Cyborg Ninja Rampage
Roque pushed open the door and stepped onto the club stairs just as a stampede of patrons came surging up from below.
They were all terrified, screaming their heads off. Roque caught glimpses of young men and women half-covered in tiny scraps of cloth, along with faces from various races. They barreled past him without a second glance, too panicked to care who was in their way.
A jumble of unrecognizable voices rang out amid the chaos.
“Someone call the cops!”
“He’s shooting! Run!”
“Fuck! Who stepped on my foot...”
Of course, Roque didn’t get shoved aside. Instead, he slipped naturally into the gaps in the crowd. Leaving the screams and sobs behind, he pushed against the human wave and descended.
The narrower the stairs and thicker the crowd, the louder the shouts, thumping music, and gunfire grew. There was even the rat-tat-tat of what sounded like a machine gun.
Finally, Roque reached the bottom, shoved open the club’s steel door, and was greeted by utter pandemonium.
“Shoot! Shoot him!”
“R-run! We can’t kill that thing!”
“Aaaagh! My arm! My aaaarm—!”
Red and blue stage lights flashed wildly. Half-mad gangsters sprayed bullets into the air, one clutched a severed arm while howling, and corpses spilling blood and guts littered the floor.
And in the center of it all stood a lone figure, back turned to Roque.
A long katana strapped to his lower back, short daggers and knives at his waist, and a sleek black armor suit that looked like amplified muscle.
He whipped around to face Roque.
Where a face should have been was a black chrome mask with six camera sensors glowing red. Each one independently adjusted its aperture, capturing Roque’s image.
“...What the hell kind of cyborg ninja is this?”
Roque muttered in disbelief just as gangsters burst through the inner door, guns raised. Spotting the cyborg ninja in the middle of the stage, they leveled their weapons.
“That’s the bastard!”
“You think you can just wreck the place?!”
As they snarled, the gangster who’d been firing from the stage yelled urgently.
“Shut up and shoot already!”
Like a signal, the cyborg ninja—who’d been eyeing Roque—leaped high into the club’s airspace.
At the same instant, something whirled from his hand. Several gangsters pulling their triggers screamed and dropped their guns. Tiny shuriken were embedded in the backs of their hands.
“Argh!”
“What the fuck?!”
“Damn it! Just shoot—!”
The gangsters’ muzzles erupted in flames. Roque ducked behind a nearby bar table to avoid the bullets. He had no reason to get caught in the crossfire and sweat it out.
“...”
Beyond the bar, amid scattered broken glass, a couple of early arrivals were already huddled in terror. They stared at Roque with wide eyes.
Roque met their mascara-streaked, tear-stained faces, then winked playfully with one eye. As their expressions went blank, he peeked over the bar.
Through the strobe lights and blaring music, he watched the cyborg ninja gleefully carve through the gangsters.
“Aaaah!”
“This fucking shit! What is that guy?!”
Humans, orcs, Siberian werebears—Romanos’ gang wasn’t half bad. They actually took proper firing stances. Romanos himself was ex-Soviet military, and it looked like he’d drilled his men accordingly.
The problem? No matter how solid their grip and aim, they couldn’t track the rampaging cyborg ninja’s movements.
His acrobatic jumps and maneuvers flickered like frames from a film camera under the pulsing lights.
He dispatched Romanos’ men with daggers from his waist, shuriken from who-knows-where, and more. Don’t underestimate the daggers and shuriken. The shuriken buried into skulls and eyeballs on impact, while the two-foot blades cleaved torsos and limbs with brute force.
Some werebears and orcs figured close quarters were better than guns and charged with knives, clubs, fangs, claws, or cyberarms. Predictably, they got shredded without landing a hit.
Occasionally, a bullet struck the ninja up close. But the rounds ricocheted off his black suit. After a hit or two, the ninja’s blade would slice into their necks.
“P-please! Spare me!”
“Aaaagh!”
The gangsters’ agonized screams continued.
“...Slaughterhouse over there. But isn’t a ninja supposed to be stealthy? This guy’s putting on a damn show.”
Just as Roque muttered while peeking over the bar, something beeped and flashed from the ninja—mid-throat-slash on a polar bear thug—hurtling toward him.
“...!”
The women peeking beside Roque gasped, hands over mouths. It looked like the light would pierce his eye.
Illusion, of course. The shuriken from the ninja was caught between Roque’s fingers, nowhere near penetrating.
Roque examined it. His brow furrowed slightly. Scratched-out markings on the blade’s side—like erased writing, or a logo. It looked familiar.
“U-um...! He’s looking at you...”
One of the women whispered. Sure enough, six red lenses fixed on them, apertures dilating and contracting.
At his feet on the stage lay most of Romanos’ gang as corpses.
Roque stood slowly, palms raised.
“Hey. I’m not with Romanos’ crew. If anything, I came to settle things with—”
His words cut off. Shuriken whirled toward him.
But they missed their mark. Roque casually swung the captured shuriken, ting-ting-ting, deflecting them.
Roque sighed.
“Hear me out. If me being here’s the issue, I’ll just leave quietly. I only came because ‘ninja’ made me wonder if you were the guy I met earlier today.”
The ninja tilted his head at Roque’s words, even as the shuriken rolled on the floor. Roque shook his head at the chrome mask, then his expression hardened.
As his eyes adjusted to the flashing lights, he spotted the club’s wrecked corner. Among the bodies weren’t just Romanos’ gang—plenty looked like regular young clubgoers. Many had youthful faces.
Suddenly, without warning, the cyborg ninja charged. Right hand gripping a dagger reverse-style, left clutching three shuriken.
Roque muttered, facing him.
“...Never one for talk anyway.”
The whirling shuriken bounced off Roque’s blade again. Blocking it, Roque vaulted the bar with his left hand. His toe slammed precisely into the leaping ninja’s solar plexus.
The ninja flew back like yanked by wires, tumbling through the corpses he’d made. He flipped upright and charged again, now with a dagger in his left hand too.
Roque, over the bar, stood with just his right-hand shuriken extended slightly forward. He looked almost idly posed. The ninja’s blade aimed for his throat.
The shuriken’s tiny blade parried the dagger. The follow-up from the other side deflected similarly.
For a split second, the ninja hesitated, confusion flashing in his six camera eyes. The block was too effortless. Their gazes locked up close. The club music cut out briefly, plunging into silence.
Then the bass thundered back, and the ninja’s twin daggers lashed out madly. Dozens of gleaming arcs targeted Roque’s neck.
Roque parried them all with his single shuriken.
A rapid ching-ching-ching like drumming metal. The ninja moved furiously, whipping up a whirlwind, but Roque’s defense had zero gaps.
The metallic frenzy ended with a ting as both daggers snapped. The ninja yanked a new one from his left waist, but Roque’s shuriken pierced his wrist first, forcing the drop.
Weaponless, the ninja backflipped repeatedly, retreating far across the club.
Only at the far wall did he steady himself. There stood Roque, spinning the shuriken on his finger. All six sensors narrowed like a glare.
Roque eyed him rising.
“Getting fun now. Got anything else?”
Understanding, the cyborg ninja crouched slowly, right hand gripping the katana hilt over his shoulder. Red lines glowed across his black suit.
The slowly drawn katana blade was a fiercely burning red beam.
“...Well, shit.”
Roque’s spinning shuriken paused in disbelief. It sizzled unstably, but it sure looked like an Aura Blade.
Roque narrowed his eyes.
“Nah. Fake. Looks like you jury-rigged it with some plasma blade bullshit.”
As Roque scoffed, the ninja raised the beam katana beside his face, posing convincingly.
Roque tossed the shuriken aside and opened his right hand. The Aura Blade hilt at his waist flew into his grip. He muttered at the red blade.
“Yeah, definitely not my junior Hayato.”
Amid the pounding music, the ninja’s ear caught it. He froze mid-pose.
“...Hayato? Tanaka Hayato? Why do I know that name?”
Roque frowned at the electronic voice—not from the weird tone or nonsense, but the confusion in it. And something prickling his senses from the club wall.
Boom—the wall exploded. Concrete chunks flew in with dust. Speakers shattered, lights burst, music died.
From the rubble protruded a massive black gun barrel.
“Hahaha! Knew you’d come yourself! I’ve long known how proud Aura Masters are! Spread the rumor, and you’d show up to settle it personally!”
Dust settled, revealing the voice’s owner.
Slicked-back white hair flowing into a thick beard, two meters tall with shirt-straining muscles. The barrel was a ridiculous bazooka slung over both shoulders.
“Come on, ‘ronin’! This is where you—”
The white-bearded man stopped. He’d spotted Roque and the cyborg ninja facing off.
“What? Why are there two?”
But seeing the red beam katana, he grinned knowingly.
“Ha! It’s you!”
His bazooka locked on the ninja.
“Die!”
Thung—a tank-grade armor-piercing round fired. Caught off-guard, the ninja instinctively swung his beam katana at the trajectory.
The round split and exploded.
“Hahaha! Thought you could trash my club and walk away?!”
The white-bearded man laughed maniacally into the blast—possible thanks to his implanted limbs and partial face.
“Hey.”
“Huh?”
He turned at the voice. A gray flash streaked past.
His gear and bazooka shattered like toys, clattering down. Romanos’ face went slack.
Roque’s gray Aura Blade hovered at his neck.
“...So it was you after all.”
Roque shrugged at the bitter voice. He glanced at the ninja’s spot—now a flaming wreck, no trace left. Escaped in the explosion, probably.
Roque turned back to Romanos, teeth gritted.
“Alright. Time to settle our score.”