Chapter 2: What is normal Life ?

Two Days Later,

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

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

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

The anchor’s voice grows grim:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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