Decades ago.
In 1910.
Hiroshima, Japan.
The orphanage floors were always cold. Even through worn-out sandals, the chill climbed up into the bones and stayed there.
A boy lay on the wooden floor, trembling, his cheek pressed against the grain. His cries were small, more like something trying not to be heard.
Standing over him was another boy. Still. Silent.
His expression did not change.
Around them, a few children had gathered, their voices hushed but restless.
"...That's enough, Tadachi-kun. The teacher might come."
No response.
The standing boy, Kenshin Tadashi, slowly lowered his gaze to the one beneath him. "Teacher gave you work," he said.
His voice wasn't loud. "You didn't do it. And you spoke about her behind her back."
The boy on the floor shook his head weakly, tears slipping into the wood beneath him.
Kenshin simply stared.
Ever since I was a child, I followed rules. Not because I was told to. But because rules were… correct.
They gave shape to things. They made the world understandable. People who broke them… felt wrong to me.
People who disrespected those above them… felt even worse. So I corrected them.
That was all.
But no one ever came near me. Not to talk. Not to sit. Not even by accident.
It was as if there was an invisible boundary drawn around my desk. A space no one crossed.
During class, I sat in the far corner.
The sunlight never reached there properly. It always stopped just short, as if even light had no reason to go further.
I could hear them, though. Whispers carried easily in quiet rooms.
"Hey… look at him."
"Why is Tadachi-kun always alone?"
"He's… strange."
I never turned. There was nothing to look at.
I always topped in every examination. Every subject. Every time.
The teachers would nod in approval. Sometimes they would say my name in front of everyone.
But the moments passed quickly. And after it did… nothing changed.
No one spoke to me. No one congratulated me. Outside the classroom, I did not exist.
After lessons ended, the courtyard would fill with voices. Laughter. Running footsteps. Arguments over nothing. Small, meaningless things.
I would sit by the window, finishing the assignments for the next day.
Sometimes, I would look outside. Children gathered in circles. Sharing food. Talking about things I couldn't hear. Their faces were… light. As if something inside them was warm. I never understood that.
Even during festivals… Lanterns would be hung across the orphanage yard. Soft lights swaying in the evening wind. Food would be prepared.
Voices would grow louder, brighter. For everyone else, those days were different. Special.
But for me…
Nothing changed.
The same desk. The same silence. The same cold that never really left.
One day.
In 1915.
The morning was unusually quiet. Even the children spoke less, as if something had already arrived before anyone noticed.
A military officer stood in the courtyard, his uniform crisp, his posture unmoving. "Good morning," he said.
His voice carried authority, but no warmth. "Under the command of Emperor Taishō… we are here to select the most capable among you. You will undergo training for one week."
They did not ask for volunteers. They only watched.
For seven days, the orphanage changed. The laughter disappeared first. Then the whispers. Then even the small, meaningless noises.
Only orders remained.
Run.
Again.
Faster.
Again.
Fall.
Stand.
Repeat.
Some children cried at night quietly into their sleeves. Some trembled during drills. Some tried harder than they ever had before.
But Kenshin Tadachi… he arrived first. Left last. Every day.
He did not feel pain the way others did. Or perhaps… he simply ignored it better.
At the end of the week, twelve names were called.
His was one of them.
A soldier frowned, glancing at a list. "Sir… this one?" He looked at Kenshin.
"He's not exceptional. His physique is average. His scores aren't the highest either."
The supervisor didn't look at the paper. He looked at Kenshin. "I know."
A brief silence.
"Look at his eyes."
The soldier did… and then looked away.
"In every drill, he was already there before the order was given. He does not hesitate. He does not question. He does not break."
A pause.
"He will be useful."
Two weeks later.
They were no longer children. They were placed among men.
And then… Sent somewhere they could not understand—
In World War I.
The ground trembled without rhythm. The sky was never fully visible, only torn apart by smoke and fire.
Sounds overlapped until they became something else entirely.
Explosions. Screams. Metal tearing through flesh. Commands shouted into nothing.
The children did not understand war. But they understood one thing very quickly—
If they stopped moving… They would die.
Some froze. Some ran without direction. Some called out for names that were never answered.
Kenshin did not stop. Fear existed, but it did not control him.
Panic came. But it passed. Because something inside him was colder than fear.
Days lost meaning.
Then weeks. Then years. The war stretched on.
And with it… something else lingered.
Far above the battlefield—
Beyond the smoke. Beyond the reach of sound.
Something watched.
Not like a human. Not like a commander observing strategy. Not even like a god.
It did not interfere. It did not move. It simply… existed.
A silhouette.
Unclear. Almost formless. Yet unmistakably there. And within that presence—
Two faint points of crimson.
They did not glow brightly. They did not burn. They simply remained. Unblinking.
As if the war itself was beneath their notice.
No one saw it. No one reacted. No one understood. But sometimes—
In the brief silence between explosions—
Kenshin felt it.
Not fear. Not dread… Observation.
As if something had already decided the outcome.
Three years later.
The war ended.
The noise stopped first. Then the movement. Then… everything else. Bodies remained, but names did not.
Out of all those who were sent—
Only one returned.
Kenshin Tadashi.
He did not question it.
I survived.
That was enough.
At fifteen, he returned to Japan.
But the world he came back to felt… unfamiliar. Not because it had changed. But because he had.
There was no one waiting for him. No one asked what he had seen. No one needed to.
So he continued. The military gave him structure. Orders. Purpose. A place where silence was normal.
He stayed.
And for five years—
He became something efficient. Reliable. Precise.
Until one day—
Someone spoke to him.
"...Tadachi-kun."
The voice wasn't sharp like an order. It didn't demand attention. But it held weight.
Kenshin turned.
Shindo-sama stood there, calm, straight-backed, eyes steady.
"You've been here longer than most," Shindo said. "You train more than anyone. You follow every order. And yet… you never stop."
Kenshin blinked once. "I am doing what is required."
Shindo studied him for a moment. Not judging. Not analyzing. Just… looking.
"Is that all?" he asked.
Kenshin frowned slightly. "…What do you mean?"
Shindo stepped closer, his voice firm but quiet. "You've lived by commands since you were a child. You execute them perfectly. But have you ever… chosen anything?"
Silence.
"You fight," Shindo continued, "but do you know why? You follow rules… but do you know what they protect?"
Kenshin's gaze didn't waver. "There is no need to question the higher order."
Shindo exhaled lightly. "That's exactly the problem."
His eyes met Kenshin's directly. Sharp. Grounded. Unyielding.
"If rules become empty… they stop meaning anything. And if you never look beyond them…
…you won't understand the life you're trying to preserve."
Kenshin didn't respond immediately.
"I'm not telling you to abandon everything. Just… step outside it once. See what exists without orders. Then decide what matters."
For the first time—
Kenshin hesitated. "…I don't know how to live like that."
Shindo nodded once. "I know."
Kenshin stood. "Understood, Shindo-sama… I will consider it… You are my superior. I will follow your guidance."
Shindo didn't respond to that. Because that wasn't what he meant.
A few days later.
Kenshin resigned.
He moved into a small apartment. The space was quiet. Empty. Ordered.
The government continued to pay him a reward because he was the survivor of their inhuman experiment. Or perhaps… compensation.
At first, he thought he would return in a few weeks at most. But he didn't. Instead—
He created a routine.
He would wake at 4 AM. Bath with cold water. Run ten miles daily. Train for boxing and taekwondo. Strike. Repeat. Work. Eat. Pray. Sleep.
Every action had a place. Every hour had a purpose. Every day looked the same.
There was a small restaurant he always visited at the same time. Always the same seat. Always the same order—Tea.
The owner stopped asking questions after the third visit. Kenshin would sit there in silence.
Around him, life moved. People talked. Laughed. Argued. Shared things that did not matter. He listened sometimes, just to hear something different.
And then he would leave at the same time.
Every day, he followed this routine for ten years.
The restaurant had not changed. Same wooden walls, same quiet clatter of cups, same seat by the window.
Only time had moved. That day—
A voice came from beside me.
"...Excuse me. Are you Tadachi-sama?"
I turned.
A young woman stood there. Not fragile. Not hesitant. But… careful. As if she had been thinking about this moment for a long time.
"Yes," I replied.
She held my gaze for a second longer than most people did.
Then she said, softly. "It's been ten years… hasn't it?"
A small pause.
"You come here every day."
I looked at her more closely. "…You're the owner's daughter."
She nodded, a faint smile formed. "Yes."
I took a sip of my tea. "It's my routine.
…And you tend to watch people from behind the counter."
She flinched.
A quiet laugh escaped me. It surprised even myself.
"It's not a problem."
I set the cup down. "If you wanted to speak, you could have done so earlier."
For the first time—
She smiled properly.
That was how it began.
She would come by my table. At first, only for a few minutes. Then longer. Then… every day.
We spoke about small things. Weather. Customers.
The way the seasons changed. Things that had no orders attached to them. No purpose. No outcome. And yet… They stayed.
I still left at the same time. Always. Even mid-conversation.
She never stopped me.
One day, she asked curiously. "Why do you follow rules so strictly? Don't you ever want to… live a little differently?"
I answered without thinking.
"Duty comes first."
She didn't argue. She only nodded. As if she understood something I didn't.
Months passed. Quietly. Naturally.
And then, one day—
I spoke.
"Marry me."
The words came out… simply. Without preparation. Without hesitation.
She froze.
For a moment, I thought I had made an error. Then—
She smiled warmly. "I will."
I did not understand it. Not fully.
I had never imagined a life like that. Never thought I would… choose someone.
Or that someone would choose me.
But from that moment— the world changed.
Festivals were no longer just noise. Lanterns had color. Voices had meaning. For the first time, I was not standing outside of life. I was inside it.
One morning—
I woke up at 4 AM as always.
But she was already awake. Before I could rise, she gently pressed me back down.
"Stay."
Her voice was soft. But it carried a firmness I couldn't ignore.
"It's too early."
"I have training—"
"Please."
Just one word. I looked at her.
Really looked. And for the first time in my life—
I saw something I could not define.
Care.
Not authority. Not expectation. Something… given freely.
I lay back down. "…Only this once."
She smiled.
Years passed.
We had children— two sons and a daughter.
I taught my sons strength, discipline, and endurance. But with my daughter, I learned something else.
Gentleness.
She would hold my hand without reason. Speak without structure. Laugh without purpose. And somehow, none of it felt wrong.
In 1939.
I returned to the military.
Not for duty. Not for orders. But for a promise.
"Whenever you return, I'll be there. I will never leave the military. I'll always be waiting for you, Tadachi-kun."
That was what Shindo-sama had said.
The barracks felt smaller than I remembered. The air felt heavier. The silence is different.
No one recognized me. I searched for records, names, faces… But nothing was found. No trace.
As if he had never existed.
I stood alone in the corridor for a long time. Then—
A faint smile. "You bastard…" My voice was quiet. "…You said you'd be waiting."
No answer came. Only silence.
And for the first time—
That silence felt heavy.
I left it behind. Or at least… I told myself I did.
War began again. This time— It was worse.
World War II.
The earth was split open by artillery. Flames climbed into the sky like something trying to escape it. Gunfire stitched the air without pause. Bodies fell faster than names could be remembered.
Men screamed. Orders were shouted. Explosions erased both.
And yet—
Above it all, far beyond the reach of smoke and sound,
Something watched.
High in the sky—higher than any aircraft, higher than the clouds that choked the heavens—
a figure drifted in stillness.
Not standing. Not flying. Just… existing.
As if gravity had forgotten it. Its form was almost human.
Long, obsidian hair flowed—not with the wind, but against it, as though time itself moved differently around him. Dark robes hung weightless, untouched by air, untouched by physics. Its skin held no warmth, pale like a winter moon that had never seen dawn.
And its eyes—
Crimson. Glowing like dying suns.
Below—
Cities burned. Armies collapsed. Entire battalions vanished into smoke and mud. From that height, the war was small.
No one noticed it. No one… Except—
Sometimes—
In the brief stillness between gunfire—
I felt it.
Years passed.
I followed orders as always. Until one day—
They brought women.
Comfort Women.
Not prisoners. Not enemies. Something else.
I watched. Listened. Understood.
And for the first time—
Something inside me… rejected it. Not because of emotion. But because there were no rules for this.
[Author's Note: Comfort women refers to women and girls forced into sexual slavery by the Imperial Japanese Armed Forces in occupied territories before and during World War II. This system involved coercion, deception, and abduction, with victims predominantly from Korea, China, the Philippines, and other occupied regions, serving at "comfort stations".]
I felt disgust in my chest. Because this is not in our law. They're exploiting them for their own pleasure.
And exploiting without order is filth.
As I grew up, I started believing that humans are really incapable of ruling. Their orders are inconsistent. Their morals are unstable. If rules can be bent this easily—
Then they were never absolute. And if they are not absolute… then they are meaningless.
In August, 1945.
The news spread over the entire world like a fire — The atomic bombings on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
I immediately went back to my hometown in Hiroshima. To see my family. My wife. My children. I wished that they were okay.
The next day.
The train did not go all the way.
It stopped miles before the city.
The tracks ahead were warped—twisted like something had tried to tear the earth apart and failed halfway.
I stepped down without asking questions.
No one stopped me. No one spoke.
The air felt… wrong.
Not like smoke. Not like war. Something heavier.
He adjusted his uniform, straightened his posture, and began walking.
The closer he got, the quieter it became. No carts. No voices.
No wind through the trees. Even the insects were gone. Only his footsteps remained—measured, steady, disciplined.
Then—
The city appeared. Or what remained of it.
There were no buildings. Only shadows of buildings. Concrete skeletons. Burned earth. Blackened outlines where walls used to be. And everywhere—
Ash.
It moved slightly under his boots, like fine sand. He did not stop walking. He passed figures. Or what used to be figures.
Some were frozen into walls.
Some lay where they had fallen.
Some were no longer shapes at all.
He did not look at them closely.
His eyes stayed forward.
He reached the place where his house should have been.
There was nothing there. Not even rubble. Just ground.
He stood still.
For the first time since he arrived—
He did not move.
He fell to his knees, eyes widened in horror. For a long time, he didn't move. Just… stared at the ground.