The first thing Taro Tsubasa felt was the chill. A raw, biting cold that seeped into his bones and made his skin prickle. His eyelids were heavy, but they fluttered open against the weight. All he saw was grey.
The sky, a bleak and indifferent slate, wept endlessly. Rain lashed down in sheets, droplets slashing his face like needles.
He blinked. Once. Twice. The cold refused to leave him, soaking him through to the skin. And yet… he was alive.
"Where am I?"
Those were the first words that Taro Tsubasa spoke.
The thought slipped through his mind like a whisper, unanswered. He could remember nothing. Not where he came from. Not why he was here. Nothing.
All he had were his name—Taro Tsubasa—and the weight of the sword clutched tightly in his right hand.
He looked down, his fingers curled around the hilt. It felt both foreign and familiar, like an old friend he had forgotten he ever knew. The blade was black, straight, and unspeakably sharp. Even in the dimness of the rain-soaked world, its edge gleamed.
Taro forced himself to his feet. His limbs ached, stiff and reluctant to move. The plain white clothes he wore clung to him, soaked through and already stained with mud. His feet were bare, toes digging into the wet soil.
It was instinct that drove him. Instinct that guided his every movement. Without any memory to cling to, all he had was the drive to survive.
So, he began to walk.
Days blurred together. Hunger gnawed at him, a relentless beast that would not be ignored. He wandered through the forest, his legs moving even when his mind felt like shutting down.
When he found his first animal, a wild boar scavenging for roots, his body reacted before his mind could form a plan.
The blade tore through the air with a swiftness that surprised him. It struck true, cutting down the beast in a single stroke. Blood splattered the ground, its warmth steaming against the chill.
The sword's power was immense. Almost unnatural. It cut through flesh and bone like silk.
Taro stared at the dead animal, his breathing steady, his hands still clenched around the hilt.
It didn't feel wrong.
It felt like breathing.
He cleaned the animal as best he could, devouring the meat despite its rawness. The taste was foul, but it dulled the hunger. That was enough.
Hunting became his life. He grew stronger, his body hardening from constant movement and effort. The sword cut through beasts of all sizes. Wolves, deer, even the occasional bear. His kills were clean. Precise.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
Yet, he remained alone. No memories returned. No explanation for who he was or why he possessed such skill.
But he kept moving.
Then came the day he stumbled upon others.
The village was small, a cluster of thatched-roof houses nestled within a valley between mountains. Smoke rose from cookfires, the scent of roasted meat filling the air.
Taro's legs carried him forward, almost against his will. His vision swam, the endless fatigue pulling him down. His hands gripped his sword as if it were his only anchor to reality.
The villagers spotted him. Their faces wore suspicion, but also pity. They whispered among themselves, pointing to his ragged clothes and wild eyes.
A man with broad shoulders and a grizzled beard approached. His tone was gruff but not unkind.
"What are you doing out here, boy?"
"I… don't know," Taro answered, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"Where are you from?"
"I don't… remember."
The man's gaze flickered to the sword at Taro's side. "You some kind of soldier?"
"I don't know."
A sigh, followed by a firm nod. "Well, you look half-dead. Come on, we've got food to spare. You can work for it later."
Taro followed, his legs nearly giving out from the promise of warmth and food.
The man's wife brought him steaming rice, salted fish, and boiled vegetables. Taro ate like a starving wolf, the taste of real food nearly making him choke. The villagers laughed and clapped his back as he ate.
From that day, he lived among them.
They gave him chores to do, let him earn his keep. He built houses, carried lumber, repaired fences. His strength proved useful, and the villagers came to trust him.
The village elder spoke of gods and demons. Of good fortune and bad. Of how their small village thrived despite the harsh world.
"Demons?"
Taro asked.
"Yes,demons,they are beings born from the evil and negative emotions that live within a heart,any living thing can become a demon as long as it lets evil take over.."
Things were calm despite that unnerving piece of knowledge.
But not everything was peaceful for long.
One evening, Taro found himself sitting around a fire with the village children, their faces aglow with curiosity.
"Mister Taro, why do you always carry that sword?" a girl asked, her eyes wide.
"Because it's mine," he answered simply.
"Can I see it?"
"No."
The children groaned in disappointment. Taro closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones.
It was then he felt it. The wrongness.
The air grew heavy. Cold. Like something foul had slipped into their world.
Screams echoed through the night.
Taro sprang to his feet, his sword drawn before he realized it. Shadows danced in the firelight as villagers fled.
Blood splashed the dirt.
A man's voice, twisted and guttural, shrieked into the night.
"I NEED MORE! I NEED MORE! GIVE ME EVERYTHING!!"
A hulking figure tore through the crowd. It had once been a villager. Now, its eyes glowed red, its body twisted and bloated with inhuman power.
Taro did not hesitate.
His blade carved through the monster's body. But it wasn't enough. The creature lunged, its claws raking across his chest. Blood spilled freely.
He swung again. And again. The strikes were wild, desperate. But his body moved, guided by that instinct.
Until the beast lay dead at his feet.
Taro stood over the corpse, panting. His skin stung, his chest burned. Yet, his hands were steady.
"I…" Taro's voice cracked. "What did I....do?."
But then he saw it.
A shadowy smoke clinging to his sword, writhing like something alive.
"What… is this?"
But there was no time to wonder.
The village was in ruin.
The people were dead and everything was destroyed.
Not being able bare the terribele image of the destruction Taro's feet moved before his mind could catch up, his legs pumping hard, carrying him away from the village. Away from the accusations.
The rain returned that night. The downpour felt like the sky itself was trying to wash him away.
He ran until his legs gave out. His feet shattered against the sharp rocks of the mountainside, skin tearing and bleeding. But the next morning, his feet were whole once more.
His wounds knitted themselves together, his body repaired like new.
It was a blessing and a curse.
Weeks passed. His stomach twisted with hunger. Sometimes, he would simply stop moving, his limbs refusing to cooperate. He felt like a ghost, drifting from one place to the next.
The memories of the villagers' faces haunted him. Their screams echoed in his dreams.
But worst of all was the power that clung to him.
It never left.
During his lonely, sleepless nights, he would stare at his hands. Shadowy tendrils would dance between his fingers, as if waiting to be commanded. His chest tightened each time he saw it.
"Am I… a monster?"
The question circled his mind over and over again.
But his body never let him die.
His hunger drove him to hunt. To kill. His sword continued to prove its power. Unnaturally sharp, cutting through anything it met.
Even other demons.
They found him one night, their foul presence tainting the air long before their claws tried to rend him apart. Their forms were twisted, half-human, half-beast. Their eyes burned with hunger and malice.
But Taro's blade did not falter.
His fear of his own power became a weapon in itself. His body moved like a blur, the shadows coiling around him with each strike. Flesh tore. Bones shattered.
By the time the battle ended, the demons lay dead, their bodies nothing more than scattered pieces.
And then it happened.
Taro knelt over the remains, his mind screaming at him to leave. To flee from what he had done.
But the darkness around his hands moved of its own accord. Symbols drew themselves into the air, shapes he did not understand but somehow knew.
"I banish thee," he whispered, the words spilling from his lips with an authority he did not feel. "O escapees of Hell's deepest depths… be condemned once more to eternal damnation."
The demons' corpses shuddered. Then, like dried leaves caught in a sudden gust, they dissolved into pale white ash. The ashes swirled into the sky, carried away by the night wind.
Taro stared at his hands. His entire body trembled.
"What… what am I?"
The question had no answer.