Kirota dreamed of water — cold, endless water that lapped at his face. He blinked and sat up, coughing. At first he thought the wetness around him was a puddle; then he saw the dark stains spreading across the floor.
He recoiled. The liquid was not water. It was red.
A chill ran up his spine. He tried to stand, but his legs trembled. When he looked around properly, the room was not a room at all: bones lay scattered like broken furniture, and shadows clung to the walls. A single chair held a tall figure who smiled without moving his lips.
"My name is Zarkoth," the man said in a voice like rolling thunder. "The Demon King."
Kirota's throat closed. "Where am I?"
"You are in my void," the voice answered, calm and certain.
He woke with a start.
White ceiling lights. A hospital curtain. The memory of the dream clung to him like cold fog. He swallowed and tried to catch his breath. For a moment he still smelled iron and felt the echo of that deep voice.
Across from him, a girl with long black hair sat, book in hand. Suzuka. She looked up when the curtain rustled but said nothing.
A door opened. A man in sunglasses and a plain suit walked in with the easy grin of someone who never hurried — Renjior Valen. He smiled at Suzuka as if they shared a private joke.
"How long do you plan on keeping me waiting?" Suzuka asked flatly.
Renjior chuckled. "Apologies. Important matters." He turned to Kirota and took off his sunglasses. "Is this him?"
Suzuka bowed her chin. "It's him."
The nurse near the bed nodded and produced a small syringe. "We'll only take a sample," she said.
Kirota's eyes flicked between them. "Why am I tied up? Why did you—kidnap me?"
Renjior's smile softened into something almost paternal. "Don't call it a kidnapping." He waved a hand. "I'm Renjior Valen — instructor at the Demon Hunter Academy."
Kirota's brow rose. "There's a school for… demon hunters?"
Renjior's grin widened. "Of course. We teach people to hunt demons — protect humans from bad-luck creatures that spill into the world." He pointed at Suzuka. "And she is one of our best."
Kirota sucked in a breath. "Then why am I here?"
Renjior's expression shifted; the lightness dropped away. "Because you are not like the others."
Before Kirota could answer, Suzuka moved. Without a word she summoned a narrow blade of shimmering air and lunged, stabbing cleanly into Kirota's stomach.
Blood erupted, warm and terrifying. Kirota's world narrowed to the sound of his own ragged breath. He collapsed, tasting metal. Suzuka drew the blade free. Kirota curled, clutching the bleeding hole with both hands.
The wound did something impossible. The edges twitched, then drew together, the blood darkening and fading as if someone were rewinding his flesh. Within heartbeats the cut closed entirely. Skin knitted over skin. He sat there in stunned silence, staring at his hands as though they belonged to someone else.
Renjior stepped forward, eyes bright with something like triumph. "No human can heal like that."
Kirota felt something cold and terrible settle in his gut. "I'm human," he protested. "I'm—"
Renjior's voice cut through him. "You aren't wholly human, Kirota. That's why the Ka Balls have always found you. That's why misfortune clings to you. You are… part demon."
Images slammed into him: a memory of bullies with a rusted bat, his knees caving, blood seeping across cracked asphalt — and then the same instant, warmth gathering at the wound, the pain ebbing, the boys stepping back, hissing, "He's a monster," before running away. He remembered the small girl he'd pushed behind him — her wide eyes, then the word she'd screamed later: "Monster!" — as the other children fled.
Kirota's voice turned thin. "No. That can't be."
Suzuka watched him, face unreadable. "Now you know. You must be extinguished."
Renjior's hand shot out, stopping her. "Not killed." He looked at Kirota with a strategist's amusement. "Used."
"Used?" Suzuka spat. "The rules are clear — demons are to be slain."
Renjior looked at her for a long second. Then he shook his head. "Not all demons are the same. Not anymore. This boy —" He tapped Kirota's shoulder lightly. "—is the reincarnation of something more. Zarkoth, the Demon King."
Suzuka's mask of control cracked. "Impossible. Zarkoth was sealed and slain during the old war. The hero Yuta—"
Renjior's smile was calm. "Legends are comfortable things. Reincarnation is messy." He crouched to meet Kirota's face. "You are half demon, and the blood in you remembers. That gives you power, but it also makes you dangerous and attractive to the Ka Balls. We can train you. The Academy can teach you to hunt demons — to control the sparks inside you and turn them outwards. Become a Demon Hunter who can use demon power without being consumed."
Kirota laughed, but it was only a short, hollow sound. "You want me to… hunt my own kind? To—become like you?"
Renjior rose and straightened. "More than like us. Stronger. If we teach you to accept the demon in you, to weaponize it, you could take a true form — the form of your demon blood — and use that to cut down those who would hurt humans. You will be a hunter, Kirota. But first you must choose."
Suzuka's dark eyes never left his face. "If he truly is Zarkoth's reincarnation… we cannot allow him to go unchecked."
Renjior placed a hand on Kirota's shoulder with a confidence that felt like a command. "Or we can make him our blade."
Time slid forward in a blur after that. There were tests. Conversations in sterile rooms. Papers signed in ink that smelled faintly of herbs. Kirota learned the name of the academy properly — Demon Hunter Academy of Valen — and the smell of duty and menace that hung over its halls.
Weeks later, Kirota stood at a bus stop in a new black uniform, the fabric cool and foreign against his skin. Renjior had given him one last, sly smile before sending him off. "Remember: you are not unlucky. You are chosen."
Kirota stepped off the bus and walked toward the birds of students milling under the school's archway. The day felt oddly familiar and entirely new.
He pushed the heavy doors open and was immediately drenched — a bag of water had been dropped right over his head by some prankster. Cold soaked his uniform.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, wiping his face.
Someone clapped a hand on his shoulder. Renjior stood beside him in the crowd, smiling as if he had not seen the prank at all. "Thanks for saving me from that prank earlier," Renjior said aloud, patting Kirota on the back.
Kirota blinked. "I… did what?"
Renjior's grin widened. "Don't worry. It's all part of becoming part of something bigger."
Inside, Kirota heard a dozen snickers and felt a dozen glares. One boy cracked his knuckles like a villain in an anime; another adjusted his glasses and smirked. The whispers crawled along the corridor.
Everyone hates me already, Kirota thought, stomach twisting between shame and something sharper — curiosity, maybe, or fear.
He squared his shoulders and walked into the school, the echo of Renjior's words following him like a shadow: Chosen. Half demon. Blade.
He did not yet understand what any of it meant. But he did understand this: his life had changed. Bad luck, it seemed, was only the start.