The village had rules.
No names outside the walls. No sympathy. No survivors.
For generations, it existed in silence — a black spot in the mountains of northern Japan, far from the eyes of the government and the ears of the world. The last Shinobu stronghold. A village where children were taught to kill before they were taught to write. Where love was weakness. Mercy was death.
And then one night, it was gone.
Kaito was thirteen when the world ended.
He returned from a two-day solo reconnaissance mission, dripping with sweat and blood not his own. His uniform was torn. His arm burned from a deep slash. But his posture remained sharp, back straight, eyes alert.
He was used to pain. What he wasn't used to was silence.
The moment he crested the ridge overlooking the village, he knew something was wrong.
No fires burned.
No night watch patrolled the rooftops.
No bells rang from the central tower.
Just thick black smoke and a sharp, coppery scent carried on the wind.
Kaito didn't hesitate.
He sprinted.
Down the hill. Through the broken perimeter. Past the half-burned corpses of sentries he recognized.
Masaki.
Koji.
Even Junbei... that bastard owed him 200 yen.
Every building was either burning, collapsed, or painted in red.
He found his house near the northern wall — or what was left of it. The roof had caved in. The floor was littered with shattered blades, broken training gear, and two corpses too burned to identify.
Kaito didn't stop. He kicked through debris, heart pounding, eyes burning from smoke and something he couldn't name.
"Mikasa!!" he shouted, voice cracking.
His little sister. Eight years old. The only family he had.
He found her under the collapsed weapon rack, pinned beneath a broken beam. She was unconscious but breathing, her forehead bleeding, her legs trembling.
A thin string of relief wound around his ribs — and then snapped.
Because someone else was there.
She stood just beyond the wreckage. Her black uniform was Federation-grade — tactical, reinforced, spotless. Her blade was wet. Her breathing calm.
A killer. Not one of them.
Enemy.
Kaito moved without thinking.
In one instant, he closed the gap — blade out, feet silent, murder in his eyes.
She met him head-on.
There was no hesitation.
No warning.
Just a twist of her hips, a sidestep, and a brutal elbow to his temple.
Crack.
Kaito hit the ground hard — rolled — flipped back to his feet, blood trailing from his hairline. The world spun, but he stayed low, ready to strike again.
She didn't even draw her sword.
"Try it again," she said flatly. "See what happens."
Kaito surged forward, angling low, switching stance mid-lunge. A feint. Then a reverse slash aimed at her ribs.
She caught it with her bare hand.
Bare hand.
A twist — a disarm — a sharp jab to the throat that didn't crush his windpipe, but made him stumble back choking, clutching his neck.
Still, he didn't fall. He just stared. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
He didn't speak.
He wasn't trained to beg.
But she answered anyway.
"I'm not your enemy, kid."
He spat blood on the floor. "That uniform says otherwise."
"Yeah, well. A lot of things don't make sense right now."
Silence.
Smoke curled through the broken beams like ghosts.
Kaito's hand hovered over a kunai at his thigh. He didn't draw. Not yet.
He looked at his sister again. Still breathing. Still shaking.
And then back at the woman.
"Why is she alive?"
"I pulled her out."
"Why?"
"You can ask again, but I don't have a better answer."
They stared at each other for a long time.
Wind howled through the cracks. The fires behind them crackled louder than their words.
Then the woman knelt beside the girl, checked her pulse again, and reached into her pouch for a sealed bandage kit.
Kaito didn't stop her.
He just watched.
Unmoving. Untrusting. But too broken to stop her again.
That night, the last Shinobu village vanished from the world.
And in its ruins stood one broken boy, one near-dead girl, and one traitor with blood on her sword and guilt in her eyes.
Three Years Later…
"Kaito, wake up or I'm eating your lunch!"
The apartment was cramped. Tokyo-style. Windowless bedroom, flickering kitchen light, noisy neighbors upstairs.
The boy groaned and sat up from the floor mattress, hair wild, scars peeking from under his shirt.
"Touch it and die," he muttered sleepily.
His sister, now eleven, stuck out her tongue.
"I already licked the onigiri, you psychopath."
"Tch…"
He stood up, cracked his neck, and stared at the calendar on the wall.
Monday. First day of school.
Outside, Tokyo buzzed with life.
Inside, Kaito's hand brushed past his old shinobi gloves — still hidden in the drawer.