At an open-air bath somewhere in Nozawa Onsen.
The clock in the hotel lobby struck 9:00 PM. Kuroda (DYNAMITE) tightened the sash of his Yukata, feeling the biting cold of Nagano seep through the cracks of the glass door. His bare feet padded down the wooden corridor, the dry clop, clop of Geta sandals echoing in the stillness.
"South Wing"—the deep indigo curtain came into view.
The changing room inside was deserted, save for the low hum of the heater. Kuroda shed his clothes, leaving behind the manic buzz of thirteen cups of black coffee along with the fabric on the wooden shelf. The sliding door opened, and a thick wall of steam rushed out, obscuring everything. Following proper etiquette, he sat on the small wooden stool, ladling scalding water over his shoulders to acclimate his body to the heat, then carefully scrubbed himself clean.
But Kuroda's target was clearly not the indoor bath. His artistic soul wouldn't stand for it. Kuroda pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped outside.
Shhh!
A blade of icy air struck his bare skin. Snow was falling. Tiny white flakes drifted under the hazy golden light of the garden lanterns. Before him, the open-air bath nestled among moss-covered boulders and dark pine canopies.
Kuroda descended. One step, two steps, and then his entire body was submerged in the blazing mineral water.
"Phew… Truly cinematic."
An unconscious sigh of pure bliss escaped him. It felt like every muscle fiber was melting. The contrast between the sub-zero air and the scalding hot spring water created a strange equilibrium. There were no women here—just him and a few blurry figures at the far end of the pool, all silent, heads resting against the stone edge, eyes closed as if savoring the mountain's tranquility.
Looking up, the pine branches trembled under the weight of the snow. Occasionally, a clump of snow would drop onto the water's surface, vanishing instantly with a soft hiss. It was so quiet that Kuroda could hear his own heartbeat and the wind whistling through the trees behind the hotel.
At 9:00 PM in Nozawa, amidst this dense steam, time seemed to stand still. He leaned back against the rocks, letting snowflakes land on his forehead and melt into cool droplets, merging with the ancient hot spring waters.
He'd been out and about all afternoon. Could a man who worshipped Cinema possibly spend his day cooped up indoors playing games or watching Anime? Impossible.
He'd carved spectacular turns down the pristine white slopes. He skied with such cinematic flair that onlookers could only gape in awe at his madness. Then he'd wandered the village, soaking in new experiences. He'd devoured twenty-two bowls of Soba at Sobadokoro Daimon at a rate of one bowl per second. Yes—for twenty-two consecutive seconds, he'd inhaled twenty-two bowls without pausing for breath.
The feat earned him a spot on the restaurant's wall of fame. They took his photo and presented him with a small keychain from the owner, whose smile was brighter than the sun. The old man hadn't even finished his thanks before twenty-two bowls had become twenty-two empty vessels. He stared at Kuroda, hands trembling as he handed over the keychain, wondering if he should suggest the young man enter the World Speed Eating Championship.
"Hey, wanna go explore the forest later?"
A group of young men whispered through the steam.
"You mean the Mummy Specter thing?"
Shing!!
An invisible blade sliced through Kuroda's ears. He suddenly remembered—he hadn't come here just for relaxation. That's right. A surge of curiosity and excitement coiled in his chest.
"Ohhh… It's about to get cinematic."
The three young men whispered among themselves for a moment longer. Then they stood up, clearly intending to go somewhere. Kuroda knew immediately. They were off to verify the rumor. Most of the extra tourists here lately were drawn by this very urban legend.
Conveniently, these three were on exactly the same wavelength as Kuroda.
Kuroda swiftly rose. He slipped into his navy blue Yukata, which clung to him like the garb of a hunter. His wooden Geta sandals clacked rhythmically as he exited the Nozawa Onsen Hotel.
He tailed the three guys. Since he had no idea which direction to explore, hitching a ride on their expedition was the best bet.
The four of them—the three strangers plus Kuroda—soon reached the Nozawa Onsen Snow Resort. But it was closed for the night, nothing special to see. The three guys veered off onto a bone-chilling, icy path into the forest just north of the resort. Kuroda followed. And he was wearing nothing but a Yukata and Geta sandals, traipsing through the snowpack. Even though the snowfall had lessened, there was still enough to ski on for a month. And it was still freezing. His bare feet, clamped in the Geta, had gone numb long ago, but Kuroda didn't care. He was too focused on the target ahead.
But they had no idea. This was the worst and most foolish move they could have made.
Kuroda and the three others ventured deeper into the forest path. Only the slumbering silence of darkness and the hunger of the snowdrifts accompanied the four death row inmates. Kuroda followed, his expression still smug. Until…
"St… steam." One of the guys pointed. They shone their flashlights directly at a hazy mist emanating from within the forest.
"Could there be a natural hot spring back here? Awesome."
They were thrilled.
But the steam grew thicker.
Denser.
More intense.
It spread faster, like fog rolling in. As if they were right next to a boiling pool. The humidity climbed sharply.
Shunk!
Thwack!
Splat!!
Three rapid sounds rang out in quick succession within the hazy mist, followed by three flashlights clattering to the ground, beams scattering wildly. Kuroda, standing behind them, couldn't process what had just happened. He squinted, about to step closer.
Squelch.
"Huh? What the—? Why is there a puddle here? Damn it."
He glanced down, flashlight in hand, irritated.
"Blood… that's blood!"
Kuroda's pupils dilated. He looked closer. It was… it was the three of them. They lay piled atop a pool of blood like slaughtered cattle. Their eyes were wide, milky, and frozen. Their lips were purple, as if poisoned with Potassium Cyanide. The bewildered expressions on the corpses made it clear—they hadn't even understood what hit them.
Too fast!
Why? What happened? What the hell was going on? A barrage of grim thoughts slammed into Kuroda's brain. This deathly atmosphere… For the first time, he felt genuine fear. The first time. It reminded him of facing WHITE BEAR-sensei, but this was entirely different. Even without seeing the perpetrator.
He quickly dropped into a defensive stance, ready for combat. Kuroda's eyes darted around frantically in the freezing mist.
Who was it? Could it be…
Schwing!
A steely sound echoed through the fog. Like someone sheathing a katana.
Kuroda's gaze snapped toward the sound.
The mist slowly parted along the snow-covered trail… A human silhouette emerged from the darkness before Kuroda. A black shadow.
Just then, the moonlight began to pierce through, illuminating the scene.
No.
Looking closer, the figure was wearing a white Kimono patterned with scattered crimson sunburst motifs, marred by jagged, old stitchwork. His face was wrapped almost entirely in white bandages. In fact, nearly his whole body was. At his hip hung a Katana. Even in the pitch-black night, Kuroda could tell—it radiated a cursed, murderous pressure.
Kuroda swallowed hard, forcing his voice out.
"Hey! Who the hell are you?! Who are you?!" Kuroda snarled aggressively.
"Hahahaha… The Mummy Specter, huh? Hahahahahahahha." Kuroda was going mad with exhilaration—excitement and sheer terror intertwined. He believed in fate. In true art. In everything. Everything.
"I've been waiting for you, specter. HERE I COOOOOOME! GAAAHHAHAHAHAHAH!"
"…"
The Mummy Specter stood there. Silent. Ignoring Kuroda Kiyotaka's demented theatrics.
Then.
His bandaged hands came together in front of his chest. Palms pressed firmly against each other as if in an invisible handshake.
"Domain Expansion…"
A deep, muffled voice resonated, as if intent on drowning everything alive. The steam emanating from his body grew thicker. And thicker still. The air suddenly became heavy, searing the lungs.
"Hakumu Yaboku!!" (Illustration 5*)
Hissss! BOOM!!
The instant the words left his lips, his body let out a sound like a pressure cooker. His form exploded like a pressure bomb, dispersing in all directions. The shockwave forced Kuroda to instinctively raise his arms to shield his face. He felt the air begin to heat up rapidly, growing far more humid. Each breath scorched his throat.
"I'm dead… This is gonna ruin my hair." Kuroda muttered, yet his eyes still gleamed with arrogant amusement.
In moments, a colossal cloud of steam had engulfed everything within a radius of several hundred meters.
"Ohhh… D-Domain Expansion?" Kuroda was stunned, mingled with absolute thrill. He couldn't even imagine what his own drug-shocked face looked like right now.
Domain Expansion? No. That wasn't it. This was simply the power granted by his 'Dream Apple.' It wasn't like the movies… Which meant this guy… watched Anime too. Huh!! Haahahah. Thoughts flashed through Kuroda's mind at twenty-four frames per second, and he realized…
"Hahahahahahaah. This… this is it, this is it, this is it, this is it, this is iiiiiit... Guwuuuuahahahhahahahahahaahhhahha... THIIIIIIS IS IIIIIIT!!!!!"
Kuroda Kiyotaka's scream was one of ecstatic madness, howling like a deranged villain from a movie. Even as his throat and lungs burned under the immense pressure and heat of this mist domain. Even as his skin began to peel and moisten… Even though ahead of him—every direction—was an endless, opaque white void. Even though his own power was virtually nullified within this domain. Unable to see. Unable to run. Unable to fight. He still laughed. Still savored the cinematic essence deep within his soul. A man ready to die a gruesome death for art.
"TRULY TRULY UTTERLY UTTERLY UTTEEEEEERLY CINEMATIC."
HEE HEE HEEHEE HAAHHAAHAHAHH HOOOOO HOOOOHAHAOOAHAH…
SHUNK!!
A steely sound rang out. Kuroda felt the cold flash of a blade inside his chest. A blade that had pierced straight through him like a tomato skewered by a knife.
"Aha… caught you… Specter."
Even with a sword through his chest, blood gushing from his mouth, Kuroda desperately held onto the blade. In that fleeting moment, his blurry vision caught a glimpse near the hilt. Elegantly engraved in Kanji: "Toyotomi."
"Die!!"
Wham wham wham wham!!…
A relentless barrage of punches slammed into the Specter's face—Kuroda's fists hammering like a point-blank machine gun at twenty-four frames per second. He pinned the blade while trying to cave the bastard's face in. But…
Nothing. He felt nothing. No impact whatsoever from those powerful punches. Nothing. It was as if Kuroda was just punching blindly into the fog. Even though that bastard's face was right in front of him.
Kuroda panicked, unable to comprehend what was happening. He found it harder and harder to breathe. Every breath became searing agony in this dense, pressurized steam. He couldn't breathe. His limbs began to numb from blood loss. He felt the stab wound cooking his flesh from the inside out.
Was this how a Rear Guard Esper met his end? Just how strong was this bastard? Kuroda thought to himself. He still smirked as his consciousness began to fade.
"Truly… cinematic."
Thud!
Kuroda's body collapsed like a legendary monument crumbling. In the midst of a deadly mist-filled forest. He lay on the freezing snow, staining it with the deep, vivid crimson of a prodigious Esper's lifeblood.
The Mummy Specter stood motionless, gazing at the pool of blood before him. He sheathed his sword. A quiet pause settled in his chest. His fist clenched. He remembered the day he had become so corrupted. Forced to live a life like this. Forever…
"Kill them… Kill them all." A faint, crimson glint flashed behind him, accompanied by a hoarse, terrifying whisper in the deathly mist of Nozawa Onsen's night. Leaving behind an indescribable unease.
A place… from the past of one whom the entire world had crushed.
"—END OF CHAPTER 3—"