Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  Author’s Bio

  Hideyuki Kikuchi was born in 1949 in the city of Choshi in Chiba Prefecture. He graduated from Aoyama University. His debut novel, Demon City Shinjuku, was published in 1982, followed by a creative outpouring that included Vampire Hunter D, Demon City Blues, Youma Battlefront, Demon Physician Mephisto and many more manga and novels. He is a member of the Japan Mystery Writers Association, and is a well-known fan of science fiction and horror movies.

  Artist’s Bio

  After graduating from Musashino Art University in 1983 with a degree in oil painting, Jun Suemi devoted himself to oshie, the traditional Japanese craft of raised cloth art. He has gained a following for his book covers, book bindings, and game character designs. In 1988, he received a “best artist” Nebula Award (Japan) for his work in science fiction and fantasy.

  Starting with his compilation of illustrations for the Wizardry game platform, he has released Labyrinth (CD-ROM), The Guin Saga, Deep, Spirit, Witching Moon and other art books and collections.

  Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition

  Demon City Shinjuku/Makai Toshi Shinjuku Complete Edition (c) Hideyuki Kikuchi 2005. Originally published in Japan in 2007 by ASAHI Shimbun Company. English translation copyright (c) 2011 by DIGITAL MANGA, Inc. All other material (c) 2011 by DIGITAL MANGA, Inc. All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holders. Any likeness of characters, places, and situations featured in this publication to actual persons (living or deceased), events, places, and situations are purely coincidental. All characters depicted in sexually explicit scenes in this publication are at least the age of consent or older. The DMP logo is Є of DIGITAL MANGA, Inc.

  Written by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  Illustrated by Jun Suemi

  English Translation by Eugene Woodbury

  English Edition Published by:

  DIGITAL MANGA PUBLISHING

  A division of DIGITAL MANGA, Inc.

  1487 W 178th Street, Suite 300

  Gardena, CA 90248

  USA

  www.dmpbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available Upon Request

  First Edition: July 2011

  ISBN-13: 978-1-56970-208-6

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in Canada

  Demon City Shinjuku

  Prologue

  The hour grew nigh.

  It was the thirteenth of September, a night early in the opening decade of the twenty-first century. In the police box near the entrance to Shinjuku station, a young officer finished his paperwork, got up from his desk, and stretched mightily.

  A great feeling of relief flooded his body. The cop was clad in a reinforced ballistic helmet and thick Kevlar vest. One way or another, he’d made it through another day.

  His eyes were drawn to the digital clock on the desk. Two fifty-nine in the morning. The shopping district in front of the station was wrapped in darkness. The stores had shuttered their doors and rolled up the sidewalks. The foot traffic was sparse. Taxis were few and far between.

  This time of night, the only hustle and bustle was in the direction of Kabuki-cho.

  Even so, there was no letting down his guard. In this town, anything cop-related was bound to end up in somebody’s crosshairs, no matter what the time of day. A terrorist or just a bunch of juvenile delinquents looking for a thrill could come calling with a black market Tokarev semi-auto or handmade grenades.

  His mind flashed back to the night’s logbook: 29 injuries or accidents, 34 muggings, 23 robbery-assaults, 80 cases of larceny and 17 homicides. These last three or four years had turned the new millennium into a real doozy.

  Comparably speaking, though, it’d been a relatively quiet day.

  He went outside to get a breath of fresh air. The cool night was an early harbinger of fall. The stars twinkled in an unusually clear sky. A thought came to him out of the blue—what was this time of night called again?

  The clock silently flipped over to three o’clock. The cop was overcome by a strange feeling of disquiet. Studio Alta and Mitsui Sumitomo Bank jutted out of the blackness before him, steadily reaching into the sky.

  No—the buildings weren’t rising up. He was sinking down into the earth.

  That was when his previous question came back to him. The witching hour, the time when the devil held sway, and humans and monsters crossed paths. The police officer wasn’t exactly right about the time, but he was nevertheless correct—this moment was a meeting between man and magic.

  After the swaying came the roar.

  The eight stories above the “My City” subway station mall leaned way over. Unable to absorb the violent shaking and pitching, the pillars and steel beams bent and broke. The tearing of pipes and rebar drowned out the screaming alarms.

  The bedrock-like concrete subfloors pancaked. The display windows and showcases, piled high with garish goods, crashed down like an avalanche.

  An earthquake like none before struck without the slightest warning.

  The night clubbers wandering down Shinjuku Avenue didn’t have a chance. No sooner did they feel the ground shaking beneath their feet, than they were thrown dozens of feet into the air. And then hurling to the ground like trampoline artists missing their marks before they knew what had happened.

  The street filled with screams. Rolling on the ground as if bucked from the backs of wild stallions, the young men and women watched as Takano, Mitsukoshi, Isetan—the very edifices that symbolized their vibrant and beautiful lives—came crashing to the ground.

  No earthquake-resistant construction existed that could resist such plutonian forces. Razor-sharp shards of window glass rained down, as if taking aim at their bodies. Thousand-ton blocks of concrete delivered the merciful coup de grace.

  This late at night in this commercial district, around the station the human carnage was relatively light.

  The clubs and bars in Kabuki-cho—the town that never slept—were packed. The military personnel at the Ministry of Defense barracks in Ichigaya were coming off a hard day of training and slumbering peacefully. The student housing in Takada no Baba and Waseda, the quiet residential neighborhoods of Ochiai and Yaraicho—most were swallowed up by the earth.

  Before becoming the slightest bit aware of their impending fate, they were crushed by great volumes of weight into another geological sedimentary layer.

  The earthquake lasted all of three seconds.

  Just as there were no preliminary tremors, there were no aftershocks. Shinjuku was destroyed in a single shrug of the earth’s crust.

  But it would still take a long time until it drew its last breath.

  Flames from the stoves in the all-night restaurants and taverns ignited the gas pouring from ruptured lines. Petrol flooded from gas stations onto the streets and added another conflagration to the blood and cries. Every way out was blocked by high-tension wires sparking like fireworks and the smoldering remains of houses and shops.

  The poisonous flowers of flame sprang open as if after a spring rain. The sooty black smoke wrapped itself like a blanket around the barely living as the screams and shouts went on, it seemed, forever.

  A magnitude 8.5 earthquake had struck directly beneath the city center. The epicenter was pinpointed at five thousand meters under Shinjuku station—at least that’s what was recorded in the files at the Japan Meteorological Agency. Along with a stamp that simply said: Estimated.

  But even though Shinjuku was leveled, its adjoining metropolitan neighbors — Shibuya, Minato, Chiyoda — suffered no damage whatsoever. Th
at night, the seismograph in the basement of the Imperial Palace barely budged.

  This strange phenomenon came to be known in later years as the “Devil Quake.” It remained a puzzle to geologists and seismologists the world over. In time, the Great Shinjuku Earthquake was simply one more item added to an already long list of unexplained phenomena.

  Part One

  The ninth of September, the year 2030, 5:05 in the afternoon.

  “Ahh, I don’t believe it!”

  “Oh, gross, not again!”

  The two high school students cried out in shrill dismay as they passed through the darkening school gate. The black wind had stealthily whirled up behind them, lifted up the skirts of their sailor uniforms, and even rudely slapped their asses.

  “Stop!”

  “Perv!”

  They stamped their feet in outrage. But the whirlwind—carrying a black school satchel—sprinted down the dusk-drenched hill towards Mejiro station. In his wake, from around the two girls came the sound of cheers and clapping.

  “Good one!”

  “That’s my man!”

  “Did’ja see? Yuko’s are white!”

  The bystanders were guys from their school. The girls glared back at them, and then at the evaporating trail left by the departing whirlwind. The cheeks of the offended parties reddened a bit, along with a pained expression that could even be interpreted as unrequited affection.

  Both girls whispered in their hearts: “Izayoi-kun is such an idiot. All he had to do was ask and I’d show him.”

  Twenty minutes later, the whirlwind—now clothed in the form of a regulation Prussian-style high school uniform—was gobbling down a king-sized serving of roasted pork ramen at a food stand behind Mejiro station. He was flanked by a pair of similarly-dressed teenagers. The whirlwind had long hair while they sported crew cuts.

  The larger of the two was the captain of the Minakaze High School kendo team, Kenji Shiratori. His smaller, nimbler companion was Tomoyasu Kayama, captain of the Shorinji Kenpo club. Leaning against the counter next to Shiratori was a shinai—a bamboo fencing sword—in a tube-shaped duffel bag. The knuckles of Kayama’s fists were thick with calluses.

  They’d arrived earlier and had been waiting for him. The other person there was a scowling old man who looked like a wizened philosopher. But he was only the proprietor of the food stand.

  The falling night crept down the alley. The only illumination came from the radioluminescent streetlamps and the glow of the food stand lights. The moon was rising.

  “So, what’s up?” asked the whirlwind as he slurped up the last of the broth and handed back the bowl. Due to a sudden change in the weather, his breath clouded brightly in the gloomy air.

  Kyoya Izayoi was a student at Minakaze High School, a three-year comprehensive. Compared to the rough-hewn outlines of his two companions, he looked markedly more fit and trim, even handsome. Put a pair of glasses on him and a textbook under his arm and he could pass himself off as an honors student.

  Though thanks to the laid-back and likable vibe that surrounded him, the aura he gave off was anything but cool and contained. That bit of skirt lifting notwithstanding, he was clearly something apart from the usual prodigy.

  “Not a lot. But starting next month, things will get busy with the extramural club competitions. Naturally, you’re going to be in high demand. I want to make sure you put me and Kayama first on your list. There’s bound to be people pulling the usual dirty tricks, like what Akihabara Robot Technical High tried the last time.”

  Shiratori had a soft voice that belied his large frame. Kyoya grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I never believed they’d sub in an android. Keeping up with the robots is a real bear. They’re getting just like real people. They got some of them trash talking and pumping their fists on the podium.”

  “Yeah. Don’t matter how much you train, there’s only so much you can do against the speed and power of a computer-controlled robot. Not to mention that they keep getting better at making silicon look like real skin. They can make ’em sweat and bleed and pass through metal detectors and show up on X-rays like humans.”

  Kayama picked up where Shiratori left off. “The martial arts are on the ropes, I’m telling you. That’s why we need you there. Yeah, we’re talking about high school sports, but Minakaze High’s Kyoya Izayoi is the only one who can take them on and knock their screws loose. It’s up to you to preserve the dignity of the martial arts against these mechanized cheaters! How about another pork ramen? It’s on Shiratori today.”

  “Don’t mind if I do! One more and supersize it!” Kyoya ordered cheerfully.

  He thumped his two companions on the shoulders and flashed a leave-it-to-me smile, like he was a guy easy to game. Shiratori was about to protest, but Kayama caught his eye and grinned.

  Despite this give and take, Kyoya wasn’t a formal member of any of the sports teams. He stepped in when one of the regulars couldn’t suit up or when they were facing off against a particularly tough opponent. An all-around pinch hitter. Since he didn’t normally train with them, and only appeared when the chips were down, he wouldn’t be worth much unless he could really deliver.

  Which he’d done quite easily for three years now.

  Minakaze High had been a second-ranked school until three years ago. At the preliminaries to the World Federal Martial Arts Junior Championships, they’d knocked out a veteran powerhouse. At the finals in Denmark, they’d turned the martial arts world on its head, racking up three victories in a row, largely thanks to him.

  So whenever a big match was coming up, all the teams started scheming to book him in advance. This time around, Shiratori and Kayama were the first in line. Considering his affinity for kendo and Shorinji Kenpo, he probably would have shown up at their competitions no matter what.

  But what was this business about knocking out robots?

  As Shiratori and Kayama tussled back and forth about who exactly was footing the bill, Kyoya turned his attention to the steaming pork ramen. He picked up his chopsticks and was about to dig in when—

  “Hey—!”

  “Shit—!”

  Shiratori’s grunts and Kayama’s shouts were overlaid with a harsh crunching sound. The air in the alley wavered.

  Kyoya pushed the two away from him to the right and left. He flipped backwards just as the black shadows sneaking up behind them crashed into the food stand.

  A vicious karate chop struck the edge of the counter and split it neatly in two. Broth and noodles scattered across the asphalt, along with pieces of the ramen bowls. The proprietor gaped and fell on his butt.

  “What the hell?” roared Shiratori, jumping to his feet and whipping the shinai out of the duffel. In an instant, the sword flashed to the ready.

  “Watch it, Izayoi. That guy’s after you.”

  Kayama stood with his feet shoulders’ width apart, his right foot planted behind him, his balled fists a bit further out in front of his chest than the customary opening stance—the posture he took in a real fight. He scanned the ground in front of him and saw no other attackers.

  Witnessing this act of superhuman power only ignited their own fighting spirits. In the world of high school martial arts, they were both the best in their class.

  The two opponents facing them were giants with soft gray fedoras pulled over their eyes and wearing trench coats the same color. Over six feet and weighing close to two-fifty. Their expressionless, almost metallic, mask-like faces were weirdly off-putting, just as it was impossible to say whether they were Oriental or Occidental.

  A gust of wind blew down the alleyway, laden with murderous intent.

  “Oh, knock it off,” Kyoya drawled.

  The way the big man swung his arm like an ax right at Kyoya, it was clear to Shiratori and Kayama that Kyoya was the target; and yet he stood there as calm as a summer day.

  “This ain’t no joking matter!” Shiratori bellowed, his gentle demeanor evaporating. “No way we can just back down after a sucker punch l
ike that! Move it!”

  He spun around, ready to bust some balls, and gawked at the sight of Kyoya standing there, chopsticks and bowl in hand. Dodging danger by the skin of his teeth with inhuman quickness, he still managed to drain the last of the broth from the bowl without spilling a drop.

  “Typical,” said Shiratori, admiration in his voice.

  Kyoya polished off his second helping and set down the bowl. “These guys aren’t human. They’re cyborgs. I guess that means I’m the only one who can square off against them.”

  The relaxed nature of this observation only raised the question of when he’d first realized it. He glanced down at the noodles and pork cutlets scattered on the ground and his attitude changed abruptly.

  “I was thinking of going for thirds, but I guess that’s out of the question now. Dammit!”

  Even his anger was short of true fury. His opponents didn’t move. Shiratori and Kayama yelled together, “Payback!”

  The furious cry was followed by two bolts of lightning that shot at the two giants. Shiratori thrust at the throat of the one. Kayama delivered a roundhouse kick to the head of the other. No matter who they were fighting, no matter how unreasonable the contest, these two wouldn’t back down.

  The cyborgs didn’t duck. The sensation of an aluminum bat hitting a brick wall reverberated through the boys’ wrists as the giants blocked the blows single-handedly. Faster than they could retreat, all the strength drained from their bodies. Shiratori and Kayama collapsed on the spot.

  The thugs silently resumed their assault on Kyoya. They had tranquilizer guns in their palms—these were commando cyborgs.

  Kyoya got serious. Commando cyborgs were advanced fighting units reserved for military use alone. Equipped with tranquilizer guns, dimensional radar, particle beam weapons, tactical nukes and electronic countermeasures, they could compete on an equal footing with mechanized units that included heavy tanks and fighter aircraft.

  There was no way they could deploy weapons like that in an urban back alley and escape the fallout. But they also had regenerative metabolisms, bioengineered muscles, and silicon frames several orders of magnitude harder than steel, all powered by five-thousand horsepower nuclear motors that could smash their way into Fort Knox.