I run. Farther and farther—bare feet slapping wet stone. I don't dare look back at the fortress; if I do, I'll end up there again.
My hands burn. I glance down—blisters split open across my wrists, skin red and peeling, raw flesh shining through. The chains still bind my hands together, but I keep moving. I've been here for years; this is the only chance I've ever had to escape.
But I can feel it behind me. He's behind me.
No—it.
It could catch me whenever it wanted, but it plays with me. Toys with me.
What's the point of running? It'll catch me anyway.
Fuck it.
I stop. The world goes still for half a heartbeat.
Run, you brat! Are you stupid?!
My legs move before I decide to—mind and body disconnected. I'm running again.
"What were you trying to pull off there? Getting yourself killed?!" the voice snaps.
"Shut up, goddammit!" I scream back. "I know! I know! But what's the point? He'll catch me anyway!"
I run for what feels like hours before the trees swallow me. The forest is dark, damp, endless.
Be careful, the voice warns.
"We'll be fine for now," I mutter.
No. He'll find you.
Three days in, I'm starving. I hunt rabbits, eat them raw—blood warm on my tongue. No time for fire; smoke means death.
The branches rustle.
He's here.
I freeze—then the voice corrects itself.
Not him. His students.
"Students," I breathe. "I can deal with them."
Careful, brat. They're no amateurs.
A shadow darts from my right. I drop, sweep a leg. The ninja crashes down, and I drive a kick into his solar plexus. I grab his head, ram it against the nearest tree—bone cracks.
A shuriken grazes my shoulder. Pain flares hot. I kick the slumped man aside, flip backward, and snatch both kunai spinning toward me.
Good—you've got weapons now, the voice says.
I ignore it. Three more come from the darkness. One lunges, blade aimed at my shoulder. I jerk my chained hands back, parry with a kunai, knee him in the groin. His face drops into the second blade waiting for him. I shove it upward—clean.
Blood sprays warm across my wrist.
I tear the weapon free, kick him away, then pivot, creating distance from the last two. I land light, knees bent, right hand raised above the left in a guard I don't remember learning.
Be careful, brat. They're not ordinary ninja—they're seniors.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter. "I have no idea what to—"
Then I see it.
Chains—half-buried in the snow, trailing from the body of the man I just killed. At the other end, a sickle.
The kusarigama.
The old bastard's toy, the voice shoots up.
The blood pooled around the corpse has already frozen, chunks of red against white. I kick the icy mix toward the others' faces, buying a heartbeat of distraction. Then I grab the chain, tie it through the links of my own shackles, and feel the weapon lock into place.
It becomes an extension of my body.
Just like the old bastard preached, the voice says.
"Well, he's considered a myth for a reason," I mutter.
I start to move—spinning, twisting, the chain singing around me. I'm the fulcrum; the world blurs into motion.
Two ninjas leap in at once. One gets greedy, trying to rush me mid-air.
Too eager, the voice warns.
I kick off a nearby tree, using the recoil to add force to my spin. The sickle arcs back and stabs into his kidney. His scream breaks through the cold.
I kick my leg up, catching the chain with my foot, then wrap it tight around my shin and pull. The sound that comes out of him doesn't belong to a human throat.
The other one charges. I flick my arm—chain snapping free. The sickle tears loose and spins toward me; I catch the handle between my teeth, ducking just as his blade whistles past my ankles.
Steel clashes. Sparks flash.
I twist, parry with the chain, then drive forward, dropping to one knee. My left leg folds under me as I lunge up into him. The blade bites into his lung.
A breath later, I pull sideways—ripping through chest and arm. The sickle drags down, slicing until it reaches his hand and splits it apart between the middle and ring fingers.
The body collapses. The forest holds its breath.
You're remembering, the voice says quietly. Bit by bit.
I stand in the red snow, breath fogging the air, the chain still trembling in my grip.
It's done. I survived.
I have no idea where I am, but I'd rather die out here than ever go back.
A low chuckle rolls through the trees.
Not the voice in my head.
Something else.
Something real.
Boy—run!
The voice in my head is shouting now, raw with panic. It's him!
I bolt. Branches tear at my skin, snow blinding my vision. Then—pain.
A white-hot explosion tears through both my legs. I crash to the ground, screaming.
Iron stakes. Two of them. Driven clean through my thighs, pinning me in place. Blood pours onto the snow, turning it black in the moonlight.
A voice follows—deep, steady, cruelly calm.
"Good… boy. Good."
The words slide through the trees like smoke.
"Your training's paid off. To think you could defeat four of your seniors while chained and injured… I must acknowledge the Shimatsu family's eye for prodigies. And to think you were found in the ocean by mistake—hah. A blessed one, aren't you?"
The forest answers with silence. Then the trees rustle, the crows scatter, and the wolves howl.
And I see him.
A man cloaked in black, moving through the snow with unhurried grace. On his face—an oni mask, pure white and gleaming like polished pearl. The moonlight dances across it, revealing hairline cracks that look like veins of silver. Its expression is carved into eternal rage: horns curved backward, fanged teeth bared in a snarl too perfect to be human.
Beautiful.
And horrifying.
In his right hand, he carries an odachi—longer than my body, its edge reflecting the moon like a mirror of blood.
It's him.
The voice.
The Oni of Osaka.
The blood loss is getting to me. My eyelids are heavy; every breath feels like it's freezing inside my lungs.
I blink once—twice—and when I open them again—
his face is inches from mine.
The white mask fills my vision, horns glinting, the carved teeth stretched in that silent snarl. Moonlight bleeds across the polished surface, and for a heartbeat I see myself reflected in the hollow eyes—
and then everything goes black.
I jolt awake, gasping.
Sweat drenches the sheets. My pulse slams in my ears.
"Fucking nightmares," I mutter, running a hand down my face.
It's your past, boy, the voice says, calm again. The soul remembers what the mind tries to bury.
Lucian stares at the ceiling, chest heaving, the city's faint hum leaking through the hotel window.
He doesn't answer. He just listens to his heartbeat until it slows—
and waits for morning.
Lucian sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slow, eyes fixed on nothing. The morning light cut through the blinds in thin golden lines. He was meditating—or trying to.
What do you even say to them?
If they still remember you at all…
Stop worrying, kid, the voice murmured. If they don't recognize you, there's nothing to do about it.
Lucian exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Time to get moving," he muttered, ignoring the voice.
He stood, stretched the stiffness out of his shoulders, and headed into the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with the same tired eyes from last night. He turned on the tap, splashed cold water over his face, and reached for the razor.
Slow, steady strokes. He trimmed down to a clean stubble, left the faint outline of a short moustache, and wiped away the foam with a towel.
A shiver crawled down his spine as the cold air from the vent hit him. He slipped into a black shirt, buttoning it to the collar, then black trousers and his worn leather shoes—the only pair that had survived those years.
He checked his reflection one last time. Not bad. Not familiar, either.
Lucian grabbed his bag, stepped out, and headed down to the reception desk. The clerk smiled politely as he checked out, handing back his ID.
"Hope you enjoyed your stay, sir."
Lucian gave a small nod. "Yeah. Something like that."
Outside, the city was already awake—the distant sound of vendors calling, scooters whining, people rushing past. He raised a hand, flagged down a taxi, and slid inside.
"Market," he said.
The driver nodded, cranking the meter. As the car pulled away from the curb, Lucian leaned back, watching the city drift by through the window.
He was going home.
If it still was.
The taxi turned down the old street. Lucian's heart began to hammer the closer they got. The compound wall came into view—fresh paint, clean gates, trimmed hedges. The house stood behind it, bigger than he remembered.
Beautiful. Alive.
Children ran across the courtyard, laughing, their feet kicking up dust in the sunlight. Probably Reggie's kids, Lucian thought. He'd always wanted a big family.
The taxi stopped outside the gate. Lucian stepped out, paid the fare, and stood still for a moment—just staring at the place he used to call home.
There were cars lined up in the driveway, a familiar sight. His family had always been car heads—engines and polish, Sunday tuning, music blasting from open garages. The smell of oil and warm metal still hung faintly in the air.
Lucian walked forward, each step heavier than it should've been.
One of the kids—a boy, maybe eight—spotted him and ran over, barefoot and grinning.
"Who're you, uncle?" the boy shouted, eyes wide.
Lucian crouched down to his level, the corners of his mouth softening into a real smile. "Tell Grandma Lucian's here, will you, champ?"
The boy blinked, curious but eager, and nodded quickly before dashing off toward the house, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Grandma! Grandma! Lucian's here!"
Lucian stood, a quiet chuckle escaping him.
Guess I still exist after all, he thought.
The lively house goes quiet. Moments ago it was full of laughter-now, silence.
"I drain the life out of everything I touch," Lucian muttered, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Don't be so hard on yourself, kid, the voice said softly. Even ghosts need somewhere to come home to.
Lucian's jaw tightened. "Someone has to be