How does one begin a tale like this?
Long ago, in an age of ceaseless strife, the world was a crucible of clashing nations. Across the continents of Mother Earth, war devoured borders and swallowed peace whole. Japan, America, Russia—giants locked in an endless struggle for dominance.
Yet amidst these powers, there was one man who belonged to none. No flag. No allegiance. Only a name whispered in fear.
The Oni of the West.
Jacob Black.
His hair, as black as a raven's wing, flowed loosely around a face framed by storm-grey eyes. He walked the battlefield in a black silk yukata, its fabric heavy with blood not his own.
"Hmph… seems the Americans are preparing to retreat. Fortunate for now… but the war is far from finished."
The thought had barely settled when a soldier wearing the American emblem lunged from behind. Jacob tilted his head ever so slightly; the blade only sheared a strand of his hair. In the same motion, his katana sang from its sheath, severing the man's head in one clean stroke. Blood sprayed across the churned mud as the corpse collapsed at his feet.
"If you'd only played dead, you wouldn't be cooling in the dirt beside your comrades. Now then… who's next in this dance of death?"
From the mist, shapes emerged—soldiers gripping their swords like lifelines. One stepped forward, raising his weapon high.
"We shall not fall to Japan's blade! We will return home victorious—FOR OUR LAND! CHARGE!"
They roared and rushed him, steel flashing. Jacob's expression never changed. With a sigh, he slipped beneath the first swing and slit the soldier's throat, tossing the dying man into his comrades. As they faltered, he carved through another neck before the blood had cooled.
Two more came from behind—too slow. Jacob leapt onto their blades, balanced for an instant, then landed behind them. Their heads toppled free before their bodies even realized they were dead.
One soldier remained, trembling but resolute.
"I'll kill you, Oni of the—"
A sigh.
Jacob was already behind him. The man looked down to see his torso sliding from his hips, the final syllable of his curse dying on his lips.
"…West."
Jacob produced a worn handkerchief embroidered with a small flower, cleaning his blade with deliberate care. The air stilled—too still. A prickle ran down his spine. His gaze lifted.
Arrows.
A black rain descended. He shifted into stance, left foot braced, right forward, katana in both hands. Steel flashed, cleaving shaft after shaft.
"Arrows? Now? The enemy couldn't possibly—"
His eyes caught a detail: the fletching marked with a serpent's eye. Realization struck.
"…So this is what you meant by 'retirement.' Tch. Father… quicker than I expected."
The barrage continued. Beneath him, a white circle ignited, its light spreading fast. Jacob's eyes widened—but he had no time to react.
The world turned to white.
"Where am I…? Did I die?"
A voice—cheerful, almost amused—spoke from behind. Jacob turned.
A man stood there, long crimson hair spilling over golden eyes that glinted with mischief. He clapped his hands and smiled.
"That's the first question everyone asks. Pleasure to meet you. I'm Raphael, and you're in luck—you've been chosen for a world where your desires can be realized."
Jacob's gaze hardened, wary. Raphael snapped his fingers, and a file appeared in his hand.
"Jacob Black, age twenty. Young, but remarkably skilled. A warrior of the Japanese Empire, though born in America near the Lakes of Contradiction. Born to a family of—"
The tip of Jacob's katana kissed Raphael's throat, his grey eyes narrowing to steel.
"Who the hell are you? Ten minutes. Speak."