The private jet cut through the clouds like a blade through silk, its engines humming low beneath the roar of the wind outside. Inside the cabin, the members of the Umbra Division sat in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts, the gravity of what awaited them pressing heavily on the air.
Ren sat near the back, eyes fixed on the frost-laced window beside him. The world outside was a blur of white and blue, endless sky meeting frozen sea. His black compression top hugged his frame like a second skin, every thread stitched for function over form. On top of it he wore a black sweatshirt so no one could see how compressions shirt fit into his body so well. The sweatshirt Minimalist and silent, the ensemble bore no insignias, no color—just the matte black of someone who moved like a shadow and struck like a ghost. Strapped across his back was his katana, sheathed in a dark, scratchless scabbard. The hilt, worn but well-cared for, jutted over his right shoulder. It was quiet, like him. Unspoken. Deadly.
Across from him, Kaede adjusted the buckles on her thigh holsters, each one cradling a sleek semi-automatic pistol customized for rapid-fire and low recoil. Her combat suit was a deep, stormy grey, reinforced at the joints and chest with padding that moved with her body rather than against it. Though form-fitting, it wasn't made to be admired—it was made to keep her alive. Around her waist, spare magazines sat neatly in a belt rig. A slim combat knife gleamed at her boot. Her expression, as always, was unreadable.
Mai was slouched just a seat away, legs tucked beneath her, fingers idly playing with a throwing knife she rolled between her knuckles. Her navy-blue outfit was light and flexible, the kind an acrobat or saboteur would wear—perfect for disappearing into shadows or scaling unseen heights. Hidden beneath the fabric were dozens of compartments, each containing tiny instruments of death: blades the size of fingers, smoke capsules, tranquilizer needles. On the surface, she looked relaxed. Her fingers told a different story—they never stopped moving.
Kenji lounged near the front, one leg stretched out into the aisle, his broad frame clad in an olive-green jacket thrown over a plain black shirt, both slightly rumpled from his habit of leaning back like he owned the damn plane. His cargo pants looked overstuffed, and not with snacks. Strapped tight to his back was a massive black box—metal, matte, and featureless. It was bolted shut with reinforced clamps. Its sheer weight had required help to load, and no one knew what was inside. Kenji didn't volunteer. He enjoyed the mystery.
Akihiro sat beside the cockpit door, relaxed in a brown long coat that trailed past his knees when he stood. On the back, stitched in silver thread, was the Takeda clan crest—bold and unrepentant. His white dress shirt was untucked, collar unbuttoned like he was on his way to a night club instead of a death match. He had no visible weapons. He never did. The glint in his eye was weapon enough.
At the head of it all was Hiroshi. The leader of their unit wore a tailored black suit that had never seen dust or dirt. His polished shoes didn't scuff even on metal floors, and his tie was always perfect. A faint wire traced down the side of his neck—an earpiece linked to unseen channels. Under the blazer, Ren knew he carried a sidearm, but it was mostly symbolic. Hiroshi didn't need weapons either. He was one.
The silence broke when Akihiro kicked his boots up onto the armrest of the seat in front of him.
"So, Kenji," he said, voice laced with amusement, "still not telling us what's in the mystery box?"
Kenji smirked without looking up. "Patience, Akihiro. I'll let you guess after I use it to save your life."
Kaede shook her head slightly and looked toward Kenji with a dry smirk. "He's just jealous he doesn't have a cool box."
Mai rolled her eyes and flipped the knife once before catching it by the hilt. "Boys and their toys."
Ren said nothing. His reflection stared back at him in the window: pale skin, white hair, and eyes that hadn't blinked in minutes. He looked like a ghost caught between worlds.
Hiroshi stepped up.
"We're nearing the island," he said, voice carrying without effort.
Everyone turned to the windows.
No one spoke for a long moment.
It was Kaede who broke the silence. "It looks… unnatural."
Hiroshi nodded once. "Because it is. Guretsutō is an engineered nightmare. Weather patterns, terrain hazards, predator populations—all of it a place untouched by time."
He stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back.
"This tournament isn't about skill. It's not about honor. It's a bloodsport. A broadcasted hunt streamed to the darkest corners of the underworld. The people watching aren't warriors. They're monsters in suits, sipping wine as they watch you tear each other apart."
Akihiro stopped flipping his coin. Kenji's smirk still there.
Hiroshi continued. "Each of you has been selected not just because you're lethal, but because you're entertaining. They'll watch every kill. Every failure. Every breath."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"I won't be joining you. As you already know."
Akihiro blinked. "It's better they knew I would kick your ass"
"We'll see if that's true when you return."
Kenji leaned forward. "Okay, then what's the plan for landing? We flying low? Touching down outside the perimeter?"
Hiroshi walked to the overhead compartment and—without ceremony—tugged it open. Parachute packs tumbled out, hitting the floor with dull thuds.
"Plan's simple," he said. "You jump."
Kenji stared at him. "You're fucking joking."
Hiroshi arched a brow. "Consider this your first test. If you can't land without dying, you shouldn't be competing at all."
Before the protest could begin, Akihiro was already strapping himself into a chute. "God, I love this job," he muttered. Then he jogged toward the open hatch and—without a second of hesitation—leapt into the white abyss.
Wind howled through the cabin.
Mai stood and stretched. "Hope the food on the island's good," she said, flipping a knife in her fingers as she secured her gear. She stepped off the edge with the grace of a cat.
Kenji sighed and turned to Kaede. "For luck?"
Kaede raised an eyebrow, then tilted her head and pulled him into a kiss. It was brief, unexpected, but deliberate.
"Stay alive," she whispered.
Kenji grinned. "Of course."
He walked backward, gave Hiroshi a mock salute, then dove out of the plane with a whoop.
Kaede followed with steady, confident steps. She didn't look down, didn't flinch—just walked into the wind and disappeared.
Only Ren remained.
He stood slowly, slinging his katana's strap over his shoulder with a smooth motion. The matte black scabbard sat snug across his back, angled perfectly so that a single fluid motion could unsheathe it.
He approached the open hatch, the wind slapping against his face.
The island looked closer now—teeth of jagged stone piercing the frozen forest, all bathed in the glow of a sun that didn't belong. Drones flickered in the sky, already tracking them. Already watching.
Ren's dyed-black hair whipped across his face, but his eyes didn't waver.
He didn't look at Hiroshi.
He didn't look back.
He just jumped.
And for a moment, there was nothing but sky.
Guretsutō: The Island
Ren landed in a crouch, knees bent deep into the snow. The impact echoed through his bones, but his body moved with mechanical precision—absorbing the force, rolling once, and rising in a single fluid motion. His left hand hovered near the sheath at his back, fingers curled loosely, while his right settled over the grip of his katana. The blade was already drawn an inch, whispering steel against steel.
The island was eerily silent.
Snowflakes drifted lazily from the gray sky, their descent swallowed by the dead forest. The trees were twisted and black, more bone than bark, their branches gnarled like fingers reaching for something just out of reach. A cold wind howled through them—dry, piercing, and wrong, as if it weren't carrying air, but whispers.
Ren's boots crunched through the snow as he stepped forward.
Then—click.
A soft mechanical chirp, subtle but unmistakable. Hidden speakers buzzed to life, embedded somewhere deep in the trees. Moments later, a voice oozed out of them, broken by static, warped by distortion—but unmistakably human. Or at least, something trying to sound human.
"Ahhh… finally. Our little devils have landed."
The voice dripped with glee. Not excitement—glee. Childlike, cruel, delighted.
"Welcome, champions, assassins, freaks, and fan favorites… to the Garden of Glorious Death."
Drones whirred above the canopy, dozens of them, blinking red. Their lenses zoomed in with insect-like clicks, fixating on faces, limbs, and blood-streaked gear. Ren didn't flinch. He didn't look up.
"You are the best of the worst, the elite among filth. You've clawed your way through blood and bone to get here—and now, we give you what you truly crave."
Static surged for a moment, then dropped into a sickening calm. The voice came back quieter, closer. As if the speaker was whispering directly into Ren's ear.
"This island is your coliseum. No rules. No alliances. No sanctuary. Every breath you take is sponsored. Every death you deliver is adored. So smile. Dance. Bleed for them."
A harsh crackle—then the voice changed. It grew sharper, darker. No more theatrics. Just cruelty.
"Today's event: a purge."
The forest seemed to shift.
Ren's eyes narrowed. Shadows were moving between the trees—figures emerging from the fog, some fast, some slow, all armed. Some wore armor; others were shirtless, tattooed, or smeared in war paint. One dragged a rusted cleaver across the snow. Another spun dual pistols, laughing to herself.
"The rules? There are none. Kill or be killed. That's it. Make it brutal. Make it unforgettable. If you die boring, you die twice. This is the first round of the tournament, those who survive for today make it to the next round"
A new sound followed—a series of gongs, like a countdown from hell.
One.
Ren exhaled through his nose, steady. His breath steamed in the frozen air.
Two.
A scream tore through the forest—raw, human, abruptly silenced.
Three.
Gunshots cracked in the distance. Then more. Steel clashed. Someone was begging. Someone else was laughing.
Four.
The voice returned, now barely more than a breath behind the ear.
"We'll be watching. Always watching. Break them open. Make them sing. Let the games…"
Five.
A pause.
"…begin."
Silence detonated into chaos.
Figures charged from the trees—blades raised, guns flashing. Blood sprayed across white snow. Bodies collided. Screams ricocheted between the twisted trunks. A woman was thrown into a tree, her spine snapping audibly. A man's throat was torn out by bare hands. A pack of mercenaries opened fire on a single unarmed fighter—only to be flanked and butchered by something faster than their eyes could track.
Ren didn't move.
He watched.
Measured.
One breath in.
One breath out.
The nearest fighter—a tall man wielding a machete and covered in scars—spotted Ren and broke into a run, howling as he raised the blade.
Ren stepped once.
The katana cleared its sheath with a flash of black.
One slash. One blur of movement.
The man's upper torso slid off his waist and hit the snow with a dull thud. Blood gushed in arcs across the trees behind him. The corpse hadn't even hit the ground before Ren had already turned, scanning for the next target.
He didn't care about the voice.
He didn't care about the cameras.
He didn't care about the audience.
He was here for one thing.
And if the island wanted blood?
He'd drown it.