The Yamazaki estate loomed over the mountains like a scar that refused to heal. Rain hammered against its jagged stone walls, washing over the twisted paths and crumbling towers that had stood for generations. Inside, the air was heavy, thick with tension, as if the very walls could feel the weight of the family's bloodstained history. Far from the grand halls where power was passed down like an unbreakable chain, the Nohara family lived in the shadows, tucked away in a decaying wing that smelled of damp wood and old regrets. They were the weakest of the ten vassal clans—unwanted, overlooked, forgotten. But for a brief moment, hope flickered in the darkness. A child was coming. A child who, if born strong enough, could change everything.
Akiko Nohara screamed through the pain, her body trembling as she brought another life into a world that had long since crushed her own. The birth was swift, brutal, but she barely registered it. The midwife lifted the newborn, a sturdy boy with strong limbs and a steady breath. He did not cry. He did not wail like the others had. But when Akiko's tired eyes landed on him, they widened—not with love, but with despair. His eyes. Green. Not the deep, endless black that marked the chosen heir, not the proof of Ultra Instinct, not the future they had all prayed for. Just green, bright like young leaves in spring, yet to her, dull and lifeless. The room was silent except for the rain pounding against the roof. Akiko turned her face away, her lips trembling. She would not feed him. She would not hold him. He was not the son she needed.
The midwife hesitated before laying the boy down on the wooden box the only cradle he will ever know. He did not fuss, did not reach for warmth. As if he already understood he was unwanted. Outside, thunder rumbled through the mountains, a deep growl that shook the walls of the dying Nohara household. The clan's last hope had arrived—and with him, the final nail in their coffin. The boy would live, but not as a child to be cherished. Not as a son to be loved. He would be a stain, a wound, a thing to be discarded. And so, before he could even take his first steps, the world had already decided his fate.
The boy was a curse, an infection that rotted the Nohara name from the inside out. The clan shaman, a shriveled old man whose words carried the weight of generations, spat his prophecy like poison. "He will bring ruin," he rasped, his bony finger stabbing toward the newborn cradled in a wooden box like he was already a corpse. That was all they needed to hear. A reason. An excuse. The Nohara latched onto those words like starving dogs, twisting their own failure into hatred for a child who had no say in his birth. He was their shame, their punishment, a walking reminder that they would never rise, never claw their way out of the filth they were buried in. While the other children—blessed with dark eyes, with promise—were bathed in care, trained as weapons for the future heir, he was thrown into the fire, beaten again and again, stripped of everything but pain. If he wasn't a curse when he was born, they would make him one.
His mother broke before he did. Akiko had carried the weight of their sneers, their whispered insults, their disgust. "You've shamed us," her father hissed like a snake, his words curling around her throat tighter than any rope. "A bad omen from your womb." She took the abuse, day after day, until it sank into her bones, until her own reflection repulsed her. Until she could no longer bear to look at the son who had sealed her fate. The night she finally shattered, the wind howled through the Nohara estate like it was mourning her before she was even gone. Rain slashed against the walls as she tied the rope, hands trembling but resolute. And when the dawn came, she swayed gently from the rafters, eyes empty, mouth slightly parted as if she had been about to whisper an apology—to herself, to the child she had left behind.
The boy was the one who found her. His tiny hands tugged at her cold fingers, his green eyes blinking up at her lifeless face, uncomprehending. His mother had always turned away from him, but never like this. Never so completely. He called out, his voice small, confused. No answer. Just the steady creak of the rope, the storm outside raging louder than the silence inside. When the others found him, they didn't see a grieving child. They saw proof. Proof that he was rotten. Proof that he was the sickness in their blood. They tore into him harder after that. Stripped him down to nothing. Starved him, broke him, made sure he knew that his very existence was a crime.
He lived like a ghost, unseen and unheard. No name, no place, no purpose—just a shadow cast by the people who hated him. The Nohara didn't see a child; they saw a burden, a failure not worth raising. So they gave him nothing. No warmth, no food, no shelter beyond the patch of dirt they let him exist on. He wasn't allowed to wander beyond the trees, wasn't taught, wasn't guided. He was just there, like a discarded tool waiting to rust. But he didn't rust. He sharpened. Every moment of hunger, every lash of the wind, every strike they landed on him was fuel. Shingen's blood still flowed in his veins, no matter how much they wanted to deny it. He used it. Trained himself until his body screamed, until his knuckles were raw from punching trees, until his legs collapsed under him after hours of running up the jagged mountain slopes. Not because he wanted to be great. Not because he wanted recognition. But because hatred burned hotter than any fire.
They tried to break him, and maybe, at first, they did. Bones cracked under fists, under boots, under the weight of their contempt. But they healed, faster than they should have, faster than anyone understood. His muscles tore and rebuilt themselves stronger, his reflexes honed by necessity. He learned the way an animal learns—by surviving. The Nohara didn't feed him, so he stole from the wild, snaring eagles, wrestling boars with nothing but his hands and teeth. Every meal was a fight, every day a battle just to keep breathing. And yet, they still underestimated him. They beat him down again and again, but one day, something changed. A cousin threw a punch at his jaw, expecting him to drop like always. Instead, the crack that echoed wasn't from his bones—it was from theirs. A shattered hand, a look of horror, and for the first time, the boy felt something close to satisfaction.
But it wasn't enough. It never was. He absorbed everything—watched, listened, copied. In the dead of night, he mimicked the older boys' movements, perfecting what they had been taught, even though no one had taught him. But still, it wasn't enough. By the time he was ten, he knew he had hit a wall. His body was strong, but it lacked the refinement, the discipline of those who had been trained properly. That was the year he finally saw them—his half-siblings. Nine children, each the product of Shingen's legacy, gathered in the courtyard like princes and warriors. They wore their training like armor, their bloodline like a crown. And when their gazes landed on him, their expressions twisted with either amusement or disgust. He was a joke to them. Shintaro Yamazaki, the vice president, sat watching with cold indifference, his fan flicking idly as he shaped them for the future. The heir, Gun, trained in secret by the best of the best. The others, prepared for their own roles. And him? Nothing. Just a nobody, a mistake, an unwanted fragment of Shingen's past. But as they sneered and smirked, he felt something else beneath his rage.
The Yamazaki estate's courtyard was a slab of packed earth, slick with the day's rain, ringed by gnarled trees that clawed at the gray sky. The meeting had just ended, Shintaro Yamazaki's voice still echoing in the air as he'd dismissed them with a flick of his fan. The nine other boys—each born of Shingen's seed, each a product of the syndicate's vassal clans—clustered together near the center, their breaths fogging in the chill. Their voices rose, bright with purpose, a chorus of ambition that grated against the green-eyed boy's ears like a dull blade on stone.
"I'm grateful to be part of this family," the Watanabe boy said, his hazel eyes gleaming with resolve, his lean frame taut with the discipline of his clan's training. "I'll train hard to earn Father's recognition," the Takeshi boy added, his fists clenched, his broad shoulders squared with pride. The Hanguro boy nodded, his sharp features alight with determination, while the Matsumoto boy flexed his hands, speaking of the Kojima brothers who'd honed him into a weapon. They traded stories of their mentors, their clans, their dreams of proving themselves to Shingen—the father who'd never bothered to lay eyes on them, the ghost who loomed over their lives like a storm cloud. They were tools, yes, but prized ones, polished by the best the Yamazaki syndicate could offer.
The green-eyed boy stood apart, his ragged clothes clinging to his wiry frame, his bare feet sinking into the mud. He listened, his head tilted, his lips twitching as their words piled up like kindling. Then he laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that sliced through their chatter like a blade through flesh. It wasn't a laugh of joy or mockery; it was raw, unhinged, a crack in the dam of his silence. The nine turned as one, their faces twisting with irritation, their eyes narrowing at the interruption.
"What's so funny, monkey?" the Hanguro boy sneered, stepping forward, his lean frame coiled like a spring. His voice dripped with contempt, a tone perfected over years of taunts. The others joined in, their mockery a familiar ritual, a pack closing ranks against the outcast. "Lowly Nohara trash," the Matsumoto boy spat, his angular face flushed with disdain. "Your clan's a stain—decades without a real fighter," the Takeshi boy growled, his bulk shifting as he loomed closer. They circled him, their voices rising, their taunts a drumbeat they'd played since he could walk. "Green-eyed freak," the Watanabe boy hissed. "A curse who killed his own mother."
He didn't flinch, didn't care about the Nohara name they dragged through the muck. It was a hollow tie, a chain to a family that had kicked him aside like a rabid dog. But something stirred—a spark, a thrill crackling in his veins as their voices sharpened. His green eyes glinted, wild and alive, a predator's gaze breaking through the mask of his stoicism. He felt it then, a pulse deep in his chest, a hunger he'd buried under years of hate. When the Takeshi boy shoved him, a meaty hand slamming into his shoulder, he didn't stumble. He grinned—a devilish slash of teeth—and swung.
The fight erupted like a storm breaking loose. The Takeshi boy was first, his fist arcing toward the green-eyed boy's jaw, but he ducked, instinct driving him low. His own fist snapped up, a brutal hook that caught Takeshi under the chin, snapping his head back with a crack of bone. Blood sprayed from the boy's mouth, a crimson arc against the gray, and he staggered, eyes wide with shock. The green-eyed boy didn't pause—his leg lashed out, a sweeping kick that took Takeshi's knees from under him, dropping him face-first into the mud with a wet thud.
The Hanguro boy lunged next, his speed honed by elite trainers, a jab aimed at the green-eyed boy's throat. But he twisted, his body flowing like water, and caught Hanguro's wrist mid-strike. With a savage yank, he pulled the boy off balance, driving an elbow into his nose. Cartilage crunched, blood gushing down Hanguro's face as he howled, clutching his ruined features. The green-eyed boy's grin widened—feral, devilish—as he felt the rhythm of the fight, his senses sharpening. He'd hit that wall years ago, that invisible barrier his hate couldn't breach, but now it trembled. This was it—his desire, his rage, his need to break something, someone.
The Matsumoto boy charged, his fists a blur, the Kojima brothers' training evident in his precision. He landed a punch to the green-eyed boy's ribs, a solid thud that stole his breath, but pain was an old friend. He absorbed it, his body coiling, and countered with a headbutt that split Matsumoto's forehead open, blood streaming into his eyes. Matsumoto reeled, blinded, and the green-eyed boy pounced—his knee slamming into the boy's gut, folding him in half, then a fist to the temple that sent him sprawling, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Three down, six to go. The Watanabe boy and the Ishida boy attacked together, a coordinated assault from years of drills. Watanabe's kick aimed high, Ishida's fist low, a pincer move meant to overwhelm. The green-eyed boy dropped, rolling through the mud, and came up behind Ishida. His arm snaked around the boy's neck, a chokehold tight as iron, while his free hand grabbed Ishida's wrist and twisted. Bone snapped—wrist or forearm, he didn't care—and Ishida screamed, a high wail cut short as the green-eyed boy slammed his head into the ground, silencing him in a spray of blood and dirt.
Watanabe's kick grazed his shoulder, a glancing blow, and the green-eyed boy turned, his eyes locking onto the hazel gaze. Watanabe froze for a split second—those green eyes weren't human anymore, they were a beast's, alight with something primal. The hesitation cost him. The green-eyed boy surged forward, his shoulder driving into Watanabe's chest like a battering ram, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the earth. Air whooshed from Watanabe's lungs, and before he could recover, a fist crashed into his jaw, then another, then a third—bone cracked, teeth flew, blood pooled beneath him as he went limp.
The others widened their eyes, their bravado faltering. They'd been trained by elites—Kojima brothers, sword ghouls, masters of the syndicate—working day and night to hone their bodies into weapons. They'd sweated, bled, pushed themselves to the brink for Shingen's approval, for the clan's pride. And here was this monkey, this Nohara trash, tearing through them like paper. The Ono boy roared, a hulking figure with fists like hammers, and swung a blow that could've shattered stone. The green-eyed boy sidestepped, fluid as a shadow, and drove his heel into Ono's knee. A sickening pop echoed as the joint buckled, and Ono crashed down, his scream cut off by a fist to the throat that left him choking, blood bubbling from his lips.
The Sato boy and the Kato boy flanked him, their movements synchronized, their training a mirror of each other. Sato's fist grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood, and Kato's kick slammed into his thigh, a jolt of pain that made his leg wobble. But he laughed—low, guttural, alive—and grabbed Sato's arm mid-strike. He twisted, using Sato's momentum to hurl him into Kato, their bodies colliding with a crunch of bone and a tangle of limbs. Before they could disentangle, he stomped down—once, twice—Sato's ribs caved, Kato's shoulder dislocated, blood soaking the mud as they writhed.
The last two—the Nakano boy and the Mori boy—hesitated, their faces pale, their breaths ragged. They'd seen him take hits, bleed, falter, but he kept coming, his body adapting mid-fight. Cuts closed faster than they should, bruises faded, his movements grew sharper, more precise. Nakano lunged, desperation fueling a wild punch, but the green-eyed boy caught it, his grip iron, and twisted until Nakano's elbow snapped backward, a grotesque angle that drew a shriek. He didn't let go—his other hand grabbed Nakano's throat, lifting him off the ground, and slammed him down, skull-first, into a rock jutting from the mud. Blood sprayed, a wet splatter, and Nakano went still.
Mori was last, the smallest, the quickest, darting in with a knife he'd pulled from his belt—a coward's move. The blade sliced the green-eyed boy's arm, a shallow gash that bled red against his skin, but he didn't flinch. He grabbed Mori's wrist, snapping it with a flick, the knife clattering away, and yanked the boy close. His fist drove into Mori's face—once, twice, three times—nose shattered, jaw unhinged, blood pouring like a river. Mori collapsed, a whimpering heap, and the green-eyed boy stood over him, chest heaving, his grin a slash of triumph.
The courtyard was a battlefield—nine bodies scattered, groaning, bleeding, broken. The green-eyed boy stood alone, blood dripping from his fists, his arm, his split lip, but his eyes burned brighter than ever. He'd felt it—the wall he'd hit at ten, the invisible barrier his hate couldn't breach—shatter. This was what he'd needed: the fight, the rage, the raw, bloody release. He'd analyzed them as he fought—their stances, their patterns, their weaknesses—and improved, his body learning with every strike, every dodge. He moved like Toji now, a feral grace, a predator unleashed, his strength a force they couldn't fathom.
They'd trained with elites, sweat through nights, and still they lay at his feet. His grin widened as he spat blood into the mud, his green eyes sweeping over them. "Who's the monkey now?" he rasped, his voice rough, alive. The fight had broken him open, and what poured out was something new—something dangerous, something the Yamazaki would never control.