August 15th, 2018 – Hong Kong Harbor

The harbor reeked of salt, rust, and despair. Under the dim glow of flickering lamps, a vile man named Roy Chang oversaw his trade—human lives. Ninety-five souls were being herded into shipping containers, many of them women and children. Cigar smoke curled lazily from his lips as his lecherous gaze lingered on the captives.

From the shadows of a nearby rooftop, a figure watched—silent, unmoving. A shinobi clad entirely in black, face hidden behind a demon mask, eyes locked not on the crowd of a hundred syndicate members, but on Roy Chang himself. Among the captives, a little girl named Lily Pao wept quietly in her mother’s embrace. One of the armed guards swaggered toward them, running his hand across the mother’s cheek. She struck his hand away. His face twisted with anger, and the back of his palm crashed against her face. Lily’s cry echoed through the cold air.

And then… the lights began to flicker. At first, the guards paid no mind. But soon, a sound seeped into the harbor soft, melodic… a lullaby. Beautiful, yet suffocatingly cold, as if sung from the lips of the dead. “What the hell is that? Where’s it coming from?” one of the guards barked, his gun sweeping desperately through the shadows. The lullaby swelled. The lamps sputtered. And then—darkness. Panic rippled through the harbor. The guards cursed, their hands fumbling for flashlights, while Roy Chang roared, “What the hell! Get to the generator room! Now!” He ordered his men to check the power, dialing frantically to his crew inside. No answer.

Three guards reached the generator room. The door creaked open. And they froze. Inside, the air was heavy with the metallic stench of blood. Shadows clung to the walls, yet something far worse awaited their eyes—a sight that should never be seen by the living. Then came a presence behind them. A tall, dark silhouette, clad in the black garb of a shinobi, twin katanas gleaming faintly in the darkness, the hollow eyes of a demon mask fixed upon them. They turned. They screamed. And in the very next heartbeat… their screams were gone.

The other guards have heard the noise. Five of them creep forward, guns trembling in their hands, faces pale, cold sweat streaming down their temples. Their legs and arms are shaking violently. One by one, they have been yanked upward into the shadows by the horned, demon-masked figure until only one is left. He hasn’t even realized his four comrades have vanished behind him.

A slow, wet drip… drip… drip… of blood lands on his shoulder. His breath hitches. He looks up. There dangling above is the black-clad devil, two bloodstained katanas gripped tight. In an instant, the shinobi drops and hacks the last guard into pieces, just like the four before him… and just like the men in the generator room. Eighty-nine guards remain—plus Roy Chang himself. They stand ready in every position, weapons aimed into the darkness. Lily Pao is still clinging to her mother, shaking with terror. One terrified guard has broken. He tries to run—but a chained kunai catches him mid-stride. He is yanked screaming into the abyss, his cries twisting into the gurgling, ragged wails of a man being butchered alive.

The massacre has begun.

The black phantom moves like a nightmare given flesh—slicing, tearing, and severing limbs before the victims can even blink. Gunfire erupts wildly, bullets striking nothing but shadows. Shurikens have found their marks. Chains snake from the darkness. Katanas split men into halves, then quarters. From inside the shipping containers, the hostages are hearing the death screams raw, animal, and unending. Just as they have feared, the guards are being butchered like livestock, begging for mercy that will never come.

Only Roy Chang is left standing.

He stares in horror at the blood-soaked pier, the ground littered with severed limbs, crushed skulls, and the steaming viscera of his men. In panic, he grabs his radio—but the signal has been cut. He limps toward his car, desperation clawing at his mind.

THUNK—THUNK.

Two shurikens slam into both knees, severing the tendons instantly. He collapses, shrieking, and begins crawling toward the vehicle. That’s when he hears it, a lullaby. Soft. Haunting. He turns his head.

The devil is coming.

Step by step, the black-clad shinobi walks toward him, his armor dripping with fresh gore from head to toe, crimson drops falling from both katanas. The red glow in his eyes pierces through the darkness. Roy’s breath shatters into ragged gasps. His mind screams one name—The Devil Butcher. The most ruthless shinobi alive.

Roy breaks. His voice cracks into a sob "P-please… please don’t kill me… I’ll give you anything… anything you want—money, power, I’ll disappear, you’ll never hear my name again… please… I don’t want to die… I’m begging you…" The Devil Butcher stops in front of him. Silence.

Then, in a voice that slithers like fire over bone: "Time to go to Hell."

A demonic laugh rips through the night. The katanas come down—again and again—until Roy Chang is nothing but a ruin of flesh and scattered organs. His final scream is swallowed by the darkness, his tears mixing with the blood pouring from his eyes.

The hostages inside the dark container have heard it—that final, strangled scream that cuts through the heavy night air like the last breath of a dying animal. For a moment, there is silence… only the sound of their own frantic breathing and the dull pounding of their hearts.

Then, without warning, the massive steel doors creak and groan, breaking the suffocating darkness with a flood of pale, flickering light. One by one, they stagger out—weak, shivering, their eyes darting in every direction. Women clutch their children so tightly their knuckles turn white. A man with torn clothes and a bloodied cheek keeps looking over his shoulder as if the shadows themselves might lunge for him. The air smells of salt, rust… and something far worse.

Fear. At that exact moment, flashing red and blue lights cut through the mist as police swarm the pier. Shouts echo over the water, boots slam against the wet concrete, the metallic click of rifles being cocked reverberates through the night. In the chaos, a small girl Lily Pao clings to her mother’s neck, her tiny fingers digging into her skin. Tears stain her cheeks, but something compels her to look up.

And then she sees him. High above the pandemonium, perched like a vulture on the skeletal arm of a massive cargo crane, stands the figure. Cloaked in black, the outline of twin katanas crosses his back. His mask—an obsidian demon’s face—catches the faint light of the harbor lamps. He does not move. He does not speak. He only watches. And in that silent, unblinking stare, there is something far colder than death itself.

The police, led by Inspector Thomas Lau, move quickly to secure the area, shouting orders, ushering the survivors to safety. But something in the air makes them slow their pace. Every step forward feels heavier. Every breath is laced with a metallic tang that makes the tongue taste of copper. And then they see it.

Blood. Everywhere.

It stains the planks beneath their boots, sprays across the corrugated metal of the containers, drips lazily from the edges of the dock into the black water below. But it’s not just blood—it’s the sheer volume of it. Too much for gunfire. Too much for any normal killing.

Still, the worst has yet to reveal itself.

From several of the containers, thick rivulets of crimson seep from underneath, forming dark puddles that spread like oil slicks across the ground. The stench is unbearable—thick, cloying, and unmistakably human. Even the seasoned officers shift uneasily, their eyes darting toward Inspector Lau, silently asking if they really want to open those doors.

They do.

And regret it instantly.

The metal doors screech as they are pulled aside, and what greets them inside is something that should never be seen by mortal eyes.

Limbs—stacked in tangled heaps, severed so cleanly they almost look surgically removed. Heads with lifeless eyes staring into nothing, mouths frozen mid-scream. Ribcages cracked open, organs spilling out like grotesque offerings to some ancient god. In one corner, a pile of hands—just hands—rests like discarded gloves, each still curled as if they had been clawing for life until the very end.

Among the carnage, barely recognizable but unmistakably him, lies Roy Chang. His body is split into pieces, his torso hollowed out, his face carved into something between agony and disbelief. His cigar is still clamped between his broken teeth, the ashes clinging to it as if time itself refused to let them fall.

The officers reel back. One stumbles to the ground, retching violently. Another covers his mouth, eyes watering, his entire frame trembling. The younger ones avert their gaze, but it’s too late—the images are burned into their minds.

But there is something else. Something worse. In one container, atop a mound of ribcages and shattered skulls, lies what at first seems to be a sheet of paper. But as Inspector Lau steps closer, he realizes it’s not paper at all. It’s skin. Human skin. Pale, stretched, and still warm to the touch.

And on it, smeared in fresh blood so dark it gleams black in the light, is a single, jagged message:

"Hell is full. I send them to the place beneath it."

The room goes still.

Inspector Lau’s hands clench at his sides. His face drains of color, his breathing grows shallow. His voice, when it finally comes, is not loud—but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

"My God… it’s him."

A young officer swallows hard, his voice cracking:

"Who, sir? Who could do something like this?"

Lau turns his head slowly, his eyes locking on the black silhouette still standing high above, watching them all. His answer is nothing more than a whisper, but it carries the weight of every nightmare the city has ever had.

"The Devil Butcher."

Two Days Later,

In a dimly lit apartment in the heart of Osaka, the city is still shrouded in a thin veil of dawn. Takeshi Hatabe, a 28-year-old IT engineer, awakens at exactly 5:00 a.m. His expression is calm, almost devoid of emotion, as he sits up from his bed. Without hesitation, he begins his morning ritual — fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, fifty pull-ups, and fifty decline push-ups. The faint creak of the wooden floor mixes with the sound of his steady breathing. it is discipline forged through years of relentless training.

After his workout, Takeshi showers, the steam swirling around him as if trying to cling to his skin. He prepares his breakfast — grilled salmon, miso soup, and a small bowl of rice — and sets it neatly on the table. The television flickers to life, bathing the room in cold blue light. The news anchor’s voice cuts through the stillness:

“Breaking news from Hong Kong — the aftermath of a massacre unlike anything the city has seen before. Two nights ago, at the West Dock, the entire Red Fang Syndicate was annihilated. One hundred members, including their leader, were found dead inside shipping containers used for human trafficking.” The screen shifts to shaky footage from the crime scene — dim corridors between stacks of containers, walls splattered with dried crimson. Forensic lights sweep over bodies left in grotesque poses, throats slit clean or torsos cleaved open with inhuman precision. The camera lingers on one particularly horrifying image: a severed head placed neatly atop its owner’s chest, the eyes pried open and stuffed with black feathers.

The anchor’s voice grows grim:

“Survivors — women and children rescued from the containers — describe a silent figure in black who moved like a shadow. They say he appeared without warning, cutting down every armed man before they could raise a weapon. Some claim they saw a mask shaped like a demon’s face, its eyes burning crimson under the dim dock lights.”

Another image appears: a bloodstained steel plate nailed to the dock’s main gate. On it, carved deep into the metal, are words in Japanese: "Hell is full. I send them to the place beneath it."— 'The Devil Butcher’

Takeshi eats calmly, his eyes fixed on the screen, but his face remains unreadable. It is as if he already knows every detail the news reports — as if he was there. When the segment ends, he turns off the TV, cleans his dishes, and prepares for work. As he steps out of his apartment, the hallway smells faintly of incense from his elderly neighbors’ door. “Good morning, Takeshi. How have you been? We hardly see you around,” says Mr. Asayama, his wife smiling warmly beside him.Takeshi bows politely. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Asayama. I’ve been busy with work lately. Long hours keep me away.”, “Oh, I see,” Mrs. Asayama chuckles. “But you should slow down. When you marry someday, your wife won’t like being alone all the time.”

Takeshi offers a gentle smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your advice. I’ll be going now.”

He leaves for the train station, blending seamlessly into the morning crowd. At work, he keeps to himself, avoiding unnecessary interaction. His co-workers find him polite yet distant, a man whose thoughts seem always elsewhere. When the day ends, a colleague invites him for drinks, but he declines without hesitation. That night, the train back to his neighborhood is packed. The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and the muted hum of conversation. Takeshi’s eyes shift subtly, he has already spotted five individuals shadowing him — their movements too coordinated to be coincidence. They start closing in, but when the train screeches to its next stop, Takeshi vanishes into the flood of commuters.

Three of the pursuers push through the crowd, following him toward the station’s far wing. They see him slip into the men’s restroom and rush inside. The fluorescent lights flicker ominously. Stall by stall, they search — until one of them opens the last door and freezes. Two of their companions lie inside, kneeling in pools of blood, their heads severed and placed in their own laps. The survivor feels a presence behind him. He turns — Takeshi is there, eyes cold, his hand gripping a steel kunai. In a blur, Takeshi twists the man’s arm until bone snaps, drives a kick into his knee, and thrusts the kunai deep into his skull. The body collapses silently.

Outside, two others wait, unaware. The last man in their pair feels something coil around his neck — a chain, pulled with lethal force, dragging him into the shadows. His partner peers inside, trembling, only to have a chained kunai burst through the air, impaling his mouth. He is yanked inside, the door swinging shut. Moments later, Takeshi steps out, walking casually. Behind him, the faint drip of blood is swallowed by the noise of the station. Somewhere deep inside, a scream erupts as the bodies are discovered. In the chaos that follows, Takeshi slips through the crowd. He palms a pen from a man distracted on his phone, then — with a quick, precise thrust — stabs it into the man’s neck, pulling him into a dark alley before anyone notices. The man’s phone is crushed in Takeshi’s hand and tossed into a passing garbage truck.

Back at his apartment, Takeshi showers, cleans his clothes, and prepares dinner. The evening news blares the headline: “Five Unknown Men Found Slaughtered at Kujo Station.” The police speculate it was gang-related, but no suspects are named. A notification pings on his phone—an encrypted message bearing the emblem of a black raven. Takeshi opens a hidden compartment beneath his floor. Inside rests a full black shinobi suit, twin katanas, twenty shuriken, chained kunai, and a demonic black mask that seems to glare back at him.

The truth is revealed: Takeshi Hatabe is no ordinary IT engineer. He is The Devil Butcher—the most lethal shinobi alive, feared for executions as sadistic as the massacre in Hong Kong. The six men at Kujo Station were Red Ghost Clan shinobi, sworn enemies of Takeshi’s own clan—the Blood Raven.

The message is clear: Report to Grand Master Hayato.

Takeshi’s lips curl into the faintest of smiles. The hunt has only just begun.

Midnight strikes, and silence hangs heavy over the Blood Raven Headquarters. The air is thick with a cold wind, and the faint sound of crows echoes in the distance. From the shadows of the courtyard, a figure emerges—Takeshi Hatabe, cloaked in his pitch-black shinobi garb, two katanas crossed on his back, and his demonic black mask concealing his face. Every step he takes is slow, deliberate, and filled with menace. The flickering torches lining the corridor paint his shadow across the walls like the silhouette of a monster.

As Takeshi walks through the stone halls, other shinobi of the clan halt in their tracks. Their eyes widen, some in awe, others in terror. They whisper among themselves, careful not to speak too loudly, for the man before them is no ordinary shinobi. He is The Devil Butcher—a living nightmare, a legend of blood and carnage whose methods terrify even his own brethren. Stories of his merciless executions have spread across the continent: victims torn apart, enemies mutilated beyond recognition, entire units of shinobi reduced to corpses in crimson pools.

The heavy doors of the Grand Master’s hall creak open. Inside, a long chamber illuminated by lanterns reveals Grand Master Hayato seated upon his throne of black oak. Six council members stand at his sides, cloaked in ceremonial robes, their gazes sharp but uneasy. Takeshi steps forward, removes his black mask, and bows deeply. His cold, scarred face emerges from beneath the mask—expressionless, yet radiating a quiet horror.

Grand Master Hayato is the first to speak, his voice calm yet filled with gravity.

“The Devil Butcher… The mission you executed two nights ago has shaken this world. It was beyond impressive, beyond ruthless. You have surpassed all shinobi, not only of this clan but of every clan that still breathes. Yet, with such reputation, comes danger. Many now wish for your death. Syndicates, cartels, mafias, even rival clans—all have placed a bounty on your head. The Red Ghost Clan has already fallen by your hands. Sooner or later, your identity will be revealed, and when that happens, neither you nor Blood Raven will be safe. Tell us, Takeshi… do you have something to say?”

Takeshi raises his head slowly. His voice is calm, deep, yet sharp like a blade drawn across bone.

“I am aware that countless men crave my death. But they will never claim my head. It is I who take theirs. Still, I cannot wait for them to come knocking at our doors. Therefore, I propose a mission for myself. A mission beyond the boundaries of reason.”

The council stirs uneasily, exchanging worried glances. Grand Master Hayato narrows his eyes.

“And what mission do you propose, Devil Butcher?”

Without hesitation, Takeshi’s voice cuts through the air:

“I propose… The Impossible Mission. I will hunt and slaughter every high-class criminal across the continent—mafias, human traffickers, drug lords, corrupt politicians, and every rival clan that dares oppose us.”

Gasps ripple through the chamber. One of the council members slams his hand against the table.

“This is madness! This isn’t an impossible mission—this is suicide! You are too valuable to risk on such insanity. Are you mocking death, Takeshi Hatabe? Do you crave it?”

Another councilor steps forward, his voice harsh and filled with rage.

“Our Devil Butcher has become arrogant. His bloodlust blinds him. Do you think you can stand against the world alone?”

Takeshi’s expression does not shift. His eyes are cold, unblinking, as he responds in a voice that chills the chamber. “I only do what must be done to ensure the survival of Blood Raven. If you have another solution, then I welcome it. But if not, then stay out of my way.”

The council seethes, but Grand Master Hayato raises his hand, silencing the outburst. His gaze locks onto Takeshi.

“You dare present us with a mission no sane man would accept. And yet… if there is one shinobi who can carry such madness, it is you, Devil Butcher. Your record is unmatched. Your methods are brutal, but your results are undeniable. Against a hundred shinobi, a hundred mercenaries armed with steel and guns—you survived. They did not. If anyone is to execute a mission of suicide… it is you.”

The room falls into a tense silence. Then, another councilor speaks, hesitant but curious.

“Takeshi… how can you be certain you will succeed? How can you promise us that you will return alive?”

His tone, calm yet cutting, fuels the Elders’ rage. But before conflict sparks, Grand Master Hayato raises his hand.

“Enough. You underestimate the man who stands before you. This is no ordinary shinobi. This is The Devil Butcher. His skills are unmatched, his brutality legendary, his record flawless. Every mission given, he completes—often in ways more terrifying than we imagined. If there is one man who can execute such a suicidal mission... it is him. I propose full support.” The Elders fall silent, unsettled but swayed by the Grand Master’s words. One leans forward, eyes narrow.

“Takeshi... what assurance do we have that you will return alive?”Takeshi slowly rises to his feet, his crimson gaze sweeping over them. “I cannot promise survival. But I can promise you this: when I am finished, none of my prey will remain whole.”

A shiver cuts through the chamber. Silence reigns. Then, one by one, the Elders nod, granting their approval. Grand Master Hayato bows his head. “Go, Devil Butcher. The world itself shall tremble.”

Takeshi bows, dons his mask, and departs.

As Takeshi departs, whispers of unease ripple through the chamber. One elder leans toward Hayato, voice trembling.

“Hayato… you know this is no mission, but a death sentence. If we lose him—”

Hayato cuts him short.

“Takeshi is not like other shinobi. He fears nothing because he has nothing left to lose but his life. And he has never failed, even when outnumbered a hundred to one. There is only one man who could rival him, The Ghost Wolf. But their paths have long since diverged. With or without him, Takeshi Hatabe is our only blade sharp enough for this task.”

The elders bow their heads in resignation. They know the Devil Butcher now walks toward a mission no man would dare attempt.

As Takeshi strides through the halls, shinobi part before him like shadows before flame, none daring to obstruct his path. In his quarters, he gathers his arsenal: twin katanas and two spares, dual chained kunai, pouches of shuriken, smoke bombs, and above all, the Black Demon Mask—the grim witness to his endless carnage.

But as he prepares to leave, a cold voice halts him.

Hatsuko, the frost-hearted kunoichi who secretly harbors feelings for him, steps into his path. Her eyes burn with anguish.

“Are you insane, Takeshi? This mission… it is suicide. Do you truly wish to taunt death? For what? For whom? Your arrogance makes you hated, even among your own. Is this still about… Haruna?”

The moment the forbidden name leaves her lips, Takeshi halts. Slowly, he turns his head. His eyes glow crimson—like burning coals within the darkness. Hatsuko’s breath falters. Fear seizes her chest. He says nothing. Not a word. He merely stares. And then he turns away, leaving her frozen, trembling, yet strangely relieved.

At his apartment, Takeshi prepares. One by one, the tools of death are laid out. His black shinobi armor, stitched in shadows. His twin katanas, blades hungry for flesh. A reserve set of chained kunai. Dozens of shuriken, each sharpened to perfection. And last—the Black Demon Mask, polished and waiting, its hollow grin forever stained by the screams of the damned.

Two days later, Takeshi is at the airport. His destination: Italy—the first hunting ground where human traffickers, mafias, and drug lords shall be fed to his blades. Passing through security is effortless. His devices scramble every scanner, rendering his arsenal invisible.

At the boarding gate, a nearby television blares with breaking news. The anchor’s voice carries across the terminal:

“The Devil Butcher has struck again. Authorities confirm another massacre of syndicate members, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition. Fear spreads like wildfire. Who is this masked executioner? What does he want? And—perhaps most haunting of all—where will he strike next?”

Takeshi smirks as the boarding call echoes through the terminal. He steps forward, his shadow stretching long and black across the polished floor. The Devil Butcher’s mission has begun.