Stepping beyond the threshold of his cottage, Henry Jekyll breathed in the scent of cedar and blooming wisteria. He carried a sturdy leather bag packed with the marvels of Western medicine—sterile bandages, glass-vials of his refined serum, and the chemical treatments he had synthesized in his laboratory.
As he walked the winding mountain paths toward the nearest village, he pondered the mystery of his arrival. He did not know why the Almighty had chosen to cast him into the heart of Japan rather than a Western nation where his appearance would be common. Yet, Henry found he was not troubled by it. In his previous life, his insatiable curiosity had led him to travel across the globe, a journey that had gifted him with a mastery of many languages. He spoke Japanese with a fluid, scholarly grace, his accent polished and respectful. To him, the world was a singular laboratory, and humanity's suffering was a universal language he was sworn to translate into health.
Upon reaching the village, Henry began his work. At first, the locals looked upon the pale, British youth in his finely tailored kimono with suspicion. However, that suspicion quickly dissolved into awe. Henry treated infections with antiseptic precision and diagnosed ailments with a speed that the local traditional healers could not match. His efficiency was supernatural in their eyes; wounds that would have festered were cleaned and bound, and fevers that would have lasted weeks were broken in days.
Yet, Henry was a man of keen observation. He noticed that while his Western methods were effective, the villagers still held a deep, spiritual preference for traditional herbology in certain matters. They trusted the roots and leaves of their ancestors for the soul as much as the body.
"To heal a people, one must understand their earth," Henry mused.
He sought out a local merchant and purchased a comprehensive tome on Japanese herbology. He spent his evenings by candlelight, cross-referencing the properties of Eastern plants with his own chemical knowledge. He began to blend the two worlds, infusing his modern medicines with local aspects of traditional herbology. It was a bridge between cultures—science tempered by the wisdom of the land.
This dedication did not go unnoticed. His Japanese neighbors, who had once whispered about the "odd boy" from the woods, began to greet him with bows of genuine gratitude. They saw not a foreigner, but a dedicated physician who respected their ways. Henry Jekyll had gained their trust, carving out a place for himself in this new world.
But even as he enjoyed the peace of his practice, the "test" loomed in the back of his mind. He knew that the quiet life of a village doctor was only the beginning, and the low, restless hum of Edward Hyde reminded him that the darkness of this world was waiting for its turn to speak.
******
Six months had passed since Henry Jekyll first arrived in the mountain woods. The seasons had shifted, and so had his heart. He was no longer a stranger in a foreign land; he was a friend, a healer, and a protector. He had become deeply attached to the rhythmic life of the village, the laughter of the children he had vaccinated, and the quiet gratitude of the elders.
On a crisp autumn evening, Henry set out from his cottage with his medical bag slung over his shoulder, intending to check on a patient. But as he rounded the final bend in the mountain path, the smell hit him—not the scent of woodsmoke or cooking rice, but the heavy, metallic stench of iron.
Henry froze. The village had become a slaughterhouse.
Houses were splintered, and the dirt paths were stained a horrific crimson. Henry's breath hitched in his throat as he scanned the wreckage. "Who... what could do this?" he whispered, his medical mind struggling to categorize the sheer brutality of the scene. This was not the work of an animal, nor was it the work of an army. It was mindless, sadistic desecration.
Suddenly, a violent wave of nausea doubled him over. His heart began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. No, not now, he thought frantically. The stress and the horror were clawing at his mental barricades. He felt the familiar, sickening stretch of his bones—the internal pressure of the "other" demanding release.
He reached for the leather pouch at his belt to retrieve his stabilizing serum, but a rasping voice stopped him.
"Look at this one. A pale little bird, still alive."
Henry spun around. Emerging from the shadows of a collapsed barn were several creatures. They bore the shapes of men, but their skin was grey, their eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and their teeth were jagged needles.
Henry took a step back. He was a master of various martial arts from his travels, but looking at the twisted limbs and regenerative flesh of these beings, he felt a cold dread. Physical force seemed useless against such nightmares. Without thinking, he turned and ran.
He didn't get far. The monstrosities moved with a blurring, predatory speed, pinning him against a stone well. One demon, its claws digging into Henry's shoulders, hissed in his ear.
"What do you want?" Henry gasped, his voice trembling with both fear and the encroaching transformation. "Why have you done this?"
The demon laughed, a sound like grinding stones. "What do we want? We want the nectar in your veins. We want the sweet, soft flesh of these cattle. Humans are nothing but a harvest."
"How can you do this?" Henry cried, his doctor's soul revolting. "If you must hunt, why not the beasts of the forest? Why target those who feel love... who have families?"
The monsters mocked him, spitting on the ground. "Animals? Animals don't scream as beautifully. Humans are weak, pathetic things meant to be consumed by their betters. Your kind exists only to fill our bellies."
At those words, something snapped inside Henry Jekyll. It wasn't just fear anymore; it was a righteous, cold fury. He realized these were not predators following a natural order. They were scums—vile, arrogant parasites that mocked the very sanctity of life he had sworn to protect.
The realization acted as the final catalyst. Henry stopped reaching for his medicine. He let go.
"Fun," a new, gravelly voice echoed from within his mind. "They want to talk about fun?"
The demons recoiled as Henry's body began to contort. His height shifted, his muscles corded with unnatural power, and a dark, predatory aura exploded outward, snuffing out the nearby lanterns. His refined British features twisted into a mask of feral malice.
The demons stood stunned, their laughter dying in their throats. They had spent the night hunting humans, but as the smoke cleared, they realized they were no longer looking at a victim.
Edward Hyde looked at the demons, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, amber light. He cracked his neck, a wide, jagged grin splitting his face.
"You like the taste of humans?" Hyde rasped, his voice dripping with venom. "Let's see how you like the taste of me."
For the first time that night, the demons felt something they hadn't experienced in centuries: the instinct to run. But they were not going to leave the village alive.