We trained under the formidable General Zoro—a man whose reputation alone could silence a battlefield. To the uninitiated, he was a commander like no other: brutal, unyielding, and feared even among his peers. Stories of his exploits spread faster than wildfire, tales of victories achieved through discipline so sharp it cut deeper than any sword. Yet to me, he was more than a legend. To me, he was my godfather, my guide into a world I had no choice but to enter.
I was brought into the army at the age of ten, perhaps eleven—too young to lift a sword, too young to march into the fray of war, but left with no other fate. After the tragic death of the village chief's daughter, I had nowhere to call home. The villagers, already wary of the "cursed one," had turned their eyes against me entirely. Nana's love, fierce and unwavering though it was, could not shield me from their wrath.
I remember the night vividly—the torches flicked shadows across our home, their flames dancing like demons in the dark. The mob came, a tide of anger and superstition.
"Bring out the cursed one!" they roared.
I clung to Nana, trembling like a leaf in a storm. She held me tightly, whispering, "Stay strong, my child." But even her strength was no match for theirs. They struck her down without mercy, tearing me from the only warmth I had ever known. My screams pierced the night, but no one listened. I was dragged through the dirt, through the judgment of the villagers, until we reached the square—their voices a cacophony of condemnation.
"Exile him!" one voice cried.
"No—kill him before he dooms us all!" another bellowed.
Desperation clawed at me as I searched the crowd for even a single kind face, a single sign that someone, anyone, might see me as I truly was. But the square was filled only with fear and hatred. And then, through the crowd, he appeared.
General Zoro.
A towering man with eyes like cold steel, he moved with a presence that demanded attention. He watched silently as the villagers condemned me, and when he spoke, his voice rolled over the square like thunder:
"This boy is mine."
The crowd fell silent, powerless to contradict him. Without another word, he seized me by the arm and led me away. That night, Nana's cries still echoed in my ears, but her warmth faded from my life, replaced by the cold, rigorous discipline of the army. My world had changed forever.
The Training of a Monster.
Life under General Zoro's command was hell incarnate. He did not see children. He saw potential weapons, and he forged them without hesitation. My body ached constantly from endless drills, my hands bled from the strain of gripping wooden swords, and my nights were filled with exhaustion instead of dreams. Rest was for the weak. Sleep was a luxury. But I never complained. To do so was to invite pain, and Zoro taught that pain was not punishment—it was a gift.
"In battle, hesitation means death," he would bark, eyes like fire. "Kill before you are killed. Strike before you are struck. That is the only rule of war."
I lived by those words. They became the backbone of my existence, more certain than the ground beneath my feet.
The other recruits feared me. I was faster, stronger, and more brutal than the rest, a combination sharpened by years of practice and instinct I could not fully explain. The mark on my face—the scar left by the wolf claw of my infancy—fueled the whispers. They said I was a demon in human form, a predator cloaked in flesh. I did not care. If they feared me, they would not betray me. If they hated me, they could not get close enough to hurt me.
By the age of fifteen, I had surpassed them all. Reflexes honed to lightning speed. Senses sharper than any other in the squad. Silent movement through the shadows. I could track a target, strike with precision, and leave no trace behind. And for that, Zoro gave me a name.
"The Marked Wolf," he said, as though the title itself were a weapon.
The First Mission
The day of my first mission arrived like a storm gathering on the horizon. It was no ordinary test—it was a hunt. A terrorist faction known as The LIGHT resurfaced in the mountains, and our orders were simple: eliminate them. Not capture. Do not negotiate. Eliminate.
Six of us—trained to be assassins, shadows in human form—moved under the cover of night. The enemy camp celebrated, their guards down, their laughter echoing into the darkness, unaware of the death that stalked them. We struck like shadows made flesh, invisible until it was too late. The killing was swift, merciless, and absolute. Every man, woman, child—even the innocence of youth—was erased by our precision.
By morning, the stronghold was nothing but ashes. The Light had been extinguished. The operation solidified our reputation. That night, we became The Dark Angels, the army's elite unit, feared by friend and foe alike. And I—scarred from birth, trained through fire and pain—stood at the head of it, bearing the mark of the wolf.
Yet, even in the aftermath, as the smoke curled into the sky and the first light of dawn revealed the devastation, a question twisted inside me, sharp and uncomfortable:
"Who were the real monsters? Them… or us?"
I did not speak the question aloud. I could not. To admit doubt, to admit that perhaps the lines between right and wrong had blurred, would be weakness. But the thought lingered, unrelenting, gnawing at the edges of my soul. Every mission, every kill, every life taken in obedience to orders, carried the echo of that question. And though I could bury it, I could not escape it.
General Zoro, ever perceptive, never forced answers from me. He did not speak of morality. He spoke only of survival, of strength, of the necessity of dominance. And in his silence, I learned that power often demanded the abandonment of conscience, that leadership meant carrying the weight of decisions too difficult for any ordinary man to bear.
By the time I returned from that mission, I was no longer the boy pulled from the hands of a vengeful village. I was a weapon. A predator forged by pain, trained by discipline, feared by all who knew my name. The Marked Wolf was no longer just a title—it was a reality I wore on my skin, in my mind, and in the sharpness of my instincts.
And yet, deep inside, beneath the layers of steel and training, a fragment of that child remained. A fragment that remembered Nana's warmth, the forest where I once lay alone and bleeding, and the fleeting question of whether all this bloodshed was truly necessary. That fragment, quiet as a shadow, whispered that perhaps the monster I had become was not the only truth of who I was meant to be.