CHAPTER 1 —
So this is how I die.
After everything I survived… after all the blood I spilled… a truck ends me?
I lay on the pavement, half-crushed, half-floating, staring at a sky that looked too peaceful for what was happening. The asphalt pressed against my cheek, cold and uneven. Someone screamed somewhere behind me, but the ringing in my ears drowned every voice into a dull, distant hum.
Blood trickled from my mouth, warm for a moment before the air turned it cold.
My fingers twitched weakly.
Nothing else moved.
"…Damn."
The word slipped out on its own. I couldn't feel my legs. Couldn't feel my right arm. My heartbeat was slowing. It felt like someone was turning the volume down on my existence.
It's strange how the body understands death before the mind does. Something deep inside me simply knew:
This time… you won't get up again.
My vision blurred around the edges, the world smearing into a watercolor painting. The sirens in the distance sounded like they were coming from another planet. People gathered in silhouettes. A man shouted for help. A woman's voice cracked as she called an ambulance.
None of them mattered.
My life was slipping away too quickly to care.
And as the world dimmed, the memories came back. Not by choice. More like a punishment. A replay of everything that turned me into… me.
A cold shiver ran through me as the past opened its jaws.
I remembered the night everything was taken from me.
A Memory Painted in Blood
I used to think the world was simple.
If you were good, you'd be rewarded.
If you smiled, the world would smile back.
I wasn't born a monster.
I wasn't born twisted.
I just wanted people to be happy.
I used to say it often. "Helping others makes you strong."
My little sister always laughed and said, "Then you're the strongest hero, Onii-chan."
Those were warm days. Innocent days.
Days I didn't know would end so violently.
The memory came back like a nightmare forced onto a screen behind my eyelids.
I was thirteen.
The night had been quiet until the sound of the door slamming open cracked through the house. My mother screamed. My sister jumped, gripping my hand tightly. Our room suddenly felt too small, too fragile.
Then he appeared at the door.
A man with a smile carved too wide, too sharp, like he'd forgotten what real expressions looked like. Blood dripped from the knife in his hand, tapping the wooden floor in a rhythm that made my stomach twist.
When his gaze met mine, my blood froze.
"Found you," he said, voice soft, almost cheerful.
I tried to stand in front of my sister.
Tried to be the 'hero' I always talked about.
But heroes in real life don't have plot armor.
Heroes die first.
I was just a kid.
He moved faster than thought.
My family…
Their screams…
Their blood…
I still hear it in my sleep.
When everything finally went quiet, he crouched in front of me. My whole body trembled so badly I could barely breathe. But somehow, I forced the words out.
"…Why… us…?"
He looked bored.
"Nothing personal. You didn't do anything."
He tapped his knife against my cheek, tilting his head.
"But the world took everything from me. So now I take everything from it."
The emptiness in his eyes… it was like staring into a void that had swallowed a person long ago.
"If I can't be happy, no one should be."
He grinned.
"Call me Death."
And then he walked out.
Just like that.
As if he hadn't shattered my entire world.
I held my sister's hand long after she grew cold.
And I learned something important that night.
Something that carved itself into my bones.
The world doesn't care if you're good.
It doesn't care if you're kind.
It kills heroes first.
The Accusation
When the police arrived at sunrise, I thought I'd be saved.
I thought someone would hold me and say, "It's okay now."
But the moment my relatives arrived, everything changed.
My grandmother's eyes were red, swollen… and filled with rage.
"Why are you alive?!" she screamed. "My daughter is dead and you're still here?!"
"I… I tried… I couldn't…"
The words stuck in my throat.
"You should have died with them!"
Others joined her.
"You cursed boy!"
"Monster!"
It felt like being stabbed again and again.
Not physically.
Worse.
Something inside me cracked that day.
Something that never healed.
I realized I wasn't a hero.
I wasn't someone to be saved.
Maybe I was the villain of my own story.
Running From Home
I didn't stay long.
The next morning, before the sun fully rose, I ran.
No plan. No money. No direction.
I just ran until my lungs burned and tears blurred my sight.
The streets didn't welcome me either.
I slept behind dumpsters, under bridges, in abandoned buildings. People ignored me or looked at me like I was trash. Once, a man kicked me aside because I was "blocking the way."
I starved more days than I ate.
Eventually, desperation drowned guilt.
I stole.
Bread from stalls.
Wallets from careless pockets.
Food left on tables.
Phones I could sell for cash.
I hated doing it.
But dying felt worse.
I used the money to buy things no normal kid should have needed: second-hand martial arts tapes, worn-out gloves, ripped punching bags from junk markets. I trained my body until my bones ached and my knuckles cracked open.
Karate.
Boxing.
Krav Maga.
Knife fighting.
Stick fighting.
Anything I could learn on my own.
Pain became routine.
Blood became familiar.
Fear became fuel.
But even after all the training…
I was still terrified.
Not of people.
Not of weapons.
Not even of killers.
I was terrified of death.
Not the pain of dying.
But the emptiness beyond it.
What happens to me?
Do I disappear?
Do I get erased?
If I'm reborn with no memories, is it still me?
These thoughts kept me awake at night.
They chewed at me, hollowing me out from the inside.
And yet…
I lived a life soaked with blood.
Because fear didn't stop me from hunting.
The Nightly Hunts
People think vigilantes are heroes.
They're wrong.
Heroes save others.
I killed for myself.
At night, the city belonged to monsters.
Killers. Rapists. Drug dealers.
I made sure to hunt them the way they hunted others.
Not for justice.
Not for revenge.
For survival.
If I didn't remove threats… they might remove me.
I tracked criminals, studied them, struck from shadows. I stole their money, weapons, valuables. Stored everything in two abandoned buildings I kept as safe houses.
During the day, I trained.
At night, I hunted.
That was my existence for years.
And yet, even after killing so many monsters…
Death still paralyzed me.
The fear of the unknown.
The fear of becoming "nothing."
It clung to the back of my mind like a shadow with claws.
Back to the Present
My vision blurred again.
The sirens grew faint.
My blood felt cold.
My heartbeat slowed… softer… weaker…
"…I don't… want to die…"
The words came out broken.
I didn't care how pitiful I sounded.
I wanted to live.
Even if life was painful.
Even if I had nothing.
Living meant I existed.
Death meant erasure.
My breaths turned shallow.
My chest tightened.
My eyelids grew heavy.
"I don't… want to… fade…"
The world dimmed around me.
Thoughts slipped like sand through my fingers.
My arms felt weightless.
Another breath escaped me.
Then another, softer.
My heart stuttered.
Everything went silent.
And then… everything went dark.
The Void
I expected darkness.
Fear.
Pain.
Instead, there was nothing.
Not cold.
Not warmth.
Not sound.
Nothing.
It felt like I wasn't even a soul.
As if I had been erased completely.
Is this death…?
Is this what I've feared all these years…?
Was I gone?
The nothingness stretched endlessly.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to thrash.
But I didn't have a body.
I didn't have a voice.
I didn't even have a "me."
Panic surged.
If this was eternity… then I had failed.
My fear had won.
But then…
A sound.
A whisper at first, like wind brushing across water. Then another. And another. Voices. Chanting. Calling out from somewhere beyond the void.
Light cracked through the emptiness, thin at first, then widening. Warmth seeped into the nothingness around me. Into me. Through me.
Something tugged at my existence, pulling me upward.
My chest tightened.
My heart jolted.
A beat.
Then another.
Air rushed into lungs I didn't remember having.
My eyelids fluttered.
And suddenly—
Light flooded my vision.
A ceiling I'd never seen before.
A man's voice shouting joyfully.
A woman crying.
Warm arms holding me.
My mind spun, unable to process anything.
But one thing was certain.
For the first time in my life…
I wasn't afraid.
Because the boy who feared death more than anyone…
…was reborn as death itself.
END OF CHAPTER 1