Hero work is a trade for the lowest kind of scum.
Trust me. I would know.
I am one.
First of all, what even is a Hero?
A professional “murderer” hired to dispose of Demon Kings. The moment someone chooses that line of work, you should start questioning what kind of person he is.
Let me give you a few examples.
Among my friends in the business, there is Ishinoo the <Musician>, whose hobby is recording the death screams of the Demon Kings he kills. Then there is Joe the <Salt>, an ex-yakuza hitman who used to make his living off contract murder. And there are plenty of others who, if they had not become Heroes, would simply have been serial killers.
At present, it is an open secret that most Heroes are little more than criminals who crawled out of the underworld.
Without the Hero license issued by the Japanese government, we are just murderers. Trespassers. Violent pieces of shit who make money by hurting people.
Still, even if we are the lowest dregs of society, even if we make a business out of killing, the moment we lose the last scraps of conscience we have, we become something worse.
Something beneath scum.
And even I do not want that.
Once you accept a job, you do not abandon it halfway through. If someone weaker asks you for help, you do not turn him away. If you borrow something, you pay it back properly. If a man cannot even follow that much basic professional ethics, then he is not just scum. He is a hopeless piece of shit below scum.
Looking back, that was exactly where I went wrong.
Professional ethics should have gone straight into the gutter.
It happened on a winter night so cold it felt almost unnatural.
I was walking through a back alley in Shibuya Ward.
It was the kind of alley that snaked between cramped mixed-use buildings—quiet, filthy, and foul-smelling. There was no foot traffic at all.
Naturally.
That part of Shibuya Ward was territory claimed by several Demon Kings. No matter how convenient the shortcut, nobody with a functioning brain chose to walk through those alleys at night.
My destination was up ahead.
<The Goonies>, a bar run by an acquaintance of mine named Ed Silas, sat in a place that looked like the dead end of a dead-end alley.
That night, I needed a change of pace.
For some reason, I had not been able to get myself moving. I had not worked in about two months. It was cold as hell, and the sky had been nothing but gray for days on end. At times like that, the right answer was always Ed Silas’s bar: drink with friends, play cards, maybe get my will to live back.
I was not exactly in a fantastic mood, but for the first time in a while, I felt all right.
I might even have been humming.
And then, on that night of all nights, the girl fell out of the sky right in front of me.
She did not scream.
She just dropped.
Hit the ground.
Shattered the asphalt.
Then she bounced and rolled four or five times before slamming into a wall and finally stopping.
I watched the whole thing in silence.
What the hell?
Was this punishment for my daily sins, or was I just unlucky from birth? Either way, it was a problem. Why did she have to fall in front of me? I knew I was taking it out on the wrong person, but I wanted to complain.
This was not the kind of situation I could bulldoze my way through by pretending I had not noticed.
“—No. Wait.”
Maybe I could still avoid the worst-case scenario.
I walked over to the girl sprawled on the ground.
“Maybe she’s dead.”
Honestly, that would have helped.
Holding on to that faint hope, I looked down at her face.
She wore a white school uniform. Her features had a hard, almost brittle quality to them.
She was probably a high school student, but there was something strangely mature about her, something ill-fitting. Her profile reminded me of a cold sculpture. For some reason, I felt a strange sense of recognition, as if I had seen her somewhere before.
But the instant I tried to search my memory, my mood sank.
Her thin eyebrows twitched.
Her face was deathly pale, but her lips moved too, parting as if they were trying to drag in air.
Not good.
She had fallen hard enough to break asphalt, and she was still alive. Her arms and legs were not even broken.
That was not human durability.
I knew the kinds of people who could show that sort of abnormal toughness.
Demon Kings.
Or Heroes.
If she was the former, lucky me.
If she was the latter, I was screwed.
A dying Demon King was money if you finished it off. A dying Hero was usually trouble. A dying Hero who had dropped from above? That sounded like someone being chased by a Demon King or one of its servants.
So what was she?
Feeling like I had just stepped in something rotten, I quickly looked her over. My eyes stopped at the collar of her uniform.
There it was.
The proof.
Tiny red marks scattered along her neck.
Not wounds. Injection marks.
Proof that she regularly used a special drug. In our line of work, it meant she was a habitual user of <E3>—Ether Effect Enhancer.
A drug designed to fight Demon Kings.
A Hero’s essential tool.
It amplified ether perception inside the human body and forced the user into a superhuman state for a limited time. You usually injected it through the neck with a specialized syringe.
Which meant there was no longer any doubt.
Almost unconsciously, I must have sighed.
I had no idea what twist of fate had dragged a high school girl into this filthy trade, but—
“She’s a damn Hero?”
“That’s right.”
To my surprise, someone answered.
“Bad luck, pal. Step away from the brat.”
The voice did not come from the girl.
It came from behind me.
Of course, since I am an excellent Hero, I had already noticed him approaching. But answering me at that exact moment was odd enough to throw off my rhythm.
I slid a hand into my coat pocket and turned.
A large figure was walking out from deeper in the alley.
At times like this, there is one rule I follow.
Take control first.
Before he could say another word, I started talking.
“Who the hell are you? A friend of this Hero? Hanging around with a minor this late at night? Not a great look.”
As I ran my mouth, I studied the man approaching from behind.
He wore an expensive-looking suit.
His face was awful.
His smile had no decency in it.
And he was holding a handgun.
At the very least, he did not seem to have a respectable occupation. I immediately slapped a label on him: piece of shit.
Not beneath shit.
I could at least give him points for not shooting me in the back without warning.
So I decided to negotiate with this piece of shit as politely as possible.
The key was smiling.
“Anyway, looks like neither of us is having a great night. I stumble onto this scene, you get seen by me. How about we call it even and both walk away pretending we saw nothing?”
I pointed at the girl on the ground.
“Then you can come back later and figure out how to shoot her properly. Sound good?”
“Shut up. Listen carefully. I’ll say it one more time. Step away from the brat.”
He ignored every word I said.
Worse, he raised the handgun at me and gave the order like he was doing me a favor.
Then he smiled.
“If you do what I say, I’ll kill you quick too.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I hurt you first. Then I kill you. Which one sounds better?”
“I see.”
Quietly, in my head, I changed his label.
Beneath shit.
Judging from that delighted smile, the reason he had not shot me from behind was not because he wanted to warn me.
He wanted to watch me flinch.
He wanted to see me panic.
“I mean, I’d rather not get involved. I’ve got plans with friends after this.”
I stopped mid-sentence.
The girl on the ground had moved.
Her eyes were open. She was staring straight up at me. Her lips trembled, pulled tight with pain, and she forced out a word.
One simple word.
“Run.”
Apparently, people were going to spend the whole night ordering me around.
The girl spoke from deep in her throat, her voice like an animal growling.
“Run. Hurry. Go—he is mine to—”
Maybe she meant to follow that with something noble.
Instead, she started coughing and cut herself off. After that, no more words came out.
The stress was giving me a headache.
It was always like this.
If someone this badly injured went out of her way to tell me to run, then what the hell was I supposed to do?
“I’d love to take your advice and run.”
I looked down at her.
“But I’ve got personal reasons why I can’t.”
Sure, I was a piece of shit about to solve a problem with violence.
But if I ran here, I would be worse than that.
The girl looked up at me, then let out another strange, animal-like groan. Her face changed slightly, as if she had noticed something.
“No. Wait. You are—”
“Pointless.”
The man in the suit snorted.
“Either way, His Majesty the Demon King ordered us to kill all witnesses. So. Which one of you wants to die first?”
“Stop!”
The girl on the ground suddenly shouted.
She was trying to stand, forcing strength into a body that clearly had none left.
“I will fight you. This is not over yet!”
What the hell is wrong with her?
That was what I thought.
What was the point of acting tough in that condition?
So I decided to ignore her completely.
“Well, sure. Before that.”
Casually, I reached toward the back of my neck.
The side of my neck.
There were injection marks there too, left by a certain special drug I used regularly.
“Let me ask first. Which Demon King’s dog are you?”
“Hah?”
The man in the suit tilted his head and tried to look intimidating.
“What was that? Say it again.”
“Don’t play dumb. You heard me. Fine, I’ll say it again.”
There was a reason I was talking like that.
I wanted him to think we were still in the “trash talk” stage.
Quietly, I pressed the tip of the custom syringe hidden in my sleeve against my neck.
It was a magician’s trick, more or less.
Also the bare minimum preparation expected of a freelance Hero.
“I asked which Demon King’s dog you are. Funny coincidence, that’s all. I’m working as a dog for one of the Demon Kings around here myself. If we start something here without an agreement, things could get annoying for both of us.”
Obviously, that was a lie.
I was making it up as I went.
But the man’s expression shifted.
Just a little.
As if he hesitated to fire, the muzzle of his gun dipped by barely a centimeter.
That was enough.
I drove the syringe’s contents into my neck.
The syringe was a modified jet injector, the kind that used compressed air to punch the contents in all at once.
The drug was, of course, <E3>.
The change hit immediately.
“Well.”
A flicker of dizziness passed through me.
Then I moved.
“That was a lie.”
Because I am a kind man, I even told him.
The man in the suit seemed genuinely shocked. He tried to curse me out.
Idiot.
If he had time for that, he should have aimed properly and pulled the trigger.
Even if he had, I probably could have dodged.
Once I am in that state, I am fast.
I dropped low and stepped in.
The bullet scraped past over my head.
My consciousness accelerated.
I saw everything.
The bullet cutting through the air.
The man’s face twisting in alarm.
Ether Effect Enhancer.
Common name: <E3>.
People with worse manners call it <Punch-Through>, or just <Juice>.
The drug’s effects are dramatic.
The change is almost instantaneous. Once the drug seeps beneath the skin, it amplifies and reinforces the ether inside the human body.
Ether, if you want the old term, is magic power.
Some scholars have called it life energy.
Only with that drug can Heroes stand against Demon Kings.
Because a “Demon King” is someone who has permanently enhanced the ether inside his body through regular drug administration or adaptation surgery. These days, the surgeries have become safer, and plenty of idiots decide to become Demon Kings like they are signing up for a gym membership.
Yakuza and street punks, especially, have been lining up for the procedures ever since Japan lost the Second World War and black markets spread across the country. Once the massive benefits of ether became clear, the trend only got worse.
Of course, nothing that useful comes without a catch.
Excessive ether enhancement violently alters the brain.
Or, more simply, it drives people insane.
The first mental effect is increased aggression. Meanwhile, the rationality meant to suppress those impulses deteriorates. If that continues permanently, the person is believed to lose, at minimum, the will to obey the law.
In fact, every person who has undergone ether enhancement surgery has eventually committed crimes and been designated a Demon King.
At this point, permanent ether enhancement surgery itself is treated as a criminal act. Even for us Heroes, excessive <E3> intake is strictly regulated, and the amount we are issued is fixed.
Still, if you want to fight Demon Kings, you need <E3>.
When ether inside the body is enhanced, physical durability rises dramatically. Reflexes and motor control sharpen. You get the kind of toughness that lets someone fall from a rooftop and avoid fatal injury. The kind of speed that lets someone dodge after seeing a bullet fired.
Things like that.
But more important than any of that is the special perception <E3> grants its user.
In industry slang, we call it <ether perception>.
The exact ability varies wildly from person to person.
One person might gain the sight to “see the future” several seconds ahead. Another might gain the touch to “feel and move gravitational pull” between objects. To use another outdated term, people used to call that sort of thing psychic power.
Mine was pretty plain by comparison.
I did not get some special sixth sense.
No telescopic vision.
No dog-like sense of smell.
What I got was high-speed perceptual processing.
If you categorize abilities like mine, they are called <Speed Reading> or <Scatter>. I can take in information from my five senses, process it dozens of times faster than an ordinary person, think, and make decisions.
That is why I talk so damn much.
After trial and error, I found this was the best method.
Interactive thought processing.
By thinking as if I am talking to someone else, I organize what I perceive.
For example, I can see a bullet after it has been fired, spend plenty of time thinking about it, and then move.
Will that bullet hit me?
Will it miss?
How should I move to avoid it?
I can weigh a whole spread of choices and possibilities before acting. That is an absurd advantage.
In a fight, the one who sees better and thinks harder wins.
That was what my master used to say.
So, after dodging the bullet, I closed the distance instantly.
Before the man could react, I grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and crushed it.
Bones broke inside my grip.
That much grip strength was standard for a Hero.
The man in the suit reacted to pain in the usual way. His back curled, and he tried to yank back the shattered wrist.
Obviously, he could not.
I was still holding it.
A moment later, my foot came up into his jaw.
That was more or less the end of anything you could call a fight.
After that, all I needed to do was kick his head as hard as possible once he fell and cracked it against the asphalt.
Like punting a soccer ball.
Full force.
When someone does that with a body strengthened by <E3>, most humans die.
Still, moments like that are when you have to be careful.
When the situation turns against an opponent, will he run?
Or will he counterattack?
If you cannot judge that, you charge in carelessly and get hurt. Naturally, I had no intention of making that mistake.
I had plenty of time to watch.
The man sprawled on the asphalt clenched something in his uninjured left hand.
A knife.
I stepped in and watched him thrust.
Not the blade.
That was not where my attention needed to be.
I watched the man himself. I read his eyes. Where was he aiming?
My stomach.
“Bad choice.”
Calmly, I slapped the wrist holding the knife with my palm.
While I was at it, I kicked out the back of his knee and dropped him to the ground again. Against a Hero, a long-range thrust like that would never land. If you wanted to use a knife or a gun, the best move would be to attack from point-blank range, already pressed close.
This man was not used to fighting.
No question.
“You’re—”
The man in the suit tried to say something after falling again.
I had no reason to listen.
I just swung my leg and drove the toe of my sneaker into his face.
His words cut off.
After that, he stopped moving.
Better safe than sorry.
I took another step toward him.
“That is enough!”
A sharp voice rang out behind me.
The girl on the ground.
For one second, I stopped.
I thought maybe the man in the suit had some kind of trick that made finishing him dangerous.
But then the girl said something unbelievable.
“The fight is over.”
“Hah?”
I turned despite myself.
The girl had planted one trembling hand on the ground and was trying to stand. It was not working. She groaned in frustration.
“The fight is over. There is no need to attack him further. That man can no longer fight.”
Now that was a hell of a Hero.
A high school girl who had fallen from a building, nearly died on her own, and was now showing warmhearted concern for the man who had come to kill her.
Unbelievable.
“So any more than this—”
“So any more than this? Right. In other words, what you mean is: now’s my chance.”
I ignored her.
I turned back to the man in the suit and brought my heel down on his face with everything I had.
There was a solid impact.
A moment later, blood began spreading from the back of his head.
“Good.”
I nodded.
That was where I stopped.
I had to mark the end of it for myself. Otherwise, the aggression would keep climbing, and I might throw in unnecessary extra attacks even after the man was dead. <E3> definitely had that kind of side effect.
That rush was necessary for fighting.
But if you let it run too freely, you joined the addicts in no time.
My senses had sharpened too much.
I felt dizzy.
“—Excuse me.”
As I took a deep breath, a voice came from near my feet.
The girl who had fallen earlier.
Apparently, her body still would not move properly. She wore an absurdly serious expression and seemed to be glaring at me.
“I am grateful that you helped me. But that man could no longer fight. The battle was completely decided. Killing him was—”
“That man.”
I was in a foul enough mood that I decided to shower her with bullshit too.
“Murdered my entire family once. You could say I’ve lived for revenge ever since. All so I could kill him with my own hands one day.”
“That is…”
The girl’s face twisted slightly.
“A lie, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. So what? If it were true, would that make it okay? Or are you going to punish me? Go ahead. Try.”
I let the words pour out at her.
Pure venting.
I felt like shit.
“And you. You’re still young, so get out of the Hero business while you can, you piece of shit. Drop dead.”
Heroes are scum without exception.
Pieces of shit who earn money through murder and violence.
If you can get out, you should.
The girl seemed too stunned to answer. She only narrowed and widened her eyes.
For some reason, that irritated me even more.
I considered saying something even more preachy just to make her feel worse.
Before I could, I heard footsteps approaching from behind.
“—Aki!”
Another girl’s voice.
I turned and saw a very small girl running toward us.
She wore the same white school uniform as the girl at my feet. Her face was a little too perfect, somehow inorganic, like a Japanese doll.
She glared at me and stopped.
Her face was full of hostility.
“Who are you?”
The small girl had a knife in her hand.
It was wet with blood.
Do not tell me she was a Hero too.
The world was finished.
She clearly thought I was an enemy. Her eyes moved from the man in the suit lying on the ground, to the girl collapsed beside me, to me.
“Who are you? One of <Briar>’s servants?”
“No. He is not.”
The girl on the ground spoke quickly, almost in a panic.
“He is not. He is a Hero. I was… yes. He helped me.”
“A Hero?”
For a moment, silence fell.
The small girl looked at me with eyes full of suspicion.
“You?”
“How the hell should I know?”
I shook my head.
The <E3> had me itching for violence.
If they kept picking at me, I might end up doing something that involved it.
“Take her to a hospital. I’ve got somewhere to be. Bye.”
“No—please, wait.”
The girl at my feet braced one hand against the ground and tried to rise.
She failed again.
“I have not even thanked you yet.”
I had no intention of answering.
I was too irritated.
My fun night had not even started, and I was already late.
On this one point, I had no intention of compromising.
Not even if someone stacked one or two million yen in cash in front of me.
Drinking beer with friends.
Eating cheap, good pizza.
Playing games.
What could possibly matter more than that?