In the days of gods and demigods, humanity owned the day and demons owned the night.
Humanity were no less than weak predators to the other existing beings. The war among humanity themselves was enough to shatter the bounds of gods.
Kings commanded soldiers to their deaths. Unbelievers of gods were slaughtered.
Churches hung anyone who disobeyed the orthodoxy.
Some believed the world was created by a god—one beyond our world—the king of all creations.
They wrote a book about his wonders, how the world came to be.
They spread the word across the world. Anyone found reading the book was killed by law.
This god began to overshadow the others in belief.
New believers emerged each day, only to die by the hands of the law. Some said they were mad. Others became curious.
Years passed. Decades followed. And one day, a massive gathering was disrupted—millions died by the command of the law.
It seemed this god had more followers than anyone expected.
Then came the rebellion. A resistance against the god's scripture. Believers began slaughtering unbelievers.
They forced the world to kneel. Kings were abducted.
Somehow, one night, we all became believers.
A torrential rainstorm swept across the eastern village, wiping it clean.
All but one building remained untouched.
A child was born. One with strange traits. We knelt before the miracle. The god had arrived, we thought.
But what truly made me believe wasn't the child—
It was what the child did.
The blessing we believed in was a curse.
Not just to the rebellion. Not just to the kings. But to all humanity.
A curse that turned us—once the weakest of all predators—
Into the strongest the world had ever seen.
This child became the symbol of the believers.
With his birth, they no longer hid in shadows. Empowered by his presence, the believers rose as an empire—one that preyed on kingdoms and demons alike.
The child grew—strong, cunning, feared. He wielded powers and techniques unknown to mankind. He was beyond comprehension, beyond mortality.
He became a god.
His strength rivaled the void gods, the very ones worshipped in silence.
And yet, the believers shifted their focus.
They knew. But they had to.
One night, he forced a marriage with a princess of royal blood. Through this, he seized the throne by law.
And thus, the god became king.
Years passed. The world brimmed with believers—both sincere and pretenders.
He fathered three sons. Each inherited his trait. Each born with godlike potential.
But it was the sons who unraveled everything.
Two grew too powerful—too reckless. When they murdered a royal guard in cold blood, their father disowned them, leaving only the third. A quiet, odd son. A halfwit by court standards.
But within that son stirred something darker—stealth, regeneration, unmeasured potential.
Then came the night that silenced the kingdom.
The palace was stormed. The king and his queen were slaughtered.
By their own sons.
And the halfwit… he woke.
What emerged wasn't royalty. It was wrath.
He tore through the halls, his brothers, the guards, even the nobles. The blood of gods spilled like rain.
And he stood—alone.
The last of the special trait. A curse in human form.
He took the throne and with it, the world.
King Zon—the Halfwit King.
He ruled for over a hundred years. Took more than 700,000 wives. Fathered five million children. A god. A tyrant. A shadow that loomed over humanity.
And then—he died.
The world held its breath.
The throne, empty. But not forgotten.
War erupted. The blood of Zon turned on itself.
Three million parties. Each with armies. Each with blood ties.
A war that shattered reality.
It raged for 53 years.
When it ended, the kingdom no longer stood.
In its place—16 Nations.
The age of gods was over.
The age of ninjas had begun.
Soon, they overcame the limitations of their once-weak trait. They rose above mankind, and in time, they owned the world.
Ninety-three percent of the global population awakened the trait—special, potent, unstoppable. They called themselves ninjas.
But this new era wasn't drenched in violence. Not at first.
These ninjas changed the world. Not as gods, but as humans gifted with honeki—the mysterious energy that coursed through their blood, their bones, their very soul.
For a time, they became the world's guardians.
They protected the remaining seven percent of humanity—those who never awakened honeki. The powerless. The normal.
Those few became kings and queens. Leaders and diplomats. But the ninjas? They were the sword and the shield. Trained warriors. Protectors of humanity.
Their enemy wasn't mankind anymore.
It was the predators from the old world—demons, forgotten gods, and creatures from beyond.
And for decades, the balance held.
But not all ninjas sought to protect.
Some saw the power of honeki as a tool to shape their own desires. To conquer. To kill. To feed ego.
These individuals were exiled. Cast into the dark forests beyond civilization.
They were branded with a title: rogue ninjas.
And so, the world settled into a tense balance.
When the rogues attacked, the trained ninjas rose in defense. Villages burned, people fled, bodies fell.
We—the powerless—hid, watched, and prayed.
Casualties. Collateral.
This is how the world of ninjas came to be.
And us?
We were always the same.