Hatashi had been the weakest in physical combat — a fact the academy's bullies never failed to exploit. But Hatashi had something they didn't: a mind that learned techniques faster than anyone. While others relied on strength, he mastered control and precision.
One rainy afternoon, Hatashi found himself in the quiet, dusty corners of the academy library. He was searching for scrolls on illusion arts when his fingers touched something wedged deep between the shelves — a cracked leather book, its spine faded with age.
The air smelled faintly of damp paper and old ink as he opened it. The text was fragmented, but one section pulled at him like gravity:
The Demon Eyes — relics of crimson glass, said to grant impossible speed, monstrous strength, and the ability to read an opponent's every move. But they held within them the demon Nakimara Shinayaku, whose power could twist even the purest soul.
Any sane person would have shut the book and walked away.
Hatashi read the passage again. And again.
Weeks of quiet investigation led him beyond the academy's walls, to a forest older than the kingdom itself, where moss-covered stones marked the path to a demon's temple.
The temple's black walls were cracked with age, and the eyes of its towering guardian statues seemed to follow him. Armed sentries circled the grounds, but Hatashi's Fukashi Technique let him pass them like wind through leaves.
Inside, darkness ruled — except for the glow of the relic. Two crimson orbs rested atop a cold stone altar.
When Hatashi's fingertips touched them, fire flooded his veins. His pupils burned, reshaping into red circles crossed with black rings and four black slants (one at the top left and top right each and one at the bottom left and bottom right) forming an x shape.
The ground shuddered violently. Dust rained from the ceiling. Guards burst into the chamber — but before they could reach him, the temple itself betrayed them. The walls split apart, and the roof collapsed, burying them in stone.
Hatashi staggered into the night, heart pounding, clutching the relic's power inside him.
That night, the whisper came.
It wasn't a sound. It was a voice inside his head — cold, patient.
Then the dream claimed him.
He stood in a place of endless black smoke.
"I am Lord Nakimara Shinayaku," the voice said, deep and resonant. "And I will take control of your mind and body."
Hatashi turned toward the sound. "Show yourself."
"I'm right behind you."
The kick came like a thunderclap, driving him forward. Nakimara emerged from the smoke — tall, broad-shouldered, his spiked golden hair framing eyes full of ancient malice. The word death burned crimson across his forehead. He looked a little bit like human but appeared a little bit pale.
"You like swords?" the demon smirked, catching Hatashi's blade barehanded. "Then I'll use mine."
The clash shook the smoky void. Steel rang out in bursts of sparks. Hatashi's strikes came quick and desperate, his breath ragged. Nakimara barely seemed to try.
"I can't match his speed," Hatashi thought, dodging a slash that tore the ground open. "But maybe… I can outnumber him."
"Jozan Technique!"
Fifty Hatashi clones surged forward, surrounding Nakimara in a storm of blades. The demon cut them down like reeds, laughing.
Another wave appeared, their mouths opening in unison.
"Dragon Technique: Inferno!"
Flames roared, painting the smoke orange and gold.
When the fire died, Nakimara still stood — brushing ash from his robe.
"Next time, I'll use my full power," he said, smiling faintly. "That boy… is a true Hirakima."
Hatashi's eyes snapped open in the darkness of his room, breath sharp, skin damp with sweat.
It was just a dream, he told himself.
But deep inside, Nakimara's grin lingered.