The world had found peace. After years of conflict, calamity, and shadows tearing at the edges of reality, there were those who stood as guardians: the Masked Chargers. Masked warriors who wielded the power of film itself, they protected humanity from creatures that slipped through the barrier between fiction and reality. To most, they were more than heroes—they were legends walking in the flesh.
For Dr. Kaien Ardis, a scientist of quantum mechanics and advanced optics, peace was not just something he admired—it was something he believed his work could preserve. He was a man of quiet brilliance, working tirelessly in his laboratory on experimental energy projectors. His dream was simple: to one day use science not as a weapon, but as a bridge to understanding the cosmos.
But peace never lasts forever.
One evening, while Kaien was refining calculations on space-fold equations, a shrill alarm rang through his research complex. He glanced up at the monitors in confusion. Then his blood ran cold. The images weren't of failed experiments or broken equipment—they were monsters. Figures that should have never left the silver screen. Grotesque beasts, torn from films and movies, had slipped through reality like stains bleeding onto pure fabric.
And they weren't attacking his lab.
They were heading straight for his home.
"Rina… Riku…!" Kaien's voice cracked as he dropped his tools. His wife and son were there—unprotected, unaware. Panic surged through him, drowning out reason. He bolted from the lab, every step hammering like a countdown, praying he wasn't too late.
The road to his neighborhood was painted in smoke and ruin. Walls clawed open as though by colossal hands, fire reflecting in shattered windows. When Kaien finally reached the street where his family lived, his heart collapsed.
The house was gone.
Not broken. Not damaged.
Gone.
Charred timber and collapsed stone smoldered in the place where his family's laughter once filled the air.
And standing in the haze, too late to save them, were the Masked Chargers. Their silhouettes cut through the smoke—heroic, radiant, but useless in that moment. They had arrived just minutes too late.
Kaien fell to his knees. His voice was hoarse, his breaths shallow, his eyes hollow. Anguish pressed down on him like a suffocating weight. Rage boiled in him, tangled with grief, twisting until it was something darker.
The Masked Chargers turned to him, one of them stepping forward, as though to console or to promise vengeance. But Kaien could not hear them. He could only see what had been taken from him.
Peace, joy, family—all shattered like film burned through a projector's light.
For weeks, Kaien did not leave his laboratory. Regret gnawed at him. Sadness drained him. Depression chained him to his grief. Yet beneath it all, anger refused to die. It whispered to him, told him he could do more than grieve. That he could seize the same power those masked heroes wielded. That he could wield it better.
And so he began his work.
He abandoned his old equations and threw himself into a new obsession: building a projector of his own. One not for theaters or experiments, but for himself. He studied the metaphysics of film, quantum layering, and the very science of space itself. Day after day, month after month, he engineered a device with trembling hands and a burning heart.
When his invention was complete, it was unlike anything ever built. A Projector Belt, sleek but humming with dangerous energy. Into it, reels could be fed—not ordinary reels, but encoded fragments of films that carried power. With it, he could stand as a Masked Charger. He could be more.
His first test was both ritual and madness. He chose a film whose imagery reached beyond Earth, a cosmic voyage that mirrored his obsession with space: Interstellar.
He locked the reel into the belt.
The gears wound with a metallic click.
The machine's eye flickered, and then—
A screen burst forth, pure light stretching into a tall frame the size of his body. Stars swirled inside the projection, infinite and alive. The image shifted, moved, and then rushed at him.
The screen struck Kaien like a wave. His body convulsed as energy wrapped around him, clinging to him, reshaping him. Fabric and armor assembled like strips of film winding onto a reel.
When the light cleared, he stood transformed.
A suit of white, black, and deep purple armored his body, sleek and sharp, futuristic in design. Across his face, a crimson visor glowed like burning celluloid. He was no longer Dr. Kaien Ardis. He was something else.
He was the Space Herald.
At first, he felt power—raw, infinite, intoxicating. But grief still weighed in his chest. Anger still burned in his veins. And power without peace is chaos.
Kaien's scream echoed through the city as he lost control. Energy flared around him, bending buildings, tearing asphalt, collapsing streets. His new form unleashed destruction not as a hero, but as a storm. The city trembled under the fury of a man who had once only wanted to protect.
The Masked Chargers came. They had no choice.
The heroes fought him, struggled against the strength of his cosmic suit, until finally, with their combined might, they sealed him away.
Kaien Ardis—The Space Herald—was imprisoned inside a DVD, trapped in the very medium of the monsters he had sought to fight.
And so began the legend of the fallen scientist who tried to play both creator and hero, but became something else entirely: a harbinger of tragedy.
The bell rang across Shibuya High, its familiar chime echoing through the halls like a cue for the start of another ordinary scene. Students bustled through the gates, laughing, gossiping, yawning—the rhythm of daily life.
Among them was Haruto Minami, seventeen years old. He wasn't the smartest in class. In fact, he often struggled with math and science, much to his teachers' dismay. But Haruto had something else—an endless passion for movies. From classic samurai flicks to cheesy horror VHS tapes, his room was a museum of cinema.
Walking beside him was his childhood friend, Kenta Sudo, a lanky boy with messy brown hair and an ever-present grin. Where Haruto carried himself with the relaxed energy of a dreamer, Kenta was the type who always got into trouble and laughed it off.
"Oi, Haru," Kenta nudged him with his elbow, "you stayed up all night again, didn't you?"
Haruto yawned, scratching the back of his head. "I rewatched Seven Samurai. For the tenth time. Kurosawa's directing… it's like magic, man."
Kenta rolled his eyes. "You're gonna fail exams because of black-and-white movies."
"They're not just movies!" Haruto shot back, eyes suddenly bright with enthusiasm. "They're stories, feelings, dreams! Every frame is alive. You wouldn't get it."
"Oh, I get it," Kenta smirked, "you're just using 'cinema' as an excuse not to study."
Haruto groaned, slouching as they reached the school gates. "I'm telling you, one day all this movie knowledge will actually mean something."
"Yeah, sure," Kenta laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "When aliens invade and the only way to save the world is knowing the plot of Back to the Future."
They both laughed as they made their way up the stairs and into their classroom.
Inside, chatter filled the air. Haruto's gaze drifted almost immediately across the room. His eyes stopped on her.
Airi Takashima.
She sat with her group of friends near the window, sunlight catching the strands of her hair. At the base, it was silky black, but the tips glimmered white, tied into a neat ponytail that swayed as she laughed. To Haruto, she was like something out of a film—graceful, radiant, untouchable.
Kenta noticed his stare instantly. "Oh-ho… Haru, your daily screening of Airi Takashima: The Untouchable Idol?"
"Shut up," Haruto muttered, cheeks reddening.
Airi laughed with her friends, unaware of Haruto's glances. Her voice carried softly across the room.
"She's way out of your league," Kenta teased, tapping Haruto's shoulder. "You're more of a background extra, man. She's the lead actress."
"Every lead actress needs a co-star," Haruto shot back, though his tone was more hopeful than confident.
The door slid open. Their homeroom teacher, Mr. Yoshida, walked in, holding a stack of papers. He was a tired man with glasses always sliding down his nose.
"Alright, everyone, quiet down," Mr. Yoshida said, setting the papers on the desk. "Today we'll be reviewing quadratic equations, so I hope you all—yes, Kenta, that means you—actually took notes yesterday."
Groans erupted from the students.
"Math again?" one boy muttered.
Mr. Yoshida adjusted his glasses. "Yes, math again. Because unlike your favorite video games, life requires numbers. Now open your books to page—"
BOOOOOM.
The wall exploded inward, showering the classroom in dust and rubble. Screams erupted as students toppled from their chairs.
From the smoke emerged a towering figure, twisted and horrific. Its body was a grotesque mixture of sinew and shadows, eyes glowing like burning coals.
"Eligos…" Mr. Yoshida whispered, stumbling back.
The creature roared, its voice splitting the air.
"Run!" students screamed, bolting toward the exit. Haruto grabbed Kenta's arm.
"Come on!"
But at the doorway, another figure emerged—a twisted humanoid, pale and grinning with jagged teeth. Its body looked stitched together from nightmare scraps of horror film reels.
"A Deadite," Kenta gasped.
The students shrieked, scattering in panic. The monster's claws raised high—
And then—
THUD!
A black-and-silver armored figure dropped through the smoke, landing with precision. His suit was sleek, aerodynamic, designed like a fighter jet. A glowing belt sat at his waist, a film reel spinning inside. The title etched onto the reel's casing read: Top Gun.
The Masked Charger straightened, visor gleaming. "Everyone, get out. I'll handle this."
He kicked the Deadite aside, sending it crashing into a wall. Haruto and Kenta froze, awe in their eyes.
"Masked Charger…" Haruto whispered.
Eligos roared, rushing forward. The Charger slammed his hand onto the projector at his belt. Light burst forth, and in the air before him materialized a weapon—a gleaming pistol conjured straight from the projection. He grabbed it midair, spun, and fired. Bolts of cinematic energy struck Eligos, staggering it back.
But the classroom began to darken. Shadows thickened, and more Deadites crawled through the broken wall, snarling, hissing. They swarmed the Charger, dragging him down.
"No!" Haruto shouted.
The Charger fought, blasting, kicking, tearing through them, but there were too many. His visor cracked. His armor splintered. Finally, with a shattering sound like glass breaking, his suit collapsed piece by piece.
The Masked Charger fell to his knees. "Damn it…"
And then he was still.
The projector belt sparked, its reel ejecting violently. A CD disk shot free, spinning through the air. By some cruel twist of fate, it flew across the classroom—straight into Haruto's chest.
He caught it in his trembling hands, eyes wide.
"Haruto, hide it!" Kenta hissed, dragging him toward the hallway.
Heart pounding, Haruto shoved the belt and CD under his jacket. The two bolted through the smoke and chaos, fleeing into the unknown.
Behind them, the broken classroom echoed with the screams of monsters and the silence of a fallen hero.
And with that moment, Haruto Minami's life changed forever.
Haruto and Kenta stumbled out of the ruined school building, coughing through the smoke. The city was chaos—students running, teachers shouting, alarms blaring. But then the streets grew unnervingly quiet.
"Haruto…" Kenta's voice trembled as he pointed ahead.
From the alleys, from the shadows, they came. Eligos. Dozens of them. Tall, skeletal, monstrous shapes, their flesh dripping like melting film stock, their eyes glowing with bloodlust. They circled the boys slowly, like predators toying with prey.
Haruto's chest pounded. He could feel the cold weight of the Projector Belt pressed against his ribs, hidden under his jacket. His hand went instinctively to it, trembling.
Kenta grabbed his shoulder, whispering hoarsely, "You've got the belt! Do something, Haru—before we die!"
Haruto fumbled, pulling the belt free. He stared at the DVD that had flown into his hands in the classroom. It was completely black, its surface cracked and lifeless.
"It's dead…" Haruto muttered, panicked. "The Charger—he died, and it—there's nothing in it anymore!"
The Eligos hissed and crept closer, claws dragging across the pavement.
Kenta's eyes darted to Haruto's backpack. He yanked it open and pulled out a folded poster, thrusting it into Haruto's chest. "Then use this! Your stupid movies—make them mean something now!"
Haruto looked down. It was his prized Seven Samurai poster, edges worn from years of being hung and re-hung in his room. His hands shook as he pressed it against the black DVD.
And then—
The DVD glowed.
Symbols etched themselves across the disc, characters of samurai brushstrokes, ink swirling like storm clouds. The emptiness filled, alive with ancient energy.
Haruto's breath caught. There was no time to think. With shaking fingers, he slid the glowing DVD into the Projector Belt. The gears began to spin. He wound the handle, and the device whirred, projecting a towering screen before him.
On the screen appeared seven armored silhouettes. Samurai. They stepped forward, blades gleaming, eyes fierce. With a thunderous war cry, they leapt from the projection and tore into the Eligos.
Swords slashed, heads rolled. Black ichor sprayed the ground like ink spilled across paper. The monsters shrieked, their bodies cut apart by the legendary warriors.
Haruto's eyes widened in awe. And then the projection turned. The samurai faced him.
Before he could react, they charged—not to kill, but to become. Their shadows collapsed into him, their forms fusing into the belt's energy. The screen shattered, exploding into shards of light that wrapped around Haruto's body.
Film reels spun, winding around him like strips of celluloid. Armor materialized piece by piece, cold metal and woven cloth shaping into form. His visor slammed shut with a hiss.
When the light faded, he stood transformed.
The suit was black and white, like an old film reel come alive. Stark, brutal, timeless. His visor glowed crimson beneath the monochrome mask.
Kenta's jaw dropped. "Holy—Haru… you're… you're a Masked Charger now!"
Haruto looked down at his armored hands in disbelief. His voice cracked inside the helmet. "This is… real…"
But there was no time to marvel. An Eligos lunged at him, jaws wide. Haruto flinched, raising his arms—when his hand brushed a switch on the belt.
CLICK.
The Projector flared, casting a projection before him. Out of the light, a weapon formed—long, slender, curved. A katana.
Haruto's hand closed around the hilt, the steel cold and heavy. He barely had time to think before instinct surged through him.
The Eligos snarled, rushing him.
Haruto slashed.
The blade cut through the monster's torso like butter. Its body split, black ink spraying across the pavement. The creature shrieked, dissolved, and collapsed into nothingness.
Another charged. Haruto spun, blade flashing. He carved its arm clean off, ink splattering his monochrome armor like paint on canvas. He roared, slashing again, cutting it down the middle.
Ink. Screams. Blood that wasn't blood but something darker, thicker. Every cut spilled blackness across the ground, like a film reel unraveling, its story ending in violence.
Haruto's movements grew faster, more brutal. He hacked, stabbed, cleaved—samurai precision mixed with raw terror. The street became a battlefield painted in shadow and gore. Limbs fell. Heads rolled. The Eligos were no longer hunting—they were being slaughtered.
Kenta could only stare, frozen in awe and horror. "Haru… you're cutting them down like… like you're inside the movie itself…"
Haruto's visor glowed as he stood among the remains, chest heaving, katana dripping with black ichor. The monsters hissed, their courage faltering. The boy who once spent nights watching old films had become one.
And for the first time, Haruto Minami understood—
his love for cinema wasn't just a dream.
It was his weapon.
Haruto stood surrounded by the writhing remains of the Eligos, his armor dripping with black ink. His katana trembled in his grip as the belt projector hummed faintly at his waist. The red glow of his visor pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
More Eligos crawled from the shadows, dozens of them, hissing and snarling as they circled. Haruto tightened his grip, ready to swing again—
But then his hand brushed against the winding crank on the Projector.
"…What if…?" he muttered, hesitation breaking into instinct.
With a deep breath, he wound it again. Click—whirrrrr.
The projector sparked violently, casting a massive screen of light above him. Haruto shielded his eyes as the image stabilized—and there it was.
The iconic scene.
Seven silhouettes standing on a rain-soaked battlefield, katana in hand. The final charge of the Seven Samurai.
The projection shuddered, and then a surge of energy ripped through Haruto's body. The belt spoke in a low, mechanical voice that echoed in his chest:
"FINAL CUT: SEVEN STRIDE!"
Haruto's visor flared crimson as the katana in his hands glowed white-hot. Ink-black flames licked along its edge, curling like brushstrokes of calligraphy.
The Eligos shrieked and lunged all at once.
Haruto leapt forward.
Seven afterimages of him split from his body, each one taking the form of a samurai warrior. They dashed alongside him in perfect unison.
One slash. Two. Three. The afterimages struck with him, each blow carving through an Eligos. Limbs fell, torsos split, heads severed. Ink sprayed like fountains, painting the battlefield in violent strokes.
The monsters' shrieks filled the air, only to be drowned out by the roaring storm of the attack. Haruto spun, jumped, and delivered the final downward strike—
SLASH!
A shockwave burst outward, tearing through the horde. Every Eligos in sight froze for a split second. Then, in eerie silence, their bodies split apart into ribbons of film stock, disintegrating into nothing.
The projection shattered. The seven afterimages vanished. And Haruto collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, katana buried in the cracked pavement.
The battlefield was silent. Not a single Eligos remained.
Kenta stumbled forward, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. "H-Haru… you… you just…"
Haruto panted inside his helmet, staring at his shaking hands. His voice was hoarse. "…That was… the final battle scene…"
He looked up at the empty streets, at the shadows still lingering beyond the smoke. He realized one thing.
The movies he loved weren't just stories anymore.
They were weapons.
And now, those weapons were his.
monochrome armor, the katana heavy in his grip. The last traces of the Eligos melted into the ground like spilled film reels.
Kenta slowly approached, still pale from what he'd seen. "Haru… you're… seriously… that was insane. You were like—like in a movie for real."
Haruto looked down at himself, the black-and-white armor glinting under the streetlight. "Yeah, well…" He exhaled. "…now how the hell do I take this thing off?"
Kenta blinked, scratching the back of his head. "Uh… I don't know. It's not like I've worn one of those before. Try… uh, pressing something?"
Haruto groaned. "That's helpful."
He glanced down at the belt. The crank he'd wound earlier was still locked in place. On instinct, he grabbed it and twisted it backward.
Click.
Light shimmered across his body, and the armor dissolved instantly, peeling away into film strips before vanishing. In seconds, Haruto was standing in his torn school uniform again, holding nothing but air.
The two froze, staring at each other in silence.
"…Whoa," Kenta muttered, his jaw hanging open. "You can just… take it off like rewinding a tape?"
Haruto blinked. "I… guess? That was easier than I thought."
They stood in stunned silence for a moment, before Kenta burst out laughing. "Dude! You're a superhero now! My best friend is literally a Masked Charger!"
"Shh! Not so loud, idiot!" Haruto hissed, slapping his arm. "Don't say that in public!"
Kenta chuckled nervously, rubbing his arm. "Right, right. Sorry. But seriously, that was amazing. You—cut through those things like it was nothing."
Haruto sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't nothing. I almost died, Kenta. And… I don't even know how this power works. I just… I just don't want anyone else to know. Got it?"
Kenta raised his hands. "Got it, got it. Lips sealed. No one's hearing it from me." He mimed zipping his mouth shut.
"Good." Haruto gave him a serious look. "No teachers. No classmates. No family. Just you."
Kenta grinned a little. "So… I'm like the sidekick?"
Haruto rolled his eyes. "More like the idiot who drags me into trouble."
"Hey, every hero needs comic relief."
Despite himself, Haruto snorted. The two began walking down the dimly lit street together, sneakers crunching against loose gravel.
For a while, they walked in silence, the night air carrying a faint chill.
Then Kenta glanced at him. "So… what's it feel like? Y'know, being in that suit?"
Haruto thought for a moment. "…Heavy. But strong. Like… I'm not me anymore. Like I'm… playing a role."
Kenta nodded slowly. "Makes sense, I guess. The whole thing is like a movie reel, right? You're… acting the part."
"Yeah." Haruto's eyes darkened. "But I don't know if I can control it. What if next time… I lose it?"
Kenta gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Then I'll be there. I'll keep you grounded."
"…You better," Haruto muttered, though a tiny smirk tugged at his lips.
They eventually reached the corner where their paths split. Kenta stretched his arms over his head. "Alright, hero. Get some rest. You're probably gonna feel like crap tomorrow."
Haruto chuckled dryly. "You're not wrong."
"Night, Haru."
"Night, Kenta."
They bumped fists before parting ways.
Haruto's house was quiet when he stepped inside. Too quiet. The lights flickered on, revealing the same empty rooms he came home to every day.
He toed off his shoes, dropped his bag, and walked into the living room. On the shelf sat a framed picture of his parents—his father's warm smile, his mother's gentle eyes. Haruto stared at it for a long time, his chest tightening.
He touched the glass with his fingertips. "…I wish I could remember. Even just one memory… before the accident." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Maybe then… this wouldn't feel so lonely."
Silence answered him.
He sighed and pulled himself away, falling into his routine. He showered, steam filling the bathroom as he tried to scrub the lingering scent of smoke and ink off his skin. He reheated some leftovers for dinner, eating quietly at the table.
Homework followed—numbers, kanji, meaningless lines on paper that blurred together. Finally, he collapsed into bed, staring at the ceiling.
The events of the day replayed in his mind. The Masked Charger who'd died in front of him. The belt. The projection. The katana. The blood—no, the ink—on his hands.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "…What have I gotten myself into?"
But the only answer was the hum of the streetlight outside and the faint creak of his house settling.
Sleep eventually took him, but it was restless, haunted by flickering film reels and the roar of monsters waiting in the dark.
Kenta's room was a different world from Haruto's. Posters of mecha, superheroes, and manga covered the walls. His desk was a clutter of half-finished model kits, snack wrappers, and notebooks filled with doodles.
He lay sprawled across his futon, a comic held above his face. The cover read "Naruto, Vol. 12."
Kenta grinned to himself, flipping the page. "Man, Naruto's the best. He never gives up no matter how much people doubt him… Kinda like Haru today."
He chuckled softly. "Though Haru's more like Sasuke… all broody and serious. Guess that makes me the Naruto of the duo, huh?"
Turning another page, he muttered under his breath, half acting it out:
"'I'll never go back on my word… that's my nindō, my ninja way!'" Kenta clenched his fist dramatically, then laughed at himself. "Ah, if only I could say stuff like that and not sound like an idiot."
His mom's voice echoed faintly from downstairs: "Kenta! Don't stay up too late again!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know!" he shouted back, grinning. "Just one more chapter!"
He whispered to the book. "Naruto, buddy, you get it. Being underestimated sucks… but you keep fighting anyway."
He stared at the panel for a long moment, then sighed, lowering the comic. "Guess I should really make sure Haru doesn't fight alone. If he's the cool samurai, then I'll be the loud idiot who keeps him human."
Yawning, he set the comic down beside his bed, pulled the blanket over himself, and mumbled sleepily: "Believe it…"
Within minutes, he was snoring softly, the comic sliding from his fingers.