what if I'm an undead! then so what?-Chapter 22: Reunions

"Hey, kiddo! Good to see you!" Mr. Isagi waved from behind the counter, his usual bright smile lighting up his face.

Masaru couldn't help but smirk. "He looks more cheerful than usual. Seems he must've missed me a lot to be grinning like that, he thought to himself." Mr. Isagi, despite his somewhat grumpy demeanor, always greeted him warmly. Masaru, however, knew better than to believe the smile meant everything was always as happy as it appeared.

Masaru walked up to the counter, giving a respectful bow. He smiled warmly at Mr. Isagi, but a frown soon flickered across the old man's face. It wasn't long before the frown quickly shifted back to a more familiar cheerful expression.

"It's been three weeks, kid!" Mr. Isagi remarked, still scrutinizing Masaru's appearance. "I haven't seen you in a while. Why the sudden hair color change? You look almost unrecognizable! And what's with the crimson eyes"

Masaru grinned sheepishly, adjusting his now bright silver hair. "I'm surprised you recognized me at all," he replied. "It's a long story, and I'm still getting used to it myself. I've been trying to reach you, but you weren't answering. So, I thought I'd come by myself!"

"Ah, well, after the recent incidents, I lost my phone," Mr. Isagi explained, his expression dimming slightly. "Had to change numbers and all that jazz."

Masaru nodded sympathetically, understanding that Mr. Isagi's life had likely been more complicated than usual. The two fell into an easy conversation, catching up on life and the quiet moments Masaru had missed. But before long, Mr. Isagi's gaze shifted elsewhere.

A new customer had walked in.

The man appeared to be in his late twenties, with long, flowing black hair and a transparent set of glasses perched atop his jet-black pupils. His presence in the room seemed to change the atmosphere, and Masaru immediately sensed the shift in Mr. Isagi's mood. Something was different.

"Since when did Mr. Mugen start coming to this restaurant?" Masaru thought, confused. He had worked in this restaurant for over three years and had never seen his homeroom teacher, Mr. Mugen, visit here. Yet, in the short time he'd been absent, Masaru's teacher had somehow become a customer.

Masaru turned his attention to Mr. Mugen as the man moved through the restaurant. He maneuvered with the confidence of someone who was used to being in control of any situation. Finally, Mr. Mugen stopped in front of the counter. Without even glancing at Masaru, he locked eyes with the man behind the counter.

"You," Mr. Mugen said, his voice cold, as he turned toward Masaru. "You're from my class, aren't you?"

Masaru straightened up, surprised by the scrutiny from his teacher. Mr. Mugen, one of the most feared and respected teachers at Shiroyama Academy, had a reputation that made most students tremble in his presence. Masaru had always been something of an outcast—a black sheep among the white ones—so it wasn't surprising that Mr. Mugen knew him by name. Still, Masaru couldn't help but feel a slight chill run down his spine under the piercing gaze of his teacher.

"Yes, sir," Masaru replied stiffly, trying to maintain his composure. "It's me, Masaru."

Mr. Mugen studied him for a moment, as if he were trying to find something hidden beneath the surface. "I see," he muttered, his tone carrying an odd weight. "How unfortunate."

'What does he mean by that? Masaru wondered. Does he think I've had some expensive makeover or plastic surgery? He knows better than that—I'm just a poor orphan. Even basic medications are a luxury I can't afford.'

Masaru stared at Mr. Mugen, then at Mr. Isagi, who exchanged a long, unreadable look. The tension in the air was thick.

"Long time no see!" Mr. Isagi exclaimed, offering a hand for a handshake. But to Masaru's surprise, Mr. Mugen didn't even budge. He simply stared at Mr. Isagi with cold, disdainful eyes.

"I'd rather die than let you touch me with those filthy claws," Mr. Mugen said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion, as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient fact.

Mr. Isagi scratched the back of his head, seemingly unfazed by the rebuff. "Isn't that a little harsh?"

"What brings you to this place?" Mr. Isagi asked, still holding his hand out.

Mr. Mugen shrugged nonchalantly, his attention now fully on Mr. Isagi. "I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to visit an old friend and partner."

Masaru could sense the underlying tension between the two men, something unspoken that lingered between them. The way Mr. Mugen sat across from Mr. Isagi, the cold indifference in his posture—it was as if they were two beings on opposite sides of a long-forgotten war.

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Mr. Mugen glanced at Masaru, his icy eyes sending a shiver through him. "Hey, kid. Give us some space," he ordered, his voice like a command from an emperor.

Masaru flinched at the sharpness in his tone, but he knew better than to argue. It was considered rude to listen to private conversations between elders anyway, so he rose from his seat and stepped outside.

The cool night air hit him as he stood near the entrance, looking up at the moonlit sky. It was peaceful—almost too peaceful. That was when he felt it.

A rush of wind.

Two figures, moving faster than humanly possible, dashed past him. His enhanced senses immediately kicked in, allowing him to track their movement with ease. The two masked figures were chasing a small boy, no older than eight, whose speed seemed to match theirs, if not exceed it. Masaru's curiosity piqued, and against his better judgment, he followed them, keeping just enough distance to remain unseen.

He followed the chase for a couple of minutes, watching as the boy—terrified and panicked—continued to flee. The masked figures didn't relent, however, and soon the boy reached a dead-end, trapped in a narrow alley.

"To think we'd encounter a rare species during our patrol," one of the masked figures said, their voice masked by the distortion of their helmet. "This will definitely get us a promotion."

The other, wielding a sword, took a step forward, sneering beneath his mask. "Hey, kid. Why don't you just make this easier for both of us and surrender? You'll be better off alive."

The boy's eyes were wide with fear. His once-blue hair, now shimmering under the moonlight, seemed almost ethereal. But the terror in his eyes was unmistakable. He began to transform, his claws growing several inches, his fangs bared as his body shifted into something more monstrous. His eyes glowed with an unholy light.

However, just as his transformation seemed to reach its peak, a gunshot rang out. The boy recoiled as the transformation halted abruptly. "A cell-breaker bullet, designed specifically to neutralize any supernatural transformation." The other masked man said blowing on the tip of his gun.

"Without your little wolf transformation, you're nothing more than a weakling," the swordsman taunted, stepping closer, his blade raised high. "You're just a kid, and your strength is barely that of two grown men. We have the advantage here—numbers, strength, and resources. Now, die!"

But before the sword could descend upon the boy, a figure appeared from the shadows, intercepting the blow with a blood-red blade that gleamed under the moon's light.

Clang!

The masked swordsman was stunned, his blade stopped midair by the crimson weapon that seemed to absorb the very light around it.