Chapter 31

The front door slammed open, crashing against the wall as Izzy stormed into Maria’s house, her clothes dripping wet from the downpour. The roar of the storm outside seemed to echo the tempest swirling inside her. Thunder rumbled in the distance as rainwater pooled at her feet, but Izzy barely noticed. She moved with purpose, her mind set on one thing—the chest. Her wet hoodie clung to her skin, and her soaked hair dripped down her back, but she didn’t care. The house, usually so warm and welcoming, felt like nothing more than an obstacle between her and the power she knew was waiting for her upstairs. The mask. The tanto. Everything she needed to take back control.

Izzy didn’t stop to explain herself or acknowledge the warmth of the house. The comforting smells of dinner were still lingering in the air, but it only made her feel more disconnected from everything inside. Her boots thudded heavily against the hardwood floor as she made her way toward the stairs, leaving a trail of muddy water in her wake. The storm outside rattled the windows, lightning flashing intermittently and casting stark shadows on the walls. She could hear Maria calling her name from the kitchen, her voice laced with concern, but Izzy didn’t answer. She was already halfway up the stairs, the pull of the chest too strong to ignore. Every fiber of her being was focused on it, as if the world had narrowed down to just this moment.

Izzy burst into her room, slamming the door behind her with a force that shook the walls. The dim light from outside flickered through the window, illuminating the chest that sat in the corner, as if waiting for her all along. Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as she stared at it, water still dripping from her clothes onto the floor. The storm outside seemed to grow louder, thunder rumbling in sync with the pounding of her heart. She stepped forward, her soaked Chucks leaving damp footprints as she approached the chest, the pull stronger than ever. This wasn’t just curiosity anymore—it was an instinct, a compulsion. Whatever lay inside that chest, she knew it was hers. And it was time to claim it.

With trembling hands, Izzy knelt in front of the chest, the familiar dark wood gleaming in the dim light. The intricate silver fox relief on the lid stared back at her, its opal eyes glowing faintly as if alive. She hesitated only for a second before reaching out, her fingers brushing against the cool surface. The chest responded immediately, the opal eyes flaring brighter, and with a soft click, it unlocked, just like it had the first time. But this time, there was no hesitation in her heart. Izzy threw open the lid, her eyes locking onto the contents—her family’s mask, the long black silk scarf, and the tanto resting beside them. The sight of them stirred something deep inside her, a recognition that made her chest tighten. These weren’t just relics from her past—they were a part of her. And tonight, they would become her future.

Izzy stared down at the mask, her fingers hovering just above it, as if touching it would make everything real. The mask—black, smooth, and imposing—seemed to call to her, just as it had in her dreams and in her darkest moments. Slowly, she reached down and lifted it from the chest, the weight of it solid and familiar in her hands. As she held it, a flood of memories washed over her—her father’s face, the feeling of safety she hadn’t felt in years, and the sense of belonging she had lost the night of the fire. She wasn’t just Izzy anymore. Holding the mask made her feel like someone else, someone stronger. Izumi Kuzunoha, she thought, the name flickering in the back of her mind like a long-forgotten melody. The mask had been waiting for her—she had been waiting for this moment.

Without a second thought, Izzy peeled off her soaked hoodie, tossing it aside. The cold air hit her skin, but she barely felt it. Her body moved on instinct now, driven by something deeper than just a desire for dry clothes. She grabbed a pair of black jeans from a shopping bag near the bed—her only other clean clothes—and slid them on, leaving the wet ones in a crumpled heap on the floor. She didn’t have any other shoes, but it didn’t matter. Her drenched Chuck Taylors would do. With her bare arms and the black jeans clinging to her legs, she felt like she was shedding her old self, piece by piece.

The mask rested in Izzy’s hands, heavier than she remembered, as if it carried the weight of everything she had been running from. Her fingers trembled slightly as they traced the smooth, black surface, each curve feeling more familiar, more inevitable. The storm outside seemed to grow louder, lightning flashing as her heart pounded in her chest. She knew this moment would change everything, but there was no fear—only certainty. The name, Izumi Kuzunoha, whispered through her mind again, growing louder with every heartbeat. This was it. The part of her she had buried was rising to the surface, ready to reclaim its place. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to leave Izzy behind.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

With a steady breath, Izzy lifted the mask to her face. The moment it touched her skin, a strange calm washed over her, like slipping into a familiar role she had forgotten she was meant to play. The cool weight of the mask rested against her, fitting perfectly, as though it had always been hers. As she adjusted it, the world around her seemed to shift, the storm outside dimming in her awareness. She couldn’t see her reflection yet, but something inside her clicked into place. Izzy was fading. Izumi Kuzunoha—the shadow she had always been—was taking shape, piece by piece. The mask locked into place, its presence as natural as breathing. It felt right. It felt like home.

With the mask firmly in place, Izumi reached for the long black silk scarf resting inside the chest. The fabric felt impossibly light, but there was a strength woven into it—an extension of the power she was finally ready to claim. She began to wrap it around her waist, pulling it tight like an obi, the smooth silk hugging her body. With each turn, the scarf coiled higher, crossing over her chest, securing itself around her neck, locking the mask in place. The end of the scarf draped down her back, brushing the floor as it trailed behind her like a living shadow. Every wrap, every fold, felt deliberate, as if she was cocooning herself into her new form—no longer Izzy, but Izumi Kuzunoha, the last of her clan.

With the mask and scarf in place, Izumi reached for the final piece—the tanto. As her fingers closed around the handle, a muscle memory she hadn’t tapped into for years awakened. She drew the blade with a fluid motion, and without thinking, she activated the hidden mechanism in the hilt, releasing the scorpion tail—the chain whip that unfurled like a striking serpent. The tail danced through the air with perfect precision, slashing through the space around her in a deadly flourish. It moved like an extension of her, guided by instincts she had forgotten, but that now felt as natural as breathing. She watched, almost mesmerized, as the chain snapped back into the hilt with a soft click. In one smooth motion, she reassembled the tanto and slid it into the obi-like section of her scarf at her waist, securing it at her back. The weapon felt right, as if it had always belonged there, and now, so did she.

Izumi turned slowly to face the full-length mirror, her heart skipping a beat as she took in her reflection. The mask covered her entire face except for the top-right quarter, leaving her right eye exposed, glaring back at her with an intensity she barely recognized. The rest of her face was hidden beneath the smooth, black mask, its presence both eerie and empowering. The long, flowing scarf wrapped tightly around her torso, its tail brushing the floor behind her, and the tanto rested securely at her back, blending seamlessly into her silhouette. In the dim light, she looked like a figure pulled from ancient legends—a vengeful fox spirit, haunting the night. The image was foreign yet familiar, as if she had always been this. As she stared into her reflection, the memories she had fought to bury began to rise, slow and relentless, slipping through the cracks of her forgotten past.

The memories hit her all at once, crashing over her like a wave she couldn't stop. She was no longer in Maria’s house—she was a child again, back in Brazil, standing in the middle of the room where her family was slaughtered. The heat of the flames was gone, replaced by the cold, stark reality she had suppressed for years. There was no fire—it had been a massacre. Her family had been posed like they were fighting, frozen in death, their blood painting the walls like a grotesque work of art. Izumi could see it now, the horror she had buried beneath layers of false memories. She felt the helplessness creeping back, but it was different this time. The helpless girl who had stood there in shock was gone—she was no longer just a victim. The truth was back, and with it, the strength she had forgotten.

The next wave of memories surged forward, sharp and clear. She was no longer the child frozen in fear—she was training, just as she had from the age of three. Her shinobi training came flooding back in vivid detail: the swift, precise movements of her body, the rhythmic clash of steel, the hours spent mastering techniques meant for someone much older. She remembered the feel of a blade in her hand, the way her muscles moved without thought, instinct guiding her every strike. Every punch, every block, every evasion had been drilled into her until it became second nature. She had forgotten none of it. Her body had known all along. Now, as the memories returned, so did the skills, like a veil lifting to reveal the warrior she was always meant to be. Izumi had mastered these movements as a child, and now, they were hers to reclaim.

The final wave of memories hit harder than the rest, pulling her deeper into the truth she had been forced to forget. Her family hadn’t just been Yakuza—they had been enforcers of a higher code. Their mission was to punish those who preyed on the innocent, those who overstepped the boundaries of their criminal world. They were the shadows that mocked evil men, the unseen force that made sure justice was dealt, even in the dark corners where the law didn’t reach. Izumi could see her father’s face now, stern but proud, guiding her through lessons she hadn’t realized the weight of until now. She wasn’t just a part of the clan—she was its last remnant, the sole heir to their legacy. She wasn’t Izzy anymore. She was the shadow of the fox, a weapon of vengeance, and the weight of that realization settled heavily on her shoulders. This was who she had always been.

As the final pieces of her past slid into place, Izumi felt an unshakable calm settle over her. The confusion and helplessness she had carried as Izzy were gone, replaced by a sharp clarity. She wasn’t a lost girl anymore—she was the last of the Inari no Kodomotachi, a warrior born from the shadows. Her mind, once clouded with doubt, was now clear. Everything made sense: the mask, the training, the instincts that had always been buried deep within her. They were hers to wield now, and she would do so without hesitation. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the tanto at her back, the blade that had always belonged to her, waiting for this moment. The storm outside raged on, but inside her, there was only calm. Izumi Kuzunoha had returned, and the world would soon remember her name.