The rain poured down in relentless sheets, drowning out the distant hum of the city beyond the sprawling industrial yard. The flickering streetlights cast a dull, warped glow over the slick pavement, their light struggling to pierce the torrential downpour. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of rust and oil, but something stronger overpowered it—an overwhelming, suffocating stench of bloodlust that clung to everything like a second skin. In the heart of this chaos stood a boy, his breathing heavy, his body drenched. His black shirt clung to him like a second skin, soaked through with rain and streaked with blood—both his own and that of the men he'd already broken. His pants sagged slightly at the waist, the fabric torn where blades had slashed through, and the white belt cinched around him had long since turned crimson. His body was a wreck—his wrist bent at an unnatural angle, deep gashes lining his arms and chest, bruises darkening his knuckles. A normal person would have collapsed from the pain alone. A normal person would have been dead.
But he wasn't normal. As the rain touched his skin, steam hissed up in thin, curling wisps. The flesh on his arms stitched itself back together right before their eyes, split skin binding as if pulled by invisible threads. His shattered wrist straightened with an audible crunch, bones clicking back into place like puzzle pieces forced together. The bruises faded as if time itself rewound, and he moved his fingers—flexed them, curled them into a trembling fist. A shudder ran through him, something primal, something deep. His head tilted back slightly, breath fogging in the cold night air, shoulders quivering—not from weakness, but from something far worse. A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat, animalistic, as his lips stretched into a wide, twitching grin, baring teeth stained red. His eyes—black as night with dark blue dots flaring like predatory stars—glowed, his chest heaving with each rough, heavy breath. The beast within was waking up.
Around him, nearly two hundred yakuza members of the Yamazaki syndicate under Watanabe's banner closed in, a tidal wave of flesh and steel. They were a motley army—some in tailored suits now torn and drenched, others in rough jackets and boots, all armed to the teeth. Chains rattled in their hands, bats scraped the ground, knives and swords gleamed in the rain, and a few gripped pistols, their barrels slick with water. Their faces were hard, scarred, eyes burning with loyalty to Watanabe and the promise of blood. The boy didn't flinch, didn't blink—his strange eyes locked onto them, unfeeling, a hunter unleashed.
It started with a rush, a roar of boots splashing through puddles as the first wave charged. Ten men came at him, knives flashing, chains swinging. He moved like a shadow, stepping into the fray without hesitation. A chain lashed at his head; he ducked, grabbing it mid-air, and yanked, pulling the man forward. His good hand smashed into the thug's face—bone crumpled, blood exploded, the nose flattening as the guy's head snapped back, teeth scattering across the wet ground. Before the body hit the pavement, he spun, catching a knife thrust with his forearm—blood sprayed from the gash, but he twisted the blade free and drove it into the attacker's throat. A hot gush of red fountained out, soaking his arm as the man gurgled, clutching the wound, collapsing in a heap.
Two more lunged, bats raised. He sidestepped the first swing, the wood whistling past his ear, and kicked the man's knee backward—snap, the leg buckled, bone jutting through skin, blood pooling as the thug screamed, falling into the muck. The second bat came down; he caught it with his broken hand, pain searing through him, and wrenched it free, swinging it into the man's temple. Skull cracked, blood and brain matter splattered, the body crumpling like a rag doll, rain washing the mess away.
The circle tightened, more yakuza pouring in, a relentless tide. A sword slashed at his chest; he twisted, taking the cut across his shoulder—blood flowed, hot and thick—and grabbed the blade with his bare hand, ignoring the pain as it bit deep. He yanked the man close, driving his elbow into the throat—cartilage collapsed, the guy choking as blood bubbled from his lips, dropping the sword as he fell. The boy snatched it up, spinning into the next group, blade flashing. He hacked through an arm—blood sprayed, the limb hitting the ground with a wet thud, the man howling as he clutched the stump. A second swing cleaved a chest open, ribs cracking, blood and guts spilling out as the body staggered back, collapsing into a puddle.
A dozen men rushed forward at once, their weapons raised. But the boy didn't wait for them to reach him—he lunged first. A chain came for his throat; he ducked, caught it mid-air, and yanked. The man stumbled forward, just in time for a rising knee to slam into his face. There was a sickening crunch—bone shattered, teeth exploded from his mouth in a spray of blood and spit. The moment the body crumpled, he spun. A knife flashed toward him; he caught the attacker's wrist, stopping the blade an inch from his throat. The steel pressed into his skin, drawing a thin red line, but it closed instantly, steam curling from his neck. His fingers tightened around the knife, bending the steel with sheer force before plunging it into the man's throat. A gurgle, a wheeze—blood bubbled past slack lips as the man fell. He stepped over the body without pause.
Twenty more surged forward, a wall of fists and steel. A chain wrapped around his arm; he pulled, dragging the man in, and slammed the sword hilt into his jaw—teeth flew, blood raining, the jaw hanging loose as the guy dropped. A knife stabbed at his side—he turned, taking it in the ribs, blood pouring, and grabbed the wrist, snapping it backward. The blade fell; he caught it mid-air and plunged it into the man's eye—blood and fluid burst, the scream cut short as the body twitched and fell. A bat swung at his head; he ducked, slashing the sword upward, slicing through a gut—intestines spilled, steaming in the cold rain, the man collapsing, clutching the mess as blood pooled beneath him.
More rushed at him. A bat swung for his skull—he caught it. Pain flared up his arm as the impact cracked his forearm, but before the bat could be yanked away, the bone reformed, the fracture vanishing as steam curled from his skin. He ripped the bat from the attacker's grip and slammed it into his ribs—a wet snap like wood breaking, ribs caving inward, blood spewing from the man's mouth, splattering the pavement as he collapsed, convulsing. Another knife came at his side, stabbing deep between his ribs, lodging to the hilt. The attacker smirked, thinking he'd struck a fatal blow. Then the boy turned his head, grinning. The knife pushed itself out, flesh forcing the blade back, sealing almost instantly, faint wisps of smoke curling from the spot. The attacker's face paled. The boy grabbed his wrist and twisted—a wet snap, bone tearing through skin, gleaming white in the dim light. The man screamed, clawing at the grip, but the boy's other hand shot forward, fingers hooking into his mouth, digging deep. A sharper snap—the head ripped from the shoulders, spine trailing like a grotesque tail, blood spraying in a wide arc across the pavement.
The ground was a slaughterhouse now, bodies piling up, blood mixing with the rain into a slick, red mire. He moved through it, relentless, his strange eyes glowing in the dark, dark blue dots flaring with every kill. A group of five rushed him, knives and daggers gleaming. He charged, slashing the sword across the first man's throat—blood sprayed in an arc, the head lolling back as the body fell. The second stabbed; he sidestepped, grabbing the arm, and twisted until it popped from the socket, driving the knife into the man's own chest—blood gushed, the heart pierced, the body slumping. The third swung a chain; he caught it, wrapped it around the man's neck, and pulled tight—face turned purple, eyes bulged, tongue swelled as life drained away, the body hitting the ground with a splash. The fourth and fifth came together, bats swinging. He ducked one, took the other to the shoulder—bone cracked, pain lancing through him—and lunged, stabbing the sword into the fourth man's gut, twisting until blood and bile poured out. He yanked it free, spinning to smash the hilt into the fifth's face—nose flattened, blood exploding, the man staggering back. He followed, slashing the sword down, cleaving through the collarbone—blood fountained, the body splitting open as it fell.
The others faltered now. The way they moved, the way their grips loosened for a second—it was enough. Fear had settled in, and fear was intoxicating. Fifty down, the yakuza hesitated, but more pressed in, driven by fear and fury. A pistol fired, the bullet grazing his cheek—blood trickled, warm against the cold rain. He sprinted toward the shooter, dodging a second shot, and tackled him, driving the sword through his chest—ribs snapped, blood spurted, the gun clattering away as the man convulsed, dying. Another fired; he rolled, the bullet kicking up concrete, and hurled the sword—steel sang, burying into the shooter's throat, blood gushing as the body dropped, twitching.
Unarmed now, he fought with his hands, a whirlwind of gore. A chain swung; he grabbed it, pulled the man close, and drove his fist into the throat—cartilage crunched, blood bubbled, the guy choking as he fell. A knife slashed at his back; he spun, taking the cut—blood flowed—and grabbed the arm, snapping it over his knee like a twig. Bone jutted out, blood spraying, the man screaming as he collapsed. He took the knife, slashing across a face—skin peeled back, blood and muscle exposed, the yakuza staggering blind before falling.
A katana flashed, slashing across his chest, parting skin and muscle, nearly exposing bone. The pain barely registered before the wound burned shut, flesh knitting faster than their minds could grasp, their expressions twisting into horror. A man tried to run; he caught him in three steps, sinking his teeth into the back of his neck—flesh tore, veins burst, blood gushing down his chin as he ripped out the throat with a savage bite, the body slumping, twitching violently before going still. A pistol fired, the bullet hitting his shoulder, spinning him slightly. Pain flared and vanished, the wound sealing before the shell casing hit the ground. He was already in front of the shooter, hand plunging into his stomach—fingers sank through flesh, muscle, past organs, curling around the spine. With one pull, he tore it free, the body collapsing in on itself, folding like a puppet with cut strings, the spinal column dangling slick with blood as he tossed it aside.
A group of ten charged, bats and chains swinging. He ducked a bat, grabbed a chain mid-air, and whipped it back, wrapping it around a neck—pulled tight, the man's head jerked, spine snapping as blood leaked from his mouth. He lunged into the rest, knife flashing—slashed a throat, blood spraying, stabbed a chest, ribs cracking, blood pouring. A bat hit his side—ribs groaned, pain flaring—but he turned, driving the knife into the man's gut, twisting until intestines spilled, hot and slick. Another swung; he caught the bat, yanked it free, and smashed it into a skull—bone shattered, blood and gray matter splattered, the body crumpling.
The rain pounded on, washing blood into rivers, the yard a graveyard of broken bodies. A hundred yakuza remained, their numbers thinning but their resolve unbroken. A sword slashed at his leg; he jumped, taking it across the thigh—blood streamed—and grabbed the blade, wrenching it free. He swung, cutting through a neck—head rolled, blood fountaining, the body stumbling before falling. Another stabbed; he twisted, taking the knife in the arm, and snapped the wrist, driving the blade into the man's own heart—blood spurted, the body dropping limp.
He fought on, a relentless machine of death. A chain lashed his back—blood welled, skin splitting—and he spun, grabbing it, pulling the man in, and smashing his fist into the face—skull caved, blood exploding, the body hitting the ground hard. A bat swung; he ducked, grabbed the arm, and twisted until it broke—bone snapped, blood seeping as the man screamed. He took the bat, swinging it into a chest—ribs shattered, blood sprayed, the yakuza collapsing, coughing red.
The few men still standing stopped moving, fear rooting them in place, wide eyes locked onto the boy now in the center of the carnage, steam rising from his body, blood dripping from his fingers. The numbers dwindled, bodies stacking higher, the rain struggling to wash away the slaughter. A group of twenty rushed him, a desperate last stand. He charged, bat in one hand, knife in the other. He swung the bat, smashing a knee—bone splintered, blood pooling as the man fell. The knife slashed, cutting a throat—blood sprayed, the body dropping. A chain wrapped his leg; he pulled, dragging the man close, and drove the bat into his skull—crack, blood and brain matter flew, the body slumping. A sword slashed; he ducked, stabbing the knife into a gut—blood and guts spilled, the man collapsing, clutching the mess.
Ten left, then five, then two. He took a knife to the chest—blood poured, pain searing—but grabbed the arm, snapping it, and drove the blade into the man's eye—blood and fluid burst, the body twitching as it fell. The last swung a bat; he caught it, yanked it free, and smashed it into the face—jaw shattered, blood raining, the body hitting the pavement with a wet thud.
Bodies piled up, some twitching, most still, the rain washing away the carnage. The boy's shirt was shredded, cuts and bruises blooming across his skin, but steam rose from his body, wounds closing fast, visible to the naked eye. His grin widened, dark blue pupils glowing in black eyes, a demon reveling in the slaughter. The black-eyed boy stood beside him, clutching his bleeding thigh, his own dark reverse eyes steady, a hunter's calm amidst the storm. He felt it ...a bond, was it the blood or something deeper, was it because his brother was covering his back? He couldn't understand it.
The rain slowed, a drizzle now, the yard silent save for the drip of water and blood. Two hundred yakuza lay scattered some in pieces, others whole but broken, blood pooling in craters, limbs twisted, guts steaming in the cold air. The boy stood alone, chest heaving, his black shirt shredded, pants torn, blood dripping from every cut, every gash but healing as time passes.