The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire

"Is this the end…?"

Sayaka's voice trembled in her mind.

How foolish am I… what was I trying to prove? He told me to wait outside. Was it pride? Or was it just this cursed bloodlust that always follows me?

Her vision blurred, everything soaked in red. The blood in her hands, dripping down her blade, her skin—it wouldn't wash away no matter how many times she scrubbed. It clung to her, heavier every time she cut down another life.

Will I regret it? she wondered. Or maybe this is the same feeling the ones who killed my parents had when they spilled their blood. Did they ever hesitate? Did they ever feel what I'm feeling now?

Her thoughts tangled with the echo of a memory.

Past reflecting

Yurei's voice rang clear, like a bell in the quiet dojo.

"Why didn't you kill him?"

A younger Sayaka bowed her head, trembling.

"I… I couldn't, Master. I tried my best. But I wondered… maybe he has a child waiting for him at home."

Yurei's eyes were sharp, cold as steel.

"You are too kind for a martial artist. To kill a living being takes courage, Sayaka. And you do have that courage. But remember this—those who killed your mother and father… did they hesitate? Did they think of you when they struck them down?"

The girl's lips quivered, her fists clenched tighter around her wooden blade.

Sayaka's body staggered, her sword arm still slashing, cutting, fighting even as her consciousness slipped. Master… I failed you. My legs won't move. My breath is fading…

The barbarians closed in. Rough laughter echoed around her. Her hands shook, her katana still swung, but her vision collapsed in pieces, and the world tilted.

Then—she saw it. A flash of steel. A knife raised, coming straight for her heart.

"Barbarian! Kill her—!"

The blade came down fast.

But before it reached her—

A sickening crack. A grunt of pain. The barbarian's arm split open, blood spraying as the knife clattered to the ground.

Sayaka's knees buckled. The world spun.

And then—she felt an arm around her waist. Strong, steady. Catching her before the ground swallowed her whole.

Her eyes fluttered. Through the haze, she saw him.

Miles.

He sighed, pulling the Narcane pen from her own pocket, pressing it into her skin with practiced precision. A cold rush filled her body. The world steadied, but her eyelids still drooped.

Miles set her gently against his chest, then lifted his gaze.

His eyes—no warmth, no hesitation. Just pure, merciless cold. The eyes of a Grim Reaper.

His voice cut the air like a blade.

"You locked those women in the dark…? You dared to do that?"

The barbarians faltered under his glare. For the first time, they felt hunted.

Sayaka's lips parted weakly. She wanted to say something—but the strength left her. She let her head rest against him, and everything else drowned in silence.

The courtyard exploded into violence like a storm tearing through glass.

Barbarians surged forward in a wave—brutal, ragged, faces wild with drunk courage. Knives slashed, clubs swung, a roar of animal sound filling the air. Miles never hesitated. He moved as if the world had narrowed to the space between his breath and the next strike.

He cradled Sayaka in one arm like a shield, her weight light as a child's even as she still trembled. In his free hand he struck—fast and utterly precise. He didn't flail; he punctured positions. A forearm snapped under an elbow lock. A throat took a single, bone-soft edge of his palm and the man folded without a cry. He used momentum like an instrument, turning enemies against one another, sending men stumbling into the path of the next strike.

Blows landed not with spectacle but with tidy, fatal efficiency. Heads were knocked back, knees were collapsed, weapons sung useless out of grasp. Time slowed: the ring of metal, the flinch, the way a blade clattered away. Blood appeared in hems and on sleeves—stains that marked the price of the attack, but nothing grotesque; nothing to stare at in horror, only the cold, factual trace of battle.

All the while Miles' arm held Sayaka steady against his chest. When a blade slipped past a gauntlet and nicked her side, Miles' fingers tightened, a blur, and the knife flew from the attacker's hand. He pivoted, using a man's momentum to fling him into the stone with a single, disciplined twist. Sayaka's breathing came back in shaky bursts; she squeezed his coat, eyes shuttering open and shut, then found the strength to raise her broken katana and take a stance again.

The barbarians fell like a rotten fence under a storm. The courtyard, once a place of morning drills and low chants, was soaked with the metallic taste of conflict and the quiet rattle of bodies. Men who had roared only moments before now lay still, some groaning, some unresponsive. The survivors staggered, fear finally seeping through drunken bravado.

Above the noise, rotors cut the air. The thunder of engines grew as a helicopter swept low and landed on the distant ridge, kicking up mist and leaving the air thick with the smell of fuel. For a moment everyone looked up; some took it as rescue, others as reinforcement.

Then he saw the young master.

He was clean and terrifying in his indifference—draped in dark, katana across his lap, sitting cross-legged on a tiled roof like a lord watching prey. His laughter came thin and high over the scene.

"Blood," he called down, relishing it. "More blood. Hey kid, do whatever you can. You can't run today. Look around—see how many of you there are?" His grin widened as the crowd below slowly organized into a loose ring of hundreds. "Give up the crown. Kneel. Be taken. I'll keep you—another trophy.

His voice was a provocation, deliberate and cruel.

Four of Lady Yurei's disciples flanked the path, breath fogging in the cold, eyes furious and torn between fear and duty. "It's a problem," one hissed. "They outnumber us—hundreds." Another looked up toward the sky and pointed, puzzled: a pale stream of light traced across the night.

"What are those?" someone muttered. Heads tilted up. Distant flares dotted the horizon—tiny, bright points falling inward.

Miles stood, holding Sayaka close, the crown heavy in the small backpack slung at his back. She pushed at his chest; her voice was raw. "I can stand. Put me down."

He set her gently on her feet and handed her a handkerchief. "Cover your mouth," he said. She wrapped it around her face, steadied, and despite the weakness rose into a stance, katana ready.

The young master's laugh turned soft and confident. "So brave," he said, almost fondly. "You won't make it out alive. Give me the crown and you'll live as a prize… or I'll feed you to my—" He gestured to the darkness beyond, where more shapes gathered. His voice dropped to a velvet threat. "—animals."

Miles met him with a smirk that was not fear but something colder—calm amusement at the taste of vanity. "How unfortunate," he said, "that I won't be the one who captures you."

For a heartbeat nothing happened. Then the sky detonated.

Small missiles—sleek, precise—fell like furious silver rain into the southern knot of barbarians, and the world split with thunder. Explosions ripped through their ranks, shattering massed men and the air vent system, ripping apart formations and sending a shockwave up into the rafters and the trees. Dust and smoke rolled over the courtyard, and the sound of shouted commands was drowned by the cascade of metal and fire.

The young master's laughter was cut off by a splintering roar as the southern group—his reinforcements—was obliterated. He sat frozen, a shadow on the roof, watching his army dissolve into chaos. Tens, then hundreds of figures scattered, screaming, and in a matter of heartbeats the balance of power on the ground was shattered.

Miles' eyes didn't leave the roof. He felt the ground under his boots change from a killing field into something dangerously unsettled—help had come, but from where, and for reasons no one in the courtyard could yet name. The young master's grin faltered. The rotor noise swelled. New forces were descending into the clearing, and the game had just grown far more complicated.

Sayaka steadied herself, wiping the corner of her mouth with the handkerchief. She looked at Miles, gratitude and fierce question mingled in her gaze. Around them, survivors and fallen lay scattered, and high above, the roof where the young master sat was suddenly, unmistakably vulnerable.

The young master's scream tore through the courtyard.

"Kill those two!"

The crowd of barbarians shuffled forward, weapons rattling, rage painted on their faces.

Miles shifted Sayaka slightly, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

"163632."

Sayaka blinked, confused. "What?"

He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed on the horde closing in.

"You asked me once if I regret killing people. I forgot the age when I killed the first one. But 163632…" He drew a long breath. "…that's the number of people I've saved. And I don't regret killing for it."

He finally turned to her, voice low, heavy with certainty.

"And here—your sisters are imprisoned. That's your duty, Sayaka. To save them."

Her lips parted, her eyes wide as if a weight she'd carried for years finally cracked. Then, slowly, she smiled. It wasn't soft—it was sharp, dangerous. The answer she had waited for. Her bloodlust surged back like fire under her skin, burning away the fog of the drug.

The next instant, they both moved.

Blades rang, bodies fell. Sayaka's katana flashed with renewed vigor, her strikes no longer shaky but clean and merciless. Miles dismantled foes like shadows passing through light, cold, efficient. Their steps carried them forward, slicing through the crowd in a brutal ballet of survival.

And then—

A booming voice echoed through the mist, carried by a megaphone.

"This is the Japanese Army! The area is surrounded. We are armed with heavy weapons. Drop your weapons and surrender on your knees!"

The sound of rotor blades thundered overhead. Choppers circled the courtyard, their floodlights blinding the field. Soldiers descended ropes with heavy rifles trained forward, boots pounding as they secured the perimeter.

The barbarians froze. Fear cracked through them like a whip.

On the roof, the young master's grin faded, replaced by tight calculation. Slowly, he raised both hands above his head and knelt. Across the field, one by one, the barbarians followed, dropping weapons and pressing foreheads to dirt.

The soldiers pushed forward, locking down the ground. In the center of it all, Miles and Sayaka stood, blood-streaked and steady.

From the ranks, a man in his late thirties stepped out. His stride was firm, his presence heavier than the rifles that followed him.

Miles caught sight of him and smiled faintly.

"Captain Fujiwara."

The man stopped short, eyes narrowing before recognition cracked his face.

"Shinigami…"

Miles raised a brow. "Call me Miles."

Fujiwara chuckled, shaking his head. "Still as troublesome as ever."

Miles grinned. "What? After helping you find the source of X2GEN, you call me troublesome?"

Fujiwara smirked back. "We are thankful. But you're still operating in foreign land. I assume you have permission?"

Miles tilted his head. "I was just trekking in the mountains with my friend here. Ask her."

Fujiwara's gaze slid to Sayaka.

She straightened, her voice firm despite the handkerchief still around her face. "Yes. We were suddenly attacked. Some kind of drug affected me. Miles came back to save me after calling for your help."

Fujiwara stared at her for a long moment, then burst out laughing. "I don't care. I don't talk about my intel to the government." He turned sharply, his voice cracking out. "Soldiers, did you see anything?"

The chorus came instantly.

"We saw the barbarians, Captain!"

"I can't hear you."

"Only barbarians, Captain!"

Fujiwara's smirk deepened. He turned back. "You may go, Mires."

Miles laughed softly. "Give Rei my thanks."

Then he added, with a casual grin, "Also… give us a lift back to Tokyo."

Fujiwara rubbed his forehead. "How many?"

Miles slung the backpack with the crown higher onto his shoulder. "Almost twenty."

The group walked toward the basement prison. The heavy doors creaked, and inside, the women were huddled, faces pale with fear. Shackles clattered as locks were broken.

Sayaka froze, then rushed forward. Her breath caught, her eyes burning. Among them—her sisters. She dropped her sword, arms outstretched, pulling them into a trembling embrace. Tears streaked their faces, but their voices carried relief, laughter, sobs tangled together.

The courtyard that had been soaked in blood now rang with cries of reunion.

Fujiwara stood at the doorway, arms crossed. He sighed heavily.

"What a headache… you always drag me into trouble."

Then he glanced at Miles, a reluctant grin twitching at his lips. "But I owe you. So fine, I'll help. And… thanks for the intel."

Miles just chuckled under his breath.

At that moment, four of Lady Yurei's disciples finally arrived, panting from their rush. Their eyes widened at the wreckage, the soldiers, the lights.

"Senior sister!" one cried out, running to Sayaka. "Are you alright?"

Sayaka turned, still clutching her sisters c

lose, her eyes wet but steady. "I'm fine," she said.

The disciples bowed in relief, their shoulders easing.

Miles stood a little apart, watching the scene quietly. His gaze softened, just slightly.