Prologue
People think being a hero is about suits and powers — about fighting bad guys. They're wrong. It's much more complicated than that.
I never wanted to be born like this. But here I am — cursed, or maybe a chosen one.
I am Ushugimi jinsuke, born in Japan in the early 1800s. From a young age, I knew I was different. My red eyes, my red hair, and the strange power that coursed through me. People whispered I was a demon, a curse sent to destroy them. But my parents never believed that. They told me I was a gift — a miracle. After all, they had been unable to conceive until I was born. We were farmers, and for a time, we lived in peace.
Peace didn't last. It never does.
They came at dawn — men with hard eyes and louder voices. They demanded our harvest. My father stood tall, trying to reason with them. My mother clutched my hand.
Then they stabbed him with a blade.
He fell first. Then her scream. Then fire.
I remember the heat, the smoke choking my lungs, the world collapsing in flame and splinters. And then — nothing.
I woke buried in ash, my skin blistered, peeling. But I didn't die. I never do. The burns faded as fast as they came. My breath returned. My heartbeat slowed.
I crawled from the wreckage.
I found them in the remains. Blackened. Still.
I knelt beside them and waited for them to wake up.
They never did.
My scream split the sky. A sound no child should ever make.
I wandered after that. Empty. Starving. Haunted.
I could've stopped them — or at least, I believed I could. But I didn't, and now they were gone — reduced to ash, to memory, to pain I would never escape.
That's when he found me — the old man with eyes like stone.
He didn't ask who I was. He didn't need to.
"You're still breathing," he said. "That's enough for now."
He took me in. Gave me rice, water, silence. I wanted to run, to disappear into the forest and never come back. But he didn't force anything. Just waited.
Eventually, I stayed.
"You must let go of the past, or it will consume you," he told me one day. "You were just a child. There was nothing you could have done."
He taught me karate, and I became his only student. His discipline was harsh. He struck me when I made a mistake, and sometimes he left me without food. But through it all, I learned. Seven long years — of bruises, silence, and grueling repetition — passed before he finally spoke the words I had waited to hear "I have nothing more to teach you". He said I had exceptional talent, that I could be a great warrior.
I knelt before him, my gratitude overflowing. "I can never repay you," I said, knowing I would carry his teachings for the rest of my life.
And so, I traveled the world. I sought out every style of martial arts, honing my body and mind. As the years passed, I felt myself growing stronger, faster, more attuned to the world around me. But there was one thing that never changed: I had stopped aging.
I met many people along the way, but they grew old, while I remained the same. It was a curse, I thought. To live forever, while everyone I knew eventually died.
But despite that, I didn't end my life. I couldn't. Not after my parents. Not after the sensei. I lived because they couldn't. And I would carry their memory like a flame that never died.
Eventually, I returned to Japan.
I lived in peace for a time. But then one night, I heard it — the cries of a woman in distress. Without thinking, I donned my uniform — black sleeveless gi with crimson trim, wrapped tightly with a red sash at the waist. My arms were bound in black wraps from wrist to bicep. Loose dark pants tucked into shin-high boots allowed silent movement. Over it all, a deep red scarf coiled around my neck and lower face like a second skin, hiding everything but my eyes. My long red hair was tied back in a warrior's knot. I found her cornered — five men, drunk on power, circling like wolves.
I didn't need to think. I moved, striking with precision. The men never stood a chance. But the woman, still terrified, hesitated when I approached her. I reassured her that I meant no harm, and I helped her to her feet. She tried to speak, but I was already gone.
The next day, I saw her on the news. She spoke of a man with red hair and eyes, who had saved her. She thanked me, though I was far from her.
Was I still jinsuke, the boy who buried his parents in ash? Or had I become something else entirely ?
Soon after, there was a hostage situation. I arrived at the scene, dressed in the black-and-crimson uniform that had become the mark of Akaito — a name the media had stamped onto a ghost. The men laughed when they saw me. Maybe it was the scarf. Maybe the mask. But their laughter faded fast. When one of them shot at me, I caught the bullet with my bare hand. They were terrified.
The fight was quick. A katana-wielding thug tried to challenge me, but I easily disabled him. With one swift punch, I sent him flying, leaving him unconscious on the ground.
The news called me "Akaito, the Vigilante." I hadn't expected it, but the name stuck.
I spent years fighting crime. Mercenaries, psychopaths, yakuza — none of them gave me a true challenge. And yet, I didn't seek a worthy opponent. I wasn't here to prove myself. I was here to save those who couldn't save themselves.
years passed. The world shifted. First, it was whispered stories — people bending flames or floating objects. Then the world gave it a name: quirks.
One day, I encountered a man who claimed to be invincible. He wanted to control Japan, but I stopped him. It wasn't hard. But I knew that if I fought with all my strength, I would have killed him in an instant. I left him gravely wounded, a reminder to all that no one was above me.
Years passed. Japan changed. So did the meaning of "hero." Suits, sponsors, rankings. Justice became a brand. Peace, a product.
I kept training. Kept watching. The suit still fit, but it felt like armor for a man who no longer existed. Sometimes, I stared into the mirror and saw only a shadow.
Not jinsuke Ushugimi.
Only Akaito.
In a warehouse that stank of oil and blood, a man's arm twisted into a blade. He charged. I caught him mid-swing, broke him in two moves. His flesh hit the ground with a wet thud.
I untied the children.
"Come with me," I said.
They followed. Outside, their parents wept and held them tight. One boy pointed at me.
"He saved us!" the boy cried.
I was already gone.
From the rooftop, I watched the reunion in silence.
Then:
"Look! Up there!"
A dozen eyes turned skyward. Cameras clicked. Lights flared.
But by then, I was nothing but a whisper in the wind.
A shadow.
A myth.
Akaito.
