Arata moved through the ship's interior corridors, footsteps silent against the polished hardwood used as flooring on the ship. Soft lighting recessed into the ceiling cast everything in warm gold tones. Artwork hung on the walls, the kind that belonged in museums rather than private vessels.

  He'd been walking for several minutes without encountering a single person.

  The silence pressed against him, wrong in a way he couldn't immediately quantify. Ships this size required crew. Maintenance staff, security, service personnel... dozens of people just to keep operations running smoothly. Yet the corridors remained empty, devoid of the background noise that should accompany a normally functioning vessel.

  Haven't they spotted me after I blasted through their gate?

  The barrier breach should have triggered immediate response. Alarms, security teams, lockdown protocols. Instead, nothing. Just empty hallways and the distant hum of engines somewhere below deck.

  Two possibilities presented themselves.

  Either he'd drastically overestimated whoever designed the barrier—which seemed unlikely given its technical sophistication—or all attention was currently focused elsewhere. Concentrated on something more important than an intruder breaching their vessel.

  But what could be more important than—

  "Sir. Can I see your boarding pass?"

  The voice cut through the silence like a blade.

  Arata's spine went rigid, every muscle tensing as he spun toward the source. A crew member stood ten feet away, dressed in the crisp white uniform of professional maritime staff. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of neutral expression that came from years of dealing with difficult passengers.

  How had he missed the approach? Arata's situational awareness was trained, honed through combat experience that should have detected movement before—

  "Uh, I..." The hesitation felt wrong in his mouth, revealing more uncertainty than he wanted to show.

  "Don't worry." A new voice, accompanied by an arm draping casually across Arata's shoulders. "He's with me."

  The tone carried absolute confidence, the kind of natural authority that expected compliance without question. The crew member's expression shifted immediately—suspicion melting into resignation. He sighed, nodded once, and turned away without further interrogation.

  Arata looked at the person who'd intervened. Golden hair caught the corridor lighting, almost luminous against the warm tones. He was taller than Arata by several inches, though not excessively so. His build was muscular without being bulky—athletic in the way that suggested functional strength rather than aesthetic display.

  The body proportions reminded Arata uncomfortably of Kaito, though this stranger carried himself differently.

  He stood with the casual confidence of someone who owned every space they occupied, posture relaxed but ready, like a predator pretending to be domesticated.

  His age was difficult to pin down. He was probably in his late teens, maybe early twenties. He was certainly older than Arata, but not by much.

  The stranger guided him forward with gentle pressure, walking them both toward a set of massive golden doors at the corridor's end. He pushed them open without hesitation, revealing a giant room.

  Arata was mind-blown.

  The ballroom was enormous. Cathedral ceilings arced overhead, supported by pillars wrapped in gold leaf that caught light from crystal chandeliers the size of small cars. The floor was polished marble, veined with patterns that probably occurred naturally in a certain type of rare stone. Every surface gleamed—walls, railings, decorative molding, all of it designed to reflect and amplify the wealth on display.

  People filled the space. Hundreds of them. Men in tailored suits that fit perfectly because they'd been custom-made by artisans who charged five figures for the privilege. Women in evening gowns that draped and flowed with the kind of movement that came from fabric engineered at the molecular level for aesthetics.

  Conversations overlapped in a dozen languages. Laughter punctuated by the clink of crystal glasses. A buffet table stretched along one wall, loaded with food Arata didn't recognize—delicacies from cuisines he had never encountered, prepared by some of the best chefs in the world.

  Classical music played from somewhere, live instruments rather than recorded audio, the kind of subtle background ambiance that cost thousands per hour to maintain.

  Arata's only reaction was complete incomprehension.

  What the hell? What kind of joke is this?

  He knew that luxury vessels like this existed for entertainment—parties, corporate events, networking opportunities for people whose wealth operated on scales that defied general standards. But the Harbor Group? Tokyo's most dangerous criminal organization, the same people he'd been chasing through industrial districts just minutes ago?

  What were they doing in such a place?

  Arata shoved the stranger's arm off his shoulders and stepped back, creating distance, reassessing threat levels.

  "Who are you? What do you want? Are you with the Harbor Group?"

  Too many questions at once. His voice carried an edge he didn't intend, control slipping under the accumulated stress of the past seventy-two hours. Mika's kidnapping. Nightmarish death game. Takeda's death. Warehouse infiltration. Chase sequence across half of Tokyo. Breaching a cruise ship's defenses.

  His mind was far more exhausted than his body, running on reserves that were depleting faster than he could replenish them.

  The golden-haired stranger didn't react negatively to being pushed. His smile remained warm, genuine, completely unbothered by Arata's defensive posture.

  "Bro... relax." He spread his hands in a gesture of peaceful intent. "Let's not talk about work. We're here to have fun."

  He turned smoothly, intercepting a passing server—one of the uniformed staff carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes. The stranger grabbed two glasses with practiced ease and offered one to Arata.

  Arata stared at the liquid. Pale gold, bubbles rising in perfect columns. This lonely glass was probably worth more than his weekly food budget.

  Could he trust anyone inside this ship? Every person here represented unknown variables, unknown allegiances, unknown connections to the Harbor Group or whatever operation was unfolding.

  He leaned forward slightly, sniffing the champagne. Nothing about it seemed unusual, so it was probably safe to drink. Then again, Arata had never drunk champagne; anything subtle would have escaped him anyway.

  It was wiser to avoid unnecessary risk.

  "I'm actually underage."

  The stranger's expression shifted. He was surprised, then amused, his eyebrows rising slightly like he'd been mistaken about something, or that his interlocutor was lying.

  "Oh!" He laughed, the sound genuine and unforced. "Then I'll take that!"

  He snatched Arata's glass before the refusal could be completed, now holding both flutes with easy balance.

  "Drinking's bad for you anyway." The delivery was cheerful, completely lacking self-awareness about the contradiction.

  Arata felt his expression soften despite the circumstances. The stranger really did remind him of Kaito—that same effortless charisma, that ability to treat serious situations like they were just another opportunity for entertainment.

  "WOOHOO!" The stranger raised both glasses overhead, voice cutting through the ambient conversation. "LET'S GET THE PARTY STARTED!"

  Before Arata could ask his name, before he could extract any useful information at all, the golden-haired figure disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the mass of dancing bodies that had congregated in the ballroom's center, moving to music Arata hadn't consciously noticed until now.

  He was gone, just like that.

  Arata stood at the ballroom's edge for several seconds, processing the encounter. Was that interaction a coincidence or a deliberate misdirection?

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  He stopped his analysis.

  He wasn't here to have fun. And he surely wasn't here to network with the wealthy elite or sample expensive champagne or appreciate the engineering marvel of a cruise ship's interior design either.

  He had a mission. Clear. Simple. Absolute.

  Find Mika, and bring her home.

  It didn't matter if that meant searching the Tsukuyomi Estate or infiltrating this floating palace. The location was irrelevant. The obstacles were irrelevant. Only the objective mattered.

  Arata began moving through the ballroom, scanning faces, cataloging features, searching for familiar profiles. The Boss would be easy to spot, Arata had seen him a couple of times now.

  The crowd was diverse, accents and mannerisms blending together in a way that made it hard to pin anyone to a single place. It was the kind of international gathering where wealth erased borders, where nationality mattered far less than the price of admission.

  The golden-haired stranger was almost certainly American, or at least from some Western nation. The way he moved, the way he spoke. He had the casual confidence that came from growing up in cultures that celebrated individual expression over collective harmony.

  But that raised uncomfortable questions.

  Weren't Japan and the West in diplomatic conflict?

  The tensions had been escalating for months, driven by trade disputes, military posturing, and disagreements over candidate registrations that threatened to fracture international cooperation. Official channels were under strain, public rhetoric was turning openly hostile, and economic sanctions were already being discussed behind closed doors.

  So why were some of the wealthiest, most powerful people in the world gathered here? On an Italian-flagged vessel, navigating through Japanese territorial waters, heading toward some undisclosed destination?

  Arata's gaze drifted upward toward a particular cluster of men occupying the ballroom's far corner. They were older than most of the crowd. Distinguished in the way that came from decades of accumulated influence rather than inherited position. They laughed together, glasses raised, discussing something that made them genuinely amused.

  And the energy radiating from that group was wrong. Not hostile or aggressive, just... dense. Concentrated. The kind of power signature that came from massive vote accumulation.

  Wealth made buying influence trivial. They had the power to buy off large amounts of votes, votes sold by people trying to make extra cash. The only downside was since the number of voters was limited, the prices were often very high.

  But they had better options. They could finance campaigns and participate in elections—this was the fastest way to gather large numbers of votes. They could also invest in Candidates strategically, building networks of obligation and mutual benefit that generated far better returns than simple purchase ever could.

  People on this ship are probably among the strongest in the world.

  The thought settled cold and certain.

  I wonder what the Harbor Group is seeking in such a place.

  Then he saw them.

  The Boss and his entourage, positioned near the buffet table, engaged in conversation with someone Arata couldn't identify from this angle. The Boss's posture suggested this wasn't social engagement, this was business disguised as pleasure.

  And Mika wasn't with them.

  That means she's somewhere on this ship. Hidden.

  Right now represented the perfect opportunity. The Boss was occupied, attention focused on whatever negotiation or transaction had brought him here. His security would be spread thin, divided between protecting their employer and monitoring the broader environment.

  Arata began moving toward the ballroom's exit, angling away from the Boss's position, trying to—

  Their eyes met.

  The Boss noticed him. Stared directly at Arata with an expression that wasn't surprise or alarm. He was coldly glaring at the boy, like he was looking at a problem that had appeared at an inconvenient time but wasn't worth immediate action.

  More important matters demanded attention.

  Arata held the gaze for a full second, then broke contact and continued walking, slowly, casually, like he belonged here, like he had every right to be aboard this vessel, like his presence was completely expected and unremarkable.

  He slipped through the golden doors and back into the corridor system beyond.

  ***

  The ship's interior was a maze of compartments, corridors, and access passages designed with the kind of complexity that came from luxury engineering. Arata moved methodically, checking rooms, noting layouts, building a mental map as he searched for any indication of where Mika might be held.

  He didn't bother hiding. Didn't move cautiously or attempt stealth. The effort would be wasted.

  After his encounter with Kaigeheishi, Arata was certain that something bigger was being prepared in the dark. The High Cadre had let him board deliberately, and had actively facilitated his infiltration for reasons that remained unclear. But even then, they were still closely monitoring his movements.

  That is why…

  Arata stopped.

  The corridor ahead terminated in a dead end. A single door marked "CREW ONLY" that probably led to maintenance access.

  They were all following me.

  Footsteps echoed from behind. Multiple sets. Moving with coordinated precision that suggested training rather than panic.

  Arata turned.

  A dozen men emerged from the corridor junction he'd passed thirty seconds earlier. All dressed in elegant suits—black, tailored, expensive enough to blend with the ballroom crowd if needed. But their posture gave them away. Their hands were positioned near concealed weapons that bulged slightly against fabric despite professional tailoring.

  They were Harbor Group operatives. Lower-tier, probably equivalent to the guards who'd been stationed at the Tsukuyomi Estate. They were trained professionals, but not enhanced, not Candidates. Just regular humans with excellent equipment and years of combat experience.

  They spread out, forming a semicircle that blocked retreat, weapons becoming visible now—handguns, tactical knives, one figure in the back holding what looked like a collapsible baton made from reinforced polymer.

  Arata faced them without moving.

  "Look, I have no idea what kind of shady business you're involved in." His voice stayed level, conversational. "But I really don't care."

  He turned slightly, making eye contact with each operative in sequence.

  "What I came for is Mika. Either I save her now or later, it doesn't matter." His General Aura began gathering, slow and controlled, pressure building around his body in waves that made the air shimmer slightly. "I'm bringing her home. Whether I have to kill you or not."

  The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop several degrees.

  Then Arata lunged.

  ***

  The operatives scattered across the corridor floor, unconscious. Not dead—Arata had been careful about that, controlled his strikes to inflict incapacitation rather than lethality.

  For a very specific reason.

  He didn't know what laws governed this vessel.

  Ships in international waters operated under complex legal frameworks. Flag state jurisdiction, maritime law, international treaties that created overlapping authority depending on circumstances. Killing foreign nationals aboard a vessel flagged to a third country while navigating through territorial waters that belonged to a fourth nation?

  That created complications Arata couldn't afford.

  The men had been weak. Trained professionals, yes. Competent in their execution, definitely. But even with numerical advantage and tactical positioning, they'd stood no chance against a Candidate. The gap between enhanced and unenhanced beings was simply too large to overcome through skill alone.

  Arata stepped over the bodies and continued his search, moving deeper into the ship's interior compartments.

  At the end of the day, the situation had crystallized into something almost elegant in its simplicity.

  Arata was trapped aboard a cruise ship with one of Tokyo's most dangerous criminal organizations. They were actively trying to eliminate him, deploying operatives and likely planning more aggressive responses as he penetrated deeper into restricted areas.

  But they were sending their weakest units, their expendable assets. Personnel that Arata could neutralize without crossing legal boundaries that would justify extreme retaliation.

  Because the Harbor Group faced the same constraints.

  Their strongest operatives—the High Cadres, the elite Candidates who represented their true combat capability—were restricted by the same legal frameworks. They couldn't kill Arata without risking severe diplomatic consequences.

  Because Arata had boarded without identification. No passport. No ID card. No documentation proving citizenship or national affiliation.

  Under those circumstances, international law designated him as a Stateless Entity according to the Accords—the global framework that governed Candidate interactions across national boundaries.

  And under the Accords, major crimes committed against Stateless Entities triggered mandatory investigation by international oversight committees. Murder of someone without clear national affiliation meant jurisdiction defaulted to the vessel's flag state, with enforcement handled by multinational tribunals that took such violations extremely seriously.

  Punishment for confirmed violations could reach the death penalty, even for Candidates.

  The Harbor Group couldn't risk that exposure. Couldn't afford the scrutiny that would come from killing someone whose legal status granted them protected neutral ground.

  Which meant Arata had a temporary immunity.

  I just need Kaito to burn down my apartment in case they get the idea to find proof about my Japanese nationality.

  The thought brought a slight smile despite everything. Kaito would absolutely do it if asked. Probably with excessive enthusiasm, turning a simple evidence destruction into a theatrical production involving far more fire than strictly necessary.

  Right now, Arata's mission parameters were clear:

  Investigate the ship. Locate where Mika was being held. Survive encounters with Harbor Group units while maintaining his Stateless Entity status for legal protection.

  He didn't know how many High Cadres were aboard. But recalling the Boss's expression—that cold look that suggested he was taking care of an even more serious matter—the odds were high.

  Probably all of them. Excluding Kageheishi, who hadn't had time to board before departure.

  Four High Cadres.

  All of them restricted from lethal force by the same legal framework protecting Arata.

  It was almost fair.

  Almost.

  Except they knew the ship's layout. They had numerical superiority. They controlled resources, communications, and could coordinate responses while Arata operated alone in unfamiliar territory.

  I need to contact Kaito as soon as possible.

  Communication was the priority. Establishing connection with his only ally, coordinating strategy, ensuring Kaito understood the situation and could provide support—or at minimum, could execute the apartment destruction before legal complications come in the way.

  Arata moved through another corridor, checking compartments, searching for communication equipment or signs of Mika's location.

  This time, he wouldn’t fail. Mika is coming back home.