【This kind-hearted person, can you help me find Dororo?】

Hyakki rarely hands over books to strangers. On the rare occasions he does, it’s only after thoroughly confirming that the person’s soul is pure and they haven’t done anything bad. Especially after going many days without seeing “Dororo,” the anxiety of losing someone important engulfed him. He couldn’t bear to lose the last thing that mattered to him.

His initial impression of Sakunosuke was positive. The man was tall, a head taller than himself, with a white flame of life burning steadily, showing robust vitality—not someone who looked frail or sickly.

Is he a samurai? Or perhaps a nobleman?

With Hyakki’s limited understanding of ancient Japan, he figured that anyone who could grow that tall must have had plenty of food and comfort. Such people either regarded human lives as insignificant or had learned the hardships of survival through turbulent times.

Sakunosuke, despite being labeled as a samurai or noble, was actually just an ordinary passerby.

He had short auburn hair and a youthful face marked by an uncharacteristic indifference for his age. His light-colored coat and gray shirt made him blend into a crowd without any distinctive features. Yet, despite his lack of distinguishing characteristics, his soul radiated kindness towards Hyakki. Standing in front of the black-haired boy, he looked at his phone in frustration, realizing that the number he had tried calling three times was now blocked.

“Is your friend… fighting with you?”

Sakunosuke returned the book to Hyakki, watching as he carefully placed it back into his yukata. Despite his bandages being dirty and the yukata covered in dust, the book remained spotless.

From this boy, Sakunosuke sensed a rare purity.

It wasn’t the naivety of someone unaware of the world’s harshness, but rather the purity of someone who, despite wandering the city’s corners, had maintained a clean heart—one who neither stole nor cried out, reflecting a mirror of humanity.

[……………]

Hyakki had grown accustomed to people talking to him, interpreting it as if they were speaking to the air.

It was useless.

Being unable to hear or see, he had too few ways to communicate with the outside world. Not everyone had the patience of his father, “Dororo,” or the “human host of the gradient-colored demon,” willing to spend a lot of energy to understand what each other meant.

He lowered his head slightly and stepped away from Sakunosuke.

It was time to go back after eating.

Sakunosuke did not stop him. Doing good deeds was like this: help when you can, and don’t feel guilty if you can’t. One person’s strength is limited; just do what you can.

That said, Sakunosuke whispered, “Can’t you hear…”

He could understand someone being deaf, but what he couldn’t understand was the focus in the black-haired boy’s pupils. Having been an assassin in the past, he was very sensitive to people’s gazes. The boy’s gray-brown eyes were always empty, as if he had nothing, yet at the same time seemed to see through his soul, making him pause.

The person on the phone wasn’t wrong about one thing—

The boy had strong survival skills and didn’t need a stranger like him to worry.

Hyakki had strong survival skills and didn’t need a stranger worrying about him.

Helping a physically disabled person involved more than just kindness. Sakunosuke couldn’t bring himself to help someone unprepared and then leave them be—that was crueler than ignoring them outright.

Thinking of his own empty wallet, Sakunosuke sighed, “Ever since the new boss took over, the wages for the lower ranks of the Port Mafia have gotten so low. I can only save a bit and have curry twice a week at most.”

He looked up at the sky, “It looks like it’s going to rain Sakunosuke, and I forgot to bring an umbrella. That boy should be fine; he’ll probably head back to wherever he stays…” With that, he headed towards the Port Mafia, blending back into the lower ranks with a wooden expression.

Everyone had their own lives to live.

Hyakki returned to the clinic’s door. The clinic had a note pasted on it, which he couldn’t see that read, “Closed due to poor management.”

Hyakki squatted at the door, hugging his knees and resting his head between them, his spiritual sight constantly scanning the surroundings. His high ponytail exposed the back of his neck, not wrapped in bandages, with a small patch of skin that invoked a sense of pity. The perpetual illusion shielded him from external infections.

In this regard, Rikodu could be considered a rare “good person.”

Rikodu himself had been captured by the Vindice, sealed in a dark water prison. His limbs were immobilized, his body injected with nerve-paralyzing toxins, and his six paths of reincarnation were covered and suppressed by special devices. His greatest daily pleasure became glancing at the outside world.

He was luckier than Hyakki because, as an illusionist, he could gain external vision through his contractor.

—

Hyakki waited patiently at the clinic’s entrance, time blending into a dull continuum. His hope rested on the promise that Dororo would return. Every noise, every flicker of movement in his spiritual vision, made his heart race with anticipation, only to be crushed by disappointment.

One day, as the sun began to set, casting long shadows on the ground, Hyakki sensed an unfamiliar presence. A young man approached, his movements cautious yet determined. The white flame of life burned steadily within him, exuding a sense of purity.

“Hello,” the young man called out, unsure if Hyakki could hear him. “I heard you might be looking for someone named Dororo?”

Hyakki’s head snapped up. Despite not hearing the words, he could feel the intent behind them. This newcomer might hold the key to finding Dororo.

The young man continued, “I’m Yosano. Sakunosuke told me about you. I want to help you find your friend.”

Though he couldn’t hear Atsushi’s words, Hyakki could sense the genuine kindness emanating from him. Slowly, he stood up, nodding in acknowledgment, ready to follow this new lead in his search for Dororo.

In a foreign prison perpetually covered in snow, deep within an unfathomable water cell, Rikodu was the person most acutely aware of Hyakki’s current condition. Each time he observed Hyakki, he was increasingly astounded by the latter’s survival capabilities. Though they hadn’t communicated directly, Rikodu often used Hyakki’s “spiritual eye” to view the world, marveling at the realm of darkness and life flames that Hyakki inhabited.

“Kufufu…”

In the frigid depths of the prison, a blue-haired youth floated in the water, his lower face concealed by a mask, appearing to sleep. As an illusionist reliant on mental strength and willpower, Rikodu drew rare, precious survival motivation from Hyakki. The encounter refined Rikodu’s understanding of the “spiritual eye.” With the continual growth of his mental power, Rikodu was confident he would eventually become a feared illusionist in the Vindice prison.

Every hardship that didn’t defeat him would become a stepping stone to greater strength. Hyakki’s resilience profoundly moved Rikodu.

“I owe him gratitude for transcending human will…my uncontrollable contractor…”

“No…still need to find a more suitable, long-term host…”

“Is that place…in Japan, I sense…?”

“Oh my…”

“A little girl, lost her organs and right eye in an accident? Parents…unwilling to save her? Kufufu…humans always repeat similar actions…parents abandoning their children…”

“Pitiful…and hateful…”

That day, Rikodu wandered the spiritual realm and encountered a girl who would later be known as Chrom Skull.

—Just like how Hyakki met Dororo.

In the abyss of despair, the person who saves you becomes the most unique light in your life.

At the Port Mafia headquarters, Dazai occupied a private room among the upper echelons. As Mori’s student and a new recruit who had already achieved significant accomplishments, he started from a remarkably high position, commanding a guerrilla team that Mori had entrusted to him, bypassing the need to climb from the bottom like others.

The curtains in the room were drawn, and faint marks of impact could be seen on the elegant European-style wallpaper.

Dazai lay on the sofa, holding a cracked phone screen before his eyes with two fingers. The dim light from the screen cast a flickering, cold glow on his face.

On the screen was a stationary red dot, marking the unlabelled clinic on the map.

In the lower right corner of the map was an infrared body temperature reading.

36°C (normal temperature).

With a simple tap of the monitoring button, he could activate surveillance cameras installed around the clinic. After all, a place frequently visited by the Port Mafia leader wouldn’t lack such equipment.

“…Tch.”

Dazai didn’t bother to check the surveillance footage, feeling that not filling the clinic with cement was already a generous gesture.

He had left a place for Hyakki to stay; the rest was up to him to figure out.

And yet, you’re still alive, aren’t you?

Dazai ignored the intense negative emotions that surged when he heard the name “Dororo.” It was evident that Hyakki could survive without him, and he was merely a temporary companion.

Outside, an old member of the Port Mafia, Guangjin Liulang, knocked twice.

“Come in.”

Dazai put away his phone.

“Dazai, the boss has instructed me to introduce you to the members of the organization.”

With his white hair, Guangjin Liulang looked more like an old gentleman in a cafe than a mafia member.

“Guangjin, I told you before, there’s no need to use honorifics. I’ve just joined the Port Mafia and have many things to ask the seniors about.” Dazai’s voice, clear and youthful, carried a hint of a smile despite the dim light, making his face hard to discern. “But I’m not in the mood to meet them Sakunosuke. Please come back tomorrow.”

Guangjin nodded, not changing his address: “Understood. Please rest well, Dazai.”

He was aware that Dazai was on leave but didn’t underestimate the boy who had been brought into the Port Mafia by the boss. Not only had Dazai survived the Port Mafia’s leadership change unscathed, but he had also become the favored protégé of the current boss. How many fourteen-year-olds could maintain such composure under such circumstances?

As he closed the door, Guangjin Liulang couldn’t help but glance inside.

Dazai, now sitting on the sofa, had an expression in the darkness that was gloomy and cold, staring at the sliver of light peeking through the curtain. Just one look at his face made the seasoned Guangjin Liulang shudder.

Luckily, before Dazai could turn around, Guangjin Liulang had already closed the door, quietly letting out a breath.

“Sakunosuke’s youth… indeed.”

Inside the dim room, Dazai remained motionless for a moment before leaning back into the sofa, lost in thought. The flickering light from the cracked phone screen cast an eerie glow on his face, intensifying his brooding expression.

—

Hyakki returned to the entrance of the closed clinic. The sign, which he couldn’t read, announced its closure due to poor business. He crouched by the door, arms wrapped around his knees, resting his head on them. His “spiritual eye” kept watch over his surroundings. His high ponytail revealed a section of his neck, untouched by bandages, evoking a certain tenderness. The illusion cast by Rikodu protected him from external bacterial infections, a rare act of kindness from the otherwise ruthless illusionist.

Rikodu, locked in the dark waters of the prison, watched through Hyakki’s eyes. The connection they shared was a peculiar bond of survival and resilience, each drawing strength from the other. Despite the physical distance and barriers, their lives were intertwined in a symbiotic dance of life and hope.

—

Back in the Port Mafia headquarters, Guangjin walked away from Dazai’s room, pondering the enigma that was Dazai. The young recruit’s potential and mysterious demeanor were both a source of intrigue and caution.

Meanwhile, Dazai continued to stare at the faint light, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. The name “Dororo” echoed in his mind, a reminder of the complexities and emotions he tried to bury. Despite his aloof exterior, the connections he formed, however fleeting, left their marks.

In the ever-shifting world of the Port Mafia, alliances and enmities were fluid, and survival depended on a delicate balance of power and wit. Dazai’s journey was just beginning, and the path ahead was fraught with challenges, both within and outside the organization. As the night deepened, the threads of fate wove their intricate patterns, binding the lives of Dazai, Hyakki, Rikodu, and countless others in an unending tapestry of struggle and resilience.