Chapter 1: Here's Devil

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."

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