Japan, a littoral country composed of multiple main islands, was home to approximately 120 million people. It also hosted the largest metropolitan area in the world with 38 million people living amidst a concrete sea of endless buildings, sprawling nearly beyond sight.

  Thirty-eight million souls trying to coexist in the same space—a recipe for disaster anywhere else. Yet, Japanese society had found a way to hold itself together.

  Crowds gathered at the densest crosswalks, patiently waiting for signals to cross the litterless streets. In metro stations, offices, and even private homes, countless quiet faces passed by one another, entirely indifferent.

  A nation of order and tradition—but also of quiet apathy, where one's place in the social machine often left personal development and desires in the shadows. A few thousand souls occasionally broke through the stillness, seeking fire and emotion, but most lived as best they could.

  Unlike most of the world, the Land of the Rising Sun had postponed social decay by freezing itself in time. But there was only so much resistance it could offer against the mounting pressure of the outside world—especially now, with demons grinding the gears of a new era.

  A man, seated in the back of a government vehicle, gazed through a tinted window at the urban sprawl of Tokyo’s most iconic crossing. A blur of bodies moved in perfect synchrony below. He closed the window and stepped out at the city's main train station, vanishing into the rush hour tide.

  It was early May—a season of clustered holidays. One of the few brief pauses where the country collectively exhaled. Carrying a briefcase, the man boarded a train and departed the city for the countryside—back to the quiet place where he’d grown up.

  By nightfall, the scenery had shifted into desolation. Empty streets, shuttered storefronts. A ghost town. The only sign of life near the station was a dimly lit bar, where locals drank until either memory or consciousness gave out.

  Despite his quiet entrance, the man was recognized instantly. The owner bowed deeply.

  "Minister Tanaka, it’s such an honor."

  The relatively young man returned the greeting with a calm nod and extended a reassuring hand. His gaze shifted to a corner table, where the familiar figure of a friend awaited.

  "You’re so late, Tanaka!" shouted a young man, raising a can of beer.

  "Sorry, the meetings ran longer than I expected," he replied.

  "You're a busy person now—a government man. That title of Minister of Agriculture... still can't believe how far you’ve come since you left."

  "Me neither," Tanaka answered, raising his hand to signal the bartender for a round.

  "Still, it’s good you haven’t forgotten about us," his friend said. His eyes were hazy, but sincerity bled through.

  "I try not to, Sato."

  Tanaka, a boy from the countryside, had once left his home with ambitions of entering government. His goal had been simple: to improve life in the rural regions, areas slowly fading into obscurity as urban sprawl devoured the nation.

  But Japanese politics had always moved like old stone, defined by public apathy and ideological inertia. The highest seats were occupied by politicians with decades of party allegiance, leaving no room for the younger generation to speak, let alone shape policy.

  Still, Tanaka kept pushing forward.

  To his surprise, the government eventually began paying lip service to the idea of including younger voices. One day, the Prime Minister himself approached him with an offer—an official post in the Ministry of Agriculture.

  It felt surreal, but Tanaka saw it as a rare chance to influence the very world he came from. A single open door in a labyrinth of locked ones. Maybe, just maybe, he could make a difference. Althouogh, Deep down, he understood what it really was—a political stunt. A hollow gesture aimed at swaying liberal voters, now losing ground to the rising tide of conservatism. But he still said yes. He hoped that even a stunt could be a necessary starting point, and Tanaka was determined to make something of it.

  However time managed to bring down his youthful optimism, turning him into a cynical person. "Even as Minister, there’s no room to debate without risking your position," Tanaka complained, pushing empty beer cans aside. "Call them liberals or conservatives—people here only change when money's involved."

  "You say it like you’re useless, but most people would make a deal with a devil to get where you are. Even now you have become the pride of this town."

  "That doesn't mean much anymore..." Tanaka muttered, turning his gaze away, prompting laughter from his friend.

  "You were always like this. Actually, you remind me of these fools I heard on a radio show the other day."

  "Fools?"

  "Yeah, the kind talking about 'saving society from collapse,' or 'ending wars and crime,' or 'breaking down the walls that divide people.' You know... cult stuff."

  "And?"

  "One has to admit, they say some compelling things. But it’s just a trick to squeeze a few hundred thousand yen out of you. No one cares enough to make any of that true—not even a bland sould like yours, Tanaka."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Later, although he hadn’t drunk much himself, Tanaka helped his friend into a taxi, then found himself alone again, haunted by those last words.

  Since when did I stop caring? Why does keeping my position matter more than doing good?

  Back in Tokyo, Tanaka located the radio station—and with it, the group his friend had mentioned. He knew going there could jeopardize his reputation, but part of him wanted to see the hypocrisy for himself. To confirm he wasn’t the only one who had turned away.

  Surprisingly, the cult had a public address, showing that they didn’t even try to hide.

  Outside, people in white masks handed out brochures to the apathetic pedestrians.

  "Why the masks?" Tanaka asked, his tone sharp and entitled.

  The masked volunteers exchanged a glance before answering.

  "Because our place in this world doesn’t define us—but rather what we’re willing to do."

  Concerned someone might recognize him, Tanaka left quickly—but not without taking a brochure.

  Days later, after finishing work at the ministry, Tanaka was dropped off again at Shibuya Crossing; disappearing once more into the masses. He even booked stay in a close hotel where he changed from formalwear into street clothes, going as undercover as possible.

  That evening, he returned to the cult’s building for their monthly meeting—curiosity overwhelming his caution. Among a surprising number of attendees, he received a white mask at the lobby and put it on.

  He then found himself seated in a large auditorium, surrounded by masked strangers. Tension built during the silent wait, but the event soon began.

  A Japanese woman, also masked in white, took the stage. She spoke about helping others and improving the world, then presented a slideshow of recent charity work—helping the elderly cross streets, feeding the homeless, escorting drunk salarymen home. Everyone applauded at the display.

  Tanaka, however, shrank in his seat. Though charitable, these acts felt meaningless in the grand scheme of things. The average person couldn’t fix the world—and those who could often told themselves the same thing; forming a chain were nobody was in control, but at the same time, were everybody could be.

  The undercover minister was too self-aware. His long-held desire to help a world that didn’t care now weighed on him like a curse. He wished he could abandon the responsibility altogether—but doubted real change was possible in the hands of others.

  And so he stood, ready to leave—only for the announcer speak again.

  "Now, It’s time to welcome a very important guest from overseas: one of the founding members of this movement that has now spread across the globe. Let us show our appreciation."

  The sounds of aplause and appreciation made Tanaka look back. He saw a man in a black trench coat entering the main stage, his identity concealed beneath a dark helm. Multiple other masked members followed him close.

  As the round of applause ended, the man stood at the podium, commanding silence with his presence.

  "First of all, I want to thank all of you for attending, and for this month’s display of charitable acts. Regardless of their size and relative importance, it still takes effort to make good. Let it also be a reminder that we all share responsibility for trying to make the world a better place."

  The eloquence struck Tanaka like lightning. The words contradicted everything he had just said—and yet, the man seemed to posses airs of reason.

  What gives him the right to say these things? He is just a con artist... A manipulator... A parasite feeding off hopeless souls...

  Nevertheless, Tanaka still wanted to hear more about what he had to say. So he sat back down.

  This last thing may not sound as much to you, but it really is. War, hunger, poverty, are some of the problems that have struck the world for the longest time. Then there is global warming, overpopulation, resource scarcity, and technological displacement— not to mention the most recent problem of demons roaming on this earth. Even then we can still think even further, about the tendencies of entropy, the increased passage of time, and the inevitability of an end.”

  The man paused. "With each passing day more and more people are starting to feel hopelesst— rightfully so. In fact, that is the reason why most of you are attending today. There does not seem to be a clear direction towards betterment. Not to undermine their efforts but, even the best minds curing cancer won’t solve everything. Conflict, injustice, disparity... they’ll persist."

  "So why does doing good still matter?" He continued. "This is not some hollow pitch for personal 'revolution' or 'salvation.' The truth is, those who died trying to change the world may have found peace—but the world only grew worse. Instead, what I want to offer all of you now is the chance for true salvation—not just for youselves, but for others."

  This is it.

  Previously, Tanaka had done his own research on cult activity. He knew these types of groups often paired half-truths with false promises. They preyed on desperation, offering fake hope as a lifeline.

  Then, he wondered about all the possible excuses that the man would use to legitimize his movement, bracing himself for the opportunistic pitch.

  Yet, it didn't happen.

  The man in the helm stood silently in place as two radiant arms slowly wrapped around him from behind.

  The audience gasped at the appearance of an uknown pressence. It was beautiful and serene, of glowing pale skin and eyes bright crimson. Behind him stretched two long white feathered wings, with a crown of light that hovered above his head.

  "An angel..." murmured some in the crowd. "The will of Heaven..."

  Despite it's sudden pressence, it was the masked man who kept speaking.

  "The salvation I offer will grant life to the dead and wholeness to the broken. It will end wars, evils, and demons. However, my promise should not be reason for indolence. Until that day, we whould still strive to make this world a better place" the man declared with arms wide.

  Tanaka stood with plans of confronting the masked figure in the front.

  "I don’t care about your spectacle," he snapped. "I want to know how do you plan to actually save the world? What makes it different from any fake promise that has already been said?"

  The man tilted his head. Behind the helm, Tanaka could feel the weight of his stare—and the angel’s overwhelming presence.

  "Unlike others, I have the resources and the conviction necessary to make it happen" he answered decisevily. "The Land of the Rising Sun is key to our plan. I have no issue explaining the details as long as minister Tanaka wishes to help," he proclaimed, extending his hand towards him, to which the goverment official recoiled.

  "How do you know who I am...?" he questioned, still with the white mask on.

  "To me it doesn’t matter who you are—only what you’re willing to do. Like I said, we all share the responsibility. Deep down... isn’t that what you feel?"

  *

  The picture from months prior dissolved as a somber expression stared back from the reflection of a dark surface. The director of the EAC took a sip from the cheap office coffee. He made no sound, no gesture, and only turned his head slightly toward the woman standing beside him.

  “I appreciate the punctuality, more so given the immediacy of the call,” he remarked, his attention drifting across the loud bureocratic hellscape.

  The young woman, with long golden hair and eyes crystal blue eyes, opened her mouth to speak—but he cut her off.

  “Well then, let’s have a chat in my office.”

  As always, Director Hunt sank into the familiar embrace of his office chair and sifted through mountains of paperwork until his hand brushed against a worn box of cigarettes. His chronic smoking habit was notorious, both within and outside the organization. People often wondered how he hadn’t already dropped dead.

  “Considering the lackluster findings, I can only assume ‘she’ couldn’t be located,” the director said, preempting her response.

  The girl’s gaze followed the smoke trails curling through the air. The scent clung to the room like rot—harsh and invasive, a stark contrast to her composure and refinement. Still, she said nothing beyond what she was meant to report.

  “I’m sorry, Director. I searched everywhere I could… maybe if I had a little more time,” she explained, a hint of frustration showing into her voice.

  “You did what you could, Huntress Alice. More time wouldn’t have changed the outcome. But we had to try, regardless.” He paused briefly, then leaned forward. “On the other hand… there’s another important matter I would like you to attend to immediately. You could say it’s about chasing another ghost.”

  Demon huntress Alice frowned. She couldn’t imagine any task more important than the one she’d just re-asigned.

  “I want you to go to the United States. There’s a rural town in the middle of Kansas’ countryside. You’re to investigate it in connection with the disappearance of the strongest demon hunter in history.”

  The title was indisputable among those who fought Hell’s spawn for a living. “Sullivan O’Connors?” she asked, stunned. “Did the Director finally manage to pin his location?”

  “Apparently. Although, it seems like another dead end in the investigation. You may encounter interferences from the Demon of Oblivion, so I expect you to be ready.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she answered, composed but resolved.

  She turned to leave—but the director’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  "Before you bother, 'he' already left— overseas."

  Alice paused, taking a silent moment to gather her thoughts. Then she nodded, and walked toward the light.

  Director Hunt remained seated, eyes drifting toward an old world map hanging on the wall. His gaze locked onto the shaded expanse of the Pacific.

  He already sensed what was about to unfold.