The city breathed softly as dawn arrived.

  A pale sun crept above the horizon, brushing the sky with muted amber and gold. Morning light spilled between towering buildings, painting long, stretched shadows across streets that had not yet fully awakened. Traffic lights blinked lazily, and windows reflected the sky like half-open eyes. For most people, it was just another morning.

  At the far edge of the city—where concrete surrendered to old trees and worn paths—a large wooden house stood alone.

  Its structure was traditional, dignified, and heavy with age. Thick beams supported wide eaves, and sliding doors lined its veranda. From a distance, it resembled a manor preserved from a forgotten era, quietly resisting the modern world pressing in around it.

  That quiet was violently interrupted.

  Red and blue lights flashed against the wooden walls, pulsing like an artificial heartbeat. Police vehicles and ambulances surrounded the property, their engines running low and restrained—as if even sound itself had been ordered to stay silent.

  Officers moved carefully. There was no shouting. No rushing. Only procedure.

  The front steps creaked.

  Two nurses emerged from the house, their expressions stiff, professional, and hollow. Each carried a body wrapped tightly in white cloth. The forms were human—but barely. The sheets clung to unnatural, jagged outlines, as if something beneath the fabric had resisted the very concept of death.

  Halfway down the steps, the cloth shifted.

  One nurse stiffened, her breath hitching. From beneath the wrapping, a hand slipped free.

  It dangled limply, fingers curled, the skin pale beneath streaks of deep crimson. The blood was thick—dried in some places, fresh in others. It stained the white cloth like a silent accusation.

  The nurse swallowed hard. “…Careful,” she whispered.

  “I am,” the other replied quietly, her voice trembling. “Just—don’t look.”

  They continued downward, each step deliberate and measured, the wooden boards groaning under the weight of the departed.

  At the base of the steps stood a group unlike the rest.

  A special response unit. Their uniforms were sealed and reinforced, layered with tactical armor far beyond civilian emergency gear. Strange markings were etched faintly into the plating, glowing with a soft, ethereal light for a heartbeat before fading back into the matte black. Their helmets hid every trace of humanity behind reflective, void-like visors.

  One of them stepped forward. “We’ll take it from here,” he said, his voice distorted by a vocoder.

  The nurses hesitated for only a moment before handing over the bodies. The remains were not placed into an ambulance, but into the back of a black, armored transport van.

  Another officer scanned the wrapped forms, his device emitting a brief, sharp tone. He exhaled slowly, the sound echoing inside his helmet.

  “Confirmed,” he said. “Marechi individuals.”

  A third officer clicked his tongue quietly. “So it’s true,” he muttered, glancing up at the ancient eaves. “Even in a place like this…”

  The commander stepped forward, his voice cold and final. “No discussion. Follow protocol.” He placed a gloved hand on the heavy rear door. “Burial if possible,” he commanded. “Burning if not.”

  The doors slammed shut with a heavy, metallic clang. The locks engaged with a series of sharp clicks.

  As the van pulled away, its engine humming like a restrained beast, sunlight finally reached the wooden house. Warm light slid across its walls, peaceful and forgiving—as if nothing had ever happened. As if the blood had never been spilled.

  Just before dawn, the sky was a bruised, pale grey, barely touched by the first hints of sunlight.

  A stray dog tore through a narrow street, its claws scraping frantically against worn stone. Trash bins rattled as the animal turned sharply, desperation driving it forward through the labyrinth of the city. Its low whine echoed through the empty alley—sharp, piercing, and almost human in its fear.

  From somewhere behind came the sound of footsteps.

  They were fast, uneven, and far too close.

  The dog leapt forward, aiming for the shadows, but it collided with something small and solid. A figure tackled it from the side, bringing the animal down in a flurry of dust and fur.

  It was a young girl.

  She looked no more than nine years old, her frame thin and her eyes feral. Shivering violently, she clung to the animal with frightening desperation. Her movements were rough and instinctive—more like a wild predator than a child—driven by a hunger that had long since stripped away her humanity.

  “Shhh… Easy… easy…” she whispered, her voice shaking with a jagged edge. “Don’t… don’t fight me, okay?”

  The struggle ended. The dog went limp.

  The girl released her hold, her chest heaving as she drew ragged breaths. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she wiped her face, smearing fresh red across her palms. Her expression remained distant—a blank, practiced mask of survival. With mechanical focus, she drew a small, rusted blade and knelt, her eyes fixed on the animal’s fur.

  A voice cut through the quiet like a cold breeze.

  “Hey… what are you doing over there?”

  The girl froze. The blade stopped mid-air. Slowly, she turned her head.

  A woman stood only a few steps away. She had purple hair tied loosely back and glasses that reflected the weak morning light. Though her posture was relaxed, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her eyes were sharp. She was taking in every tremor, every twitch of the girl’s body.

  The woman studied her in silence, the tension between them stretching unbearably thin.

  “…What’s your name?” the woman asked at last. Her voice was soft, but it carried a strange, undeniable weight.

  The girl didn’t answer. She turned back toward the dog, her jaw set as she gripped the blade tighter.

  The woman sighed quietly, stepping closer. “So… you’re the one. The wild creature the locals talk about. The one taking dogs from these streets.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed into slits.

  The woman crouched slightly, tilting her head with a look of clinical pity. “You don’t have to live like this. I can help you.”

  “Go away,” the girl snapped. Her voice was low and hoarse, stripped raw by years of swallowed emotion. “I’m fine.”

  The woman's lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. “You call this fine? This scavenging? This desperation? This life of blood and fear?”

  Something snapped inside the girl. Fear, rage, and hunger boiled over all at once.

  She lunged.

  She was wild and untrained, clawing, striking, and biting—doing anything to drive the intruder back. But the woman didn’t flinch. She sidestepped every frantic attack with effortless precision. Her movements were fluid and deliberate; she wasn’t fighting the girl—she was reading her.

  The girl tried to adjust, forcing a desperate counter-attack.

  Tap.

  Two fingers pressed lightly against her neck.

  The world collapsed instantly. Darkness swallowed her whole, and the girl fell before she could even realize she had lost.

  The girl groaned, her consciousness returning in jagged, painful fragments.

  Her eyes fluttered open, immediately assaulted by the harsh, unforgiving glare of sunlight pouring from above. Her vision was a blur of dust motes and shifting shadows. She tried to move, but her shoulders hit a wall of resistance. She was on her knees, her wrists bound tight behind her back.

  Slowly, the world sharpened into focus.

  The woman stood before her, arms crossed, her silhouette framed by the golden light. Her expression remained unreadable—not cruel, but clinical, like a scientist observing a specimen.

  “Where am I?” the girl rasped, her throat feeling as though it were filled with broken glass.

  “You are in Hiroshima,” the woman replied, her voice calm and melodic. She took a slow step forward, her presence heavy. “I’ll ask you once more. What is your name?”

  The girl didn't answer. Her eyes darted frantically around the room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

  “Where is it?” she snarled, her upper lip curling back in a feral sneer. “Where’s my prey?”

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  The woman remained silent, her gaze unwavering.

  The girl's fists clenched until her knuckles turned white. “Damn you! Give it back! That was mine!”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  The voice didn’t come from the woman.

  The girl turned her head sharply. Another girl stood nearby—perhaps eleven years old, with short, dark blue hair that spiked slightly at the ends. Her eyes were cold, empty, and dangerously still.

  Another one, the girl thought, her instincts screaming.

  “Speak to Sensei with respect,” the blue-haired girl commanded. Her voice was clipped and sharp, like a blade being drawn from a sheath.

  The girl scoffed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. She looked away, defiant.

  That was enough. The blue-haired girl took a step forward, her stance predatory.

  The woman raised a hand, stopping the blue-haired girl. Her gaze remained fixed on the bound girl. "Your anger serves you, but it also controls you," she said, her voice even. "Tell me your name."

  The girl strained against her bonds, her eyes burning with defiance. "I don't play your games," she spat.

  The woman tilted her head slightly. "This isn't a game. It's an opportunity. You are strong, but untamed. Like a wild animal."

  "I don't need taming!" the girl roared, lunging forward as best she could with her bound hands.

  The blue-haired girl moved instantly, a sharp kick landing on the girl's head. Pain flared, but her rage was a stronger fire.

  The girl’s vision cleared just in time to see a blur of movement.

  Impact.

  Her head snapped to the side as a blow struck her temple. White light exploded behind her eyes, and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

  Before she could even draw breath, a second strike followed—a heavy kick to the ribs that sent her sprawling into the dirt.

  The woman watched, her arms folded, her gaze cold and analytical. She wasn't stopping it. She was testing the limit.

  The girl’s rage, long suppressed by hunger and cold, finally boiled over. As the blue-haired girl moved in for a finishing strike, the world seemed to slow down.

  The girl didn't move like a fighter; she moved like a cornered beast.

  She twisted her body mid-air, a jagged, unnatural contortion that bypassed the blue-haired girl’s guard. With a guttural snarl, she launched her weight upward. Her foot connected squarely with the side of the blue-haired girl’s head.

  The blue-haired girl froze. Her eyes went wide for a split second, flickering with shock, before her knees buckled. She hit the ground hard, her body going limp as she collapsed into the dust.

  The girl stood over her, chest heaving like a bellows, her eyes bloodshot and wild.

  “I’m going to say this once!” she screamed, her voice cracking with a raw, primal power. “Give it back!”

  She turned her fury toward the woman, her fingers clawing at the air. “That prey was mine!”

  She lunged, a desperate, vertical leap aimed at the woman's throat. She was faster than before, fueled by a cocktail of adrenaline and pure spite.

  But the woman didn't move an inch.

  As the girl's fingers were inches from her skin, the woman’s hand moved—a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track.

  THUD.

  A precise strike to the back of the neck silenced the world. The girls’s momentum vanished. Her eyes rolled back, and for the third time, the darkness claimed her.

  Then—a flicker of light.

  The girl’s eyes opened slowly, her vision blurred and her limbs feeling as heavy as lead. A low groan escaped her throat, her voice cracking into a weak, uncertain rasp.

  Above her, a single, naked bulb swayed on a frayed wire, casting long, trembling shadows across the cramped room. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, catching glints of faint gold. She blinked, trying to force the world into focus.

  “Where… where am I now?”

  She felt the familiar bite of ropes around her wrists. Instinctively, she tugged against them, the fibers cutting into her raw skin—until a sudden, silver flash crossed her vision.

  Slice.

  The pressure vanished.

  She flinched, pulling her arms back and scanning the room with wide, panicked eyes. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

  The women stepped into the pool of light. She was calm, her movements silent. Her purple hair was tied loosely back, and a small, needle-like blade slid back into her sleeve as if it had never been there at all. She circled the table like a predator assessing a wounded animal before taking the seat opposite the girl.

  “Eat,” she said. Her voice was a cool breeze in the stifling room.

  The girl's stomach twisted violently at the scent of the food, but her pride was a wall of stone. She pressed her lips into a hard line and turned her head away, her jaw tight with defiance.

  The women raised an eyebrow. “Your body is screaming, You’re starving. Eat.”

  “I don’t need… charity from you,” the girl spat, her voice low and defensive.

  The women tilted her head, studying her with clinical curiosity. “You look nine. Perhaps ten. And yet, you’ve survived the gutter for years. Tell me, how?”

  The girl's eyes flickered, wary. “I did what I had to. I survived.”

  “Alone?”

  The question was soft, probing. She hesitated for a heartbeat before giving a slow, stiff nod.

  The women leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. “No family? No one to watch your back?”

  “My sister… she’s gone,” her voice trembled, a crack appearing in her armor. “She told me to run. So I ran.”

  The women's expression softened fractionally, though her eyes remained sharp. “I see. The burden of the survivor.” She paused, her gaze never leaving the girl. “What is your name? Give me something to call you by.”

  “Kanae… Kazuki,” she whispered, the name feeling foreign on her tongue.

  “Good. Remember mine as well. I am Kiyomi. And you will need that name if you intend to survive the day.”

  Kanae’s brow furrowed. “Survive? What are you talking about?”

  Kiyomi’s lips curved into a tiny, almost imperceptible smile—one that didn't reach her eyes. “You’re a Marechi, aren’t you, Kanae?”

  Kanae’s heart skipped. “I’m a… what?”

  “Rare blood,” Kiyomi explained. “It is a gift and a curse. It makes you a beacon for the things that go bump in the night. Your instincts, your speed, your hunger… they all give you away. It is dangerous to possess, but even more dangerous to live with.”

  Kanae looked away, her voice leaking fear despite her best efforts. “What do you want from me? Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because,” Kiyomi said softly, leaning back into the shadows, “you have been surviving alone, but that path has reached its end. You’re weak, Kanae. Not because of your size, but because of your life. Look at your hands—scars, filth, and bruises. That isn't strength. That is a slow death.”

  “I’m not afraid!” Kanae shouted, her small fists clenching.

  “Are you not?” Kiyomi’s voice became a sharp edge, challenging her. “You flinch at shadows. You strike like a panicked beast. You eat raw strays because there is no one to provide for you. That isn't living.”

  “It’s the only way I know!”

  “Then I will show you another way.” Kiyomi straightened, her presence filling the room. “The Nova Clan. We take in those the world has forgotten. We train. We fight. We protect. I am offering you a choice, Kanae. Join us.”

  Kanae’s voice rose, desperate and suspicious. “Why me? I’m just a kid from the dirt!”

  “No,” Kiyomi said, her voice firm and absolute. “You are special. You have a spark—a foundation. You were taught by someone who cared, weren't you? Someone who gave you the skills to last this long?”

  “My sister… she taught me how to fight. How to hide. That’s all.”

  “She prepared you for this moment,” Kiyomi said. “But the streets won't keep you anymore. If you stay out there, you will die, and the world will not even notice you were gone. You will be forgotten before your body is cold.”

  Kanae flinched as if struck. “You’re… you’re scary.”

  “Good,” Kiyomi smiled thinly. “Fear is an instinct. It keeps you alive. But it makes for a poor master. I’m offering you a choice. Eat. Think. Decide.”

  Kiyomi rose, her movements fluid and silent as she walked toward the door. She paused with her hand on the handle, glancing back over her shoulder. “Think carefully, Kanae. This choice belongs to you alone.”

  Click.

  The door closed, leaving Kanae in a heavy, unforgiving silence.

  For two seconds, she didn't move. She stared at the door, her pride battling the void in her stomach. Then, instinct won.

  Kanae lunged forward. Her hands grabbed the tray with raw, trembling urgency. She ate like a starving animal, rice scattering across the table as she shoved food into her mouth. Soup spilled, steam rising in swirling clouds around her flushed face.

  The pride, the suspicion, the fear—it all drowned under the desperate need to survive.

  Above her, the hanging bulb swayed gently, casting long, golden shadows across the room. For a single moment, the girl existed outside the cold alleys. She existed only in the warmth of the meal.

  The steam rose around her like a promise she didn’t yet understand, marking the end of the stray—and the birth of a warrior.

  Sunlight spilled through the latticed windows of the Nova Clan’s grand hall, painting long, golden streaks across the polished wooden floors. The estate was immense, and the only sound was the rhythmic, meditative tap of footsteps echoing against the high ceilings.

  Kiyomi moved with a calm, predatory precision.

  Her boots struck the wood with a steady tempo as she approached a door marked Infirmary. Inside, the girl Kanae had struck sat on the edge of a cot. A neat bandage was wrapped around her short black hair, and her expression was sullen. Beside her, a ten-year-old girl with a gentle face and soft bangs watched her with wide, concerned eyes.

  “Is she… awake?” the younger girl whispered.

  “She’s stable,” the girl aiding her replied softly. “Hurt, but stable.”

  Kiyomi paused outside the door, observing them through the gap. Her sharp expression softened for a fleeting second; then, with a graceful turn, she exhaled and continued down the corridor.

  The long hallways swallowed the sound of her transit until she reached a set of heavy, formal doors. Inside was a spacious office lined with dark, polished wood. Sunlight slanted through high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over a wide desk. Behind it sat a woman whose mere presence commanded the air in the room—long, flowing hair, sharp glasses, and eyes like cold steel.

  Kiyomi stepped forward and bowed deeply, her movements perfect. “Master Sato. I’ve come to report on the new recruit.”

  Master Sato didn’t look up immediately, her fingers sifting through a stack of reports. “Go on,” she said. Her voice was a low chime—deliberate and sharp.

  Kiyomi recounted everything: Kanae’s age, her life on the streets, her raw combat potential, and the unmistakable markers of Marechi blood. She spoke of the girl’s feral instincts and the lethal agility she hid beneath her small frame.

  Master Sato finally lifted her gaze, dissecting every word. “Thank you, Kiyomi. Your observation is, as always, thorough. What is your request regarding the child?”

  Kiyomi straightened, her expression solemn. “I believe she requires careful integration. Training must proceed slowly; her independence is her greatest strength, but it will be our greatest obstacle. She must learn the meaning of trust before we can mold her into a warrior.”

  Master Sato nodded, the faintest trace of a smile touching her lips. “Very well. You have my discretion. Proceed as you see fit.”

  Kiyomi bowed once more and retreated, her boots echoing through the halls as she returned to the room where Kanae slept.

  Inside, the table still held the remnants of the meal the girl had devoured. Grains of rice were scattered, and the faint scent of soup lingered in the air. Kiyomi stopped a few steps away, regarding the sleeping girl with a soft smile.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” she whispered to herself.

  Kiyomi knelt and gently shook the girl’s shoulder. Kanae’s eyes snapped open—blurred for a heartbeat before sharpening into shards of glass. Her body tensed, survival instincts pulling her upright in an instant.

  “Who…?” she murmured, her voice hoarse as her eyes scanned the room for a way out.

  “It’s me,” Kiyomi said, offering a calm, encouraging smile.

  Kanae froze. Recognition—and a jagged, lingering suspicion—passed through her gaze. The woman hadn't changed; she still carried the same authority that had terrified her in the alley. Yet now, there was a warmth that made the girl hesitate.

  “Come with me,” Kiyomi said softly.

  Kanae looked toward the door, then back at Kiyomi. Her small chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, tension coiling in her shoulders. “…I…”

  Kiyomi crouched, bringing herself down to the girl’s level. “You don’t have to speak yet. Just come. One step at a time.”

  Finally, Kanae gave a subtle nod.

  Kiyomi extended her hand. Kanae stared at it for a long beat, her fingers twitching, before she finally allowed the woman to take her hand.

  She seemed so scary before, Kanae thought, her heart racing. But now… she feels… safe.

  They moved together through the hall, their footsteps muted against the polished wood. Light fell across their path in golden stripes, reflecting off the floor like a sunlit river. Soon, they arrived at a large building—a manor within the compound.

  “This room is yours for now,” Kiyomi said, her voice patient but firm. “There is a bath through that door with everything you need. Clean yourself thoroughly.”

  Kanae’s gaze swept the room, landing on the fresh towels and the low wooden tub waiting with steaming water.

  “When you’re finished,” Kiyomi continued, indicating a set of neatly folded clothes, “put these on. They will fit. You will feel… different afterward.”

  Kanae nodded, still guarded, but curiosity had finally begun to settle the fear in her chest. Hesitantly, she stepped toward the bathroom, her fingers brushing the smooth wood of the basin.

  Kiyomi lingered at the door, her arms crossed lightly. She remained there like a silent guardian, watching as the faint sound of running water began—the first fragile step on a brand new path.

  Steam curled lazily from the bath, swirling into the soft morning light that filtered through the wooden-framed windows. The air smelled faintly of cedar, expensive soap, and warm water—a scent Kanae hadn’t experienced in years. It was a small, overwhelming comfort that made her chest ache.

  The sound of running water stopped, replaced by the soft shuffle of bare feet across the polished floor.

  Kanae stepped out, newly cleaned and dressed in the clothes Kiyomi had prepared. The fabric was modest, perfectly fitted, and incredibly soft against her skin. As she adjusted the collar, she felt a subtle shift in her own presence. She no longer looked like a stray; she looked human. Orderly. Alive.

  A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts.

  “Kanae… are you finished?”

  The voice was calm and patient. As the door creaked open, Kiyomi’s silhouette appeared in the frame. Her sharp eyes took the girl in fully—noting the straighter posture and the way the new clothes framed her small, thin frame.

  “Good,” Kiyomi said softly, a hint of approval in her tone. “Follow me.”

  Kanae trailed behind her silently, the rhythmic click of her new shoes on the polished wood echoing through the quiet halls. They arrived at a sun-drenched room where the light filtered through paper-paneled windows, bathing the space in a protective, warm glow.

  Kiyomi draped a white cloth over Kanae’s shoulders. “This will keep you clean while I work,” she explained gently.

  Kanae sat perfectly still, barely daring to breathe as she watched the woman in the mirror. With scissors and comb in hand, Kiyomi moved with the precision of a surgeon. Each snip was measured, each movement deliberate.

  I’ve never had anyone do this for me, Kanae thought, her eyes fixed on her own reflection. No one ever cared enough to look this closely.

  The bangs were trimmed straight across her forehead, the dark strands falling onto the white cloth like silk. Her long hair was pulled back and tied into a neat, refined ponytail. The mirror reflected a total transformation: she looked symmetrical, disciplined, and purposeful.

  “Done,” Kiyomi said, stepping back to admire her work.

  Kanae studied her new self. Her small shoulders lifted imperceptibly, a spark of pride finally breaking through the wall of hesitation she had carried for years.

  The peaceful atmosphere shattered the moment they reached the dining hall.

  “Sit here and eat,” Kiyomi instructed, gesturing to a large room filled with the scent of miso and grilled fish. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  The door slid open to reveal a long table where several girls sat in disciplined silence. Kanae chose a seat at the far edge, her eyes scanning the room with the wary focus of a predator.

  Her gaze immediately locked onto a familiar face: the girl she had attacked during her capture. The same girl from the morning.

  Her spiky blue hair framed a face twisted with sudden, white-hot fury. Her fists clenched on the tabletop, tension radiating from her body in waves.

  “You!” she hissed, her voice cutting through the morning calm like a jagged blade. “How dare you show your face here!”

  Before Kanae could even process the threat, the girl lunged across the table with terrifying, trained speed.

  “Amanai, stop!” one of the girls cried out. “Don’t do it!”

  Kanae didn't hesitate. As Amanai swung a small training kunai, Kanae's street instincts took over. She dodged the steel by a fraction of an inch, snapping forward with the speed of a viper. Her teeth sank deep into Amanai’s hand.

  Amanai screamed, trying to wrench her hand free, but Kanae held on with a death-grip, her eyes wild and unyielding.

  The room erupted into chaos. Girls scrambled back, shouting for help, until the heavy, deliberate thud of footsteps silenced the room. Kiyomi burst through the door, her eyes flashing with a commanding, dangerous light.

  “Release! Both of you—NOW!”

  She moved like a blur, grasping both of their arms and forcing them apart with effortless strength. Amanai, trembling with rage, managed to throw a frantic punch that clipped the side of Kanae’s head. Pain flared across Kanae’s skull, but she didn't make a sound.

  A few minutes later, the two girls sat at the table, their small injuries bandaged in stony silence. Kanae rubbed the side of her head, her jaw tight, while Amanai pressed a bandage to her bitten fingers. Neither would look at the other.

  Kiyomi knelt between them, her voice calm but layered with steel. “Enough. There will be peace at this table. A truce.”

  Both girls looked away, their bodies stiff. Kiyomi reached out, grabbed their hands, and forced them into a firm, crushing handshake. She held it for a long, tense beat before releasing them.

  “Good,” Kiyomi said, her disgust for the lack of discipline controlled but visible. “Now eat. The world doesn't wait for your temper tantrums.”

  The other girls watched in a mix of curiosity and fear. The tension remained, humming in the air like a stretched wire, but the order had been restored—however fragile it might be.

  Kanae sat back, her heart still racing. This is different, she realized, watching the steam rise from her bowl. In the streets, you fight until someone dies. Here… there are rules.

  Welcome to the launch of Hodoku! These chapters mark the beginning of our first major arc: The Kansai Requiem. This is the first of three planned arcs that will follow Kanae's journey through a world of biological horror and technical martial arts.

  If you're a fan of the dark, visceral action seen in studios like Wit or MAPPA, you're in the right place! As a new author, your support is vital please hit Follow and leave a Rating to help this story reach the Rising Stars list!