ones I already have on my radar. Meanwhile, I’ll visit some myself."

Desolator finally allowed the faintest trace of something—perhaps satisfaction—to settle in his expression.

"Good. If nothing else, this could be a chance for you to try out that new ‘Everyman’ quirk of yours. You have been talking about it for a few meetings already.” His tone had relaxed, even if so little that most would fail to notice it. "Go have fun."

It wasn’t a joke—Desolator didn’t joke during these meetings. But it was something close. The kind of thing that had developed between them over the course of these meetings. Not quite camaraderie, not quite friendship, but something resembling familiarity. It was a deviation from strict professionalism, one of the few that had managed to slip through the rigid structure of their interactions.

“Already did,”

Desolator’s eyes narrowed slightly, the only outward sign of interest. “Oh?”

“Used it to go to a place in Hiroshima,” he continued. “Date’s. They’ve got great tea over there.”

That, more than anything else, nearly made Desolator’s expression shift.

“Didn’t think you were the type to care about something like that.”

“I don’t,” he said. Then, after a beat, he added, “But Date’s does have good tea. Good enough for a villain like me to risk going out to get some.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, there was the smallest chance of a faint smirk showing at the corner of Desolator’s mouth.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Back to business.

Back to the stage.