"Stay alive…"
"You cannot give up here…"
"You will NOT die here…"
"Your life is precious and important…"
"Stay alive… and I promise you will overcome this turmoil."
The boy's eyes flickered open. He lay weak and unmoving, barely conscious after the latest dose of poison injected into his veins. His cell had been his home for months now, a place of pain so relentless he couldn't remember what freedom felt like. How he was still breathing, still alive, was beyond his understanding. But somewhere, somehow, he felt a force urging him to keep going.
The pain coursing through him was unimaginable, a torment that should've snuffed out his life long ago. But he endured it, summoning a will to overcome each obstacle set before him. He thought of his adoptive mother, of the last words she'd spoken before he'd left. Her memory was a small light in the darkness, a reminder that part of him still held on.
Determined, the boy forced himself to adapt. He began to explore his body's hidden abilities, testing the boundaries of his senses. He learned to redirect pain, slowly mastering the ability to shut off feeling in one part of his body, numbing his awareness to where it hurt the most. Each time his fingers were twisted, each time his flesh was cut, he found a way to silence the suffering, to dampen the agony.
When tortured with sound, he learned to suppress his hearing, shutting down his auditory senses. After days of practice, he found a way to dull almost any external pain. But the poisons injected directly into his blood posed a different challenge. With these, there was no singular pain to target; his entire body pulsed with their toxic effects, his organs struggling with each beat of his heart.
As he experimented with ways to control the sensations, he began to focus on his heartbeat, attempting to slow its rhythm. Gradually, he reduced it from once every second to once every minute, then to once every hour, and finally, to once every eight hours. This took days of concentration, nearly exhausting what energy he had left, but he achieved it. The slow beat reduced the spread of toxins in his system, diminishing their grip on his nerves.
Pain tolerance became his armor, the silence of his suffering unnerving his captors. They watched with growing alarm as he endured without a sound, his resilience forcing them to escalate their methods. But no matter how they twisted, cut, or poisoned him, he refused to break. His anger grew, swelling into a boiling rage; anger at his captors, at his helplessness, and at a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty. Anger became his fuel, giving him the strength to hold onto the last scraps of his sanity.
He had tried his entire life to be good, to stay hopeful even when life gave him every reason to despair. But now he questioned what any of it was worth. If the only way to survive was through rage, then he would let it consume him. He would let his anger dictate his path forward.
Time lost its meaning. Days, maybe weeks passed. His memories blurred with each round of torture. He no longer knew how long he'd been imprisoned, how long he had fought to endure. Yet, despite everything, something still pushed him to keep going.
And that's when it happened.
The boy awoke to a loud, sudden noise echoing through his cell. At first, he assumed it was some accident, but then the sounds multiplied, overlapping in a cacophony of sharp bangs and heavy thuds. It sounded like gunfire, intense and close. He lay there in confusion, his mind dulled by the potent poison injected into him that morning. His body was numb, and he began to wonder if the noises were real or just illusions conjured by his weakened mind.
Then, he heard voices, faint at first, then clearer as they approached his cell. Despite his condition, he made out fragments of Japanese, though his mind reeled with doubt. He feared he might be slipping into madness. But moments later, two figures appeared in the doorway.
His body refused to move; he was too numb to turn and see them clearly. The figures moved cautiously, scanning the room until one of them spotted him. He expected them to be the scientist's assistants coming to retrieve him for yet another round of torture. But something was different. These strangers broke the lock on his cell with unrestrained force, their voices rising in surprise as they approached, assessing him.
He felt consciousness slipping away again, his strength faltering as the two strangers bent down and lifted him. Blurred moments flashed before him; a hand reaching under his arm, then the cold metal of the cage left behind, then a strange room filled with bodies. His eyes blinked open for an instant, catching sight of heaps of bodies piled around him as they carried him through. Dazed and disoriented, he struggled to understand where he was being taken.
When he came to, he found himself laid on the floor between the two strangers, who were speaking Japanese in low, hurried tones. It didn't sound like they were talking to each other but addressing someone ahead of them. Slowly, he raised his head and his gaze met an older man standing just beyond.
The man had a long, graying beard and hair speckled with white. His face was severe yet tinged with sympathy as he looked down at the boy who was flanked by two other men. One wore a helmet-like mask with a skull painted across it, while the other's face was hidden behind a silver mask resembling the tragedy mask from ancient theater.
The old man spoke to his companions, but the boy's heart pounded with a renewed sense of opportunity. This was his chance to escape. Rage, raw and blazing, surged within him as he fought against the poison, pushing his body to recover faster. Slowly, with gritted teeth, he forced himself up from the ground, ignoring the stabbing pain that wracked his body.
The men stared in shock as he rose to his feet, clearly struggling, yet determined, fire burning in his eyes. The older man's gaze softened, observing the boy's fierce will, but his two companions became wary. They stepped forward protectively, one drawing a knife, the other leveling a sidearm in preparation.
Before anyone could react, the boy lunged forward, moving faster than they anticipated. In a swift, fluid motion, he closed the distance to the man with the gun, slapping it out of his grasp with an unexpected strength.
"まさか (Masaka)," the man gasped, stunned.
Without hesitation, the boy's fist crashed into the man's masked face, knocking him out cold with a single, brutal strike. The others stood frozen in disbelief at the boy's sudden burst of strength.
The second masked man with the knife sprang forward to intercept, but the boy was too quick. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it sharply until the knife fell loose. Then, without a moment's pause, he caught the blade and slashed upward, cutting a deep line across the man's chest before kicking him back, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The boy's fury was unmistakable as he fixed his gaze on the old man, unwavering and determined to take any chance at freedom. He was ready to fight anyone who dared to stand in his way. But the old man just looked at him in silence, sorrow etched across his face.
Unlike his captors from the Rokurokubi family, the man was unmasked, and his expression showed something the boy hadn't seen in months; empathy. Yet, none of this registered in the boy's mind. All he cared about was survival.
Clutching the knife tightly, the boy charged at him, slashing wildly. The old man moved fluidly, swaying with each strike, his gaze soft and steady. Again and again, the boy's attempts met only air, until, without warning, the man sidestepped one of his attacks and placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.
"もう戦う必要はない (Mō tatakau hitsuyō wanai)," he said in a soft, calm voice.
The boy felt an unexpected wave of peace wash over him. The man's voice held no hostility, only sympathy, as if he understood everything he had endured. But the boy shook off the feeling, refusing to be fooled again like he always had all his life. With one swift motion, he raised the knife and slashed down onto the man's hand, tearing deeply into his wrist.
Despite the pain, the old man's expression didn't change. He just looked at the boy, who froze, unsettled by the man's unflinching calm. The old man's eyes reflected something deeper, as if he recognized the anguish and determination driving the boy. Though he couldn't fully understand why, he felt an odd sense of kinship with him.
Gradually, the boy's anger began to ease as he looked around the room. Bodies of his captors lay scattered across the floor, and the masked strangers standing with the old man didn't belong to the Rokurokubi. The realization sank in. His rage dulled, replaced by clarity, until the poison's pain surged back, and he crumpled to his knees.
Blood seeped from the old man's wrist, but he ignored it, kneeling in front of the boy. "日本語を話せますか (Nihongo o hanasemasu ka)?" he asked gently.
The boy's silence gave away his lack of understanding. The old man nodded thoughtfully. "English?"
The boy nodded faintly, straining to stay conscious. The old man gave him a soft smile, his injured hand steady.
"You have endured more than anyone should," he said kindly. "But you don't have to anymore. You're safe."
The boy wavered, his grip on reality slipping, yet something in the man's words felt sincere. Trusting, just for a moment, he allowed himself to fall, sinking into unconsciousness.
The old man smiled down at the boy before glancing at his own wounded hand.
"師匠 (Shishō)," a voice called.
He turned to see his companion, the one the boy had struck across the chest, struggling to his feet. The man in the helmet, clutching his wound, took in the scene and bristled with fury upon seeing the boy and the old man's injured hand. Drawing another knife, he took a threatening step forward.
"殺してやる (Koroshiteyaru)," he muttered angrily, advancing toward the boy.
"No," the old man's voice rang out firmly, this time in English. "Bring him with us." He turned, securing his injured wrist, and walked away.
The masked man hesitated, stunned at his mentor's command, casting a wary glance at the boy sprawled on the floor.
A full day passed before the boy's cells finally neutralized the poison in his bloodstream, slowly rejuvenating his body. At last, he opened his eyes, returning to consciousness, and found the old man waiting nearby, his right hand wrapped in fresh bandages. The man began to explain what had happened that day, his voice steady as he briefed the boy on the events that had led to his rescue.
The boy learned he had been saved by the Ishin, the mercenary group he'd heard rumors about during his time in the operation. The old man, as it turned out, was the head of this group and had taken it upon himself to explain everything.
The man spoke of his awareness of how the United States military had been secretly aiding Japan, a situation known to the Ishin and even to certain Yakuza factions. The Rokurokubi clan, noticing a sudden decrease in their power against rival forces, felt threatened.
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Seizing control by brute force, they chose to infiltrate the secret base where the boy had worked, slaughtering everyone in their path. This barbarity convinced the Ishin that the Rokurokubi's ruthless methods had crossed a line. The clan, they decided, had to be eliminated entirely; a task they had just achieved.
The boy was taken aback. He knew just how powerful the Rokurokubi family was, yet the Ishin had somehow managed to dismantle the clan entirely. Despite his shock, he felt little sympathy for his captors. If anything, the news only deepened the hollow ache within him. He had survived his ordeal, but the cost was a profound sense of emptiness. His country had abandoned him, and his beliefs had betrayed him. What had all his efforts at decency and integrity brought him but suffering? His survival felt owed to a relentless anger more than anything else.
Sensing the boy's frustration and lack of place, the old man gently spoke. "Why not join us?" he offered. "I know that you are American, but I also know that your country left you behind during this nightmare. If this betrayal weighs on you, perhaps you may want revenge."
The boy stared, silent and contemplative, absorbing the old man's words. After a moment, he stood and met the man's gaze, his voice calm but firm.
"I appreciate that you saved my life," the boy began, "and for that, I am in your debt. But I do not plan to work for you because of it, so I will decline your offer."
The old man's expression softened with a faint smile. "Then perhaps this will interest you," he said thoughtfully. "We could negotiate the terms in which you would follow. In return, I can give you something you might want. Or rather, someone."
The boy's eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher the man's meaning. Without further explanation, the old man rose and led him down a quiet hallway to a room. Opening the door, he revealed the scientist who had tormented the boy for months, now bound tightly to a chair. Rage flared in the boy's eyes, an urge to lash out nearly overwhelming him. But he held back, glancing at the old man.
"I won't work under or beside anyone," the boy declared, his voice tense. "And I don't want the Ishin name. I will only take assignments from you. Nothing more."
The old man nodded, a smile playing at his lips as he accepted the boy's decision. Wordlessly, he turned and walked away, leaving the boy alone with the man he'd come to despise, fully understanding the boy's desire to fulfill a duty.
As the old man left, the boy slowly turned his attention back to the scientist, who sat trembling, his mouth covered by a cloth over his mask, his eyes wide with fear. The boy approached, pulling the cloth down to expose the scientist's mouth, catching the terror-stricken look in his captor's eyes.
"Please," the scientist stammered, voice laced with desperation, "spare me from these brutes. You know my experiments… they weren't personal. I was just doing my job."
The boy said nothing, his expression cold, though his eyes held an unmistakable fury. Finally, he leaned close and, in a chillingly soft tone, replied, "Don't worry. All I need from you… is to stay alive as long as possible."
Some time later, the boy emerged from the room, blood splattered across his face and clothes. The old man stood waiting outside, his gaze catching the boy's silent, blood-streaked figure. He didn't ask about what had happened inside; a brief glance into the room told him enough. The walls, floor, and even the ceiling were smeared in blood, and the mutilated remains of the scientist lay in horrific disarray.
After this grim encounter, the Ishin provided the boy with new clothes and his signature metallic mouth mask, suggesting it would be wise to keep his identity concealed in his new line of work.
"Because of my injuries," the old man explained one day, his hand still bandaged, "I can no longer wield a two-handed weapon. So, I want you to have this." He held out a high-caliber sniper rifle, finely crafted and clearly powerful.
The boy's eyes flicked to the weapon in surprise, recognizing its value in an instant. "Why are you giving this to me?" he asked bluntly. "I'm the reason you can't wield it anymore."
The old man's expression softened. "Because I see something in you. A potential for greatness," he replied warmly. "You may carry a dark history, but I sense good intentions beneath it. I believe you can achieve more than I ever could, even after founding the Ishin. So, I'm putting my trust in you."
The boy paused, processing the words. "Your praise means nothing to me," he answered bluntly, his gaze steady and unmoved.
The old man merely smiled. "That's fine."
Reluctantly, the boy accepted the weapon. After making modifications to the scope and fine-tuning its capabilities, he made it uniquely his own. In the weeks that followed, he quickly established himself as an effective marksman and mercenary, earning the old man's respect with his impressive skill and focus. But not everyone in the Ishin shared this respect.
One day, as the boy sat alone in a lounge area awaiting orders, some of the other Ishin members spotted him. Among them was the man with the helmet, who had been part of the rescue. At the sight of the boy, a bitter scowl crossed his face, and he strode over with palpable hostility.
"おい,ガキ (Oi, gaki)," he sneered, his tone dripping with contempt.
The boy remained silent, his gaze fixed downward. After calling out for the boy once more, another member muttered, "I believe he only speaks English."
"Doesn't matter," the helmeted man replied, voice loud and pointed. "He should know I'm addressing him, shouldn't you, boy?"
Ignoring the taunt, the boy continued to stare at the ground, unmoved. Frustration flashed in the man's eyes, and, unable to contain his anger, he slammed his fist onto the table beside the boy, making a loud, jarring sound that echoed across the lounge.
"It seems the master's gone senile, letting an undisciplined brat like you join our clan," the man sneered.
The boy didn't respond, his silence and the mask he wore making his expression unreadable. His unshaken calm only fueled the man's anger.
"You know," the man continued, voice low and menacing, "I still owe you for the scar you left on my chest. You'd better watch your back if you don't want to end up dead."
Still unfazed, the boy finally replied. "Empty threats from moribund livestock," he muttered, his body remaining unshifted.
A tense silence settled over the room. The man's face twisted with fury as he slowly removed his hand from the table. The other members exchanged uneasy glances, surprised at the boy's audacity.
"私を馬鹿にするのか (Watashi o baka ni suru no ka)?" he yelled, his hand twitching toward his weapon. "私の武器がなぜ恐れられているのか見せてやろう (Watashi no buki ga naze osore rarete iru no ka misete yarou)!"
Suddenly, in nearly an instant, the boy's hand shot to his holster, drawing his pistol and firing a single shot through the man's helmet without moving his gaze. The helmeted man, surprised by the boy's quickness, dropped instantly, his body hitting the ground with a sickening finality.
The room froze momentarily before the other members snapped to attention, weapons drawn and pointed at the boy, fear flickering in their eyes as they witnessed their comrade's corpse.
"武器を捨てよ (Buki o suteyo)!" one member barked. "Drop your weapon!"
The boy remained motionless, calmly holstering his gun. "If you all couldn't see that he was simply outdrawn," he said coldly, "then you're all terrible at your jobs."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the members' faces as they looked down, noticing that the helmeted man had indeed drawn his weapon, potentially even before the boy. Eventually, the founder arrived, his eyes moving between the boy and the others, his expression commanding calm as he took in the scene, noticing the corpse on the ground as well.
The master attempted to ease the conflict, but the boy showed no emotion towards the other members in the slightest. "Do not speak to me," he said to them, his voice like steel, "unless you want your corpse beside your comrade's in the grave."
As the founder eventually issued him his next task, the boy turned to leave, pausing only to crouch beside his fallen opponent and claim his sidearm; a reputedly effective weapon known for its power and impact. After, he rose, examining it almost like a trophy before he departed with it, leaving the others too shaken to stop him.
In the months that followed, the boy built a dark reputation for himself throughout Japan. He became a relentless force, wielding a brutal version of justice and slaying multitudes for its sake. Driven by memories of the injustice he had suffered, he took it upon himself to deliver that justice to others. Soon, his reach grew far beyond Japan.
He became an international threat, moving through Europe, the Americas, Africa, and Australia. In every region, he hunted corrupt political figures, influential criminals, and anyone he deemed a perpetrator of injustice.
Within months, he had become a legend; the deadliest man to have ever walked the Earth. The media, grasping for a way to capture the terror he inspired, gave him a name; a single letter that encapsulated his deadly precision and the solitary path he walked alone. It was a mark of fear, a symbol of his unerring aim and his relentless, unstoppable nature.
"X."
..."The masked international criminal known as X has struck again, claiming the life of the minister of finance in France last night. Witnesses report that he just casually walked in during the minister's conference, committing the murder and vanishing after walking out of sight," the news anchor announced.
"Wow, this X guy moves quickly. Wasn't he in South America just a week ago?" Shade remarked to Klaus.
"No rest for the wicked, I suppose," Klaus concurred.
"I suppose," Shade agreed, rising from his seat after completing his part in the morning routine as they readied themselves for school.
After bidding their mother farewell and stepping out of the house, Shade turned to Klaus with a weightier question.
"Yo Klaus, do you think his actions are justifiable, even if the minister wasn't a good person?" His usually vibrant tone was tinged with introspection, indicating the matter was weighing on his mind.
"I don't know. But no matter the circumstances, taking countless lives can never be justified," Klaus replied firmly, eliciting a small smile from Shade.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Shade acknowledged, the shadows of their conversation lingering as they embarked on their journey to school...
While some viewers wondered if this was an act of pure cruelty, others reacted quite differently to the breaking news. In a lavishly decorated living room, a man sat idly, his surroundings a testament to wealth and taste; ornate fixtures, high-end furnishings, and carefully selected pieces scattered around the room.
"That damn Dubois," the man muttered, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. "I told him not to go to that conference yesterday. This is what happens when you don't listen."
The man, an aging but powerful figure, bore signs of affluence in both his well-tailored clothes and his well-preserved living space. His hair, though thinning and white, still carried a certain dignity, and while his face was lined with age, his posture and build held strong. American by all appearances, he lounged back in his recliner, scrolling through his phone and ashing a cigar, unaware of what was about to occur.
Suddenly, a faint sound stirred him from his thoughts. Startled, he looked to his side, his eyes widening in pure terror at the figure now seated calmly on the countertop in another room. There, in silent stillness, was X.
The man bolted upright, a rush of fear slicing through him. He was well informed on X, having seen glimpses of him on the news, and heard stories that circulated like urban legends. But to see him here, in his own home in the United States, mere hours after hearing that he'd just been in France, was something his mind could barely process. His hands began to tremble, his gaze locked on the mercenary.
"H-How…?" he stammered, barely finding his voice. "How did you manage to get in here?"
X's voice was low, nearly a whisper, but it carried a quiet menace that chilled the air. "You need better security," he replied. "Or rather… needed."
Rising from his perch, he took measured steps toward the man. "Not that it would've helped much," he added.
Panic surged through the man as he scrambled to think of something, anything, to buy his life a few more precious moments. "W-What do you need?" he asked, desperation flooding his words. "Money? Name your price, and it's yours. Whatever you desire in this world ..."
X's silent gaze, cold and unyielding, made the man shrink back. "I'd advise against that," X said, his tone deceptively calm. "It'll only make me kill you faster."
As he spoke, the man realized his subtle reach for the hidden gun beside his recliner had not gone unnoticed. Freezing, he withdrew his hand, recognizing the futility of resistance.
X's eyes narrowed, an edge of disdain in his voice. "Did you really think I wouldn't kill you before you tried?" he questioned.
Slowly, the man raised his hands in surrender, tears beginning to pool in his eyes. "Please," he whispered, voice choked with desperation. "I am innocent. I swear it."
X's gaze was cold and unyielding. "You started bargaining upon my presence," he retorted. "Do you really think I'd believe you now?"
The man fell silent, tears slipping down his cheeks. "I'm begging you. I have a family… Please, spare my life."
X moved closer, the man's pleas barely a ripple in his steady approach. "Killing me won't make the world better as you think it will," the man stammered, voice rising in desperation. "Evil will still exist."
"There will always be evil," X replied, his voice soft but unrelenting. "But you… you are the ultimate evil. You MUST die."
X had no explanation for it, but he was certain that this man had to die. The certainty in his voice left the man hollowed, a glimmer of defiance flickering in his eyes.
Fury replaced the man's fear as he snarled, "Then I'll see you in hell!" His hand darted toward the hidden gun, but before he could even grip it, X's weapon fired. One deafening shot to the heart, and it was over.
X watched impassively as the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless. In a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, "I hope those brief seconds of pain paid for the years you cumulatively inflicted on others."
Within moments, guards stormed into the room, their shouts filling the air. But by then, X had already vanished.
"Mr. Baldwin," one guard shouted as he took in the scene, his eyes wide with disbelief. Spotting the body, he yelled to another, "Call an ambulance, now!"
From that moment on, X moved through life as a lone specter, keeping his past at a distance, even as it haunted him. His sense of self had long eroded, and discovering he was born of godly lineage had only deepened his anger instead of providing solace.
Having lost those he once cared for, he vowed never to care for anyone or anything again, cutting himself off from both mortals and gods who'd abandoned him when he needed them most.
But, against all his instincts, there was one individual who slowly began to command his attention. A presence that stirred in him something he hadn't felt in years. It was a rare passion and resolve he couldn't help but respect, though he hid it well. This mysterious figure's name was…