The satiety that followed the first feeding was a strange and fleeting sensation. The metallic taste of blood still lingered on his tongue, and the stolen energy buzzed beneath his skin, but the cold clarity that came with it was more disturbing than the hunger itself had been. Reiji Kinzoku, at thirteen years old, looked at his hands – the same hands that previously could barely hold a dodgeball firmly, now capable of subjugating a grown man. There was no guilt for what he did in the park, only a frigid realization: he had survived, and survival required an act that irrevocably separated him from the world he knew.
The hunger, although temporarily appeased, left a void, a promise of return. But now, mixed with it, there was a new urgency: the need to understand. What was he? And, more importantly, what was that stone mask that had transformed him?
He spent the following days obsessed with the artifact hidden in his room. He would take the stone mask from its makeshift hiding place when he was alone, tracing its alien carvings with his fingers. The stone was cold, ancient, and seemed to vibrate with a faint, dormant energy. The carvings resembled nothing he could recognize – not Japanese, not Chinese, not Egyptian, nor from any culture he had superficially studied in school. The mask's contorted expression was an enigma of pain or ecstasy, or perhaps both.
Research became his new obsession. Using the public library computers and the limited terminals at the group home, he plunged into frantic searches. "Ancient stone mask"," "pre-quirk blood rituals"," "human transformation","legends of superhuman strength." The results were a frustrating labyrinth.
He found countless variations of vampire myths from around the world. Nocturnal beings, supernatural strength, bloodlust, regeneration. The similarities were undeniable and sent shivers down his spine. But the inconsistencies perplexed him. The sun. Every legend was clear about sunlight being fatal. Yet, he had walked under the morning sun feeling nothing but its normal warmth. Why? Was it the mask? Was it him? And the other legendary abilities – mind control, shape-shifting, command over creatures of the night? He felt none of that, only the raw power in his muscles, the speed in his limbs, the hunger in his gut.
He searched for ritualistic masks. Found images of Aztec, African, Polynesian masks – some with vaguely similar aesthetics in their rawness, but none that matched the specific carvings or the disturbing aura of his. He found mentions of inexplicable pre-Quirk artifacts, discovered in strange locations without clear historical context, but they were academic footnotes, dead ends.
The mask in his possession seemed unique, a historical and, now, biological anomaly. This isolated him further. There were no manuals for what he had become, no support groups, no easy explanations. He was alone with his power and his hunger.
And the hunger was returning. Slower this time, perhaps because the first feeding was more substantial than the drop of blood at the museum, but it was a constant reminder, a growing pressure in his core. He knew he would need to feed again soon.
The idea of attacking another random innocent still caused a pang of discomfort, a trace of the old Reiji. But the frustrated research and the growing hunger led to a new conclusion. He couldn't understand his power just by reading contradictory myths. He needed to test it. Needed to know what he was truly capable of, what his limits were. How much stronger could he get? How fast could he move? How did his regeneration work under real stress?
Where to find an environment for such a test? Where to find a food source that wouldn't mark him as a complete monster in the eyes of society?
The answer emerged, cold and pragmatic, born from his own experience as a victim and now as a predator: criminals. Those who operated under the cloak of night, who already lived on the margins of the law. They offered the perfect combination: targets society already despised, who likely wouldn't be searched for with the same diligence as an ordinary citizen, and who, crucially, would represent a challenge – a chance to test his abilities in a real confrontation.
The idea of vigilantism wasn't born from a desire for justice, not yet. It was born from the need for survival and the need for knowledge. It was a logical solution to his unique problems.
He began to plan. It wouldn't be a desperate attack like the first. It would be calculated. He spent the following nights not hunting, but observing. Using his enhanced night vision and keen hearing, he skulked across the rooftops of less favorable neighborhoods, watching alleys, dark corners. He mapped escape routes, identified blind spots. He looked for isolated targets, low-level criminals – lone muggers, small-time dealers – who didn't seem part of a larger gang or possess obviously dangerous Quirks.
He prepared a change of simple, dark clothes, including a hooded sweatshirt he could pull up to obscure his face. It wasn't a costume, just an attempt to blend into the shadows and avoid easy identification.
A few nights after his decision, he found what he was looking for. A dimly lit alley behind a decaying bar. A burly man was intimidating another, clearly a robbery in progress. The aggressor was alone, confident in his size, and didn't seem to exhibit any obvious Quirk. It was the perfect setting for his first deliberate test.
Reiji took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs. The fear he expected to feel was there, but it was different now – an electric current of anticipation and predatory focus, not panic. The hunger gnawed, but his mind was clear. He dropped from the rooftop with a silent movement, landing at the alley's entrance like a materializing shadow.
It was time to begin the experiment. It was time to find out what the Blood King, still nameless, could really do.
The hooded figure of Reiji Kinzoku emerged from the shadows at the alley entrance, a silent predator announcing his presence not with a sound, but with a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The burly mugger, who was busy emptying the pockets of his trembling victim, turned around, surprised.
"Who the hell are you?" the thief snarled, shoving the victim aside, who took the chance to flee hastily. "Get lost, kid, this ain't your business!" He cracked his knuckles, confident in his size.
Reiji didn't answer. He needed data. Needed to test. He advanced slowly, assessing the opponent. Normal human, no signs of a physical enhancement Quirk. A good starting point.
The thief interpreted the silence and advance as a challenge. With an angry shout, he rushed towards Reiji, swinging a clumsy but powerful punch.
To Reiji, the movement seemed to happen in slow motion. His new reflexes reacted before he consciously thought. He tilted his head aside, the man's fist passing harmlessly where his face had been an instant before. Simultaneously, his own fist shot out in a swift, precise blow to the aggressor's stomach.
He didn't use his full strength – he was still learning to calibrate it – but it was enough. The thief gasped, the air driven from his lungs in a painful whoosh, and doubled over. Reiji observed the reaction with analytical coldness. Considerable force, even restrained. Opponent's recovery slow.
The man, catching his breath, looked up at Reiji with a mixture of pain and disbelief. "You... damn brat!" He attempted a grab, trying to use his weight.
Reiji again moved with a speed that seemed impossible. He spun out of the grab's reach and kicked the back of the man's knee. The joint gave way with an audible crack, and the thief fell to the dirty ground with a cry of agony.
Speed is key, Reiji registered. Allows total control against slower opponents.
He approached the fallen, groaning man. The hunger, which had been in the background during the brief confrontation, returned with full force, sharpened by the exertion and the proximity of blood. He knelt. The man tried to drag himself backward, fear now dominating the pain.
"Please... don't..." he babbled.
Reiji hesitated for a fraction of a second. That flicker of empathy. But the hunger and growing coldness won. He needed to feed. Needed energy. He bit, this time into the man's exposed shoulder, controlling the force, extracting the necessary blood with newfound efficiency. The wave of energy filled him, alleviating the hunger, repairing the slight muscle strain from the kick.
He pulled back, leaving the man moaning and weakened, but alive. He felt no pleasure in the act, only the cold satisfaction of a need met and a successful experiment. He disappeared back into the shadows as silently as he had emerged.
This first deliberate hunt set a pattern for the following weeks. Reiji became a regular shadow in Musutafu's darker corners. He chose his targets carefully – always criminals, usually lone or in small, disorganized groups. Each encounter was a lesson.
He learned to measure his strength with more precision, to incapacitate without maiming (unless necessary for his own safety). He discovered his speed wasn't just for attack and evasion, but also for psychological manipulation – appearing and disappearing, attacking from unexpected angles, creating a sense of omnipresence that broke his opponents' morale before the fight truly began.
His regeneration was tested. A small-time dealer managed to nick him with a knife, a shallow cut on his arm. Reiji watched with clinical fascination as the bleeding stopped almost immediately and the skin knitted itself closed within seconds, leaving only a thin line that vanished completely within minutes. He took a blow from a metal pipe to the back – painful, it certainly would have broken ribs in his old self – but now resulted only in a deep bruise that faded by the next day. The pain was real, but fleeting, teaching him he could endure far more than a normal human.
He began experimenting with his senses. He would close his eyes and focus on sounds, learning to identify footsteps on different surfaces, to distinguish the heartbeat of fear from the heartbeat of anger, to overhear whispered conversations through thin walls. He used his sense of smell to track targets or detect the presence of drugs or alcohol.
The hunger became more manageable. He learned he didn't need to feed every night, especially if the "quality" of the blood was reasonable. But he also realized that feeding made him temporarily stronger, faster, more alert. Blood was fuel, and he began to think about how to optimize his intake.
With growing confidence in his physical abilities came a shift in his mentality. The analytical coldness began to mix with a dark pleasure in control, in power. Subjugating those who previously would have terrified him (or bullied him, like Bakugo) was... satisfying. He was no longer the invisible victim. He was the predator in the shadows.