The third floor of Osaka General Hospital had become a battlefield painted in ash and destruction. Smoke billowed through shattered corridors where medical equipment lay twisted and melted, their plastic shells having succumbed to the infernal heat that had consumed everything within a thirty-foot radius. Emergency sprinklers hissed uselessly overhead, their water turning to steam before it could reach the flames that still danced across scattered debris.

  The straightjacket had materialized around Takeshi's body in an instant, the thick canvas wrapping around his arms and torso with supernatural speed. The buckles and straps tightened automatically, binding his movements completely as he found himself immobilized in the center of the devastation.

  Blood dripped from countless wounds, mixing with the ash that coated his burned skin. His muscle shirt hung in charred tatters beneath the restraints, and the acrid smell of his own singed hair filled his nostrils with each labored breath.

  What have I done? The thought cut through the haze of pain and adrenaline as he struggled against the supernatural bonds. I came here to be a hero again, to fix something... but I've only made everything worse.

  Around him, the hospital groaned with structural damage. Load-bearing walls showed stress fractures from the intense heat, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the evacuation alarms that should have been his first concern. How many innocent people had he put at risk? How many patients, doctors, and nurses were now in danger because of his reckless need for vengeance?

  I was supposed to protect people, he thought, his struggles growing more frantic as footsteps approached. That's what heroes do. That's what I used to do.

  But those days felt like a lifetime ago. The man who had once saved lives without hesitation had become someone who endangered them through his very presence. His family was broken because of his failures. His wife worked herself to exhaustion while he drowned in self-pity and alcohol. His daughter looked at him with a mixture of fear and disgust that shattered what remained of his heart.

  Maybe this is fitting, Takeshi thought as the footsteps grew closer. Maybe this is how it should end. The failed hero dies trying to do one last good thing.

  Dr. Malveau approached through the smoke, only steps away, and Takeshi's blood ran cold at what he saw. The doctor's perfect composure had been completely stripped away. His once-immaculate green hair hung wild and singed, his handsome features swollen and bloody from the devastating combination of punches. Third-degree burns covered his neck and arms where Takeshi's burning grip had seared through his mana reinforcement.

  But it was his eyes that made Takeshi's stomach churn—they burned with an ecstatic fervor that spoke of someone who had found transcendence in violence.

  "Do you know what you've given me?" Dr. Malveau asked, his voice hoarse but filled with rapturous joy as he closed the final distance between them. Blood dripped from his split lips as he spoke, but he seemed oblivious to the pain. "All these years, I've dealt with the weak, the helpless, the already broken. But you... you brought me to the very edge of death."

  The doctor's hands trembled—not with fear, but with excitement that bordered on sexual arousal. "I've tortured hundreds, watched them scream and beg, but I was always the predator. Always in control. But tonight, for the first time, I tasted my own mortality."

  Takeshi thrashed against the straightjacket, his flames sputtering weakly around his bound form. But the restraints were more than physical—they seemed to dampen his concept itself, making it harder to generate the heat that had been his only advantage.

  "The thrill of it," Malveau continued, his voice rising with manic enthusiasm. "The fear, the desperation, the raw animal instinct to survive—it awakened something in me that I never knew existed. The peak of sorcery itself!"

  "Thank you for this, my lovely subject!" Dr. Malveau exclaimed as he began walking toward the immobilized hero. Each step was deliberate, savoring the moment like a fine wine. "Years of torturing those who are weak, and I have never experienced being this close to death before! I thank you for showing me what I was truly capable of."

  Takeshi thrashed against the straightjacket, his flames sputtering weakly around his bound form. But the restraints were more than physical—they seemed to dampen his concept itself, making it harder to generate the heat that had been his only advantage.

  "Before you die," Dr. Malveau continued, kneeling beside his captive prey, "I want you to know that I reveled in torturing your wife. Her screams are angelic—it's no wonder you continue to treat her the way you do."

  The words hit Takeshi like physical blows, each syllable designed to inflict maximum psychological damage. His struggles became more frantic, the straightjacket creaking under the strain of his desperate movements.

  "You want to know what she said when I showed her the recordings?" Malveau pressed his hand against Takeshi's chest, his palm glowing with an ominous energy. "She begged me to stop, not because of the pain, but because she was terrified you would find out and blame her for it."

  Takeshi began to shake, rage and anguish warring within his chest as Dr. Malveau's concept took hold. But this wasn't the life-giving energy he had used before—this was its polar opposite. Where Surgeon's Kiss breathed animation into objects, Pain Split drained the very essence of life from living beings.

  The sensation was indescribable. Takeshi felt his strength, his vitality, his very life force being pulled out of his body like water through a sieve. His vision began to blur as years seemed to age him in seconds, his hair growing more gray, his skin becoming pallid and gaunt.

  I failed, he thought as the energy drain intensified. I failed as a hero. I failed as a father. I failed as a husband. And now I've failed in this too.

  With each passing second, Dr. Malveau's appearance began to improve dramatically. The burns on his neck faded to pink scars, then to unmarked skin. His swollen features returned to their handsome proportions, his singed hair darkening and regaining its perfect styling. The doctor's wounds were healing themselves using Takeshi's stolen life force.

  Maybe this is justice, Takeshi thought, his consciousness starting to fade. Maybe this is what I deserve for everything I've done to my family.

  But then, just as his vision was beginning to tunnel toward darkness, Dr. Malveau's concentration slipped.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The doctor had been so focused on the intoxicating sensation of draining life, so caught up in his first experience with a shrine technique, that his mental discipline wavered for just a moment. The complex balance required to maintain Pain Split fractured, and the technique shattered like glass.

  The straightjacket dissolved instantly, and Takeshi collapsed forward, gasping for air.

  That was when Shinjuu arrived.

  The steel-bodied hero exploded through the smoke-filled corridor like a cannonball, his metallic form gleaming despite the ash and debris. His powerful kick caught Dr. Malveau in the side of the head with a sound like a gong being struck, sending the doctor flying across the room to crash into the far wall.

  Dr. Malveau hit the ground hard, his newly healed body already showing fresh bruises from the impact. He looked around at the destruction with stunned eyes, taking in the ash-covered devastation that surrounded them. Though his body had been restored by the stolen life force, his mana reserves were completely depleted from the fight and the activation of his shrine technique.

  "Damn," he muttered, struggling to his feet as Shinjuu advanced toward him. "I used too much energy on that technique."

  Shinjuu's metal footsteps rang against the floor as he pursued the retreating doctor, but Malveau managed to pull a small tablet from his pocket—some kind of emergency device that began glowing with otherworldly energy.

  "Until next time, hero," he taunted, pressing the device. "Give my regards to the Academy—they'll need all the help they can get."

  Reality warped around Dr. Malveau like heat waves, and he vanished just as Shinjuu's metal fist swept through the space where his head had been.

  Shinjuu immediately turned his attention to Takeshi, kneeling beside the fallen man. The hero's medical scanners, built into his steel body, immediately began analyzing vital signs.

  "Dammit," he muttered, noting the weak pulse and shallow breathing. "His vitals are critically low and he's unresponsive. I hope the police finished escorting the civilians."

  With practiced efficiency, Shinjuu lifted Takeshi's massive frame, cradling him like a child despite the man's size. As he began moving toward the exit, his communication device buzzed with an urgent message from Takao.

  EMERGENCY ALERT: All available heroes report to Academy immediately. Multiple casualties reported. Situation critical.

  Shinjuu's metal features hardened as he began to piece together the larger picture. The attack on the hospital hadn't been an isolated incident—it was part of something much bigger. The war between the surface world and the Underworld had finally begun in earnest.

  Academy of Arcane - Courtyard

  Bernard stumbled backward, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion as he faced the purple cyborg. His tank build strategy had failed completely—the enemy's adaptive systems had analyzed his defensive techniques and found ways to overwhelm them. Now he fought with nothing but a blade and his rapidly depleting mana reserves.

  The cyborg's mechanical face showed no emotion as it pressed its attack, each strike calculated for maximum efficiency. Bernard's training sword sparked against reinforced metal armor, doing little more than leaving scratches on the machine's surface.

  Nearby, Gojima lay unconscious among the debris, his massive frame still and unmoving after the purple cyborg's devastating assault had finally overwhelmed his defenses.

  I can't keep this up much longer, Bernard thought, parrying another devastating blow that nearly knocked the weapon from his grip. Where are the backup heroes Takao promised?

  Inside the Academy, the battle had finally begun to turn in the heroes' favor. The maze of thorns and wooden barriers that Hanako, the Queen of Flowers, had created throughout the corridors was proving devastatingly effective. Most of the initial cyborg wave had been defeated, their mechanical forms crushed by her ever-growing garden of destruction.

  Yoshito, in his imposing nine-foot kaiju form, roared as he grappled with the red fire cyborg. His transformed body—a perfect fusion of his wheelchair-bound human form and monstrous power—moved with surprising agility as he traded devastating blows with the mechanical opponent. Each impact sent shockwaves through the Academy's reinforced walls.

  The green earth cyborg found itself increasingly entangled in Hanako's wooden constructs, thick vines and flowering branches erupting from every surface to constrain its movements. The veteran hero's experience showed as she systematically dismantled the machine's mobility with precisely placed flora attacks.

  Josuke ducked behind an overturned table, his uniform torn and bloody from multiple close calls. He had pushed himself beyond his limits, using every trick Bernard had taught him about mana refinement, but he could feel his reserves running dangerously low.

  We can actually win this, he thought, watching Hanako's flowers bloom with razor-sharp petals that sliced through the green cyborg's armor plating. Just a little longer and—

  That was when the red cyborg suddenly stopped fighting.

  The machine's speakers crackled to life, and Katashi's voice filled the Academy halls with cold amusement.

  "You heroes have molded well," the voice said, causing every fighter to pause in confusion. "But it is time for the next wave."

  Josuke's blood ran cold. "No way," he whispered, looking around at his exhausted classmates. "There's more?"

  His answer came in the form of fifteen additional cyborgs materializing around the Academy perimeter. These new machines were different—larger, more heavily armored, with weapon systems that looked far more sophisticated than the first wave.

  Outside, Bernard watched in horror as the purple cyborg suddenly disengaged from their fight, stepping backward with mechanical precision.

  "No, this is too much!" he thought desperately, seeing the overwhelming odds they now faced.

  That was when time stopped.

  The world froze in an instant—debris hanging motionless in the air, flames paused mid-flicker, heroes caught in mid-stride like statues. Through this temporal stillness walked a figure that radiated wealth and arrogance in equal measure.

  Regis Valentine moved with casual confidence through the stopped time, his expensive suit immaculate despite the battlefield around him. Diamond-encrusted rings caught the light as he approached Bernard's frozen form, and a gauntlet materialized around his right hand—clearly one of Katashi's designs.

  Time resumed with a sharp crack, and before Bernard could react, the gauntlet struck him across the neck with surgical precision. The young hero collapsed instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground.

  "Pathetic to have me fighting on the front lines," Regis said aloud, brushing imaginary dust from his suit.

  The newly arrived cyborgs' speakers activated, carrying Katashi's voice with mechanical precision.

  "There, there, Valentine," the inventor's voice carried a note of mock sympathy. "Just like I told you—with this wave of robots, all you need to do is stop time and attack from the shadows. We have already analyzed the heroes, and these waves of robots are specifically adapted to counter their techniques."

  Regis made a sound of disgust, clearly annoyed by the arrangement. "What of that cyborg Scourge? Will he be in control this time?"

  There was a pause—barely a second, but enough to suggest even Katashi was choosing his words carefully. When he spoke again, the playful amusement had drained from his voice, replaced by something more cautious.

  "The beauty of battle is the unpredictable, Regis," Katashi replied, though his tone had lost its earlier confidence. "As long as you obey what Scourge says... you will not get in his way."

  The sound of Katashi's laughter echoed through the cyborg speakers, a chilling reminder of how thoroughly planned this assault had been.

  "Fine," Regis muttered, adjusting his cufflinks. "Let's continue with this mission."

  He began walking toward the Academy entrance, followed by the new wave of fifteen advanced cyborgs. Their footsteps rang against the concrete in perfect synchronization, a mechanical drumbeat announcing the escalation of the conflict.

  As the group passed the purple cyborg that had been fighting Bernard and Gojima, the machine dropped to one knee in a gesture of submission. The advanced robots continued their march until the last one in the formation suddenly stopped.

  Without warning, the final cyborg's arm transformed into a blade and impaled the kneeling purple cyborg's head in one swift motion. Sparks flew as circuits were severed, but the attacking machine didn't stop there—it reached into the damaged cranium and extracted a small microchip.

  The chip dissolved into the attacker's systems, and immediately the cyborg's entire frame began to glow with purple energy. Its posture changed, becoming more fluid, more alive somehow.

  "Oh, this is good..." a new voice emerged from the machine's speakers—not Katashi's controlled tones, but something wilder, more chaotic.

  Scourge had entered the fight.