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The result? The gangs tore each other apart fighting over the vault, the documents were anonymously delivered to every newspaper in the city, and in the chaos, Hiyakawa and Mikado simply walked into the guild’s unprotected secondary warehouse and redistributed the grain to the slums. They gained not a single coin, but they gained something more valuable: the whispered gratitude of a thousand starving families and a reputation for being untouchable.
Hiyakawa once said, “A king rules by divine right. We rule by human necessity.” Their organization wasn't built on loyalty but on mutual self-interest. Hiyakawa provided the plan —the who, what, when, and where. Mikado provided the touch —the ability to make the plan real without leaving a single witness. hiyakawa x mikado
When Mikado returns from a mission, she doesn't report. She just nods. Hiyakawa, in turn, ensures her favorite brand of bitter tea is always steeping in the cistern’s main chamber. Theirs is a language of shared scars and unspoken understanding. They are a reminder that in the brutal ecosystem of a fallen kingdom, the most dangerous thing isn't a monster from a labyrinth. It’s two people who have perfectly learned to cover each other’s blind spots. The result
Hiyakawa’s information network was his true weapon. He knew which guards took bribes, which alleyways the city watch avoided, and which noble kept a secret second family. His voice was rarely heard above a whisper, but when he spoke, empires of illicit trade shifted. He was the one who found the abandoned underground cistern that became their headquarters. He was the one who devised the "Toll of the Forgotten"—a tax on the corrupt merchants themselves, siphoned off through fake shipping manifests and ghost warehouses. Hiyakawa once said, “A king rules by divine right
Mikado was their face and their fist. While Hiyakawa gathered intelligence from the shadows, Mikado walked into the lion’s den wearing silk. She could mimic a dozen accents, forge a noble’s seal with a scrap of wax and a heated knife, and charm a secret out of a sullen guard in the time it took to share a cup of wine. But her true talent was more direct. She was a master of a forgotten Balbaddi martial art called "Thread Dancing"—using a weighted, razor-fine wire to disarm, entangle, or, when necessary, eliminate. She moved like smoke, and her smiles never reached her ice-chip eyes.