"GET OFF OF ME YOU DEM—"
Burst.
Shhhh.
Blood did not spray.
It rained.
A wet, constant sound, like a sudden downpour striking earth, flesh, and bone.
Screams collapsed into shrill, broken noises. Men trembled like cornered animals, knees giving out, throats tearing themselves raw as fear clawed its way out.Bodies lay everywhere.
Torn clean in half.
Heads missing, necks ending in ragged stumps.
Torsos split open, organs spilled and trampled into the dirt.
Some were no longer bodies at all.
Just puddles. Warm, steaming pools of blood and meat where a person had stood moments ago.
Someone staggered through it.
His steps were uneven.
His gaze unfocused.
A blade still hung loosely in his hand, slick and dripping.
Every step sent ripples through the blood-soaked ground.
"KIEEEKKK!"
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"A-Ashura!"
One man broke, swinging wildly as he screamed.
"HYAAAAK!"
Squelch.
The blade never reached its target.
Crunch.
His arm folded the wrong way, bones snapping like dry branches. His scream choked into a wet gargle as his chest collapsed inward, ribs caving, lungs bursting with a sound like crushed fruit.
"No— no wait— let me tell you som—"
Slash.
"Mmpghkr."
His words died halfway.
A tongue spun through the air, severed cleanly, slapped once against the ground.
Drop.
The man with crimson eyes stood before the last survivor.
That gaze did not burn.
It did not rage.
It was as empty as the void, almost pitying the man.
The survivor's legs gave out. His soul felt peeled open, naked under that stare. He tried to beg, but no sound came. His mouth only worked uselessly, teeth clattering.
The wrist flicked.
No swing.
No motion he could follow.
Nothing he could understand.
Then warmth flooded his neck.
His throat opened silently. Blood poured out in thick, choking waves. He clawed at it, fingers sinking into his own flesh as his breath dissolved into bubbles and red foam.
He collapsed, drowning in himself.
Above him, the red mist drifted.
And the man stood alone within it, blade still dripping, hands trembling, eyes vacant.
The slaughter did not stop because there was mercy.
It stopped because there was no one left to kill.
The man's eyes flickered.
Life returned in fragments.
He looked around.
Corpses.
Some are not even corpses anymore.
Clouds of red mist drifted where bodies should have been, thinning slowly as the wind carried them away. What remained on the ground was unrecognizable. Flesh pulped into the earth. Bones cracked and scattered. Blood soaked so deep it gleamed black.
He looked down at his hand.
The blade was still there.
Drip.
Drip.
Fresh blood slid along the edge, thick and warm, refusing to dry.
He lifted his head.
Snow was falling.
How convenient.
A single snowflake brushed against his cheek.
The cold jolted his nerves back to life.
His legs gave out.
He dropped to his knees.
The world shifted.
The ground vanished.
He was standing in a sea of blood.
Not imagined. Not symbolic.
It reached halfway up his body, heavy and warm, tugging at him with every breath. The surface rippled as if alive. The smell of iron crushed his lungs.
He raised his hand.
Skin. Flesh. Veins.
All coated in blood that never dried.
Never washed away.
Never forgave.
His teeth sank into his tongue.
Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic, spilling past his lips. His vision twisted. The sky spun. His eyes rolled back as strength drained from his body.
He collapsed forward.
In the sea of blood, he submerged face first.
Drowning.
Bathing.
Consumed.
In the real world, his body lay motionless beneath the falling snow.
White piled over red.
His breath came shallow, uneven.
The cold crept in.
Hypothermia tightening its grip as the battlefield fell silent, leaving only snow, corpses, and a man who could not tell which world was real anymore.
Snow continued to fall.
It piled gently over his body, layer after layer, until his outline blurred, then vanished entirely. The battlefield lost its shape. Bloodstains faded beneath white. Corpses were erased, swallowed whole by the silence of winter.
Hours passed.
The ground became pure white.
Another hour.
Another.
Then—
An old man walking through the forest stopped.
His arm rested behind his back as his sharp eyes caught something unnatural among the snowdrifts. A mound too uneven. Too deliberate. He stepped closer, boots crunching softly.
A child.
Half-buried.
The old man sighed quietly and knelt. Winter claimed many every year. He reached out, intending to cover the boy properly, to grant him at least a clean rest beneath the snow.
"Hufff...."
A thin vapor escaped from the boy's lips.
The old man's eyes narrowed.
Alive.
Without hesitation, he brushed the snow away, exposing a pale face stained faintly with dried blood. The boy's skin was cold. Too cold. And yet his body trembled faintly, clinging to life by instinct alone.
"Tch…"
The old man lifted him easily, settling the boy onto his back.
In the next breath, he was gone.
Branches bent and snapped as he leapt from tree to tree, his movements soundless despite the weight he carried. Wind roared past them, snow scattering in his wake.
The boy's body no longer burned with fever.
That was worse.
It meant the body had surrendered heat production entirely.
He had little time.
The old man descended into the sect grounds in a single fluid motion, landing without sound.
"Grandmaster."
Disciples noticed immediately. They froze, then bowed deeply.
The old man did not slow.
"Bring this boy warmth. Quickly."
"Yes, Master!"
Hands moved at once. The boy was taken from his back, rushed inside as the doors slammed shut against the cold.
Behind them, snow continued to fall.
And somewhere beneath it, the battlefield remained buried, unseen, pretending nothing had ever happened.
They laid him beside a stove, its embers glowing softly.
One disciple knelt and placed a palm against the boy's chest. Chi circulated. The hand glowed faintly as warmth was forced back into a body that had nearly surrendered to the cold. Slowly, stubbornly, heat spread through frostbitten flesh.
Another disciple worked at his limbs, rubbing life back into stiffened muscles.
Someone else knelt by his head.
Heating ointment was pressed gently along his neck, fingers careful, almost hesitant. Purple lips trembled faintly as a warm, damp cloth was placed across his forehead.
Days passed
The cloth was replaced again and again, as if persistence alone could call him back.
That disciple stayed longer than necessary.
Watching.
Hoping.
For the boy to wake up.
A week passed.
He lay unmoving on a floor bed, wrapped in blankets, breath shallow but steady. Snow melted outside. Days turned. Nights came and went.
Then his body flinched.
A tremor ran through him, sharp and sudden.
A voice echoed in the dark.
Someone familiar.
Someone he had to protect.
"K…"
His fingers twitched.
His breath caught.
And slowly, painfully, the boy opened his eyes.
He pushed himself upright.
Sitting.
He blinked once.
Then again.
The place was unfamiliar.
His gaze drifted left and right. Wooden carvings lined the walls, intricate and deliberate, their patterns regal yet restrained. Every line spoke of discipline rather than decoration.
He turned toward the window.
Light slipped through the narrow gap, pale and cold. The scent of snow still lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable, clinging to his breath.
He moved to stand.
His balance failed him immediately.
His body lurched. He grabbed his stomach on instinct.
Empty.
So empty it hurt.
He clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head to steady himself, then staggered forward and pushed the door open.
Light exploded into his vision.
The sun blinded him. He squinted hard, raising a hand to shield his eyes as warmth poured over his skin.
Then sound struck him.
Sharp.
Rhythmic.
A repeated, sonorous war cry tore through the air.
"Hah!"
"Hya!"
"Hup!"
He turned toward it.
Beyond the courtyard, rows of men moved in unison, bodies low and grounded, fists and feet cutting clean arcs through the air.
Assassins in training?
Their strikes were heavy with intent. Their shouts shook the ground.
The boy stood frozen at the threshold, sunlight on his face, watching as discipline and violence moved as one.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Instinct ignited.
His body moved before thought could form.
He swept low.
The one who grabbed him let out a startled sound.
"Huh?"
The ground vanished beneath the man's feet. His body lifted, balance shattered, and before he could react, a kick snapped upward toward his head.
A hand shot out.
It caught the kick. As the disciple lands safely on his feet.
The boy's eyes widened.
"Easy, the—"
Too late.
He twisted midair and brought his heel down in an axe kick.
The old man stepped aside with a single shift of his body, calm and effortless. The heel struck nothing but air.
The instant the boy touched the ground, he spun.
A double kick lashed out, fast and sharp.
The old man redirected it with his forearm, turning force aside like water.
The courtyard froze.
War cries died mid-breath. Dozens of eyes snapped toward them.
Then the old man's hand changed.
Fingers curled.
Muscles tightened.
His palm shaped itself into a tiger's claw as it sliced forward, precise and merciless, aimed not to kill but to incapacitate. The edge of the strike cut toward the boy's neck.
And then—
He was gone.
No step. No wind. No sound.
One moment he stood there.
The next, the claw passed through empty space.
The boy reappeared a short distance away, feet already planted, body angled defensively. There was no blur, no visible movement between positions, as if reality itself had skipped a page.
The old man's eyes sharpened.
The courtyard was silent now.
Every disciple stood still, staring at the boy who had just slipped out of existence without using chi.
The boy clenched his fist.
Under the sunlight, his crimson eyes glimmered faintly.
Then—
Slip.
He was in front of the old man.
There was no step. No shift of weight. No transition the eye could follow. It felt as if the mind itself had ignored the moment he moved, skipping it entirely.
His fist drove straight for the jugular.
The old man reacted on instinct alone, catching it at the last possible instant. The impact rattled his arm.
Another strike followed immediately, sharp and low, aimed for the kidney.
Redirected.
Again.
The old man's expression tightened.
The intent was clear.
Not murder.
But absolutely not restraint either.
"Tsk."
Chi surged.
It burst outward in a controlled release, slicing the air into a compressed arc. Wind screamed as the force shaped itself into a claw, a tiger's slash tearing forward with lethal precision.
To an unawakened body, it should have been invisible.
But the boy felt it.
Not saw it.
Felt it.
Something was wrong with the wind.
He vanished.
The slash tore through empty space.
The boy reappeared inside the old man's guard, arm snapping upward toward his face.
BWAMP!
The impact thundered across the courtyard as the old man crossed his arms just in time, boots skidding back against the stone.
"GRANDMASTER!"
Voices erupted at once, disciples rushing forward as the dust settled, all eyes locked on the boy who had just challenged a sect master without chi.
They watched as the grandmaster blocked the blow with his open palm.
The impact drove him back, shoes skidding across the stone.
This boy was not normal.
With a flick of his wrist, the grandmaster seized the boy's arm and yanked him forward. His other arm coiled, elbow lining up straight for the boy's Adam's apple.
The gap closed too fast.
Dragged by raw strength, the boy could only stare as the elbow descended.
Then a memory flashed.
The one thing he refused to lose.
"Kōin!"
He planted his feet.
Twisted.
A backflip kick snapped upward, forcing the old man away. The boy landed lightly, almost weightless, yet his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees.
A hoarse cry tore from his throat.
Crimson eyes burned as he looked up at the grandmaster.
His body trembled. He was spent. Empty stomach, drained muscles. If this continued, he would lose.
No.
He could not lose.
If he did, he would be enslaved again.
Used again.
Turned back into a mindless killer.
Fear strangled his breath.
He did not want that.
He did not want to drown again.
Then a voice.
Please.
Do not make me drown myself in the sea of blood again.
He gritted his teeth. No.
He bit down on his tongue until blood filled his mouth, forcing himself to ignore the cramps, the dizziness.
He stood.
The disciples moved to assist, but the grandmaster raised a hand and slowly shook his head.
They would only get in the way.
This boy could tear through them in moments.
The grandmaster studied him.
Those eyes.
Fearful.
Not of death. Not of pain.
Fear of himself.
Fear of drowning.
And then the scent hit him.
Wrong.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
A stench he had known long ago.
The scent born only from war and endless slaughter, or the scent of the mindless murderer lusting over death.
Yet this was worse.
Far worse.
Blood.
Demonic.
The making of an Ashura.
It was thick. Unnaturally thick, clinging to the boy like smoke.
How many lives had he taken?
Hundreds?
No. Less than that would not stain so deeply.
Thousands?
Perhaps. Yet even at the height of war, his own aura had never been this dense.
No…
More.
Far more.
Then the boy spoke, voice breaking.
"I will not. Never again. I will never be a blade again!"
The grandmaster stiffened.
The boy was crying.
Tears ran freely, yet his legs did not buckle.
Then the grandmaster noticed it.
A blade.
Embedded in the boy's back.
Cold steel protruding through torn cloth.
Impossible.
No one had moved.
Where… did it come from?
"Easy… child. We mean you no harm."
The boy did not believe a word of it.
He shifted his footing and took a stance.
The grandmaster's eyes sharpened.
Not just an assassin.
Worse.
A shinobi.
The angle of the dagger. The weight distribution. The intent.
Kill on sight.
The grandmaster exhaled slowly.
There were ways to incapacitate him, but none of them were simple. He would have to be serious now.
Killing the boy would leave a foul taste in his mouth.
No. He needed answers.
The scent of Ashura clung too thickly to a body this young. He had to know why.
Alive.
The grandmaster's fingers glowed faintly as chi coated his hands. He settled into his stance.
Around them, the disciples fell silent.
They could feel it.
Their master had stopped holding back.
The boy looked around through a haze.
He could not focus. The landscape, the buildings, all of it blurred together. He was standing on the edge of collapse.
His grip shifted.
Then he threw the dagger.
The grandmaster frowned. A foolish move. No assassin reeked this strongly of Ashura and discarded their blade so easily.
He was wrong.
The world slowed.
Only for the boy.
Dragging his failing body forward, he limped toward the dagger still hanging in the air. His fingers closed around the hilt. His vision flickered, black bleeding into sight.
Just one cut.
Cut the old man's throat and run.
The world remained slow. Too slow.
Everyone else barely moved.
The boy appeared before the grandmaster.
His cramped arm screamed as he forced it forward, the blade inching toward the old man's neck, brushing beard and skin.
So close.
Come on.
COME ON.
Blood spilled from his mouth as he coughed.
The world snapped back to normal.
Gasps rang out. The grandmaster froze, staring at the blade already at his throat. For a heartbeat, he was truly at the boy's mercy.
Then the hand trembled.
The dagger slipped.
It clattered against the ground.
The boy collapsed to his knees, head falling forward, body finally giving in.
The disciples rushed in, pinning the boy's limbs as the grandmaster rubbed the back of his neck. Blood welled there, drawn by nothing more than the blade hovering near it.
Intrigued by its sharpness, he looked down and reached for the dagger.
His fingers passed straight through the handle.
The grandmaster stiffened. He tried again. Nothing. It was as if the blade did not exist.
He exhaled slowly.
This child he had sheltered was not normal. Not in any sense of the word.
"Tie him up."
As he turned away, the blade vanished.
The grandmaster froze and snapped his gaze back, scanning the ground, the air, then the boy himself.
"Check his belongings."
They searched him thoroughly, stripping him down to skin.
Nothing.
No sheath. No weapon.
Nothing at all.
They placed the boy in a quiet room, limbs bound, while the grandmaster remained seated nearby, waiting.
Porridge was fed to him while he was still unconscious. Warm. Plain. Tasteless.
Days passed.
The grandmaster did not move from his spot, scroll in hand, eyes calm, patient.
Then the boy stirred.
His eyes opened.
He pulled at his arm.
The rope held firm.
So even in this life, he could not escape being bound.
A hollow breath left him. He slumped forward, head hanging low.
A blade was all he would ever be.
The rustle of parchment stopped.
The grandmaster looked up.
"It takes a lot of kills," he said quietly, "to make the stench of Ashura that thick."
He set the scroll aside and brushed his beard, eyes never leaving the boy.
"Tell me, boy. Who are you."
"..."
He did not answer.
To him, words were meaningless. Words had never saved him from being sharpened into a blade.
"Do you think I like killing?"
The grandmaster's eyes hardened.
"Considering the stench of Ashura clinging to you, I doubt it. Only blood-crazed maniacs carry it this thick."
"..."
The boy's lips trembled. He swallowed, throat tight.
"The countless lives I took," he said at last. "For what?"
He lifted his head and looked at the old man.
Those crimson eyes were unfocused, their glow dull, as if fading into something hollow. Staring into them hurt. Not because of malice, but because of the grief packed so tightly it was suffocating.
"How many?" the boy continued, voice breaking. "How many sons, daughters, mothers, fathers did you think I butchered?"
His breathing grew ragged.
"You think I enjoyed it?" he shouted, veins standing out on his neck. "You think I wanted to feel their bones break in my hands, hear them choke on blood?"
His restraints rattled as his body shook.
"Your kindred forced me!" he screamed. "They forced me to do those heinous things!"
Silence followed.
The grandmaster had seen Ashura before. Many of them.
At this depth, they were all the same. Empty eyes. Smiles carved by slaughter. Minds long drowned in bloodlust.
But this boy was different.
The Ashura stench around him was thick enough to suffocate a battlefield.
Yet his mind was still intact.
Cracked. Fraying. On the verge of collapse.
But not lost.
Not yet.
"I know what you want," the boy spat. "You want a blade, huh? A perfect killer. Again."
His bound hands trembled.
"Isn't that why you train those assassins?"
"…"
The grandmaster exhaled slowly. He even thought this sect was forging assassins.
The silence was heavy, not dismissive. He could see it clearly now. The damage ran too deep. This was not fear of death. This was a fear of purpose. Fear of being shaped, pointed, and swung by someone else until nothing remained.
Left like this, the boy would rot from the inside out. Insanity was not a possibility. It was an inevitability.
"Tell me your name," the old man said at last.
"…"
The boy's jaw tightened.
"…What does it matter," he muttered. "When you'll just call me a blade."
The man scoffed.
"What blade would I even need from you?"
"Don't make me laugh!" the boy snapped. "All humans are the same. All of you. Greed. Power. Wealth. That's all you care about."
"Correct," the old man replied calmly. "But taking that path would make you one of us."
"As if your kind didn't already shape me into this," the boy hissed. "As if I chose what I became."
"In the end," the grandmaster said, eyes steady, "were those not your hands that killed them?"
He sucked in a sharp breath, teeth grinding, cheeks clenched hard enough to draw blood.
"And what if I didn't?" he growled through the pain. "Let them kill my only family? Let them torture me? I'd rather you just kill me."
The grandmaster studied him.
"How brave," he murmured. "To choose death over living as a tool. I like that way of thinking."
He crouched down until they were eye level.
"But I don't need a blade," the old man said softly. "Even if that blade were as perfect as the heavens."
Suddenly, the air tightened.
"However… many Ashura drown themselves in blood and slaughter," the old man said. "You condemn the very act of it. As if it was never your nature to begin with."
His hand shot forward, gripping the boy's hair and forcing his head up. Pain flared as the boy hissed, teeth clenched.
"But whether you like it or not," the old man continued, voice low and heavy, "whether I make you a blade or not… that Ashura inside you will inevitably consume you. It will turn you into what you fear the most. I have seen them. I have watched them fall."
His grip tightened.
"I was one of them."
The boy blinked.
For a moment, it was not sight but scent. Red. Thick. Rotting. The unmistakable stench of death and slaughter poured from the old man's body, buried deep but undeniable.
An Ashura.
The old man released his hair and pointed at the boy's chest.
"You are going to control the Ashura," he said firmly. "There is no other path."
His gaze hardened, not cruel but absolute.
"You will not wield a blade for me. Not now. Not ever. I swear it upon my name, Baek Ji-ho."
Baek Ji-ho straightened.
"You shall never spill blood again. I promise you that."
The man raised his hand.
"Now… tell me your name, son."
The boy looked at the old man. His body still trembled. Distrust clung to him, thick and stubborn, yet beneath it something fragile stirred. Hope. Unwanted. Dangerous.
"Kōin…" His voice was hoarse. "Yakō Kōin…"
The old man nodded slowly.
"Kōin." He repeated it as if weighing the sound. "From this moment on, you are my disciple."
Kōin's breath hitched.
"Here," Baek Ji-ho continued, "I will teach you how to control the Ashura inside you. Know this first. It is permanent. No man who bears it is ever free of it."
His eyes narrowed, not in warning but in truth.
"But demons are not meant to be slain," he said quietly. "They are meant to be reined in."
He placed a hand over Kōin's chest.
"To kill your other half is to die with it."
Kōin's eyes glimmered. Faint, fragile, but real. For the first time, hope did not feel like a lie. He wanted to believe it.
So he relented. He chose.
Even if the path ahead was lined with bear traps.
"…What's your condition?"
"You will be my disciple until the scent of Ashura is brought under control," Ji-ho replied evenly. "But before that, I will confirm your words. I will confirm you are not one of those deceiving mad killers."
His gaze hardened.
"If you are proven true, you will join my sect. I will take no refusal. Letting an Ashura wander freely is no different from unleashing a starving tiger that will never be satisfied."
Kōin raised both eyebrows.
He thought for a very long time.
He wanted to trust. To trust this man.
One thing he know about his own kindred is that tongues oftentimes lie rather than say the truth.
"Then let us exchange questions," he said quietly. "I don't want to fall into living again just to be used. Give me the first step. Something I can believe in."
Ji-ho smiled.
"Smart child," he said. "No wonder you survived."
He nodded once.
"Very well. Granted."
The grandmaster sat with his legs folded and raised a hand, signaling Kōin to speak first.
"Those I killed before… they called me Ashura. You said I carry the scent of Ashura. What is Ashura?"
The man rubbed his beard. He paused. The boy's ignorance caught him off guard. Indifference when bearing that name usually meant knowledge. Ashura was common lore. Yet to Kōin, it had remained unanswered for far too long.
"Ashura," he began slowly, "was once a deity of war. Alongside the other gods, he roamed the land. His duty was to lead wars against evil."
His voice lowered.
"But war does not end cleanly. With every battle, the bloodshed began to corrode his mind. After enough killing, he started to hear whispers. The voices of those he had slain. He began to relish their screams."
The grandmaster's eyes darkened.
"Kill by kill, he lost himself. And when his mind finally shattered, he became something else entirely. The God of Destruction."
Kōin stiffened.
"It took the Buddha himself to vanquish him. He was too strong for the other gods. After his fall, Ashura became a warning. A lesson. For those who take lives lightly."
He looked directly at the boy.
"Thus, Ashura is the name given to those addicted to killing. Those who seek only destruction."
Kōin closed his mouth.
A scream echoed in his mind.
"M- Monster!! ASHURA!!"
His teeth ground together. He turned his gaze away, trying to drown it out. The memory clawed back. A family trembling in terror. Him standing there, drenched in blood.
Blood that was not his own.
The old man's expression hardened.
Now it was his turn.
"It takes countless kills for the scent of Ashura to become this dense. Most are already consumed by it long before reaching this point. Tell me," he said evenly, "what did you do to make it this thick?"
"…"
Kōin stayed silent.
He did not know if this man would believe him, even if he spoke. The words caught in his throat.
"In…"
His voice faltered. Unease crept into his posture. The grandmaster could already see it. That hesitation. He had seen it countless times before. The look of someone about to tell a lie so outrageous it would be dismissed outright. Excuses. Justifications. Delusions.
This should not have surprised him.
The old man exhaled once.
"Let's make this simple," he said. "I will believe everything you say. No matter how absurd it sounds. How about that?"
Kōin kept his gaze averted. He exhaled slowly, not in nostalgia, not in hesitation, but as if sealing something away.
"Do you believe in the path of reincarnation?"
The grandmaster paused, caught off guard.
"Hm? I thought it was my turn to ask."
Kōin shook his head.
"It will make my explanation easier for you to understand."
The old man smiled faintly.
"Let us say I do."
"Very well," Kōin said quietly. "Then I will answer your question with a story. The story of Kagemiya Kōin."
The air thickened.
A crimson mist seeped into the room, rolling across the floor, climbing the walls, swallowing the space between them. It was not hostile, yet it carried weight, like memories given form.
"Do not be alarmed," Kōin said. "It will cause hallucinations. But I mean you no harm."
The grandmaster inhaled. There was no killing intent. No malice. Only sorrow so dense it pressed against the chest.
He accepted it.