August 4th, 1778
Shirakawa-go, Japan
I remember it all as if it happened just yesterday. I was born to parents I would never know, left alone until I was sold to a man named Kagehiro Sakai. He became my master.
Kagehiro Sakai wasn't a parent or a guide. He was cold, ruthless, training me and other orphans around my age to be obedient—perfect instruments for his will. In his eyes, we were nothing more than puppets, useful only for what he could shape us into. Training us meant breaking us down; he drove us to the brink of exhaustion, starved us when we disappointed him, and punished any disobedience without hesitation.
We lived on Mount Koya, where the cold bit into our bones and the forests hid all manner of beasts. Each day was spent on brutal training, dragging us into those misty forests where we learned to endure the harsh conditions and survive with next to nothing. We trained not just in strength and agility but in shadow—how to ambush, assassinate, poison, and kill with quiet efficiency. The target's age, nationality, or innocence didn't matter. If someone paid for their death, we were to deliver it without question or mercy.
My companions were just ordinary children shaped into something unnatural, but I was different. I was one of the rare "gifted," blessed with a unique ability that Kagehiro favored above all. He pushed me harder, expected more of me, yet I was numb to the mystery of my past. I didn't wonder about my real parents or why my life was filled with violence. All I knew was that I had been made into a weapon—a Shinobi. My hands were stained with innocent blood, shed for the shadowed deals that profited men like Kagehiro.
One rainy morning, as my fellow "siblings" and I sat shivering, the youngest of us, a girl we called Eighteen, looked up at me, clutching her growling stomach. "Big Sis, I'm hungry," she murmured.
I met her gaze, sadness filling my voice. "I'm sorry, Eighteen. I don't have anything for you right now," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle.
Her stomach growled again, louder this time, and she grumbled in frustration.
"Would you shut up already?" grumbled Thirty-One, sitting a few feet ahead, scowling at her. "All your whining is distracting."
Eighteen shot him an annoyed look. "Why are you trying to act all tough again? Trying to impress Big Sis?" Her words drew laughter from the others, making Thirty-One turn beet red.
"W-What? I'm not trying to look cool for Sixteen!" he stammered, his face a shade darker as he glared at her.
She only stuck her tongue out in response, taunting him further. I watched their antics with a quiet laugh, but beneath the amusement, I noticed Eighteen shivering from the biting cold.
Our master's voice echoed in my memory: "Endurance must be your only comfort. Strength is found only in hardship. A tool has no value if it breaks when called upon."
None of us ever dared to talk back to him, so we endured. This brutal training was what let us survive on almost no food, no water, and no rest. It allowed us to withstand intense heat and biting cold, though not without cost. Those who fell to exhaustion or cold were simply left behind. Yet somehow, the intense conditioning kept us alive on missions.
As I draped a strip of cloth over Eighteen's shoulders, the silence broke with the sound of a familiar bell—a sharp, cold ring that meant it was time to train again.
We all rose in unison, moving like the trained hounds we were. Eighteen slipped off my lap, standing with the rest of us as we shuffled outside from the bare, broken-down room into the biting chill of the morning. We sprinted toward the training grounds, each of us knowing today's session would be anything but routine.
When we arrived, one of the instructors faced us, his voice cold as the air. "Today, you'll be tested," he announced. "You'll fight each other to see who among you is the most skilled. The winner will stand above the rest."
A tournament was quickly organized, and the air buzzed with the energy of tense anticipation. Each match narrowed down the contenders, the winners advancing until only one would be declared the strongest among us.
Then my turn came. My opponent: Number One. He was an arrogant, smug boy known for his strength and skill, a brute who enjoyed reminding the rest of us of his superiority. We had never fought before, but his scornful glances made it clear he'd been waiting for this moment. He especially liked to pick on Eighteen—he once made her cry, and though I held back then, my resentment had been simmering ever since.
Before the fight began, he smirked at me. "I've been waiting for this, you know. Finally, I get to see who's stronger—me, or Master Sakai's prized little pet."
I ignored his taunt, keeping my expression cold and calm. I could feel Eighteen's gaze on me, and that was all I needed to focus. This wasn't just another fight.
As soon as the match started, he lunged, moving quickly enough to slice my cheek, and then swung his leg in a follow-up kick. I barely blocked it, feeling the force reverberate through me. Regaining my footing, I heard Eighteen's small voice cheering me on. I glanced over and saw her hopeful expression, and it gave me strength.
One scoffed, sneering. "What a foolish little girl, that friend of yours."
I fixed him with a deadly glare. "Watch your words, One," I said, my tone low. "You'll regret what you did to her that day."
He laughed, unfazed. "I'd like to see you make me, woman."
We clashed, moving in tandem, our swords sending harsh echoes through the courtyard with each strike. The sound caught the attention of everyone, even our master, who watched from a balcony above, conversing with his right-hand man.
"Ah, it seems we're witnessing a battle between your finest Shinobi," the right-hand man commented with a sly grin. "Let's see which hound proves to be your fiercest."
Master Sakai stood silently, his eyes fixed on us as our fight intensified.
In the ring, our battle was ferocious, both of us fighting like predators with every strike aimed at vulnerable points. We were like rabid wolves, aiming to tear each other apart. My body ached as his dagger pierced my side, pain searing through me. I gritted my teeth, twisting his wrist sharply, driving a knee into his shin and shoving him back.
He staggered, then grinned, taunting, "What's wrong, 'gifted' one? Can't use your special powers? Or are you too weak to try?"
"Shut it!" I snarled, anger flaring. My vision sharpened, and my eyes began to glow with a venomous, intense green. I felt something raw and powerful surge through me, unfamiliar yet natural. Without thinking, I stomped on the ground, and a tremor cracked the earth beneath us, sending a ripple through the training grounds.
The crowd fell silent, stunned—including myself. This was new, even for me. Whatever lay dormant within had begun to awaken.
I sprang forward, my movements weaving and striking like a Western Green Mamba, infamous for its deadly precision. One and I clashed blades again, our strikes growing fiercer as we aimed to disarm—and dismantle—the other.
But One's advantage was slipping. He struggled to match my speed, each of my attacks quick and serpentine, slashing at him from angles he couldn't anticipate. My strikes came fast and lethal, each one calculated to keep him from finding any opening to counter.
Frustrated by how the fight was turning, One attempted a desperate move—an uppercut that caught me in the jaw, sending a sharp pain through my face. Before I could recover, he lunged with his dagger, aiming straight for my chest. I narrowly evaded, twisting just enough for the blade to miss, and then struck back.
I felt something raw and powerful as I prepared my next strike—a venomous energy seemed to flow from within, coating my fist with a faint, sickly-green aura. When my punch connected, One let out a scream, his face contorted in agony as the venomous acid burned where my fist had landed. Seeing my chance to end this, I unleashed a swift barrage of blows, each one aimed with ruthless precision at vital points.
One finally crumpled to the ground, beaten and unconscious, as the spectators erupted into cheers. I stood there, catching my breath, my eyes still glowing faintly as I was declared the winner.
"Well, look at that," my master's right-hand man commented from above. "That green-haired girl won. Not what I expected…but then, a 'gifted' child is bound to surprise you, no matter their age or…gender."
Master Sakai's gaze lingered on me, a faint shadow of unease crossing his face as he observed. Strong? Yes, he thought. But perhaps, too strong. These dogs may someday bare their fangs at the one who raised them…
He dismissed the thought quickly. No, it's impossible. Yet, a whisper of doubt remained. But if that day ever comes…I should be prepared to ensure it never happens.
"A dog must stay a dog," he mused, his expression unreadable. "And a master must always be ready to put down any dog that becomes a threat."