The rain had stopped, leaving the Yamazaki estate cloaked in a damp, heavy silence. The courtyard, where the green-eyed boy had left nine of his half-siblings broken and bleeding, lay still behind him as he trudged back toward the Nohara family's wing. Shintaro Yamazaki, the vice president of the syndicate, had stood at the edge of the scene, his bamboo fan stilled in his hand, his sharp eyes taking in the carnage. The boy, covered in mud and blood, his ragged clothes clinging to his wiry frame, had expected a lecture—some rant about discipline or control. But Shintaro said nothing. His gaze lingered, unreadable, then he turned and walked away, his sandals clicking faintly against the stone path. A power dynamic had been established, a brutal hierarchy carved into the mud, and that, it seemed, was enough for the vice president. He needed to know where everyone stood, and the green-eyed boy had just planted himself atop a pile of shattered bodies.
The boy reached the Nohara household as dusk bled into night, the sky a bruised purple above the traditional Japanese estate. It was richer than most vassal homes, a sprawling structure of dark wood and tiled roofs, its wealth a remnant of past glories the clan clung to despite their decline. Paper screens glowed with lantern light, casting soft shadows across manicured gardens and polished verandas. He stood at the gate, mud caking his bare feet, blood drying in streaks across his arms and face, his green eyes glinting with a wild, unhinged fire. A wide grin split his lips—feral, alive, a stark contrast to the exhaustion that should have weighed him down. The fight in the courtyard had snapped something inside him, a chain that had bound him for years, and now it dangled loose, rattling with every step he took.
The household buzzed with life as he stepped inside. Servants bustled through the halls, their arms laden with trays of tea and rice; children darted between rooms, their laughter a sharp contrast to the blood dripping from his fists; women—sisters, cousins, maids—moved with quiet purpose, tending to chores beneath the warm glow of paper lanterns. The air smelled of cedar and incense, rich and heavy, a mockery of the violence he carried. His green eyes glinted, wild and alive, as the chains of his past—the beatings, the scorn, the years of being less than a dog—rattled loose with every step. He felt it surge within him, a hunger unbound, a madness that had festered too long. Tonight, the Nohara would pay.
The children were the first to die—seven of them, scattered across the main hall, playing with wooden tops and paper dolls. They ranged from five to thirteen, their faces familiar from years of torment. The eldest, a thirteen-year-old boy who'd once pinned him down and spat in his face, froze as he entered, his dark eyes widening. "You—" he stammered, but the green-eyed boy was on him, snatching a pair of chopsticks from a nearby table. The sharp tips gleamed as he drove them into the boy's throat, blood erupting in a hot geyser, the child's scream cut short as he crumpled, clutching the crimson flood. The second, an eleven-year-old who'd laughed while others beat him, bolted, but the boy grabbed him by the hair, yanking him back. He slammed the child's face into the tatami, then stabbed the chopsticks through his ear, a wet crunch as brain matter oozed, silencing his cries.
A child, a girl who'd once spat in his food, ran screaming—he grabbed her by the hair, yanked her back, and smashed her face into a pillar, leaving a red smear as she crumpled. Women, children, it didn't matter—everyone who'd ever sneered, kicked, or ignored him was fuel for the fire roaring inside him. The chains fell away with every kill, his body growing stronger, faster, as if the blood he spilled fed something primal within.
Servants flooded in, drawn by the screams—ten men, burly and hardened, their hands clutching knives, brooms, anything they could wield. "You little shit!" one bellowed, a cleaver swinging for his head. The green-eyed boy ducked, the blade whistling past, and grabbed the man's wrist, twisting until it broke with a sharp snap. The servant howled, dropping the cleaver, and the boy scooped it up, plunging it into the man's gut, twisting until intestines spilled in a steaming pile, blood soaking the tatami. Another charged, a broom aimed at his face, but he sidestepped, snatching a jagged vase shard and slashing it across the man's throat—blood sprayed, a choking gurgle as the body hit the floor. A third lunged with a knife, slicing his forearm, but he didn't flinch; he drove the chopsticks—still wet with child's blood—into the man's chest, piercing through ribs, then kicked him into a screen, the wood splintering under the weight.
The remaining seven came at once, a chaotic swarm. One swung a ladle, cracking it against his shoulder, but he grabbed the man's arm, snapping it at the elbow, then drove a chopstick into his eye, blood and vitreous pooling as he fell. Another tackled him, pinning him briefly, but he rolled, grabbing a fallen tray and smashing it into the servant's face, teeth flying as blood streamed. He rose, seizing a lantern, and hurled it at a third—the oil ignited, flames engulfing the man as he screamed, flailing, skin blistering black. The fourth and fifth rushed together, knives flashing; he dodged one, took a shallow cut across his ribs from the other, and retaliated—grabbing a chopstick, he stabbed it through the fourth's throat, then used the dying man as a shield to block the fifth's strike, shoving the corpse forward and crushing the fifth's windpipe with a brutal elbow. The sixth swung a rolling pin, bruising his arm, but he wrested it free, smashing it into the man's temple, skull caving as blood splattered. The last, a wiry man with a butcher's knife, slashed his thigh—blood welled, but he laughed, tackling the servant, driving the knife into his own gut, twisting until the man's screams faded to a wet rasp.
The house erupted in chaos—wails of women, shouts of men, the clatter of fleeing feet. His uncle, Hiroshi Nohara, burst into the hall, a towering figure in a silk kimono, his broad frame honed by years as a respected enforcer for the syndicate. He rarely interacted with the boy, his presence a distant shadow of authority, but now his dark eyes widened at the carnage. "What have you done?" he roared, drawing a tanto from his belt, its blade glinting in the lantern light. The green-eyed boy grinned wider, the chains loosening further, his body thrumming with a strength he'd never felt. Hiroshi lunged, his strike swift and precise, aimed for the boy's heart. But he twisted, the blade slicing his shoulder instead, blood welling as he laughed—high, mad, alive. He grabbed Hiroshi's wrist, yanking him forward, and drove his knee into the man's gut, forcing a grunt. Hiroshi swung again, the tanto carving a gash across the boy's chest, but the wound began to close, flesh knitting visibly, and Hiroshi's eyes widened in horror.
The fight stretched, brutal and bloody. Hiroshi was strong, his blows heavy— a punch to the boy's jaw cracked bone, a kick to his ribs sent him sprawling—but the boy healed, faster each time, his grin unyielding. He grabbed a fallen cleaver, slashing Hiroshi's thigh, blood spraying as the man staggered. Hiroshi countered, slamming the tanto's hilt into the boy's temple, splitting skin, but the boy roared, tackling him into a wooden pillar, the crack of breaking ribs echoing. Blood dripped from both, pooling beneath them, but the boy's strength grew—chains snapping free, his movements sharper, wilder, like Toji unleashed. He drove the cleaver into Hiroshi's shoulder, then again into his chest, tearing flesh and muscle, blood gushing as Hiroshi gasped, his strength fading.
Blood pooled beneath them, slick and warm, as they traded blows. Hiroshi's tanto slashed again, opening the boy's arm, but the cut sealed mid-fight, muscle reforming as Hiroshi stared, disbelief warring with rage. The boy laughed, tackling him into a pillar, wood splintering as Hiroshi's ribs cracked. He seized Hiroshi's arm, twisting until the tanto dropped, then drove the cleaver into his shoulder, tearing through muscle, blood spurting like a fountain. Hiroshi fought back—a punch to the boy's temple split skin, a knee to his gut doubled him over—but the boy healed, ribs snapping back, blood drying, his strength surging. He grabbed Hiroshi's head, slamming it into the pillar, once, twice, blood smearing the wood, then drove the cleaver into his chest, ripping through sternum, blood and bone crunching as Hiroshi gasped, his strength ebbing. With a final, savage twist, the boy buried the blade in Hiroshi's throat, severing life—a gurgling heap collapsed, the once-mighty enforcer reduced to meat.
Taro Nohara entered then, the grandfather, a giant clad in a dark kimono, his gray hair tied back, his presence a pillar of respect across the syndicate. He'd rarely acknowledged the boy, his disdain a quiet blade, but now his dark eyes swept the slaughter—children, servants, his son Hiroshi—all dead by this green-eyed curse. "Monster," he growled, unsheathing a katana, its edge a whisper of death. The boy faced him, his grin a rictus of madness, and his eyes shifted—green darkening to pitch black, a blue pupil igniting in the center, a void more dangerous than Ultra Instinct, a storm of rage and power. Taro swung, the katana a silver arc, and the boy ducked, the blade slicing air, his laughter ringing out—wild, unhinged, free.
Their fight was a war, long and merciless. Taro was a master—his katana slashed the boy's arm, blood welling, then his thigh, muscle parting, but the wounds closed before Taro's eyes, flesh sealing in seconds, a grotesque miracle. "What are you?" Taro rasped, fear lacing his voice as he landed a cut across the boy's chest, only to watch it heal, skin knitting as if time reversed. The boy laughed, grabbing the blade mid-swing, blood slicking his hand as he yanked it free, tossing it aside. He tackled Taro, fists raining—jaw cracked, nose shattered, blood streaming as Taro countered, a punch breaking the boy's ribs, healed in a blink, a slash opening his shoulder, sealed in a breath. Taro's eyes widened, horror dawning as the boy's strength grew, chains snapping, his movements a blur of savagery.
He seized Taro's arm, snapping it at the elbow with a wet crunch, then drove his knee into the old man's gut, blood spraying from his mouth. Taro swung with his good arm, bruising the boy's face, but the boy grabbed a chopstick shard, stabbing it into Taro's shoulder, twisting until blood poured. The katana lay forgotten; this was raw, primal—fists, elbows, knees. Taro landed a blow to the boy's throat, choking him briefly, but he roared, grabbing Taro's head, slamming it into the floor—once, twice, three times—blood pooling, skull fracturing. Taro's strength waned, his breaths ragged, and the boy pounced, driving his thumbs into the old man's eyes, popping them like grapes, blood and fluid streaming as Taro screamed, a sound of pure agony. With a final howl, he grabbed the katana and plunged it through Taro's chest, pinning him to the tatami, blood bubbling as the giant's life drained away, his widened eyes locked on the boy's black-and-blue gaze until they dimmed.
The house stank of blood.
The copper tang filled the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the scent of splintered wood and oil-soaked silk. The once-grand estate of the Nohara was in ruins—bodies sprawled across the floors, their throats slit, their skulls caved in, their limbs bent at unnatural angles. A massacre, painted in reds and blacks, soaking into the tatami. Hiroshi Nohara, the proud patriarch, lay against a crumbling pillar, breath ragged, his leg shattered beneath him, bones jutting out through torn flesh. His mouth opened, silent at first, but then a wet, gurgling moan escaped. He wasn't dead yet. No, the boy had made sure of that.
The others—Taro, the favored son, the prodigy of the Nohara line—had been the first to fall, his arrogance shattered alongside his ribcage. The boy had driven his fist into Taro's chest, feeling the bones give way, the pathetic wheeze of disbelief as the golden son collapsed at his feet, blood pooling from his mouth. The servants had screamed, but they were nothing—paper figures cut down with ease, bodies tossed against walls, skulls meeting stone with sickening cracks.
And now, only the women remained.
They huddled in the inner chambers, a trembling mass of silk and pale faces—Akiko's sister, her cousins, the maids who had once sneered at him, muttering behind fans, calling him filth. Now their voices were raw with terror, wails clawing at the air as the boy approached. He could see them through the gap in the shoji, their wide, pleading eyes, their hands clasped in desperate prayer. As if their gods could hear them now. As if mercy had ever been part of his world.
Hiroshi coughed, blood splattering onto his chin as he struggled to crawl forward. "P-please," he choked out, eyes wild. "Spare them… they are—"
The boy tilted his head, considering. Then, he reached for a lantern.
The polished bronze felt warm in his hands, the oil within sloshing slightly as he gripped it tight. He stepped forward, letting Hiroshi watch—forcing him to watch—as he lifted the lantern high and then smashed it against the shoji. The glass shattered, the oil splattering in uneven streaks across the wood, flames blooming instantly.
The fire moved hungrily, licking up the panels, swallowing the delicate paper with a whispering hiss.
"Burn," the boy said, his voice low, vicious.
The women screamed.
"No! Please!" Akiko's sister slammed against the door, her fingers scrabbling at the wood, trying to slide it open, but the boy had already wedged it shut. Another maid tried to kick through the frame, her feet thudding uselessly as the fire spread.
Hiroshi let out a sound—part sob, part snarl. He tried to drag himself toward the door, toward them, but the boy's foot pressed down on his broken leg, grinding the shattered bone. Hiroshi screamed, his body convulsing, but the boy only leaned in closer, watching his face twist in agony.
"You never once thought of mercy," the boy murmured. "Not for me."
The flames had caught now, climbing up the walls, devouring the ceiling. The silk drapes curled and blackened, falling in molten tatters onto the screaming women. The heat surged, thick smoke filling the chamber, turning their cries hoarse. One of them—perhaps the youngest cousin—was clawing at her throat, gasping for air. Another was pounding on the wood, fists bleeding as she shrieked, voice rising into something animalistic.
The boy watched, unblinking.
The wails crescendoed, piercing and raw, then turned to choked gasps as the smoke stole the breath from their lungs. They collapsed one by one, their silhouettes writhing behind the burning screen. The fire roared, greedily swallowing them, the scent of scorched hair and blistering flesh filling the air.
Hiroshi trembled, his body wrecked, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He was still reaching for them, his fingers scraping uselessly against the dirt.
"They were… my family," he sobbed, his voice breaking.
The boy crouched beside him, tilting his head, his black-and-blue eyes reflecting the blaze.
"Then die with them."
His hand shot out, gripping Hiroshi's jaw, forcing him to look—really look—at the inferno. Hiroshi's eyes widened, his face pale with horror as the last of the screams faded into nothingness. The only sound left was the crackling of burning wood, the snap of weakening beams.
The boy released him, rising to his feet. Hiroshi slumped, broken in every way, his body sagging against the dirt.
The Nohara were gone.
The chains that had bound him since birth, the weight of their scorn, their hatred—all of it—was ashes now.
The flames rose high, casting flickering shadows over his face as he turned to leave, his grin sharp, unhinged. His body a furnace of strength, his madness a crown.
He did not look back.