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 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. That 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.
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