About three years ago.
A grey, oppressive afternoon at a certain high school in the Nozawa Onsen region.
The classroom was stifling, thick with the smell of old wood and the dampness of melting snow. But the most suffocating thing was the atmosphere of psychological violence that saturated the far corner of the room. There, a boy sat alone, curled into himself like a desolate island in a shark-infested sea.
The sounds hissing through clenched teeth were not human; they were the slithering of a nest of vipers, seeping through every crack, aimed directly at the boy's already heavily scarred heart.
"Look, that monster actually showed his face in class again today."
"Absolutely disgusting. How can he even breathe the same air as us?"
"Damn him, he's an eyesore."
...
All eyes turned toward him—no longer the gaze of one human looking upon another. They were razor blades, disgusted shakes of the head, a merciless ostracism as if he were a contagion that could rot their very souls. He sat there, motionless, though he had done nothing wrong, though his only crime was simply existing.
"Why don't you just choose a peaceful death? Why live and take up space?"
The curses flew from all directions. From girls who were otherwise graceful, from boys who were otherwise energetic, and even from those who didn't even know his name. They laughed. Raucous, savage, howling laughter, erupting like a symphony of devils.
"Don't be stupid enough to touch Toyotomi Masaru. That psycho might just bite your throat out."
"Failure bloodline. A freak born from a cursed family. Truly, the scum of creation."
A deep, trembling voice, thick with perverse excitement, rang out:
"How about we throw him into the Nozawa hot spring pool? Let him bubble up like a stuck pig."
"That's too gentle. We should tie him up, toss him in a vat of boiling oil, or impale him on a stake until that rotten carcass falls apart. That's the only satisfaction."
The laughter swelled again, shrill, mind-numbing.
"DIE!"
"TOYOTOMI MASARU, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LIVING FOR!"
Vile. Disgusting. You're a loser. Loser. Damn your family to hell. Get lost. Just get lost. Die. May your whole family die! You shameless bastard. You ugly freak. Why don't you and your whole clan just die? You demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. You evil demon. Wicked. Demon. Demon. You demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Vile. Disgusting. You're a loser. Loser. Damn your family to hell. Get lost. Just get lost. Die. May your whole family die! You shameless bastard. You ugly freak. Why don't you and your whole clan just die? You demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. You evil demon. Wicked. Demon. Demon. You demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Vile. Disgusting. You're a loser. Loser. Damn your family to hell. Get lost. Just get lost. Die. May your whole family die! You shameless bastard. You ugly freak. Why don't you and your whole clan just die? You demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. You evil demon. Wicked. Demon. Demon. You demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. Vile. Disgusting…
Thousands, tens of thousands of filthy words crashed down upon his head. Demon. Freak. Loser. Scum. Ugly wretch. The word "Demon" repeated over and over like a dark mantra, clinging to his skin like a swarm of hungry leeches, draining every last wisp of vitality from his soul. Each syllable fell like a drop of acid, corroding his identity, grinding his self-worth to dust.
Masaru did not resist.
He did not say a single word.
He just sat there, his hands clenched until his knuckles turned white, fingernails digging deep into his palms so the physical pain might drown out the screaming within his spirit. His eyes stared down at the wooden desktop, covered in crude, hateful carvings aimed at him.
All of it, simply because of the difference that fate had imposed upon him.
Eyes burning red like blood, glittering like two demon-possessed rubies. Stiff, light brown hair that stood on end, sharp and fierce like a bristling hedge of thorns. His face, even in his adolescence, held a fearsome quality that made even him recoil in rejection whenever he looked in the mirror. In a small, conservative village where conformity was the only accepted standard, Masaru's otherness was an unforgivable crime.
"Toyotomi… Toyotomi…"
The teacher's voice rang out, cold and utterly detached.
"TOYOTOMI!"
"Y-yes… present." Masaru flinched, the dry sound scraping from his burning throat.
"I've called your name three times now. Is your head filled with garbage that you can't hear? Do not bring that cursed face of yours into my classroom."
The disgust was etched into every wrinkle on the teacher's face. The name "Toyotomi"—once a glorious and resonant name—had now, in the mouths of the people, become nothing more than a symbol of misfortune and decay.
"Idiot. Maybe his brain's short-circuited."
"Does a demon even understand human speech?"
The laughter erupted again. Hehe. Haha. Hoho. Those meaningless sounds drilled deep into Masaru's eardrums like burrowing awls.
Masaru bowed his head low. He did not cry. His tears had long since run dry during those childhood years of being chased away. But deep within his chest, beneath that thin layer of skin and flesh, something was simmering. A black, festering tumor of resentment, compressed to its absolute limit, waiting only for the smallest crack to explode, to engulf all those mocking him in an inferno of hatred.
He sat there, silent. Like a dormant volcano sleeping beneath the snowy blanket of Nozawa....