The samurai had long since lost his mind.

  Through the flames of a burning oiran brothel in Kyoto, he cut down the ghosts of the men and women he had slain. Their shadows flickered on paper walls, hollow screams lost to the inferno.

  How far could a man fall into madness before there was nothing left of him?

  His katana—a blade said to hold the soul of a warrior—sliced through guilt and innocence alike. The clan called him a liability. A force of chaos. Bad for business.

  They sent a hundred men to stop him.

  It wasn’t enough.

  They fell like rice stalks under a farmer’s sickle. One after another.

  Until, finally, one managed to strike. A sword plunged into his shoulder.

  No pain.

  Only a slow, twisted grin. Black eyes gleaming with the light of a distant, burning hell.

  Blood ran from the wound, hot and steady, dripping down his fingers and along the length of his blade. He flung a handful of it into the attacker’s face. The man screamed, clawing at his eyes as the samurai’s cursed blood burned into his flesh.

  The samurai raised his katana and...

  "Yuki-chan, happy birthday!"

  A sharp snap back to reality.

  I took a slow breath. Don’t sigh. Don’t let it show.

  "…Thanks, Grandma."

  I ran my fingers through my hair, pushing back the long bangs that kept falling over my eyes. It was a shaggy mess, uneven at the sides, just enough to look like I might be trying to pull off a style. The emo kids at school would’ve thought I was one of them, but I wasn’t. I just never bothered to get it cut.

  "Come to the kitchen, dear. Breakfast is ready."

  I hit the remote and paused my black-and-white samurai film. A classic. I’d watched it dozens of times, usually before school (before hell) or late at night, when nightmares about my life kept me from sleeping.

  I wished I could be that samurai.

  Yeah, he lost his soul. But in exchange, he gained something I wanted more than anything:

  Power.

  If I had that kind of strength, school wouldn’t be a problem.

  I wouldn’t be a target.

  I wouldn’t be a joke.

  No one would corner me in the restroom, smash my glasses, spit in my face, or pin me against a locker just because they could.

  But I wasn’t that samurai.

  I was just Takuya Nakamura.

  Seventeen years old. Half-Japanese, half-Korean.

  And Yuki-chan?

  Only Grandma is allowed to call me that.

  Guilt hit me like a truck when I saw the breakfast table. We were poor (terribly poor) but from the looks of the spread Grandma had prepared for my birthday, you’d think we were part of the city’s elite.

  Breakfast was laid out on a low wooden table, an artful feast arranged in bowls and porcelain plates. A steaming bowl of glossy white rice. A small plate of kimchi, its chili, garlic, and ginger marinade giving off a sweet and spicy aroma. Next to the rice sat a bowl of clear broth and a mild seaweed soup.

  And the side dishes… so many side dishes.

  Fried anchovies.

  Marinated spinach with sesame oil and garlic.

  Korean-style omelets, sliced neatly.

  And yet…

  The one thing I actually liked—pickled beets—wasn’t on the table.

  Not that it mattered. I wasn’t eating anyway.

  My stomach was already twisting itself into knots.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Not because of the food.

  Because of them.

  Because of him.

  I checked the clock. It was just past seven, and the sky outside was still heavy with night, only the faintest hint of dawn creeping over the horizon.

  57 minutes before I stepped into that school and into whatever nightmare Do-Hyun had planned today.

  I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and forced a smile.

  Not every story has to start with action, I guess. Some start like mine. A little slice of life before the storm.

  Why did I choose to start my story on this day? Because it’s my birthday?

  Nah. Just a coincidence.

  It started here because this was the day I died for the first time.

  But I didn’t know that yet as I picked up my chopsticks, forced some rice into my mouth, and chewed.

  Grandma and I ate in quiet harmony, enjoying the feast she’d prepared. I was grateful for the silence because it meant she wouldn’t ask any questions that might expose me for what I was: a pathetic liar. Yeah. I wasn’t just a coward and a weakling... I was a liar too. And I had a feeling you couldn’t really be one without the other.

  Told her everything was fine at school.

  Told her I planned to go to college after high school to become a doctor. Or a teacher.

  But the truth was, I hated school. And the thought of being stuck with my classmates for even more years at college filled me with panic. And fear. And rage.

  "This is delicious, Grandma," I said as cheerfully as I could, tucking some rice into my cheek like a squirrel. My mouth was dry. Everything tasted like dust.

  "Thank you so much!" I added. "You didn’t have to go through all this trouble!"

  "What’s that?"

  "YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DO THAT!"

  "You’re chasing the hat?"

  "NO, THANKS, GRANDMA! JUST THANKS!"

  She smiled. "Family means everything to me. And you, Yuki-chan... you’re my family. All that’s left."

  I scooped up more rice and kimchi, chewing the first bite slowly as I looked at my grandmother, warmth spreading through my chest. As spotless and pristine as the breakfast table was, so was Yumi herself. Even at nearly 85 years old, she looked full of life. For my birthday, she’d put on her colorful kimono, a treasured heirloom she clung to. Her gray hair was tied neatly into a careful bun, and she kept touching it every few moments to check if her kanzashi were still in place. Kanzashi are not chopsticks, by the way!

  "You know, Yuki-chan," she began, her voice soft but firm, "the world has never been in order. It’s always been about carving out a little island of peace in a broken world, holding on to whatever happiness you can. My parents made it through the war. Through famine. Through sickness and death. And we’ll get through this disaster, too."

  For a moment, I thought she was talking about high school. My stomach clenched. Then she gestured toward the window with her chopsticks, and I realized she meant them. The mysterious cracks that had been forming all over the world for the past five years. We call them the Abysses. Monsters pour out of them, threatening to destroy the world. And brave heroes (or sometimes just greedy hunters) stand against the apocalypse that no one knows how to stop.

  "The most important thing in times like these," my grandmother continued, "is to stay sensible. A day will come when humanity will find a way to seal these horrible Abysses once and for all. And then everything will return to how it used to be. Maybe even better. Maybe humanity will finally learn to work together."

  Yeah. Maybe. But probably not. I hadn’t seen any signs of unity. Not at school, at least.

  "For you, Yuki-chan, the most important thing is to finish school and go to college. Become a doctor. Help those in need."

  I swallowed dryly, but the lump in my throat refused to budge. I met my grandmother’s gaze and nodded seriously, but inside, I felt like ice was crawling up my spine.

  Yumi Nakamura was a proud woman who valued education above all else. Born just before the end of World War II, she had grown up in post-war Japan, a time ravaged by hunger, disease, and devastation. The economic situation was dire, and she’d told me countless stories about how families struggled in the aftermath of the war. Her father, my great-grandfather, had died in the war, leaving her mother to work tirelessly to keep the family afloat. In our family, it had always been the women working while the men died. That was the common thread in the Nakamura history. And those experiences had shaped her unwavering belief that education and discipline were the keys to a better life.

  And what was I, her idiot grandson, doing?

  Throwing those values right out the window.

  Because the truth was, I wanted something else.

  Wanted to be strong.

  Wanted to be a Monster Hunter.

  Not for money.

  Not for fame.

  For one reason, and one reason only:

  To never feel afraid again.

  40 minutes.

  I shoved down a few more bites, washing them down with too-hot tea.

  The moment it hit my stomach, I knew.

  Nope. Not happening.

  I ran to the bathroom.

  The nausea hit in waves. The breakfast Grandma had worked so hard on came right back up, half-digested and burning in my throat. I pressed a hand over my mouth.

  Knees hit cold tile. Fingers clutched the edge of the toilet bowl.

  Cold sweat on my skin.

  Then everything came up.

  The rice. The kimchi. The salty taste of fried anchovies.

  Half-digested, drenched in stomach acid, warm and suffocatingly thick as it forced its way up my throat.

  The burning sting in my nose made my eyes water.

  I gagged again, but my stomach was already empty ... Could only hope Yumi hadn’t heard me.

  God, I felt miserable.

  Slowly, I dragged myself up, grabbed the sink, and looked at my reflection.

  Dark circles. Pale skin. The face of a loser.

  I slid my glasses on.

  Nope.

  Now I was the ultimate high-school punching bag.

  I stared at myself.

  And I whispered it.

  "I'd do anything to be strong."

  Not enough.

  "I'd pay any price."

  Still not enough.

  "I’d sell my soul if I had to."

  Somewhere beyond the gray apartment blocks, where we (the bottom of the food chain) lived, thunder rumbled. But… it wasn’t normal thunder. It was deeper. Wrong. Like a flaw in the world itself.

  Was that... because of me?

  I stepped to the window, slid it open.

  A cold shiver ran down my spine.

  The sky was clear.

  No storm.

  Just pale morning sunlight, dragging itself up the horizon. Slow. Almost peaceful.

  Then… what the hell was that sound?

  The city outside was dead quiet.

  No wind.

  No cars.

  No birds.

  And then I felt it.

  Like a shift in the air. Like a cold breath brushing against the back of my neck.

  Like eyes, watching me.

  Not from the street.

  Not from behind me.

  From somewhere else.

  Somewhere that shouldn’t exist.

  I couldn’t move. My body was screaming at me to run. But where? How do you run from something you can’t see?

  I didn’t know that. But I felt it. At that very moment, somewhere in the world, a door had opened.

  One that should have never been unlocked.

  And I sensed that whatever lurked behind it... was already looking at me.