Rye didn't die in a dramatic way.
There was no shouting. No heroics.
It was raining lightly that night, enough to make the streets slick but not enough to wash anything away. He'd stayed late at work, missed the last train, and decided to walk instead of calling a ride he couldn't really afford.
The alley wasn't dark. Just narrow.
A delivery truck was idling nearby, engine humming. Two men were arguing across the street. Life was still going on.
That was why he didn't panic when someone bumped into him.
"Watch it," Rye said automatically, stepping back.
The man smelled like alcohol. His shoulder clipped Rye's chest harder than necessary.
"Sorry," the man muttered—but his eyes didn't match the word.
Another shape moved behind Rye. Then another.
This wasn't sudden. That was the worst part. His brain had time to catch up, and it froze anyway.
"Hey," someone said. "Relax."
Hands grabbed his jacket. Not violently at first. Just firm. Testing.
Rye tried to pull back.
A fist slammed into his ribs.
The air left his lungs in a sharp burst. He folded forward on instinct, and that was when he went down. His head hit the concrete hard enough that white flashed across his vision.
Someone kicked his leg. Another punch landed, wild and angry.
"Don't fight," a voice snapped. "Just don't—"
Something heavy struck the side of his head.
The sound didn't register. The pain did.
It was distant, like it belonged to someone else.
Rye tasted blood. He tried to curl up, arms coming up too late. A shoe came down on his wrist, and something cracked.
He screamed. Or tried to.
The world tilted.
The last thing he felt was rain hitting his face, mixing with something warm, and the terrible understanding that no one was coming.
I don't want to die like this.
That thought stuck. It didn't fade. It burned.
Then everything went black.
.
.
.
The first thing he noticed was the darkness around.
Rye groaned and turned his head, sand scraping against his cheek. His throat felt dry, like he'd been screaming for hours. He pushed himself up on shaky arms, heart racing.
He had heard the ocean.
He sucked in a breath and coughed, panic spiking as memories slammed back into him—rain, fists, concrete
No blood.
No broken wrist.
His clothes felt different. Rough fabric. Almost like a old prisoner garb. His hands were bound in front of him with thick rope.
"What…?" His voice came out hoarse.
"You're awake too, huh."
Rye flinched and looked up.
There were people everywhere.
Dozens of them, scattered across the beach, some kneeling, some sitting, some already standing and shouting. Men and women. Young. Old. Scarred. Dirty. Dangerous-looking.
Some wore ragged clothes that screamed criminal. Others looked like hardened killers who didn't bother hiding it.
And then there were the ones in white.
They stood apart, calm and still.
White robes. Hakama pants. Red lining that caught the light. Red cords tied at their waists. Each of them wore a metal gauntlet on their left arm.
Swords hung at their sides.
Executioners.
Rye's stomach twisted.
A man stepped forward, his posture straight, his voice carrying easily over the surf.
"You have all been brought here as condemned criminals," he said. "Your crimes differ. Your sentences do not."
A man near the front laughed loudly. "This some kind of joke?"
Another scoffed. "You planning to scare us into behaving?"
The Samurai didn't react.
"You have been granted a chance to earn a pardon," he continued. "You will travel to Shinsenkyo. Hell's Paradise. Retrieve the Elixir of Life."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Elixir?" someone repeated. "You mean that fairy tale?"
A tall man spat into the sand. "Nariyoshi really thinks we'll believe that?"
The executioner raised a hand.
"Remove their blindfolds."
Two other executioners stepped forward, dragging something between them.
Rye didn't realize what it was at first.
Then the blindfold came off.
A corpse was propped upright on a wooden frame.
Gray skin. Not pale—dead gray, like all color had been drained out.
Flowers burst from his body.
Vibrant petals tore through flesh. Vines wrapped around his arms and legs, rooting him in place. A large red flower bloomed from his right eye socket, petals wet and glistening.
The man was smiling.
Not a peaceful smile.
A wide, euphoric grin frozen on his face.
Someone gagged.
Another screamed.
"That," the samurai said calmly, "was a soldier who returned from an expedition."
Silence crashed down hard.
A woman shook her head. "No. That's—this is sick."
"I'm not going," someone shouted. "You can't make me."
"You said we had a choice!" another yelled.
The executioner nodded. "You do."
A man near the back bolted.
He didn't make it three steps.
A blur of motion flashed past Rye's vision.
Steel sang.
The fleeing man's head hit the sand, rolling once before stopping.
Blood sprayed.
The body collapsed a heartbeat later.
Rye stared, frozen.
The one who had swung the blade stood still, sword dripping red.
He had long, spiky red hair. A large black eyepatch covered his left eye. A small funerary bell was tied to his collar, chiming softly in the sea breeze.
He wore the same white executioner's robes, a dark haori draped over his shoulders.
"Let's make this clear," the Samurai said. His voice was rough, bored. "When you arrive on the island, each of you will be assigned a monitor from the Yamada Asaemon."
He pointed the blade at the criminals.
"You are already sentenced to death. That doesn't change."
"If you act out," he continued, "you die. If your monitor dies—accident or not—you die. If you attempt to leave the island without your monitor, you die."
The red haired man flicked the blood off his blade.
"Only those with monitors may return."
No one spoke.
A blond man with scars stepped forward.
He was tall, muscular, his body crisscrossed with old wounds. A large, jagged X-shaped scar cut across the bridge of his nose. His grin was wide and ugly.
"You're all idiots," he said cheerfully.
He put his bondage hands around the nearby criminal neck and lifted him off the ground.
"In other words," the blond continued, squeezing tighter, "you want us to winnow the chaff here, right?"
The man gasped.
"Wh—what are you—"
The blond picked up a rock and slammed it into another prisoner's face. Teeth scattered.And blood splatter
"See?" He pointed at the Samurai. "They're not stopping us."
The Samurai shrugged. "That's one way to interpret it."
"Anyone who dies here," the man added, "would've been useless anyway."
"Oh," he said casually, "and don't untie your hands."
Chaos exploded.
Rye stumbled back as bodies crashed into each other. Fists flew. Screams filled the air.
This is Hell's Paradise.
The thought hit him fully then.
Not a myth. Not a story.
A slaughterhouse.
Someone slammed into him from behind.
"Easy target," a man snarled, swinging at Rye's head. "Pretty boy."
Rye panicked.
His thoughts scattered. His body moved late. Too slow.
The punch grazed his temple. His vision spun.
I'm going to die again.
A sharp sound rang in his head.
Welcome to the Template System.
Rye froze mid-stumble.
Three shapes appeared in his vision, translucent, sharp-edged.
Select a Template:
1. Black Death
2. The Black Swordsman
3. White Fang
His heart hammered.
"What—what is this?" he whispered.
The man lunged again.
Rye didn't think.
Black Death.
Template selected.
Synchronization: 3%.
Something clicked into place.
The world slowed—not time, but his perception.
The man's stance was sloppy. Weight too far forward. Right shoulder tense.
Rye moved.
He stepped inside the punch, twisted his bound wrists upward, and slammed his elbow into the man's throat. The impact was clean. Precise.
The man choked, stumbling.
Rye pivoted, swept his leg, and drove his knee down into the man's ribs. He heard something give.
The man collapsed, gasping.
Rye didn't stop.
He dropped his weight, pressing his forearm into the man's neck at an angle. Not choking. Crushing.
The man's struggles weakened.
Then stopped.
Rye stood there, breathing hard, staring at what he'd done.
Around him, people had stopped moving.
"xxxxxxxxxxxx is that?" someone whispered.
Rye looked down at his hands.
They were shaking.
But they felt… right.
Controlled.
Deadly.
And somewhere deep inside, something watched calmly, patiently, as if this was only the beginning.
No one rushed Rye.
That was the strange part.
The man lay motionless at his feet, eyes open, mouth slack. A thin line of blood ran from the corner of his lips into the sand. Rye stared at him longer than he should have, waiting for something—movement, a cough, anything—to prove he hadn't crossed a line he couldn't step back from.
Nothing happened.
Around him, the beach was still chaos, but a pocket of space had opened where he stood. People fought, screamed, clawed at each other—but they kept glancing his way.
Not with fear exactly.
With caution.
Rye's breathing was too steady for what he'd just done. That scared him more than the body.
I didn't plan that, he thought. I didn't even think.
The movements replayed in his head—clean, efficient, almost practiced. He knew where to strike before he'd consciously decided to move.
That wasn't normal.
No one rushed Rye—but no one backed off either.
The space around him felt tight. People weren't scared. They were assessing. Watching his hands. His feet. Waiting for him to slip.
Someone lunged.
Rye twisted just in time, the punch grazing past his cheek instead of cracking his jaw. He stepped in, shoulder low, and drove his elbow toward the man's ribs.
It landed.
Not clean—but hard enough to draw a grunt.
Another fist came from the side. Rye raised his arm, absorbing the blow on his forearm, teeth gritting as pain flared. He shoved forward, using his weight, forcing space.
He was moving.
Reacting.
Keeping up.
Barely.
"Lucky," the attacker snarled, circling. "You think one kill makes you something?"
Rye didn't answer. His breathing stayed measured. Too measured. His body was already doing things his mind hadn't finished deciding on.
A second man rushed in.
Rye pivoted, caught the wrist, twisted—felt tendons strain—but the man slammed a knee into his thigh. Rye staggered, sand spraying as he lost footing.
He stepped back—
And hit something solid.
Rye turned sharply.
A man stood behind him. Lean. Barefoot. Calm in a way that didn't belong here. white hair hung loose around his face. His eyes were dull, unfocused, like this didn't matter.
Gabimaru.
Rye reacted instantly.
He shifted his stance, guard up, weight dropping.
Too late.
Gabimaru's leg snapped upward.
Rye blocked.
Forearms crossed, muscles screaming as the kick landed. The force blasted through him anyway, rattling his bones, shoving him backward like he'd been struck by something far heavier than a man.
He flew.
Not helpless—but beaten.
Rye hit the sand hard, rolled, dug his heel in, and forced himself upright before the breath fully left his lungs.
Pain flared along his arms. His block had mattered. He knew that instinctively.
If he hadn't raised his guard—
I'd be unconscious.
Gabimaru lowered his leg, posture loose, eyes already drifting away like Rye was no longer interesting.
The criminal Rye had been fighting hesitated now, jaw clenched, eyes darting between them.
Rye straightened despite the ache, feet setting themselves without him thinking about it.
He was still standing.
Gabimaru glanced back once.
Just once.
The criminal backed away.
A sharp voice cut through the tension.
"That's enough."
The executioners stepped forward together, swords half-drawn now. The air shifted. Killing intent wasn't implied anymore—it was stated.
"Anyone still standing will be paired," one of them said. "Anyone who continues fighting will be executed."
The beach quieted fast.
Bodies lay scattered across the sand. Some groaned. Some didn't move at all.
Rye looked down at his hands.
They were steady.
That scared him more than the pain.
A blade flashed near his wrists.
The rope fell away.
Rye flinched, then looked up.
A man in white stood in front of him, red cords stark against the robe. His face was calm, professional.
"I'm your monitor," the executioner said. "For now."
He sheathed his sword.
"Try not to die," he added. "It reflects poorly on me."
Rye flexed his wrists, blood rushing back, eyes flicking once—just once—toward Gabimaru.
Gabimaru wasn't looking at him anymore.
That felt worse.
"What happens now?" Rye asked.
The executioner turned toward the jungle looming beyond the beach. Dense. Silent. Waiting.
"Now," he said, "you step onto the island."