The smell of stale sake and expensive cigarette smoke was the usual symphony of my humiliation. Sitting in seiza, my knees silently protesting on the tatami mat, I watched as my father, Kaito Tanaka—the man who ruled both Tanaka Industries and the Kuryūkai yakuza clan with an iron fist—cast me a glance worth less than the dirt beneath his designer sandals.
"Kenji," his voice, a low, dangerous murmur, cut through the tense silence of the family dojo. "Look at you. Twenty years old and still a disgrace. Your brothers, Haruki and Ryo, have already made names for themselves. Haruki on the board, Ryo on the streets, expanding our influence. And you? A useless zero. A ghost in my own home."
Beside me, Haruki, the eldest, smirked smugly, his perfectly pressed Armani suit an insult to my simple T-shirt and jeans. Ryo, the youngest, let out a muffled laugh, his tattoos peeking from the collar of his silk shirt. They were my father's sun and moon; I was the unwanted eclipse, the middle child, the mistake in the prestigious Tanaka lineage.
Humiliation was a poison I had learned to swallow daily. Taunts at dinner, disdainful glances in the hallways, a constant reminder that I didn't fit in. I didn't have Haruki's business acumen or Ryo's street brutality. I was... different. Quieter, more observant, a soul longing for a battlefield that wasn't the psychological one of my own home.
That night, the last straw broke the camel's back. My father had ordered me to clean the ancestral katanas, a sacred ritual. My hands, trembling with anger and frustration, dropped one of them—a priceless relic. The metallic clang echoed like a death sentence.
My father's blow was swift and precise, the back of his hand across my cheek. It wasn't the pain that broke me, but the cold indifference in his eyes. "Useless," he hissed.
That word was the catalyst. That night, as the moon hid behind Tokyo's skyscrapers, I packed a backpack. Clothes, some money I had saved, and my laptop. I had no plan, only one direction: away.
Browse the web in an anonymous internet cafe, an advertisement caught my attention. Bold letters on a desert camouflage background: "HORIZON SECURITY SOLUTIONS - OPERATORS WANTED. TIRED OF THE ROUTINE? LOOKING FOR ACTION AND PURPOSE? CONTRACTS IN AFGHANISTAN AND OTHER HIGH-RISK ZONES. EXPERIENCE NOT REQUIRED. TRAINING PROVIDED."
A PMC. A Private Military Company. Mercenaries. A bitter smile touched my lips. Ironic, wasn't it? Fleeing a family of white-collar criminals to join a group of soldiers of fortune. But the idea took root in my mind. Afghanistan. A place so far removed from my reality it seemed like another planet. A place where no one knew the Tanaka name. A place where I could forge my own identity.
The recruitment process was surprisingly fast and digital. A pseudonym, an offshore bank account created with my limited hacking skills, and a series of aptitude and psychological tests I completed with brutal honesty. To my surprise, I was accepted.
It was then, upon receiving the confirmation email, that the world faded.
A blinding light flooded my vision, and I felt as if my consciousness was torn from my body and plunged into a torrent of data. Emerald green lines of code flowed before my eyes—tactical information, weapon manuals, combat strategies—all of it searing into my brain.
FIREARMS MASTERY (LEVEL 1): Basic proficiency with assault rifles, pistols, and submachine guns. URBAN STEALTH (LEVEL 1): Ability to move undetected in urban environments. COMBAT CONDITIONING (LEVEL 1): Enhanced stamina and endurance.
When I regained consciousness, I wasn't in the Tokyo internet cafe. The smell of ozone and sweat had replaced that of instant noodles. I was on a metal bunk bed, in a barracks that reeked of discipline and testosterone. Around me, other recruits snored or shifted restlessly.
I got up and looked at myself in the polished metal of a locker. My face was the same, but my eyes... my eyes were different. There was a sharpness, a calculating calm I had never possessed before. I felt the phantom weight of a rifle in my hands, the instinct to scan the room for threats.
This is real.
A voice in my head, clear and concise like a mission report, informed me of my status. It was the system.
The next day, hell began. Instructors straight out of a war movie screamed at us, dragged us through mud, broke us down, and rebuilt us. But for me, it was different.
I feel the weapon in my hands. The system flickers in my peripheral vision, superimposing a virtual reticle over the cardboard target 50 meters away. My grip is firm, my stance perfect, a muscle memory I shouldn't have.
First person.
I press the stock against my shoulder. The world narrows to the sight and the crosshairs. I hold my breath. Bang. The recoil is familiar, a controlled kick. The hole appears in the center of the target's head. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three more in quick succession, grouped in the chest.
The instructor raises an eyebrow. "Have you shot before, Kenji?"
I shake my head, a half-truth. "Only in video games, sir."
He smiles, a rare expression that doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, you've got a natural talent, kid. Don't waste it."
Days turned into weeks of a brutal ballet of fire and movement. I learned to clear rooms, to rappel, to survive in the desert. Every success, every test passed, fed the system.
But the real change came during a combat simulation exercise. We were in a replica of a Middle Eastern village, using blanks. My squad was ambushed.
Third person.
Kenji ducks behind a crumbling mud-brick wall, the sound of blank gunfire deafening. Two "enemies" have his team pinned down. The system shows him their positions on a minimap in the corner of his vision. His heart pounds, a mix of fear and a strange, exhilarating euphoria.
He accesses the summoning menu. The list is short, his funds limited. But there's an affordable option.
Confirm.
An imperceptible flash of light to others, and I feel the extra weight in my tactical vest. I unpin a smoke grenade. The movement is fluid, instinctive. I throw it in a perfect arc.
Thick smoke fills the street.
Second person.
Now's your moment. You move under the cover of smoke, your rifle held high. You see the silhouette of an enemy through the haze. Your body reacts before your mind. Two controlled taps. The enemy falls. The other turns toward you, surprised. You're faster. Bang.
The exercise ends. You've "neutralized" five enemies unaided. Your teammates look at you with a mix of awe and respect. You're no longer the "weird kid from Tokyo." You're an asset. You're lethal.
That night, as I gazed at the desert stars, a clear, cold thought settled in my soul. My father wanted me to be a ghost. Fine. That's exactly what I would become. A ghost that would haunt the battlefields of the world. A Ghost. And my old family, the one that had despised and humiliated me, would soon learn that ghosts can come back to torment the living. And that this ghost, now, had the power to summon his own demons.