The world once whispered his name with awe.Itsunari—the prodigy, the shining star, the golden boy who could never lose.
But those whispers… turned into screams.
The Prodigy
Itsunari had been born flawless. Or at least, that's what everyone told him. His talent with a sword bloomed before his voice had even deepened. By twelve, he could defeat his masters. By fifteen, he was rewriting the way magic was cast. At seventeen, he was declared the best of his generation.
The crowd cheered, the elders praised him, rivals clenched their fists in despair. And Itsunari smiled—on the outside.
Inside, the praise curdled into poison.
Because for Itsunari, victory was never enough. Every duel he won only proved that someone might one day surpass him. Every new spell he mastered left him restless, aware of the thousand he hadn't yet grasped. His reflection in the mirror was never quite good enough.
"If I can defeat everyone… then what remains for me?"That question haunted him like a shadow.
The First Blood
The answer came when he faced Kuroane, the Shadow Blade.
Kuroane was said to weave weapons from pure night, blades sharper than steel, faster than thought. To duel him was to fight death itself. And yet Itsunari didn't hesitate.
Their battle scarred the forest black. Blades of shadow rained like arrows, but Itsunari's flames roared higher, brighter. He burned through every blade, every defense, until Kuroane's scream was swallowed in fire.
When the ashes settled, Itsunari felt no joy. Only a cold spark.If he could kill Kuroane… he could kill them all.
The Days of Blood
Itsunari stopped waiting for challengers. He became the challenger.
The next was Slan, wielder of the thunder spear. His lightning split mountains, his strikes shook the earth. But Itsunari's fire burned hotter than thunder, consuming storm and sky alike. Slan's body fell smoking, his broken spear crackling in silence.
Then came Kanzuro, the tactician, who commanded armies like a conductor of symphonies. His fortress walls rose like mountains, his soldiers fought with unshakable discipline. But strategy meant nothing before Itsunari's fury. He carved through legions, reduced fortresses to rubble, and left Kanzuro's brilliance in ruins.
Finally, Rokuro, the old swordsman. Their duel lasted three days and nights, steel ringing until the stars grew tired of watching. Rokuro fought with patience, with wisdom, with all the weight of a hundred victories. Itsunari fought with hunger.
At dawn, Rokuro's blade shattered. Itsunari's sword pierced his heart. The old master smiled as he died, as if he had finally found the worthy opponent he sought his whole life.
By the end, Itsunari stood in a wasteland of his own making. Villages burned. Rivers boiled dry. The strongest names of his age lay in the dirt, their legacies cut short by his hand.
And Itsunari? He felt nothing.
The Cliff
He walked to the cliff by the sea, his armor cracked, his body scarred, his blade dull from endless slaughter.
The cheers were gone. The rivals were gone. The world was silent.
For the first time in his life, Itsunari laughed—not out of joy, but despair.
"I am the best," he whispered to the waves. "And I am empty."
And with that, he let go. He stepped into the void of the sea, ready to let the waves erase him.
The Whisper
But death did not claim him.
As his lungs filled with salt water, as his vision faded, something else stirred in the dark.
A voice. Cold. Eternal. Hungry.
"You do not belong to silence. You belong to me."
The Void had been watching. It had followed his hunger, his endless will, his pride. A soul like his—so sharp, so poisoned, so alive in its despair—could not be allowed to fade.
His body broke. His heart stopped. But his will remained. And the Void stitched it together, reforged it into something that could not die.
"Your name is no longer Itsunari," the whisper said. "Your hunger is mine now. You will walk again, carrying the weight of every life you stole."
When his eyes opened again, they gleamed silver. His hair, once golden, shimmered blue like the drowned sky. The prodigy was gone.
In his place stood Kimbachi.
The Curse of Survival
Kimbachi awoke in a new world, reborn yet chained. No one knew the massacres he had caused. No one spoke the names Kuroane, Slan, Kanzuro, or Rokuro anymore—those stories had already become myths.
But he remembered.
Every scream.Every corpse.Every meaningless victory.
He could not die. Not by his own hand, not by another's. The Void would not allow it.
And so he smiled, calm and perfect, hiding the monster he had been. He played the role of mentor, of protector, of noble knight. But deep in his silver eyes, the truth lingered:
He was not alive to protect.He was alive to atone.And the Void would never let him rest.