The storm raged overhead, lightning splitting the sky in violent flashes as rain poured down in thick sheets. The industrial yard was soaked in blood, bodies lying limp on the pavement, their wounds still steaming from the brutal massacre. And yet, in the center of the chaos, two figures still stood.
Watanabe, the infamous Sword Ghoul of Japan, rolled his shoulders, the bones in his neck cracking as he tilted his head. His two katanas gleamed under the dim streetlights, their edges slick with fresh blood. The man's grip was firm, his stance unwavering. Despite his age, despite the corpses that littered the ground around them, he showed no hesitation, no fear.
His sharp eyes locked onto the boy before him—barefoot, drenched in rain, his black shirt torn and clinging to his scarred frame. His wounds were still sealing, but slower than before. His breathing was ragged, steam rising from his mouth with every exhale. The feral grin that had split his face during the earlier carnage was gone, replaced by a cold, unreadable stare.
At the edge of the massacre stood Watanabe Kokuin, the sword ghoul of Japan, his tailored suit pristine despite the chaos, rain streaking his cracked glasses. Two katanas gleamed in his hands, their blades sharp enough to cut the night itself. His scarred face twisted into a snarl as he stepped forward, boots crunching over broken bones. "What are you?" he growled, voice low and guttural, eyes narrowing at the boy. "Worse than that monster… Shingen's strength, Shintaro's tactics… and what are those eyes?" He stared into the dark blue dots, a shiver of unease cutting through his decades of experience.
The boy said nothing.
The boy's smile had vanished, replaced by a grim, feral intensity that twisted his expression into something primal. His breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, mist curling from his lips in the cold air. Managing men twice his size with brute strength alone had worked before, but it wasn't enough anymore—his body ached from the repeated blows, his wounds closing slower, his once-limitless stamina beginning to fray. His regeneration, though unnatural, had its limits. He could feel it.
And his opponent? Watanabe wasn't just some street thug to be overpowered with reckless brutality. He was a legend, a swordsman whose name was whispered in fear, a man who had carved his way through Japan's underworld with nothing but steel and precision. Every movement he made was deliberate, honed by years of bloodshed. The boy could no longer afford to just react...he had to end this. Now.
Nearby, the other boy...the yamazakis heir dulled by exhaustion and pain...collapsed against a crate, his blood pooling beneath him. His hand trembled as it pressed against his torn thigh, struggling to stop the bleeding. His white pupils flickered back to green as he watched the fight unfold, breath shallow. "Is this strength?"
Rain poured down in thick sheets, turning the ground into a slick, crimson-streaked mess. The cold bit into the boy's wounds, but he barely noticed. His smile was gone, replaced by a grim, feral intensity. Every breath burned in his lungs, every wound ached, but none of it mattered. He crouched low, muscles coiling like a beast ready to pounce.
Watanabe struck first, his two katanas flashing in a blur of steel. The boy barely avoided the strike, feeling the whisper of death as the blades grazed his shoulder. Blood sprayed, a thin red line blooming across his skin. It should have sealed instantly, but it didn't. His healing had slowed. His body was reaching its limits. He lunged, fists swinging in wild, brutal arcs.
Watanabe sidestepped effortlessly. One katana slashed back, the steel carving into the boy's forearm. Blood gushed as the blade bit deep, pain flaring white-hot. He roared, gripping the sword with his bare hand, fingers tightening despite the sharp agony. Blood ran between his knuckles, but he yanked hard, pulling Watanabe closer. His fist shot forward, aiming to cave in the old man's face, but Watanabe ducked at the last second.
A sharp impact drove into his stomach. The hilt of Watanabe's second katana rammed into his gut, forcing the air from his lungs. His vision blurred for a second as he staggered back, coughing up blood.
Watanabe pressed the attack. His katanas moved with an eerie rhythm, a relentless storm of steel that the boy barely kept up with. A blade slashed toward his throat; he ducked just in time, the steel cutting through empty air. He lashed out with a wild kick aimed at Watanabe's knee. The old man absorbed the impact with a shift of his stance, barely budging. His counter came instantly.
A downward strike.
The boy rolled, the katana burying itself in the pavement with a metallic screech, sparks flying. He sprang up from the ground like a cornered animal, slamming into Watanabe with pure brute force. They crashed against the wet concrete, the boy's fists hammering down. One punch landed on the old man's chest with a sickening crunch—ribs creaked under the impact—but Watanabe was unfazed.
The old man twisted, his katana slicing across the boy's back.
Blood sprayed.
Skin split apart like paper, agony screaming up his spine. He stumbled forward, his own blood mixing with the rain as he hit the ground hard.
Watanabe loomed over him, eyes cold, blades raised.
"You're no match for me," the swordsman murmured. "It's a good thing I got you as a cub. If you had grown a little more, you could have been worse than your father."
Both katanas came down.
The boy rolled, just barely escaping as twin gouges carved into the concrete where he had been lying a second ago. He scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his wounds. His muscles screamed for relief, but he couldn't afford to stop.
He charged forward again, fists flying.
Watanabe met him head-on. One katana parried his strikes, the other cutting mercilessly. The boy felt the sting of steel across his side, felt the warmth of his own blood soaking his shirt. He roared, grabbing the old man's wrist, twisting with raw desperation.
For a moment, he thought he had control.
But Watanabe broke free instantly, his movements effortless. A boot slammed into the boy's chest, sending him skidding across the pavement, his back crashing into a puddle that splashed red.
The pain barely registered.
The old man advanced again, relentless, cutting him apart piece by piece. A slash to the thigh slowed him down. Another cut across his cheek left a thin red line. The boy swung a fist, reckless.
Watanabe ducked, his katana flashing upward.
Then something shifted.
The boy's dark blue-dotted eyes narrowed, a flicker of clarity piercing the feral haze. He had seen these movements before. He had fought against them earlier. The memory of the reverse-eyed boy resurfaced—the way he had moved, the way he had fought with fluid, controlled motions.
Aikido.
The boy had never trained in it.
But he had watched. He had absorbed. His body had learned without him realizing it.
Watanabe's katana slashed down.
The boy sidestepped, his hands moving instinctively. He grabbed the old man's wrist and twisted, redirecting the strike. Watanabe's own momentum betrayed him, sending the blade into the pavement once again. The impact was brief, but it was enough.
The boy moved.
Fingers slick with blood wrapped around the hilt of Watanabe's second katana as it slipped from his grip.
He wielded the sword like he had been born with it.
Watanabe snarled, lunging with his remaining blade. The boy met him in kind, their swords clashing, sparks flying in the rain. He mimicked Watanabe's stance now—feet planted, blade angled just right. He countered, slashing back with something beyond raw strength.
He was learning.
The old man blocked, but the force behind the boy's strikes had changed. No longer wild. No longer reckless. His movements sharpened with each second, mirroring Watanabe's own precision. He was refining his attacks as he fought.
The tide shifted.
Watanabe slashed high. The boy redirected, stepping inside the old man's guard, and countered. His katana sliced across Watanabe's arm. Blood welled from the cut.
The old man roared, bringing both blades down in a deadly X.
The boy ducked, rolling under the attack, and sprang up behind him. His katana slashed across Watanabe's back.
Blood gushed.
The old man staggered, spinning to retaliate. Their swords clashed again, but this time, Watanabe's precision wavered. His movements slowed just a fraction.
The boy pressed harder, striking faster, hitting with a growing rhythm. Aikido fused with his raw power, turning every counter into an opportunity. Watanabe was forced back, his breath growing ragged.
He stared at the boy, eyes wide.
"He's… learning?"
The boy gave no answer.
He advanced, pressing the attack. Watanabe parried, barely. A twist of the boy's blade sent the old man off balance, and he struck—his katana carving through Watanabe's shoulder.
Blood fountained.
The old man staggered, his second katana slipping from his grip.
The boy's wounds still bled, but his focus had sharpened to a deadly point. His dark blue-dotted eyes blazed with something deeper than instinct. He was evolving mid-fight.
Watanabe, battered and bloodied, lunged in one final attempt.
The boy deflected the blade, twisted Watanabe's wrist, and drove his katana deep into the old man's side.
Watanabe gasped, coughing blood. His grip weakened, knees trembling.
"You have proven it…" he choked out. "You are indeed that Tora Oni's son… Kuro Oni…"
The fight slowed.
Watanabe swayed on his feet, his body failing him. The boy's grin returned, feral and wide, as he yanked the katana free.
Blood sprayed.
The old man collapsed to his knees.
The boy stepped forward, grabbed Watanabe's hair, and yanked his head back. His katana rose high before plunging straight through the old man's throat.
Blood burst out the back of his neck.
Watanabe choked, eyes wide in shock. His body twitched, hands weakly reaching for his killer.
Then he went limp.
The boy twisted the blade, tearing through flesh, and ripped it free.
Watanabe's head lolled. His body slumped into the rain-soaked ground.
Silence followed.
The boy stood over the corpse, chest heaving, katana dripping red. His wounds finally began closing, steam curling from his skin.
Nearby, the other boy slumped against a crate, his injured thigh still bleeding. His breath came in short, uneven gasps as he stared at the scene before him.
"Strength…" he whispered.
The air reeked of iron and death, the flickering streetlights casting jagged shadows over the carnage—twisted limbs, shattered skulls, and steaming guts sprawled across the ground. The boy stood over Watanabe Kokuin's corpse, chest heaving, his katana dripping thick, crimson rivulets onto the wet concrete.
His black shirt hung in tatters, clinging to his battered frame, his torn pants sagging, the once-white belt now a deep, sodden red. Steam curled faintly from his skin as his wounds—gashes, bruises, and cuts—closed with agonizing slowness, the unnatural healing strained to its limit. His strange eyes—black voids pierced by dark blue dots glowing like predatory stars—glinted in the dim light, cold and unyielding.
He turned, boots crunching on gravel, and stepped toward the Yamazaki heir slumped against a rusted crate. The heir's black eyes, with their stark white pupils, flickered weakly, his hands clutching his bleeding thigh, blood seeping through trembling fingers to pool beneath him. Without a word, the boy planted a boot on the heir's injured leg, pressing down with deliberate force. The heir grunted, a sharp, guttural sound as pain lanced through him, his body jerking, blood flowing faster as he gripped the wound tighter, his face contorting in agony.
"How does it feel?" the boy asked, his voice low and cold, a blade of ice cutting through the damp air. He angled the katana, its blood-streaked tip hovering an inch from the heir's throat, steady and menacing.
"What?" the heir rasped, his voice a strained croak, brows furrowing as he fought through the torment radiating from his leg.
"How does it feel to lose…" The boy leaned in closer, the katana's edge glinting as it brushed the air near the heir's neck, his words a venomous whisper that sank deep, etching humiliation into the heir's heart, grinding his defeat into his very soul. Then, with a sudden flick of his wrist, he drove the katana into the ground beside the heir's head—steel sang as it pierced the pavement, sinking deep, the hilt quivering inches from the heir's ear. "You are weak. Become strong, and I will come to give you your death."
He turned to walk away, boots splashing through shallow puddles, the drizzle clinging to his blood-matted hair. But the heir, grimacing, forced himself to his feet, one hand braced against the crate, the other clutching his thigh as blood dripped in dark, wet streaks. "Stop…" he called, his voice strained, cracking under the weight of pain and desperation. "As my sibling, it's your duty to serve the heir of Yamazaki… it's the tradition—"
The boy halted mid-step, then threw his head back and laughed—a maniacal, unhinged cackle that tore through the yard, echoing off the rusted walls. His dark blue-dotted eyes flared brighter, a searing glow of pure, frigid hate as he spun to face the heir. "Your brother? Hahahaha! He's dead, along with the Noharas. I burned them down alive… Tradition? Who made that tradition? Some strong bastard for the weak to follow. I'm strong—I ain't no one's slave, and I'm strong enough to go against that tradition."
He yanked the second katana from Watanabe's lifeless corpse, the blade slick with blood, and pointed it at the heir, its tip trembling with restrained fury. "He too was bound by tradition," he spat, kicking Watanabe's body with a dull thud, the corpse rolling slightly in the muck. "So were the others rebelling at the Yamazaki house, like he said." He paused, his grin twisting into something savage. "The strong make the rules, and I'm strong enough to make my own. I don't need anyone, and I don't care about anyone."
The heir limped forward, pain shooting through his leg, only for the katana to snap up, its bloodied edge aimed squarely at his chest. "Don't come for me, you Yamazaki dog, or I'll burn you down too," the boy snarled, his voice a low growl, his eyes cold enough to freeze hell itself, radiating a hatred so pure it seemed to chill the air between them.
The heir froze, his breath catching as he stared into those glowing depths. "Why…" he whispered inside, his mind a whirl of confusion. Shouldn't traditions be followed? Isn't that what they're for? The question gnawed at him, rooted in the lessons of his upbringing, the weight of his lineage. "Then why did you save me?" he asked aloud, voice trembling as he took another limping step, searching those dark blue-dotted eyes for an answer, any hint of reason.
The boy's grin faded, his face hardening into a flat, emotionless mask. "The deal was to kill you. Now that they betrayed me, the contract is void, and the deal is canceled. That's it." His voice was devoid of warmth, a simple statement of fact, stripped of sentiment. With that, he turned, the drizzle cloaking him like a shroud as he walked away, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the night, leaving only the sound of his boots fading into the rain.