A low hum vibrated through the air as floodlights cast pale gold over the runway, stretching like a ghost beneath the steel skeletons of aircraft and towers. Somewhere, a siren moaned in the distance—low, mechanical, indifferent. It was just past midnight in the northern military outpost of Shinraku Base, yet the entire complex pulsed with quiet urgency.
Reiji Arata leaned against the concrete wall beside the hangar, helmet tucked beneath his arm, his breath faint in the chilled spring air. His eyes, cold and unreadable, watched the stars flicker above, their shimmer dulled by distance and fate. Across from him stood Daisuke Yonemura—taller, broader, still wearing that crooked grin that hadn't aged a day.
"Still can't believe you pulled it off," Daisuke said, his tone half-teasing, half-genuine. He scratched the back of his neck, ruffling his regulation-cut hair. "Proposing to Mizuki at the national observatory of all places. That's... dramatic. Even for you."
Reiji chuckled faintly. "She deserved something dramatic."
"She deserved you," Daisuke replied, gaze softening. "Damn. You remember back in Senzoku Academy? I was so sure she'd go for me."
Reiji smirked. "You mean before she caught you making out with two girls behind the kendo hall?"
Daisuke erupted in laughter. "Hey, youthful indiscretions. That was my wild phase. Still is. One woman a week, sometimes two. No strings. No regrets."
"Except losing to me," Reiji added, amused.
Daisuke's grin flickered, then returned with warmth. "Yeah. But you were always the better man. Always knew what you wanted. That's why you're here. Squad leader. Fiancé. All lined up."
Silence fell briefly. Not awkward, but heavy.
The wind picked up, brushing across the asphalt like the whisper of old ghosts. And just like that—Reiji's mind drifted, uninvited.
Pain. Blinding, aching pain. The kind that carved into bones.
Six years earlier, buried deep in the infamous Yurei Training Facility—known among cadets as "Hell Room."
Reiji crawled through gravel while thunderous explosions echoed across the canyon. Mud caked every inch of his uniform, seeping into his skin like blood. A voice screamed above him—his instructor, Major Kurogane. No sympathy. No reprieve.
Daisuke vomited on his boots beside him, trembling, face ghost-white. "We're going to die here," he muttered.
Reiji growled, teeth grit. "Then we die moving."
They moved.
Now, inside the belly of the silent behemoth known as the Kurokaze—a blackened military VTOL-class assault craft retrofitted for stealth insertions—Reiji gripped the cold straps above him. The troop bay bathed in flickering red. Around him, the elite gathered in silence. Every breath timed. Every heartbeat slow.
Snow fell outside in horizontal torrents. Visibility: zero.
Daisuke sat opposite, tapping the side of his rifle in rhythm. His expression, usually cocky, was now neutral. Focused. No words passed between them.
A green light blinked near the hatch.
Countdown.
On a flickering screen in a downtown Tokyo bar, an anchorwoman spoke in strained tones. The sound was muted, but the captions screamed.
NATIONS ON BRINK: UNIFICATION TALKS COLLAPSE
CHINA SEVERS DEFENSE TREATIES
EURASIAN BLOCK SPLITS
Somewhere in the bar, a patron muttered, "It's starting, isn't it?"
No one replied.
In the subterranean chamber beneath Shinraku Intelligence Command, five analysts sat hunched over terminal screens. Endless codes, satellite relays, and intercepted transmissions scrolled like rain. Maps of disputed zones blinked with red overlays.
Chief Analyst Reina Tsumori, cool and calculating, narrowed her eyes at the data.
"The transmission is authentic. It's Black Dagger."
A silence fell.
An agent in the corner swore. "I thought they disbanded after the Suez Incident."
"They didn't," Reina said coldly. "They went private. And now... they're not working for any nation. They're working against them all."
On the screen, satellite imagery revealed a fortress buried under glacial ice. A red circle blinked.
"Ichiro Kurosaki," Reina added. "He's alive. And he has it."
Back in the quiet hangar, Reiji and Daisuke were finishing their coffee. Neither had spoken for minutes.
Then the call came.
A harsh buzz. Reiji answered, "Arata here."
"You're needed. Now. Intel Command. Briefing room Delta."
Daisuke tilted his head. "That us?"
Reiji met his eyes. "It's us."
Reina stood by the projector, arms folded. The room darkened as the screen lit up. Around them, six others sat—each one elite, top of their field, all wearing the same insignia: a black winged blade. The emblem of Sekiryuu, Japan's covert special operations unit.
Reina's voice sliced through the dark. "This is Operation Shattercore. At 0300 hours, a rogue faction known as Black Dagger confirmed possession of an unidentified object stolen from orbital research facility Kanshou-7. Their leader, Ichiro Kurosaki, is currently stationed in this glacial stronghold."
A second screen showed surveillance: blurred, men in black gear, crates being unloaded.
"If this item breaches containment, we risk chain detonation of Eurasian orbital satellites. Global response could escalate to open war. We estimate a 78% chance of rapid escalation within 72 hours."
Reiji's jaw tightened.
Reina faced him. "Arata. You're team leader. Get in. Retrieve the object. Neutralize Kurosaki if necessary."
Back in the Kurokaze, the red lights dimmed.
"Thirty seconds!" shouted the pilot.
Reiji turned to his team, voice low but steady. "Eyes sharp. No hesitations. We're ghosts. In and out."
Daisuke smirked faintly. "Like old times."
The hatch opened. Wind screamed.
One by one, they jumped.
Reiji was last.
He stared down into the abyss of white. Snow devoured the earth below, a swirling ocean of cold and silence.
Then he leaped.
Air tore past him, the world vanishing into blur. His parachute deployed like a flower blooming against the storm.
Gun in hand, breath calm, heart loud—
Reiji Arata vanished into the snow, the mission, and whatever fate waited below.