18 March 1996 – Vladivostok Harbor

The cold breath of the Sea of Japan lashes against Vladivostok’s harbor like a living beast, snow spiraling in merciless gusts that rattle chains and creak rusted cranes. The night is heavy, ink-black, lit only by the dim yellow bulbs strung across warehouses and the occasional headlights of trucks unloading cargo. Yet what these trucks carry is no merchandise—it is flesh. Human lives.

Dozens of captives are dragged out, bound in chains, their faces gaunt with fear and hunger. They come from all corners of the world: women from Southeast Asia, children from Eastern Europe, men beaten into silence. They collapse into the slush and ice, kicked to their feet by rifle butts. A mother clutches her daughter, Yumiko, barely seven years old, whispering promises she can’t keep. The girl buries her face in her mother’s chest, trembling. Around them, curses and laughter echo as guards joke about “selling the pretty ones first” or keeping them for their own vile pleasures.

Above this cruelty presides Sergei Kurntsnikov, master of the syndicate. A mountain of a man, his bare arms covered in tattoos of serpents strangling skulls, knives, and naked women, his eyes glinting with sadism. In his private office—a cramped cabin lined with liquor bottles and lit by smoke-choked lamps—he plays cards with his lieutenants. The stench of sweat, vodka, and blood lingers in the air.

“Full house!” one thug shouts, grinning, slamming his cards on the table. He jumps up, cheering his fortune. For a brief heartbeat, there is joy in this cesspit. And then—BANG!

The laughter stops as Sergei casually fires his pistol across the table. The winner’s head bursts like an overripe melon, blood spraying cards and vodka glasses. Bits of brain scatter across the tablecloth. Sergei doesn’t even blink. He exhales smoke, lays down his losing hand, and smirks.

“No one beats me,” he growls. The others explode in grotesque laughter, their cackles filling the room as though murder is comedy. The corpse is dragged aside like trash, the game continues, and Sergei drinks from his glass as if nothing happened.

Outside, the guards stand watch in the storm, rifles slung, breath steaming in the cold. They pass cigarettes and bottles of cheap vodka, boasting about which of the women they’ll “test” later. Their vulgar laughter clashes with the cries of chained captives. Snow falls heavier, muffling the world—until the lights begin to flicker.

The men curse. Bulbs flare and die. Entire rows of lamps shut off, drowning the dock in near-total darkness. Flashlights snap on, thin beams slicing through falling snow. The atmosphere changes instantly: the laughter fades, replaced by uneasy mutters.

“Hey, where’s Kolya?” one guard whispers, realizing his comrade who stood beside him has vanished. He swings his light across the dock. The beam catches something swinging from a crane. His jaw slackens.

Kolya dangles upside down, his torso split open, innards spilling in ropes of glistening red. His throat is slit from ear to ear. Blood drips steadily into the snow below, each drop blooming into crimson flowers against the white.

The guard stumbles back, radio clutched to his mouth. His voice shakes: “Unit three! We’ve got—”

But his words cut off with a wet gasp. A blade erupts through his chest, the steel glistening red in the flashlight beam. The katana slices upward, splitting sternum and skull. His scream dies as his body collapses in two ragged halves.

From the shadows, a figure emerges.

He is cloaked in black, a hood pulled low, a mask covering his face. His entire form seems carved from darkness itself, every step silent, deliberate. In one hand he holds a katana, the blade dripping, steam rising from fresh blood in the freezing air.

The corpses sway in silence. The snow keeps falling. The harbor is no longer filled with crude laughter—it is filled with fear.

The figure kneels, prying the radio from the twitching fingers of the last dead guard. For a long moment, the channel is filled only with static and the rasp of his breath. Then, in a voice as cold as the winter sea, he speaks:

“Execution begins.”

The words crawl through every radio on the dock. Guards stiffen, guns raised, eyes wide. Panic spreads as they realize an intruder is here—no ordinary assassin, but something worse, something unseen.

And then the killing starts.

Screams rise and are cut short, one after another, drowned beneath the storm. Shadows move where no man should be. Bullets spray into the dark, ricocheting off steel, finding no target. A flash of steel, and a throat opens like paper. A whisper of movement, and another body collapses with a katana lodged in its spine.

The harbor becomes a hunting ground. The predator has arrived.

The harbor becomes a nightmare painted in blood. Screams rise one after another, piercing through the storm like the cries of damned souls. Shadows move faster than bullets, faster than the eye can follow. They are not men—they are predators. Shinobi descend upon the syndicate like winged demons, every strike a note in an orchestra of death.

Blades slice through flesh with surgical precision. A guard lifts his rifle, finger trembling, only to feel a shuriken bury itself into his eye. Another swings his flashlight wildly, desperate to see his killer, and a kunai chain whips from the dark, coiling around his neck. In a heartbeat, he is yanked screaming into the shadows—his plea for mercy silenced by the wet sound of steel splitting bone.

The dock transforms into a slaughterhouse. Bodies drop in pieces. Heads roll across the frozen ground, leaving trails of red that steam against the snow. The shinobi never pause, never breathe louder than the storm—they are specters, here only to kill.

Inside the warehouse, the captives hear everything. The chained men and women huddle together, their prayers rising louder than the gunfire outside. Mothers press their children into their arms, shielding their eyes. Yumiko buries her face against her mother’s chest, sobbing. The woman’s lips tremble as she whispers desperate words to the heavens: Please, God, deliver us from this hell.

But outside, the gods of this night are not merciful. They are executioners.

From the rooftops of the warehouses, shinobi leap down like ravens swooping for carrion. Katanas gleam in arcs of silver, blood spraying across the snow like crimson petals. Their movements are fluid, faster than sound, vanishing into shadow before their prey can scream. Guards fire blindly into the dark, muzzles flashing, bullets sparking off steel containers. But the shinobi are never there when the triggers are pulled.

One man shrieks as blades carve both his legs from under him. He claws across the ice, begging for help, only to be pinned by a kunai through the hand. Another shinobi lands beside him, blade raised, and his cry ends in a gurgle.

Sergei Kurntsnikov hears the massacre from his office. The laughter is gone now. The gunfire is frantic, uncoordinated, punctuated by screams that end far too quickly. Sergei, drunk on power only moments ago, now trembles. His pistol jumps in his shaking hand as he fires blindly at shadows that creep only in his imagination. He shouts orders into his radio, but only static and dying screams answer.

The laughter that once defined this place is replaced by silence—the silence of the dead. Sergei reloads, sweat mixing with the tattoos across his arms, his lips whispering a prayer he never thought he’d speak. His lieutenants are gone. His men are gone. The syndicate is falling apart around him.

Then the door creaks.

Sergei swings his gun toward the sound, finger twitching on the trigger. But no one is there. Only shadows. Only the sound of water dripping—thick, red water dripping from the ceiling onto the floorboards. He tilts his head up, breath caught in his throat.

Bodies hang from the rafters, mutilated beyond recognition, swaying in the cold wind that slithers through shattered windows. Their faces are carved open, their eyes missing. Their blood rains down on Sergei’s desk, onto his cards, his vodka, his empire.

And then he hears it. A whisper. Not in Russian. Not in any tongue he knows. A whisper that slithers like a curse through the air. He cannot understand it, but he feels it. Death itself is in the room with him.

He spins around. They are there. Dozens of them. Silent, black-clad, masked. Eyes glinting with inhuman focus. Sergei’s pistol shakes as he raises it, though he knows it is pointless. He is surrounded. The predator has reached the heart of its prey.

Sergei begins to cry. The giant of Vladivostok, the butcher of innocents, now reduced to a trembling child. He mutters prayers through broken teeth, begging forgiveness from a God he mocked for decades. His voice shakes, choking on fear. He promises he will change. He promises he will stop.

But the shinobi give no mercy. There is no negotiation in the world of shadows. No forgiveness for monsters.

One blade lowers, its edge gleaming with frost and blood. Sergei stares into the mask of his executioner and knows—his time is over. His empire of chains and cruelty ends tonight.

The only thing he can do now is accept the inevitable.

Sergei Kurntsnikov, once the tyrant of Vladivostok’s underworld, now collapses to his knees. His pistol clatters uselessly across the blood-soaked floor. His tattoos, once symbols of dominance and power, glisten with sweat and fear. His eyes dart wildly, searching for escape, for mercy—yet all he finds are shadows closing in.

“Please,” he stammers in Russian, voice trembling like a broken child. “I beg you. Mercy… I will change. I swear on my soul. Just—please.”

But the shinobi do not move. They stand in a ring around him, silent and absolute, blades dripping with the blood of his men. Their masks are voids without emotion, their eyes glinting faintly in the dark. To Sergei, they are not men. They are death made flesh.

One shinobi steps forward—katana gleaming, movements slow, deliberate. The blade taps against the floorboards as though marking time for Sergei’s final heartbeat. Sergei raises his trembling hands, falling to his knees fully now, his face streaked with tears.

“I was wrong! I was blind! Spare me, I will give you everything—the money, the drugs, the ships, even the slaves! Please! I beg you!”

His voice cracks into hysterics. His lips tremble as he kisses the boots of the nearest shinobi. The cold steel of a kunai presses under his chin, forcing him to lift his face. He looks up—and sees nothing. No pity. No hesitation. Only judgment.

The shinobi whisper something in their own tongue, low and guttural, a chant that echoes like a funeral hymn. Sergei does not understand the words, but the meaning is clear. His pleas fall upon ears that do not hear.

Suddenly, the silence shatters.

The katana descends in a swift, merciless arc. Sergei screams, a high-pitched, guttural sound as the blade carves deep into his shoulder, splitting flesh from bone. Blood erupts, spraying across the walls. He collapses, clawing at the ground, sobbing, his voice breaking into wet gasps.

“No—please! God, no!”

But his God does not answer.

Another shinobi hurls a kunai chain that wraps around Sergei’s torso. With a violent tug, Sergei is lifted, suspended in the air like the corpses that already dangle above. His body twists, helpless, as he thrashes and wails. His legs kick wildly, but the chain only tightens, cutting into his flesh until blood pours down his torso.

The executioner steps forward. Sergei’s eyes lock onto the blade that rises for the final strike. He shakes his head violently, drool and tears running down his face.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t kill me, I beg you—”

The blade slices upward.

Sergei’s scream cuts short as the katana cleaves through his stomach and chest, ripping open his body in a brutal spray of blood and entrails. His head jerks back in silent shock, his mouth gaping like a fish gasping for air. His body hangs for a moment, split and ruined, before the shinobi deliver the final act.

One swift, clean stroke.

His head falls, bouncing across the floorboards, eyes still frozen in terror. His body, torn and lifeless, dangles from the chain like a grotesque trophy. Blood gushes from the stump, painting the walls and floor in crimson.

The shinobi step back, their work done. They do not speak, do not celebrate. Their silence is worse than any laughter, because it shows how little this act means to them. Another life ended. Another monster erased. Nothing more.

Outside, the storm still rages. Inside, the reign of Sergei Kurntsnikov ends not with glory, not with honor—but with the cold steel of shinobi justice.

And in the warehouse nearby, the captives hear the silence that follows his death. For the first time, they realize—they are free.

The heavy steel doors of the warehouse groan as they are forced open. The air inside, once thick with despair and the stench of human misery, is now filled with a stunned silence. Dozens of wide, terrified eyes blink against the sudden rush of cold night air. The captives—men, women, children—stumble forward, blinking, unsure if what they are seeing is real.

And then they hear it.

The shriek of sirens in the distance. Police sirens. The authorities are coming, drawn by the storm of blood and gunfire that had torn through Vladivostok’s harbor. For the first time in months, maybe years, the captives feel something they had forgotten: hope.

A mother clutches her daughter tightly to her chest, trembling, her face streaked with tears that finally flow for something other than pain. The little girl—Yumiko—buries her face against her mother’s shoulder, but when she dares to look, her gaze catches on something beyond the warehouse doors.

There, above the industrial cranes and stacks of shipping containers, stand twenty figures cloaked in black. Their hoods conceal their faces, their masks erase their humanity. They are motionless, like phantoms carved from the night itself, each one still dripping with the blood of Sergei’s men. They do not speak. They do not wave. But their very presence is undeniable.

Yumiko, with her small voice quivering but full of raw gratitude, whispers the only thing she can: “Thank you.”

The shinobi do not hear her. Or perhaps they do, but they give no sign. They remain silhouettes against the raging snowstorm, their forms outlined by the faint flicker of burning crates and shattered vehicles. To the slaves, they are avenging angels. To the world, they are nothing more than shadows that do not exist.

The freed captives spill out into the night, scrambling down the pier. Some fall to their knees and pray, others clutch one another, sobbing with disbelief. Yumiko’s mother presses forward with the others, whispering prayers of thanks to the heavens as she carries her daughter to safety. Behind them, the corpses of the slavers lie mutilated, twisted, their reign of cruelty ended in a single night of horror.

The shinobi watch it all in silence.

One of them finally speaks—a voice muffled beneath his mask, calm and precise. “The mission is complete. No survivors among the syndicate. The captives are free. It is time to return.”

There are no cheers, no triumph. Only the quiet acknowledgment of a duty fulfilled. And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the shadows vanish. Their figures dissolve into the storm, their presence erased from the world as though they were never there at all. All that remains behind are the echoes of screams and the stains of blood across the docks.

Far away, beyond the harbor, lies the fortress of the Blood Raven clan. Hidden in the mountains, its halls are carved with ancient stone, torches burning against the cold night air. It is here the shinobi return, silent phantoms slipping through corridors until they kneel before the heart of their order.

The Grand Hall is vast, lined with statues of fallen masters and banners that carry the sigil of the Raven. At the far end sits Grand Master Takayama, his weathered face illuminated by the flickering light of braziers. Beside him are six members of the Blood Raven council, their expressions stern, unreadable. Standing slightly apart, arms folded and eyes sharp, is Commander Takeda, his reputation for severity matched only by the wisdom in his gaze.

The twenty shinobi kneel in perfect unison, lowering their heads. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, they remove their masks. Beneath the steel and cloth, they are revealed not as demons, but as men and women—scarred, hardened, weary. At their center is Sakumo, the leader of this strike team, his eyes reflecting both exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of duty accomplished.

“Grand Master,” Sakumo begins, bowing low. His voice is hoarse from battle, yet steady. “The mission is complete. Sergei Kurntsnikov and his syndicate are no more. The slaves are free, as instructed. None of the enemy live to tell what transpired.”

The hall remains silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking into the stone. Then Grand Master Takayama nods, his voice slow, deliberate, carrying the authority of decades.

“You have done well,” he says. “The world above will never know what happened tonight. They will only hear whispers—rumors of shadows in the snow. That is as it should be. You have served the Raven with loyalty, and you have delivered justice upon the wicked.”

His eyes sweep across the kneeling shinobi, studying each of them. “You carry heavy burdens. You have spilled blood, and you will spill more. But remember—our cause is not cruelty. It is balance. Without us, the world above would drown in corruption and filth. Never forget that.”

Sakumo lowers his head. “We understand, Grand Master. We are grateful for your guidance.”

Takayama leans back in his throne, his lined face shadowed by the flickering braziers. “Then rest. You have earned it. The night is cold, and tomorrow will bring new storms. But for now, you may lay down your blades.”

One by one, the shinobi bow deeply, murmuring words of thanks. Then, as silently as they arrived, they rise and retreat from the chamber. Their footsteps echo briefly against the stone before vanishing into the labyrinth of the fortress.

Only the Grand Master, his council, and Commander Takeda remain. Takeda’s arms are still folded, his sharp eyes watching the departing figures. He does not speak, but the faintest trace of a smirk touches his lips—a mixture of approval and anticipation.

In the distance, the faint cry of the winter wind sweeps through the mountains, carrying with it the ghost of the night’s slaughter. The world outside remains ignorant of the shadows that guard it, of the blood spilled to keep its peace intact.

And within the halls of the Blood Raven, another chapter of death and duty closes.

The storm has passed, but its scars remain.

The Raven watches still.

Rain pours endlessly over Osaka, soaking the narrow streets of Kamagasaki, a district forgotten by the city. Here, society’s castaways struggle to survive in shadows no one cares to illuminate. Among the chaos of beggars and children darting through alleys, a boy of only seven years carries a weight far heavier than his small shoulders should bear. His name is Takeshi Hatabe.

Inside an abandoned, crumbling building, his mother lies on a ragged futon. Her breathing is shallow, each cough rattling her chest with painful finality. The boy enters, clutching a small parcel of stale bread and a flask of water, both dripping wet from the rain outside. He kneels by her side, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes wide with determination but softened by love.

“Mother,” he whispers, lifting her head carefully and feeding her a bite of bread. His mother forces a smile, her frail hand trembling as she brushes his cheek.

“You always take care of me, Takeshi,” she murmurs, her voice strained. “I should be the one protecting you.”

Takeshi shakes his head firmly, eyes burning with defiance. “No, Mother. I will take care of you, always. I promise.”

Her smile falters, and tears form in her tired eyes. “You’re just a child. You shouldn’t have to live like this.”

But Takeshi’s spirit has already been forged in hardship. His father was cut down years ago by the Osaka mafia—executed brutally after stealing a crate of supplies to keep his family alive. Since then, Takeshi has known only hunger, cold, and the constant shadow of death. Yet he has also known one unshakable truth: he must never abandon the only person left who loves him.

The next morning, rain still falls. The streets of Osaka bustle with umbrellas and rushing footsteps. Takeshi, no taller than a man’s waist, clutches a bundle of newspapers, his tiny hands raw from the cold. He shouts through the downpour, his voice drowned by the roar of the city.

“Extra news! Get your papers here!”

But no one looks at him. Businessmen push past, their shoes splashing him with dirty water. A group of drunkards shoves him aside, laughing cruelly as he stumbles and falls. His newspapers scatter into the puddles. Takeshi scrambles on his knees, gathering them up, ignoring the pain of gravel cutting into his skin. His lip trembles, but he refuses to cry.

He cannot afford weakness. His mother depends on him.

He stands again, his small figure dwarfed by the towers of neon-lit Osaka. The rain beats mercilessly against him, but he holds the newspapers high, calling out once more with every ounce of strength. Passersby continue to ignore him, yet Takeshi does not stop.

Hours pass before he finally sells only two copies. His earnings barely enough to buy a heel of bread. When he returns to the abandoned building, he kneels beside his mother and apologizes, his head bowed.

“I’m sorry… only two today.”

His mother smiles faintly and strokes his cheek again. “Don’t be sorry, Takeshi. You’ve done more than enough. I should be the one apologizing… I’m the reason you suffer.”

“No, Mother,” he insists, shaking his head furiously. “Don’t ever say that. I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

She closes her eyes, whispering prayers to gods she no longer believes will answer. Takeshi holds her hand tightly, as if sheer will alone could keep her alive.

That night, Takeshi curls against his mother’s side. The building creaks with the weight of storms outside, and rats scurry across the floors. His stomach growls with hunger, but he bites his lip, focusing only on the warmth of her hand in his. In the distance, he hears laughter—mafia enforcers drinking, their shouts echoing like thunder. He knows the mafia is the reason his father is gone, the reason his mother wastes away in this ruin.

Hatred festers quietly in his chest, but so too does resolve.

When dawn breaks, Takeshi is back on the streets. This time, the rain has eased, but the cold lingers. He runs between crowds, his bare feet slapping against wet pavement. He does not notice the bruises on his arms, nor the cuts on his hands. He notices only the faint smile his mother gave him the night before. That smile is his light.

As he shouts about newspapers, the crowd jostles him again. He falls hard onto the ground, his knees scraping against stone. The bundle of papers scatters once more. A businessman steps on one, crumpling it beneath his polished shoe without care. Another child, stronger and older, snatches two papers from him and runs off laughing.

Takeshi clenches his fists, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. But then he remembers his promise. He rises, collecting what remains. He wipes the mud from the papers with the sleeve of his torn shirt. His body is small, but his will is unbreakable.

In Kamagasaki, no one notices him. To them, he is just another stray child destined to die nameless. But within Takeshi Hatabe, a seed is planted. A will to endure. A will to protect.

That will is what sets him apart.

While the world above drowns in neon lights and laughter, a storm brews in the shadows. From this storm, one day, the world will come to fear a name whispered in terror. But today, he is only a boy—a boy who sells newspapers in the rain, who clings to his mother’s fading warmth, who promises with all his heart to shield her from the cruelty of the world.

And yet, as the rain falls again that evening, Takeshi feels something inside him whisper: this life is only the beginning.

The streets of Kamagasaki are quiet beneath the pale glow of the moon. The air is damp, carrying the stench of rain-soaked concrete and stale liquor spilled by drunkards sleeping in the gutters. Small footsteps echo through the alleys—bare feet slapping against the wet pavement. Takeshi Hatabe, only seven years old, clutches a thin stack of newspapers close to his chest. His tiny frame shivers in the night, but he does not stop. He has promised his mother he will return with food.

A group of men shoulder past him, sending him sprawling into the mud. His newspapers scatter across the filthy street. Laughter follows them as they vanish into the neon haze. Takeshi scrambles to gather the papers, biting back tears. Tonight is just another night in the endless struggle.

But as he lifts the last crumpled sheet, a soft hand touches his shoulder. He turns and sees an elderly woman, her face wrinkled but kind, her eyes filled with sympathy rather than contempt. She kneels beside him, brushing the dirt from his small hands.

“You poor child,” she whispers in Japanese, her voice trembling. “Where is your home?”

Takeshi lowers his gaze. “I… I don’t have one. My mother and I move from place to place. We sleep wherever we can.”

The woman’s heart twists at his words. From her bag, she pulls out a small bundle—two rice balls wrapped in cloth—and presses it into his hands. Then she slips a few crumpled bills into his pocket. “Take this. For you and your mother.”

For a moment, Takeshi can only stare. The weight of kindness is heavier than the weight of cruelty, and it breaks something inside him. Tears roll down his cheeks, and he bows deeply. “Thank you… thank you so much!”

The woman pulls him into a brief embrace, holding his trembling body. “Be strong, little one. Protect your mother.”

Clutching the food against his chest, Takeshi runs through the maze of alleys, his heart racing with excitement. For the first time in weeks, he feels a spark of hope. Tonight, he can finally bring his mother something more than stale bread. Tonight, she will smile again.

The old building looms ahead, its broken windows glowing faintly with the dim light of a dying lantern. Takeshi bursts inside, calling softly, “Mother! I’m home! Look—I brought food!”

Silence answers him.

He rushes to the corner where she lies on her futon, wrapped in a thin, tattered blanket. Her chest is still, her eyes closed peacefully as though she is only sleeping. Takeshi kneels beside her, shaking her gently.

“Mother? Wake up. Please, wake up. I brought food. You’ll get better now.”

No response.

Panic floods his small body. He shakes her harder, tears streaming down his face. “Mother! Please! Don’t leave me!”

Her hand slips from the blanket, limp and cold. Takeshi freezes, the truth crashing down like a blade through his heart. He presses his face into her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. The rice balls and money fall from his hands, forgotten. They mean nothing now.

Hours pass as he clings to her body, refusing to let go. His cries echo in the empty building until his voice grows hoarse. By dawn, silence fills the room.

The next day, Takeshi digs with his bare hands in the cold, wet soil behind the abandoned building. His fingers bleed, his nails break, but he does not stop. He has no shovel, no help—only the desperate strength of a child who refuses to abandon the woman who gave him life.

When the grave is finally deep enough, he drags the frail body of his mother outside. His arms ache, his back screams with pain, but he carries her as though she weighs nothing. He lays her gently in the earth, arranging her blanket around her shoulders as though she were only going to sleep.

Takeshi kneels in the mud, pressing his forehead to the mound of soil he piles over her body. His tears mingle with the rain that begins to fall, the sky itself weeping with him. His small hands shake as he pats the dirt into place.

The boy whispers, voice cracking, “I’ll never forget you, Mother. I promise. I’ll survive. I’ll fight. I’ll see the sun tomorrow, no matter what.”

The rain intensifies, soaking him until he is nothing more than a shivering silhouette against the gray horizon. But Takeshi does not move. He sits in the mud before the fresh grave, staring at it with wide, hollow eyes.

As night falls again, Takeshi curls beneath the old tree near the grave. His stomach gnaws at itself, but hunger is nothing compared to the emptiness in his chest. He clutches the cloth that once wrapped the rice balls—his mother’s last gift, though she never tasted it.

For the first time, he is truly alone. A child against the world.

The city of Osaka moves on without him. The lights of neon signs still flicker, the businessmen still hurry to their trains, the mafia still spill blood in the streets. No one notices the orphan boy who has buried his only parent with his bare hands.

But in his heart, a fire begins to burn. A vow forged in pain and loss. Takeshi Hatabe swears to himself that he will never again bow to the cruelty of the world. He will fight, he will endure, he will win against life itself.

The rain washes over his face, mixing with his tears, and he whispers to the empty sky:

“This world is a battlefield. And I will survive.”

The month that follows his mother’s death is nothing short of hell. Takeshi Hatabe, barely seven years old, survives in the markets of Osaka like a shadow among shadows. His stomach growls endlessly, every day a cycle of hunger and desperation. He begs merchants for food, but most only sneer or shout at him. Some strike him with sticks or shove him aside as if he were a stray dog.

He sits in a narrow alley, his ribs showing through his thin shirt, watching the bustling market where everyone else carries on with their lives. Children laugh, vendors haggle, and workers drink cheap sake to warm their bellies. No one looks at the orphan boy in the shadows. No one cares.

As rain falls, Takeshi presses his knees to his chest, trembling. From the corner of his eye, he sees a small black cat slip out from under a wooden stall. The animal carries a scrap of bread between its teeth. Slowly, it drops the bread in front of him, meowing softly before darting back into the maze of legs and lanterns.

Takeshi grabs the bread and devours it hungrily, crumbs sticking to his lips. It is gone in seconds. His hunger is far from satisfied, but even a small piece feels like life returning to his bones. Still, danger is everywhere. Death lurks in every empty night, every ignored plea, every pang of hunger that threatens to tear him apart.

The following afternoon, rain lashes the market with merciless fury. People hurry through the stalls, their umbrellas bobbing like dark flowers in a storm. Takeshi crouches near the corner of a shop, shivering beneath a broken roof tile. His eyes narrow as he spots an old man walking slowly through the crowd. The man seems distracted, fumbling with his coat. His movements are unguarded.

Takeshi’s heart races. This could be his chance. He creeps behind the old man, silent as a rat. His thin hand stretches toward the man’s pocket, reaching for the shape of a wallet.

But before he can pull it free, a hand grips his wrist with surprising strength. Takeshi freezes, his body trembling. He looks up and sees the old man staring down at him with sharp, piercing eyes.

Around them, the crowd notices. Murmurs ripple through the market. A thief. A boy caught in the act. Shouts rise:

“Little bastard!”

“Teach him a lesson!”

“Rotten child!”

Adults point, spit, and curse. Takeshi feels his knees weaken. His mind flashes to his mother’s grave. Perhaps this is it—perhaps his punishment is to be beaten to death in the street. He closes his eyes, preparing for the blows.

But then, the old man raises his voice. “This boy is mine,” he declares. “My son. He always plays this trick, even in the middle of the market—stealing his father’s wallet.”

The crowd pauses. Confusion ripples through the onlookers. A few mutter curses under their breath and walk away. Others laugh and shake their heads, thinking it nothing more than a foolish family matter. Within moments, the storm of hatred dissolves. The market returns to its chaos, leaving Takeshi standing in stunned silence.

The old man releases his wrist. Takeshi stares at him, wide-eyed. “Why… why did you say that?”

The old man chuckles, though his eyes remain serious. “Because you don’t deserve their stones or their spit. You deserve a chance.” He pats the boy’s shoulder. “What is your name?”

“…Takeshi..Hatabe,” the boy whispers.

The man nods. “Takeshi Hatabe. A strong name. My name is Masahiro Takeda.”

Takeshi bows his head in shame. “I’m sorry… I tried to steal from you.”

Masahiro waves the apology aside. “If a child’s hand reaches for a wallet, it is not greed—it is hunger. Hunger is no crime. Hunger is a curse, Where is your home ?.”

The boy’s eyes sting with tears. His lips tremble as he whispers, “I don’t have a home. My father… the mafia killed him. My mother… she is gone too. I buried her myself.”

Masahiro falls silent. His gaze lingers on the boy’s thin frame, his bruised arms, the desperation carved into his face. Something deep within the old shinobi stirs—a mixture of pity, respect, and recognition.

“Come with me,” Masahiro says finally. “If you remain here, you will die. If you follow me, you may yet live.”

Takeshi blinks, uncertain. “Why? Why would you help me?”

Masahiro looks at him with a hardened expression, the kind forged in decades of war and bloodshed. “Because I have seen children like you before. Some wither and vanish. Others grow into monsters. Perhaps you will be something else.”

He turns and begins to walk. For a moment, Takeshi stands frozen in the rain, unsure if he should trust this stranger. But the alternative is to remain here, alone, with nothing but hunger gnawing at him. He clenches his fists and follows.

The market noise fades behind him as he steps into the unknown, his bare feet splashing through puddles. He does not look back.

For the first time since his mother’s death, Takeshi Hatabe feels the faintest spark of hope.

The road to the outskirts of Osaka grows quieter as night drapes its cloak over the city. The glow of neon lights fades, replaced by the steady hum of cicadas and the distant roar of traffic. Takeshi trudges beside Masahiro Takeda, his small frame hunched under the weight of exhaustion and uncertainty. His feet are blistered from days of wandering. His stomach gnaws at itself, yet he dares not complain. The old man walks with a stride that is both commanding and effortless, his posture radiating strength even in silence.

At last, they arrive before a massive wooden gate bound with black steel. The structure towers like the mouth of some ancient beast, its carved raven motifs glaring down with eyes of onyx. Takeshi stares in awe and fear. His lips tremble. “What… what is this place?”

Takeda looks at him with eyes sharp as blades. “Do not be afraid, boy. Beyond this gate lies your salvation—or your damnation.”

With a groan of heavy chains, the gate begins to open. Torches flare to life along the stone walls, revealing silhouettes moving within. Figures clad in black step forward—shinobi, their faces hidden behind masks, their weapons glinting in the firelight. They bow as Takeda passes, their discipline as sharp as their steel.

Takeshi shrinks behind the old man, clutching the tattered fabric of his shirt. The air feels heavier here, charged with a power he cannot name.

“This,” Takeda says, his voice echoing through the courtyard, “is the fortress of the Blood Raven clan. Here, boys are forged into men, and men into shadows. The strongest shinobi in the world are born here. Their strength is twenty times greater, their speed unmatched, their minds sharper than any blade. And now, you will walk among them.”

They pass training grounds lit by rows of lanterns. Takeshi’s eyes widen as he beholds the scene before him. Dozens of shinobi practice in silence, their movements faster than the blink of an eye. Some slash with katanas, the steel whistling like wind through trees. Others hurl shuriken in perfect arcs, each blade striking the bullseye with deadly precision. Chains tipped with gleaming kunai lash through the air, clanging against wooden dummies that splinter on impact.

Two young men catch Takeshi’s gaze. Sakumo and Tokuro stand side by side, their expressions calm as they launch shuriken at impossible angles. The blades ricochet off stone pillars, curving through the air before striking their targets with surgical accuracy. Takeshi’s jaw hangs open. He has never seen anything like it—death itself painted as an art form.

Takeda notices his awe. “Skill like that does not come from talent alone. It comes from discipline, pain, and years of sacrifice.”

From across the yard, a taller figure approaches. His black robes flow like liquid shadow, his posture commanding yet calm. “Sensei Takeda,” the man greets with a bow.

Takeda nods. “Habura. This boy is Takeshi Hatabe.”

Habura kneels to meet the child’s eyes. His face, though stern, softens with a rare smile. “Welcome, Takeshi. You are safe here.”

The boy bows clumsily, his manners raw but sincere. “Thank you, sir.”

“This is Habura,” Takeda explains. “A senior shinobi of Blood Raven. Strong, disciplined, and loyal. You could learn much from him.”

Habura shakes his head modestly. “I am but a blade among many. Still, if you wish, I can guide him.”

Takeda grunts in approval. “Good. The boy needs guidance, or he will break. He has already survived longer than most. Hunger, grief, abandonment. If left on the streets, he would be dead in a day.”

Habura studies the boy’s thin frame, the scars of hardship etched into his skin. “Then perhaps suffering has already tempered him. Perhaps he will not break, but sharpen.”

Takeda leads Takeshi into a modest residence within the fortress—a house of wood and stone, filled with the faint scent of incense and sharpened steel. A low table is set with simple dishes of rice, miso soup, and pickled vegetables.

Takeshi stares at the food, his eyes wide with disbelief. He does not wait for permission. He devours the meal like a starving animal, shoving rice into his mouth with trembling hands. Tears streak his face as he eats, the warmth of the food almost unbearable after so many nights of emptiness.

Takeda and Habura watch in silence. The old man’s gruff expression softens. Habura leans closer to him. “You intend to train him, don’t you?”

Takeda exhales through his nose, his eyes never leaving the boy. “Yes. I will not abandon him to the wolves. I see something in him. His hunger is not only for food—it is for life, for survival. That hunger can be forged into strength.”

Habura nods slowly. “Then let me stand beside him. Let me be his brother-in-arms.”

The old man smirks faintly. “So be it. You will temper his spirit. I will break his body and rebuild it.”

Across the table, Takeshi continues to eat, oblivious to the words that will shape his destiny. To him, this meal is simply salvation. To them, it is the beginning of something greater—the spark of a boy who will one day become both savior and monster.

In Takeda’s eyes, the child already carries the shadow of greatness. All that remains is time… and the furnace of blood.

The night is quiet within the fortress of the Blood Ravens. Torches flicker along the walls, casting restless shadows that sway like silent sentinels. Takeshi walks nervously at the side of Masahiro Takeda, until the old man leaves him at the threshold of the barracks where the young initiates sleep. For the first time in his life, the boy has a roof over his head and the faint promise of belonging.

Inside, the dormitory smells of straw mats, sweat, and damp wood. Rows of futons line the floor, each belonging to a candidate still clinging to the fragile boundary between childhood and warriorhood. Takeshi sets down his meager bundle of possessions, and wide eyes fall upon him.

A boy with bright, mischievous eyes introduces himself first. “Ranmaru,” he says, extending a hand. His grin is bold, fearless. Another nods in silence, a wiry boy named Cojima, who sharpens his kunai even as he studies Takeshi. Next comes Tetsuya, whose shoulders already hint at the frame of a soldier, his voice calm and measured. Hobuki, smaller than the rest, greets him with a shy smile.

And then there is Haruna. Her long hair frames her delicate face, her eyes carrying a warmth that feels foreign in this cold place. She steps forward and offers her hand to Takeshi, her smile soft yet resolute. “We’ll look after each other,” she says. Her words are gentle, but in them Takeshi hears an anchor. For the first time since his mother’s death, he feels a thread of safety.

But the peace shatters quickly. From across the room strides Hazan, taller, louder, his arrogance sharp as the blade he polishes. He sneers. “Where are you from, street rat?”

Takeshi lifts his chin. “Osaka. The streets.”

Laughter bursts from Hazan’s throat. “So you are nothing. A stray dog picked from the gutter. No clan. No bloodline. And you think you belong here?” His voice drips with venom.

Haruna steps between them, her glare steady. “That’s enough, Hazan.”

But Hazan smirks and turns away. “Just remember who you’re speaking to. My father is Commander Hayato. This place belongs to us. Strays like him… they don’t last long.”

Takeshi remains silent, his jaw clenched. The cruelty is not unfamiliar. He has tasted harsher words on the streets, felt sharper blows. He does not break.

Later, Ranmaru leans in and whispers, “Ignore him. Hazan is nothing without his father’s name.” Takeshi nods. His spirit, tempered by suffering, endures the sting.

Before dawn, the horn of discipline roars through the fortress. The initiates scramble from their futons, dragging themselves into the icy air. They gather in the courtyard where Sensei Takeda and Commander Hashimura stand before them. Both men radiate an aura of unyielding steel.

Takeda’s voice cuts through the cold like a blade. “You are not children anymore. From this day forward, you are candidates for the Blood Ravens. If you wish to stand among us, you will suffer until your bones break and your lungs burn. Only then will you learn the truth of strength.”

Hashimura steps forward, his expression like carved granite. “There will be no mercy. You will crawl through mud. You will climb sheer cliffs without rope. You will run ten kilometers before the sun rises. You will bleed. You will fall. And still, you will rise again. If not, you will be left behind.”

The children’s faces pale, yet no one dares to step back. The trial begins.

The first task: the cliff. A sheer wall of stone rises before them, jagged and merciless. The candidates scramble, their small hands grasping for holds, their feet slipping on the cold rock. Already their arms tremble, their breaths come ragged.

Hashimura’s voice booms. “Climb! Do not stop! If you fall, you will climb again!”

Ranmaru struggles, sweat dripping from his brow as his fingers scrape raw. Haruna grits her teeth, her body trembling as she pulls herself higher. Even Hazan falters, his arrogance crumbling as the rock punishes his weakness.

Then there is Takeshi.

He moves like water over stone. His small body finds grips where others see only walls. His hands and feet dance with instinct born not of training but of survival. To him, the cliff is no harder than scaling the ruins he once called home. The streets of Osaka taught him balance, desperation taught him courage. He climbs with calm precision, and before the others realize it, he stands at the peak, his dark hair whipped by the dawn wind.

Below, the others stare in disbelief. Their gasps echo through the gorge. Even Haruna, her body trembling with fatigue, stares upward with awe.

Hashimura’s eyes narrow, not with anger but with surprise. “Impossible,” he mutters.

Takeda crosses his arms, the faintest smirk curling at his lips. He has seen it before, in the way the boy survived the streets. Takeshi Hatabe is not ordinary. He is something else.

By the time the others drag themselves to the top—bleeding, gasping, some barely conscious—Takeshi stands waiting, his gaze calm, his body unshaken.

Haruna collapses beside him, smiling through her exhaustion. “You… you really are something, Takeshi.”

Hazan scowls, refusing to meet his eyes. Shame burns hotter than the strain in his muscles.

Takeda surveys the group. His voice is low, steady, and deadly. “This is only the beginning. What you feel now is nothing. Tomorrow will break you further. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until nothing remains of the children who stand before me.”

His gaze lingers on Takeshi, whose eyes shine not with fear, but with something darker. Resolve.

Takeda mutters to himself, “Yes… he may yet survive the crucible.”

The morning sun is merciless, rising over the fortress with a blaze of gold that promises no warmth—only suffering. The courtyard has transformed into a pit of discipline. Mud pits are dug, ropes stretched, and wooden posts erected like gallows. The initiates, trembling from exhaustion after their climb, now stand in formation. Their faces are pale, their legs still shaking, but the drill is far from over.

Commander Hashimura strides before them, his presence sharp as steel. His voice booms like thunder. “Children no more. Today you will bleed until the weakness in you dies. Shinobi do not beg for mercy. Shinobi conquer pain!”

With that command, the trials of endurance begin.

The Crawl Through Mud

The initiates are ordered to throw themselves into a pit of thick, foul-smelling mud. The rain from the previous night has turned the pit into a swamp of filth. The children hesitate, their eyes wide, until Hashimura roars, “Move!”

They dive in, their small bodies dragged through the muck, faces pressed into the stench. Some gag. Some cry. Others simply collapse into the filth, too weak to move. The instructors lash at them with bamboo sticks, shouting, “Crawl! Crawl!”

Takeshi moves forward, his body digging through the mud like a serpent. The filth clings to his hair, his clothes, his skin—but his focus does not waver. He does not choke or slow. He remembers the gutters of Kamagasaki, the filth he slept in, the sewage he waded through to survive. Compared to that, this mud is nothing.

Ranmaru struggles beside him, coughing. Takeshi grabs his wrist and drags him forward, urging him on. Haruna follows, her face streaked with tears, but her eyes burn with determination. Takeshi looks back once, his gaze steady. We will not stop.

By the time they reach the other side, Takeshi emerges first, his chest heaving but his spirit unbroken. Mud drips from his face, yet his eyes glint like fire.

The Ten-Kilometer Run

There is no rest. No mercy. The children are lined up again and ordered to run ten kilometers around the mountain trail.

The trail is cruel—steep inclines, jagged rocks, and heat that beats down like a hammer. One by one, the initiates stagger, some collapsing into the dirt. The instructors bark at them, kicking them until they rise again.

Hazan runs at the front at first, determined to prove his superiority, but within minutes his pace falters. His arrogance turns into grimace, sweat pouring from his brow. Haruna clenches her fists, pushing through the pain. Ranmaru limps, but refuses to stop.

Takeshi, meanwhile, runs like the wind. His breath is steady, his strides consistent. He weaves through the terrain with the grace of a wolf, his bare feet bleeding but never slowing. Every step reminds him of the countless miles he ran through Osaka’s markets, chased by angry vendors or gangsters when hunger forced him to steal. Pain is familiar. Exhaustion is a friend.

One by one, the candidates fall behind. Takeshi remains ahead, his small body cutting through the trail with unwavering rhythm. The instructors exchange glances, whispering in disbelief.

When they finally complete the circuit, Takeshi is the first to return, collapsing to his knees only after crossing the finish. His chest rises and falls like a storm, but his eyes blaze with victory.

Hashimura’s stare lingers on him. This boy… he is not ordinary.

The Gauntlet of Blows

But the final test is the cruelest. The children are ordered to form a line. Before them stands a row of older shinobi, their fists and staffs ready. Takeda’s voice cuts the silence. “To be shinobi, you must endure the storm. You will walk through this gauntlet. You will not cry. You will not fall. If you do, you are unworthy.”

The first child steps forward. The blows rain down mercilessly—fists pounding ribs, staffs striking flesh. The boy crumbles halfway, screaming. He is dragged aside.

Another tries, sobbing as bones crack under the punishment. He too collapses.

Haruna’s turn comes. She steels herself, eyes wide with fear but burning with pride. She walks, enduring blow after blow, each strike painting bruises across her small frame. She stumbles near the end, but Takeshi’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Don’t fall!”

She rises again, limping, and emerges battered but still standing.

Then comes Takeshi.

The gauntlet erupts the moment he steps in. Fists hammer his sides, staffs slam against his shoulders, kicks drive into his ribs. His vision blurs, blood fills his mouth, but his steps never stop. He does not cry. He does not scream. He moves forward with a silence so chilling it unsettles even the older shinobi striking him.

Blow after blow rains down, yet Takeshi endures. His body is a canvas of bruises and cuts, but his eyes remain fixed on the end of the line. He clenches his fists, remembering the promise to his mother. I will never fall.

The final strike slams into his chest, hard enough to drop a grown man. Takeshi staggers, his knees buckling—then straightens. With a final step, he exits the gauntlet, his body wrecked but his will unbroken.

Silence falls.

Even Hazan cannot laugh.

Hashimura narrows his eyes, both disturbed and impressed. Takeda, arms crossed, mutters to himself, “He bleeds… but he does not bow. This one… he is born of the abyss.”

That night, Takeshi collapses onto his futon, his body screaming with pain. Haruna tends to his wounds, her hands gentle. Ranmaru sits nearby, his admiration plain. Even Hazan, in the shadows, watches in silence, his smirk gone.

Takeshi drifts into sleep, the echoes of fists still ringing in his bones. Yet in his dreams, his mother’s smile shines through the darkness.

He has survived the first crucible. And in the eyes of the Blood Ravens, the stray from Osaka is no longer a boy. He is something far more dangerous.

Night falls heavy upon the fortress of the Blood Ravens. The moon hangs pale behind drifting clouds, and the cries of nocturnal birds echo across the training grounds now littered with footprints, streaks of mud, and trails of blood from countless bruises. The young initiates are finally asleep in their futons, their breaths ragged, their bodies broken, yet their dreams restless. They have survived a week of training that could shatter grown men—a week of crawling through filth, running across merciless terrain, enduring the gauntlet of fists and sticks. For many, the scars will never fade. For a select few, the scars will only sharpen their resolve.

But in the upper chamber, two figures are still awake. Commander Hashimura and Sensei Masahiro Takeda sit opposite each other in a dim-lit room, the flame of a single lantern flickering between them. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Hashimura breaks it.

“They are progressing,” Hashimura says, his deep voice edged with fatigue. “Much like the candidates before them. Bruised, beaten, yet breathing. But this time… something is different.”

Takeda narrows his eyes. “You speak of Takeshi.”

Hashimura’s lips tighten, then he nods. “Yes. The boy from the streets. He has surpassed them all. The climb, the run, the gauntlet—he endured it all as though the pain could not touch him. I have never seen such resilience in one so young. Yet, he is still human. He bleeds. He tires. He can be broken.”

Takeda exhales slowly, his gaze distant. “Perhaps. And yet… he resists longer than any I have seen. Do you remember the old prophecy, Hashimura? Seven centuries ago, our ancestors spoke of one shinobi who would rise from the ashes of despair, one who would change the course of the five clans forever. I used to think it was just myth—a tale to keep children dreaming.” He leans closer, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “But when I see Takeshi Hatabe… I wonder if fate has begun to stir.”

Hashimura frowns, his skepticism evident. “Prophecies are for dreamers, Takeda. I deal in steel and discipline. Still… there is something about him. He climbs sheer cliffs as though they are walls of paper. He runs ten kilometers without faltering while sons of shinobi warriors collapse in the dirt. He withstood blows in the gauntlet until the older shinobi hesitated to strike him further. And when he fell, he rose. Always, he rose.”

Takeda’s voice hardens, but there is a note of admiration. “That is because the world forged him before we ever touched him. He is not like the others. The others were born in shinobi households, with fathers and mothers to train them, to clothe and feed them. Takeshi grew up starving on the streets of Kamagasaki. His father was butchered by the mafia. His mother died in his arms. The streets taught him cruelty, hunger, survival. He has lived the gauntlet his entire life. What we put him through now is nothing compared to the abyss he has already endured.”

The commander leans back, folding his arms. His expression softens, though only slightly. “And yet… there is more than just endurance in him. Haruna watches him. She is drawn to him. I see it in her eyes, the way she looks at him when she thinks no one notices.”

Takeda chuckles under his breath. “Haruna is young. Affection among children is nothing unusual.”

But Hashimura shakes his head. “It is not mere affection. It is instinct. She sees in him something greater. Perhaps she believes he can be the shield none of us could be. Perhaps she is right.”

Takeda’s jaw tightens. He looks toward the window, where the faint cries of owls echo across the night. “If she becomes his shield, then that may be his salvation. He has no father. No mother. No family left in this world. If Haruna can be his anchor… then perhaps he will not lose himself entirely to the darkness that haunts him.”

The silence lingers, both men lost in thought. Outside, the night deepens, shadows stretching long across the courtyard.

Down in the dormitory, Takeshi shifts in his sleep. His small body is battered, his hands blistered, his ribs sore from countless blows. Yet his expression is calm. In his dreams, he sees his mother smiling at him one last time, her voice faint but steady: Be strong. Protect yourself.

Nearby, Haruna stirs, turning slightly toward him, her small hand unconsciously resting near his futon as though reaching for him even in slumber. Hazan, on the other hand, lies awake in the shadows, glaring at Takeshi with quiet resentment. The son of Commander Hayato cannot accept that a street orphan outshines him. Seeds of rivalry, jealousy, and hatred already take root.

In the upper chamber, Takeda finally rises, his robes whispering against the wooden floor. “He will change the world, Hashimura. One way or another.”

Hashimura does not argue. He only watches the lantern flame gutter and dim, as if uncertain whether it will flare into brilliance—or burn everything to ash.

And so, as the fortress of the Blood Ravens falls into uneasy silence, destiny sharpens its blade. A child forged in suffering, tempered in fire, and burdened with fate begins his long march toward legend.

The midday sun burns over the canopy of the training forest near the Blood Raven stronghold. The air is heavy with heat, cicadas scream from every direction, and even the trees themselves seem to sag under the weight of the day. Yet at the heart of this crucible sits a boy—his body lean but hardened by years of merciless drills. His name is Takeshi Hatabe, now eleven years old, and after four years of surviving the forge of the Blood Ravens, he no longer looks like the frail child who once wandered the streets of Osaka.

Draped in the black training garb of a shinobi candidate, Takeshi sits cross-legged on the forest floor, his eyes closed, his breathing measured, his mind sinking into silence. To an observer he appears vulnerable, almost careless, but the stillness masks a storm. His senses stretch outward, attuned not to sight but to every vibration in the ground, every whisper in the branches above, every change in the air that hints at movement.

Then, without warning, death comes flying. A storm of shuriken cuts through the air, gleaming as they spin toward him with lethal speed. Takeshi’s eyes remain shut, yet his body reacts before his mind has time to register. He rolls, leaps, twists—his frame blurring as he threads through the barrage with impossible precision. The shuriken whiz past, some close enough to kiss the fabric of his uniform, but none strike home. His feet find rhythm against the earth, as though he dances with the storm itself.

The assault does not end. From every angle more shuriken rain down, each throw deliberately calculated to trap him. Takeshi senses the pattern, senses the hands guiding them. He pushes harder, his breath sharp and focused, his legs propelling him deeper into the forest where shadows thicken and danger multiplies.

A faint snap beneath his heel warns him—an unseen wire. With instinct sharpened by years of pain and survival, he vaults upward just as a cluster of spikes shoots from the ground. His body soars, twisting mid-air, and his hand finds the bark of a tree. In a single motion he climbs higher, scaling branch after branch until he perches near the top, crouched like a raven on its roost. From here, the world spreads out before him—the maze of branches, the shimmer of metal still cutting through the air.

He draws a single shuriken, inhales once, and lets it fly. It vanishes into the leaves, cutting toward a blind spot no normal eye would have marked. On the ground below, a shadow moves. A shinobi emerges from the dark, katana flashing as he lunges toward Takeshi’s exposed back.

Steel collides. Takeshi whirls, his short katana already drawn, catching the strike before it severs him. The force rattles his arms, but he holds firm. For an instant, their blades lock, faces inches apart, sweat and heat clashing like storm fronts. Then the sound comes—a faint whistle in the air. Takeshi’s earlier shuriken returns, ricocheting past the stranger’s cheek. The glint distracts him, just enough. Takeshi twists, hooks the attacker’s arm, and drives a kick into his chest that slams him into the trunk of a tree.

The boy straightens, both blades raised in formal salute, his chest heaving but his gaze unbroken. The attacker groans, then lifts a hand to his face and pulls aside the cloth covering his mouth.

It is Habura, one of the senior shinobi. His lips curl into a grin, and a laugh bursts from his chest, echoing through the forest. “Well done, boy,” he says, brushing dirt from his shoulder. “That was clean, fast, and merciless. You’ve come far.”

Takeshi bows low, his expression humble. “Thank you, senpai. I am only standing because you allow me the chance to learn.”

Habura waves off the formality, though pride glimmers in his eyes. “Don’t diminish what you’ve become. Four years ago you were a starving stray, weaker than any candidate here. Now… now your movements rival those of a seasoned shinobi.”

They walk together through the training field, past the remnants of traps and scattered weapons. Takeshi carries both of his blades, sweat dripping down his neck, but his face holds a calm born from years of surviving storms harsher than any sparring match. He remembers hunger gnawing at his stomach, remembers the cold bite of Osaka’s rain, remembers his mother’s frail hand against his cheek. Compared to that, this forest is paradise.

Habura studies him, his tone softening. “You remind me of myself when I first joined. Only you carry a weight heavier than most. Keep training, Takeshi. Because one day, the world will come for you. And you’ll need to be ready.”

The boy nods, his eyes shining not with arrogance but with resolve. “I will, senpai. For my mother. For myself.”

And deep within, though unspoken, a shadow stirs. For all his humility, for all his gratitude, there is something inside him that hungers for the fight—a flame not born of glory, but of survival. A flame that will one day consume more than just the enemies before him.

The forest falls silent again, save for the whisper of the wind through the branches. Takeshi tightens his grip on his blades, unaware that destiny watches closely, already shaping him into something far beyond the boy who once begged for bread in Osaka’s alleys.

The path back to the Blood Raven stronghold glows beneath the dying light of the sun. Orange hues bleed across the sky, streaked with thin purple clouds, and the forest hums with the chorus of cicadas preparing for nightfall. Habura and Takeshi walk side by side, their steps crunching softly against the dirt road. One is a seasoned shinobi, his shoulders broad with the weight of years in battle; the other, still a boy of eleven, yet carrying eyes that reflect scars far older than his age.

Habura breaks the silence first, his tone casual yet heavy with meaning. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I leave for a mission. It will last at least two weeks.”

Takeshi stops mid-step, his head snapping toward his senior with an expression of fierce longing. “Can I come with you?” His voice holds no hesitation, no fear. The boy’s gaze burns with determination, as if the very request carries his life’s purpose.

A laugh bursts from Habura’s chest, rich and warm. He shakes his head, tousling the dark hair that hangs over his brow. “You? On a mission? You’re still in training, kid. Your time hasn’t come yet.”

But Takeshi doesn’t let go. His fists clench, his brows tighten, and he steps closer. “Please, senpai. Let me come. I can fight. I can prove myself. I don’t want to just wait inside the walls anymore.”

Habura studies him for a moment, then exhales through his nose, half-amused, half-weary. “You’ve got fire in you, I’ll give you that. But listen well, Takeshi—fire alone doesn’t make a shinobi. Patience does.”

The boy tilts his head, frowning. Habura gestures back toward the forest they just left. “Take what happened today. You sat for four hours in the mud, motionless, waiting for a strike you could not see. Four hours, boy. And when the moment came, you lasted four minutes against me. Do you understand what that means?”

Takeshi’s eyes soften as the lesson sinks in. Habura claps a hand onto his shoulder, his grip strong yet comforting. “It means patience is the key. Waiting, enduring, learning when to strike—that is what keeps us alive. That is what makes us shinobi.”

Takeshi bows his head deeply, the gratitude almost overwhelming. “Thank you, senpai. For everything.” His words are quiet, but his heart screams them louder than his voice ever could.

Habura smiles, his rough edges softening for a rare moment. “It’s no trouble. You remind me of my own little brother, the one I never had. If I can guide you, then I will. Not because I have to, but because I want to.”

The boy’s chest tightens. He never had a brother. He never had anyone after the streets took everything from him. But now, in Habura’s shadow, he feels something close to family—something he thought lost forever.

They continue walking, the night breeze cooling their sweat. After a long silence, Habura speaks again, his tone mischievous. “Oh, and one more thing. Haruna keeps asking about you.”

At the mention of her name, Takeshi stiffens. His ears burn, and his eyes dart to the ground. Habura notices and bursts into laughter, throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you don’t know how to talk to girls.”

Takeshi stammers, his composure crumbling faster than against any opponent. “I-I don’t… I mean… I don’t know what to say to her.”

Habura roars with laughter, shaking him like a younger sibling. “Relax, kid. It’s not a mission, it’s just a girl. You’ll learn.”

But Takeshi, still flustered, shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

Habura grins wider, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Then let me teach you. A shinobi doesn’t just master blades and shadows—we must also learn the art of the heart. Who knows, maybe one day you and Haruna will be husband and wife.”

Takeshi chokes on air, his face scarlet. “W-What? No! That’s— that’s impossible!”

Habura’s laughter echoes through the evening air. “Nothing’s impossible, boy. Remember that.”

They share a long moment of laughter, a rare warmth piercing through the otherwise brutal world they inhabit. As their laughter fades, Habura’s voice grows softer, more serious. “Here’s a secret, Takeshi. When a woman shows interest, she doesn’t need grand gestures. She only wants consistency—small signs, steady care. Attention, even in little things. That’s how you win her heart. Never forget that.”

The boy nods, absorbing the wisdom with the same earnest hunger he applies to combat training. For him, every word from Habura is a treasure, a lesson carved in fire and blood.

Habura pulls him closer, ruffling his hair like an older brother might. “Good. Keep that in mind. You’ll thank me one day.”

As the gates of the Blood Raven stronghold come into view, torches flickering along the high stone walls, Takeshi feels something shift inside him. The road behind is littered with hardship, loss, and sorrow—but beside him walks a mentor, a friend, a brother. In this brutal life, that is no small gift.

And though he is still a boy, still far from the monster the world will one day call The Devil Butcher, tonight he feels only human. Tonight, he feels like he belongs.

The great gates of the Blood Raven compound loom ahead, their crimson banners swaying gently under the fading sunlight. Takeshi and Habura stride through them side by side, dust clinging to their black training garb. As they step into the courtyard, several shinobi already wait, their eyes lighting up at the sight of the pair.

Tokuro, broad-shouldered with a mischievous grin, steps forward first. “So the little one returns in one piece. Habura, are you sure you didn’t break him?”

Beside him, Sakumo, calm but sharp-eyed, folds his arms and chuckles. Mitsuki tilts her head, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her lips curved into a knowing smile. And Reiko, the sharpest tongue among them, laughs softly. “Look at them. They already look like brothers. The feared Habura, reduced to babysitting duty.”

Habura snorts, giving them a mock glare. “Watch your mouth, Reiko. The boy lasted longer against me than most of you did when you were his age.”

Their laughter quiets, curiosity replacing amusement. But before any of them can press the matter further, Reiko straightens, her tone turning serious. “Don’t forget, we have a briefing tonight. Commander Takeda wants all of us in the war room.”

Habura nods. “Understood.”

But to everyone’s surprise, a small voice cuts in. Takeshi, his eyes burning with earnest determination, steps forward. “Let me come with you. Please. Let me join the mission.”

For a heartbeat, silence falls over the group. Then laughter erupts, echoing against the stone walls of the courtyard. Tokuro slaps his thigh, shaking his head. “Listen to him! Habura’s little brother can’t even sit still. He’s already begging for blood.”

Sakumo smirks, raising an eyebrow at Habura. “You’ve been a bad influence, haven’t you?”

Even Habura chuckles, ruffling Takeshi’s hair. “Patience, boy. Your time will come. But not yet. Remember what I told you—waiting is as important as fighting.”

Though disappointment flickers across Takeshi’s face, he bows his head in acknowledgment. He doesn’t argue further. Inside, however, the fire only grows.

That evening, in the young shinobi barracks, laughter and chatter fill the dimly lit room. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and rice from the evening meal. As Takeshi steps in, he is greeted by familiar faces.

Haruna, her long hair tied neatly behind her, rises from her mat with a bright smile. “You’re back. I was worried. Fighting a senior isn’t easy.”

Her voice carries warmth, and something else Takeshi can’t name. Relief washes over him at her words. For once in his life, he feels seen—not as a street rat, not as a burden, but as someone who belongs.

Ranmaru, ever the curious one, leans forward eagerly. “How was it? Training with Habura-senpai?”

Takeshi scratches his head, choosing his words carefully. “It was… difficult. Challenging. But… exciting too.”

Gasps ripple through the group. Cojima, eyes wide, blurts out, “You’re insane! Habura-senpai is known for his speed. People older than you can’t keep up with him. And you enjoyed it?”

Takeshi shrugs shyly. “It felt like… I was learning something real.”

Haruna steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “That’s because you’re not like the rest of us, Takeshi. You’re already standing at their level.”

Her words strike him harder than any blade. His cheeks warm, and he lowers his eyes, unable to meet hers. For once, embarrassment overtakes his pride.

The moment doesn’t last. A sneering voice cuts through the air like venom.

Hazan.

He strides into the barracks, his presence sharp and unsettling. His smirk is laced with malice as he points at Takeshi. “Don’t forget where you came from, street rat. Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you’re stronger than me.”

Takeshi stiffens, but Habura’s words echo in his mind: Patience is the key. So he breathes deeply, keeping his silence.

Hazan steps closer, glaring down at him. “When the time comes, I’ll crush you. I won’t hold back.”

For a moment, tension hangs heavy in the air. The others watch, unsure if Takeshi will snap back. Instead, the boy lifts his head slowly, his expression calm, almost serene. Then he smiles—not mocking, not arrogant, but resolute. He nods once, accepting the challenge without a single word.

That smile infuriates Hazan more than insults ever could. With a scoff, Hazan storms off to his corner of the barracks, muttering curses under his breath.

As the room exhales, Ranmaru breaks the silence, grinning wide. “You didn’t even flinch. Amazing! No one’s ever stood up to Hazan like that.”

Haruna’s voice is softer, but carries more weight. “I told you all. He’s not like us.”

Takeshi exhales slowly, finally relaxing, and offers a small bow. “Thank you… for believing in me.” His smile toward Haruna is brief but radiant, carrying all the gratitude his words cannot express.

And as the lamps flicker low and the barracks drift toward sleep, a sense of quiet strength fills the room. Among enemies, rivals, and friends, Takeshi Hatabe—once a starving boy from Osaka’s streets—begins to carve his place in the world of shinobi.

The night over Osaka is thick with silence, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of cicadas beyond the fortress walls. Within the Blood Raven compound, the youngest shinobi lie in their barracks, wrapped in the uneasy sleep of those whose lives are shaped by discipline and exhaustion. Takeshi rests among them, his dreams filled with fragments of shadows, steel, and the faint smile of Haruna.

But in another wing of the compound, the air is different—sharp, tense, and heavy with the gravity of secrets.

The war room sits at the heart of the fortress, carved deep into stone and lit by the soft flicker of oil lamps. Maps of continents stretch across the walls, pinned with markers, threads, and coded glyphs. Weapons line the racks in the corners, a silent reminder of the world these men and women serve.

The doors creak open. Habura, tall and broad, enters first, followed by Tokuro, Sakumo, Mitsuki, and Reiko. Their footsteps echo against the stone floor, steady yet purposeful. These are no children—they are the chosen seniors of the Blood Raven, shinobi whose blades have already tasted blood and whose names are whispered in dark alleys far from Japan.

At the head of the room stands Commander Ruichi Takeda, his posture firm, his sharp eyes scanning the team as if dissecting their souls. Unlike Sensei Masahiro, who carries the air of a teacher hardened by years of discipline, Ruichi radiates something colder—calculated intelligence, an aura that belongs to a man who has dealt in secrets, betrayal, and death.

“You are late,” Ruichi says flatly, though his tone carries no anger. His voice is calm, deliberate, like steel wrapped in silk.

Habura bows deeply, as do the others. “Forgive us, Commander. We were ensuring readiness for tomorrow.”

Ruichi studies them for a moment before turning toward the table at the center of the room. A single candle burns beside a spread of documents, photographs, and coded scrolls. He places a gloved hand over one photo: a weathered man with tired eyes and a grim mouth.

“Your mission begins at dawn,” Ruichi begins. “Your destination is South America—Argentina. There you will find a man named Manuel Rojas. He is no ordinary informant. He is the key to unlocking something the world has long dismissed as legend.”

The team leans in closer, their eyes narrowing.

Sakumo, always the first to question, speaks. “What legend are we speaking of, Commander?”

Ruichi lifts his gaze, letting the silence linger for effect before answering. “Black Rose.”

The words drop like a blade into water, rippling shock across every face in the room. Mitsuki inhales sharply. Reiko’s usual smirk falters. Even Tokuro’s bravado slips into unease.

Habura frowns, his voice steady but edged with disbelief. “Commander… Black Rose is a myth. A weapon spoken of in the shadows of the Cold War. A story to frighten rookies. It does not exist.”

Ruichi’s lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile, though it carries no warmth. “That is what you have been led to believe. That is what the world wants to believe. But you are wrong. It is real.”

He spreads a dossier across the table. Photographs of destroyed facilities, strange chemical burns, and coded messages lie before them. “Our allies in the White Wolf clan intercepted intelligence from within the Red Stone clan. According to their sources, Black Rose is no myth—it is a chemical weapon of devastating power, designed to wipe entire cities from existence. And Manuel Rojas… knows where it is.”

Sakumo clenches his fists. “If this is true, then the Red Stone clan will move to kill him.”

“Correct,” Ruichi says, his eyes flashing. “The Red Stone’s orders are clear: eliminate Rojas before he can speak. Meanwhile, ours are the opposite—secure him alive and extract every secret he holds. This mission is a race. Whoever controls Rojas… controls Black Rose.”

The room grows colder with those words. The firelight flickers against their masks and armor, reflecting the weight of what lies ahead.

Tokuro breaks the silence, forcing a grin though his eyes betray his unease. “So it’s a game of speed, then. Whoever reaches him first wins.”

Ruichi nods once. “That is the essence. But understand this—this is not only about speed. This is about precision, discipline, and survival. Mano del Diablo, one of South America’s most ruthless cartels, controls the territory where Rojas is being held. Their soldiers are merciless, their loyalty unbreakable. You will be infiltrating the very heart of their stronghold. Failure means not only your death, but the death of every innocent that Black Rose touches.”

The room falls into a heavy silence. Each shinobi understands the stakes.

Ruichi straightens, his gaze sweeping across the five of them like a blade. “Sakumo. You will lead this mission.”

Sakumo bows his head in acceptance, though his jaw tightens with the weight of responsibility. “I will not fail.”

“See that you don’t,” Ruichi replies. He steps back, clasping his hands behind his back. “Your departure is at dawn. Rest tonight. Sharpen your blades, steel your minds. When the sun rises, you will leave as shadows. By the time it sets, the world may already be changed.”

The meeting ends with a solemn bow. The team files out one by one, the sound of their footsteps fading into the corridors. But their minds remain heavy, burdened by the knowledge of what lies ahead.

In the silence of the war room, the candle sputters, its flame dancing against the shadows of maps and dossiers. And the words linger, whispered like a curse:

Black Rose.

The hour before dawn hangs heavy with silence. Within the Blood Raven compound, torches flicker against the stone walls, their flames bending in the cold wind. The barracks of the young shinobi remain quiet, filled with the deep breaths of exhausted children, unaware that history is shifting just beyond their doors. But in another wing of the fortress, the air trembles with urgency.

The senior shinobi squad assembles in the preparation hall. The room smells of steel and oil, the sharp tang of sharpened blades mixing with the faint scent of leather and dust. Along the walls, racks of weapons gleam in the torchlight: katanas honed to perfection, shuriken polished until they reflect the firelight, and coils of chain glinting like serpents waiting to strike.

One by one, they step forward to the armor stands, pulling on the iconic black suits of the Blood Raven. The fabric clings tightly to their frames, woven from material designed for silence, speed, and death. Masks are lowered over their faces, hiding every trace of humanity behind expressions of cold, merciless shadows.

Habura secures his gauntlets, the leather creaking under his grip. He adjusts the straps of his chest guard, then reaches for his blades. The katana slides into its scabbard with a hiss, the sound like a whisper promising blood. Tokuro slams his shuriken pouch closed and grins beneath his mask. Sakumo sharpens the edge of his blade with deliberate precision, sparks flickering briefly in the dark. Mitsuki and Reiko tighten their boots, exchanging a silent nod.

Commander Ruichi Takeda enters, his presence commanding absolute attention. His gaze sweeps across them, ensuring each one is ready. His words are few, but they fall like orders etched into stone. “Once you step outside this compound, you are not shinobi of Blood Raven—you are shadows, and shadows leave no trace. Failures will not be forgiven.”

They bow in silence, understanding.

Outside, the fortress gates creak open. The sky is a deep violet, the horizon painted with the faintest trace of orange as the first light of dawn begins to stir. A cold wind brushes against their cloaks as they march to the waiting transport. At the edge of the landing zone, a sleek black military aircraft hums with restrained power. Its engines growl, eager to devour the sky.

The shinobi climb aboard one by one, boots clanging against the metal ramp. Inside, the cargo hold is spartan—rows of steel benches, weapon racks along the walls, and dim red lights that paint everything in an ominous glow. They sit in silence, adjusting their gear, the weight of the mission pressing against their shoulders.

The ramp closes with a heavy thud. The engines roar, vibrating through the floor. With a lurch, the aircraft begins its ascent, lifting into the dark sky of Osaka.

As the city lights shrink below, Habura leans back, his hands clasped loosely over his knees. His thoughts betray him. He remembers the boy he left behind—the small figure of Takeshi Hatabe, asleep among the other young recruits. He had meant to stop by the barracks, to say something before leaving. A word of encouragement, a reminder to keep training, perhaps even a promise to spar again once he returned. But time had slipped away, stolen by the urgency of departure.

He sees Takeshi’s face in his mind: the sharp eyes that burn with determination, the way his small hands grip a blade with surprising steadiness, the quiet resilience of a boy who has suffered more than most men. Habura exhales slowly, a whisper behind his mask. “Little brother… forgive me. I should have told you goodbye.”

Tokuro nudges him, pulling him from his thoughts. “You’re quiet tonight, Habura. Thinking about the mission?”

Habura forces a small nod. “Something like that.”

But deep down, he knows it is not the mission that troubles him—it is Takeshi. Something about the boy feels significant, as if destiny itself weaves around him. Habura cannot shake the feeling that the world will not leave Takeshi untouched, that fate has already marked him for something greater—and darker.

The engines thrum louder, cutting through his thoughts. Commander Ruichi walks down the aisle, his boots striking like a metronome of authority. He studies each shinobi in turn, his sharp gaze piercing even through their masks.

“Remember,” he says, his voice carrying effortlessly over the roar of the engines. “This mission is not glory. It is necessity. Secure the informant. Eliminate resistance. Do not underestimate the Red Stone. They will kill Rojas before they let him speak. If you falter, the world may burn under the shadow of Black Rose.”

The words hang heavy, sinking into their bones.

Reiko grips the hilt of her blade, muttering a curse under her breath. Mitsuki tightens the straps on his armor. Sakumo lowers his head, already envisioning the battlefield. Tokuro cracks his knuckles, eager for blood. And Habura, though as prepared as the rest, cannot push away the memory of Takeshi’s quiet, determined face.

The aircraft breaks through the clouds, the night sky swallowing them whole. Stars glitter above like cold, distant witnesses. The shinobi sit in silence, the only sounds the rumble of the engines and the faint metallic rattling of weapons with every shift of turbulence.

Habura closes his eyes briefly, his hand tightening over the hilt of his sword. “Stay safe, Takeshi,” he thinks. “I will return… and when I do, I promise I’ll see how far you’ve come.”

The aircraft cuts across the Pacific, its red-lit interior carrying shadows that are no longer children, but weapons forged for death. And as dawn breaks behind them, Japan fades into the horizon—while ahead, the blood-soaked lands of South America await.

The sun rises over the Blood Raven compound, its first light piercing through the morning mist that curls along the stone walls. The training grounds are alive with the sound of footsteps and shouted commands as young recruits assemble in rigid lines. Their black uniforms cling to them, still damp with the sweat of yesterday’s ordeals. The air smells of dust, steel, and determination.

Among them stands Takeshi Hatabe, now eleven years old, his frame lean but hardened by years of merciless training. His eyes burn with quiet intensity as he adjusts the straps of his training armor. Around him, other recruits fidget nervously, stealing glances at the weapon racks, knowing today will not be another day of running laps or climbing cliffs. Today, they will fight each other.

The sound of boots echoes across the yard. Sensei Masahiro Takeda emerges from the shadows of the main hall, his weathered face carved with scars and wisdom, his sharp eyes scanning the line of students. He carries no weapon—his voice and presence are sharper than any blade. Takeshi instinctively looks for Habura among the senior shinobi trailing behind, but the older brother figure is nowhere to be seen. A pang strikes his chest. He must have left before dawn… gone on his mission. Takeshi’s hands curl into fists, but he steels himself. Habura’s absence only sharpens his resolve.

“Today,” Takeda announces, his voice a whip that cracks across the courtyard, “you will face each other. You will learn not only the sharpness of your own steel, but the limits of your will.”

A hush falls over the recruits. Names are called, pairs chosen. Finally, Takeda’s finger lands on Haruna, the raven-haired girl who has always stood by Takeshi. She steps forward, her lips pressed in determination. Across from her is Goraji, a towering boy built like a mountain, his muscles straining against his uniform. Murmurs ripple through the recruits—Goraji’s brute strength is unmatched, and Haruna’s slender frame seems fragile by comparison.

Before she can step into the ring, Takeshi seizes her wrist. His eyes meet hers, steady and certain. “Aim from above,” he whispers. “His size is his strength, but it also blinds him. Strike from where he cannot reach.”

Haruna nods, her expression softening for just a heartbeat. She enters the ring with silent resolve. Takeda raises his hand, and the duel begins.

Goraji charges like a bull, fists swinging. Haruna moves light as air, dodging, circling, her eyes fixed on the opening Takeshi described. Then, in a sudden burst, she leaps high, twisting in the air. Her heel smashes down against Goraji’s shoulder with bone-cracking force. He staggers, then collapses to his knees, gasping. The courtyard erupts in stunned silence—then applause.

Takeshi allows himself a small smile, pride swelling in his chest. Haruna’s eyes flick to him briefly, gratitude unspoken but understood.

But the moment ends as quickly as it begins. Takeda calls the next match. His gaze falls on Takeshi. “Hatabe. Step forward. You will face Hazan.”

The name slices through the air like a blade. Hazan, son of Commander Hayato, pushes through the crowd. His face is twisted in a sneer, his fists clenched tight. The rivalry between him and Takeshi has only grown over the years—Hazan, born of prestige, unable to bear the rise of a boy from the streets.

As Takeshi steps into the ring, Haruna whispers behind him, “Be careful.”

“I will,” Takeshi answers softly, his eyes never leaving Hazan.

Takeda lowers his hand. The duel begins.

Hazan lunges with fury, his strikes wild but powerful. Takeshi doesn’t meet him head-on—he sidesteps, pivots, lets Hazan’s rage burn itself out. Each missed blow drives Hazan deeper into frustration, his face reddening. Finally, Takeshi sees it—the opening. With lightning speed, he spins, his leg whipping out in a precise, devastating kick. The impact sends Hazan sprawling to the ground.

The courtyard explodes with cheers and clapping. Even some of the instructors nod in approval. Haruna beams, pride shining in her eyes. Takeshi bows humbly, his chest rising and falling steadily.

But Hazan does not rise. He lies staring at the ground, shame flooding his face. Slowly, his eyes lift to where his father stands—Commander Hayato, arms crossed, his expression stone. Disappointment radiates from him like a blade pressed against skin. Hazan’s fists clench until his knuckles whiten. Without a word, he rises and storms away, his shoulders trembling with humiliation.

Takeshi watches him go, a flicker of sadness in his chest. But he reminds himself of Habura’s words—patience, always patience. He bows again to Takeda, then steps back into line.

Far above, the sun blazes overhead, casting sharp shadows across the stone courtyard. The training continues, but Takeshi’s thoughts drift. He imagines Habura, somewhere beyond the clouds, clad in full shinobi armor, carrying the weight of a mission too dangerous to speak of. A pang of longing pierces him—he had not even said goodbye.

Meanwhile, high above the Pacific Ocean…

Inside the dark belly of the aircraft, the senior shinobi sleep in uneasy silence. The drone of the engines fills the air, steady and relentless. Habura, however, stirs awake. He sits upright, the dim red lights casting his mask in shades of crimson and shadow.

He looks around at his comrades—Tokuro with his arms crossed, Sakumo resting against his blade, Mitsuki and Reiko slumped in exhausted sleep. Habura’s eyes shift to the small window beside him. The endless ocean stretches below, glimmering faintly beneath the rising sun.

His reflection stares back at him, eyes heavy with thoughts left unspoken. He presses a hand against the cold glass, whispering under his breath, “Takeshi… forgive me. I should have said something. I promise, little brother… I’ll return. And when I do, I’ll see just how strong you’ve become.”

The engines thunder onward, carrying them closer to Argentina. The mission awaits. And back in Osaka, on the training grounds, a boy named Takeshi Hatabe stands taller than ever, unaware of how deeply his fate is already tied to the shadows.