Beginnings
When I was a child, the only thing I knew was fear. Fear, pain, blood, chaos- they were all so different yet the same. People died left and right. Some from disease or accidents. Most from murder. Brothels and bars were common, no town was without at least ten. The streets were so dirty, no amount of washing would return them to their original shine. Not to mention the blood stains. Trash and human filth littered every nook and cranny. Humans had no restraints or expectations, after all, there was no threat of punishment hanging over their heads. No backlash makes cowards some of the bravest people.
But then odd occurrences started popping up. Men in dirty streets preached about how this strange, otherworldly power was a sin in the eyes of the gods. Others said it was a gift from them. I never thought it mattered either way, after all what god would let humanity keep on going the way it was? What god would make people unequal? And why should I believe what old men in rags with an insane look in their eyes say?
I remember an old woman who seemed to have a million wrinkles scoff at the men on the street and say, "I don't care if it's a sin or a gift as long as I'm not killed by it." Her blood stained the streets red a few months later, a man with lightning crawling across his skin standing over her in wild victory. I didn't know how killing an old woman that was a few days away from dying was considered a victory. I thought it was more like putting a dying dog out of it's misery.
Next I remember running. Boys with knives and starved looks in their eyes who only wanted food, it didn't matter where the food came from. Or who.
I had always been faster than everybody around me. Faster, stronger, tougher. But as I turned around, power bubbling beneath the surface of my skin, I finally knew the answer to the question I had never asked. Fire had swirled around my hand, coming out in long, beautiful, dangerous jets that brought the smell of burning flesh to my nose and the sound of haunting screams to my ears. The boys died immediately. My hand didn't have a scratch.
For a long time life continued like that, people trying to kill me and me retaliating with the beautiful flames that always came when I called. The streets continued to be stained with more blood, but my hands were covered in it too.
Then I met a boy. He was crying in an alley, hands over his head and curled into a little ball. The stink of throw-up, alcohol, and blood wafted off him in putrid waves. I had walked towards him and picked him up easily, ignoring his protests and took him to the dump I called home. I washed him and his clothes and gave him some of mine while I dried the rags he had worn.
I have no idea what I was thinking. Survival of the fittest is what life was like then and taking care of someone else and myself was a sure way to get both of us killed.
After the boy calmed down, I held him and told him he was going to live with me. He seemed afraid I was going to beat him and rape him like his Papa did. I told him never. The last words he whispered before falling asleep were thank you. Humans who have no restraints can be worse than the trash that littered the streets of my home. That was the lesson that I learned that day.
Me and the boy grew close after that. He had brown hair that he always wanted to be at least to his shoulders and pure white eyes. He was blind. He didn't remember a name beyond 'Worthless Boy' so I named him Muitsu. He was the first companion I had since the old woman who scoffed cynically at the men that still stood at their perches, yelling at deaf ears. This one flinched at raised voices and rarely used his own, haunted white eyes always open as if they would suddenly start seeing and didn't want to miss it.
One day Muitsu started to cry out, claiming his eyes were burning. I couldn't do anything but hold him while I felt absolutely helpless. After a few hours Muitsu stopped crying and with a shaky breath he said, "Ika. I can see colors."
I asked him to explain and he described that there was a bunch of red string in front of his eyes, all of them going in one direction, splitting from each other constantly. He lifted his hand and grabbed thin air. He stiffened and whispered, "I can see the future."
I was happy my little brother was like me. I decided we both needed to start figuring out how to control our power, so we trained. Muitsu grabbed thin air and made sure we walked the right path and attempted the right things. I learned how to sink into shadows and walk so quietly not even Muitsu's ears could hear my steps. I learned that I could also control water and air, but I liked my fire better. I learned how to shape it and control it, even breathe out flames. Muitsu could call on the earth and air to do his bidding, though he preferred earth. I wielded a stolen katana that was too big for me, yet I managed well. Muitsu used little needles dipped in poison I created.
We were together for three years, making me about 8 and Muitsu 7.
Then we met another boy. His hair was midnight black, so very different from my pure white hair, and his eyes were the dark green of the leaves that grew on the trees where we lived. Me and Muitsu heard an awful crying when we passed a house on our way home, we slinked in through the window and found the boy bloody and bruised with a dead woman lying on the floor with a knife in her hand. The boy's hands looked as if they had been dipped in black paint and the veins going up his arms were pure black and stood out starkly against his pale skin.
I had a sense of deja vu as I carried him home in my arms with Muitsu trailing behind. Me and Muitsu took care of the boy, his name was Karusu. He could call on a monster that held a giant blade between it's teeth to kill people for him. We trained him. He could control lightning, earth, and water but preferred lightning. he carried many knives that were strapped to his body in various places.
He never quite got over his fear of women, he seemed permanently tense around them. His enchanting green eyes always scanned our surroundings, as if something was hiding in the shadows. Or his mother that had died by the hand of a mythical reaper, black hair blending in and twisting into the shadows cast by the absence of the moon. I had always wanted to cure him of that ingrained wariness, but was never able to.
And so two more years passed by us, making me 10, Muitsu 9, and Karusu 7.
Then the whispers started. Shinobi. Ninjas. Finally an order rising through the chaos. They patrolled the streets, stopping illegal activity harshly and quickly. Then came clans, shinobi royalty, with what they called kekkai genkai. I knew that Muitsu and Karusu's abilities could be classified as kekkai genkai's. I looked on as the shinobi fought, getting training ideas for my family. We grew stronger. Stronger than all the shinobi in our village combined. Clans included.
The pain from getting stronger was a constant in our lives. But the only thing that seemed to change were us and the shinobi. People were still murdered and raped. People still stumbled around drunkenly. The streets only got dirtier. The old men that preached on the edge of the streets kept up their inane squawking, as if they mattered. Young eyes tracked your every move, wondering if you would give them food or if they would have to steal it. Humanity never got better, just sneakier.
We decided to travel. We journeyed through everywhere, battling bandits and learning techniques. Apparently we were supposed to use hand signs to channel our chakra. We decided it was too late for that and moved on.
Some towns were beautiful works of art, meant to stun visitors so it's inhabitants could steal off them and kill them while they weren't looking. Some didn't bother to hide their corruption, they looked the most like home. Few were plain and friendly, somehow avoiding the usual disease of humanity. I learned politics in the walls of fancy houses where fat, rich men wanted me to protect them. I learned how to be (or at least fake) kinder to people to gather information in the pleasant streets that drew you in with cheerful noise and delicious smells.
We traveled through every imaginable weather, learning how to survive in such dangerous and beautiful landscapes so different from our home. We felt the tiny knives of sand slicing our skin, we felt the heavy humidity that seemed to seep into your bones, we slumped through never-ending rains that seemed to directly affect your mood, we felt the cold numbness that came with such beautiful snow that matched my hair. It was amazing to see how much existed beyond yourself.
Then Karusu figured out that he could steal the life force from the people we killed and add it to our own by using the reaper. We just had to give the reaper people to kill. We became immortal at ages 26, 25, and 23. We changed. We laughed as we slayed millions for fun. We watched the world change without us as we reveled in destruction. Blood became stained into our every being, making us delirious with the fact that we were the embodiment of life and death. Blood became an addiction, calling out to us to spill it so we could see it's rich color staining our souls red.
We went on like that for a while. We revisited places, some of them we completely destroyed and some we relearned. We visited shrines and temples, simply exploring and getting a further knowledge of the world. But we never stopped killing.
I was the most powerful out of the three of us. They didn't have the ability to get any stronger. I did. My chakra got powerful and I had to start sealing it so my brothers wouldn't pass out from just being in my presence. Eventually, I got more destructive, they got more complacent. Blood stopped calling to them. They wanted to finally settle down and have families, raise a clan. And eventually die. And leave me.
In a moment of insanity, I killed them both. I burned them to ashes until every single one of their lives were spent. No blood. I didn't want to see it. I wanted to erase them from existence for betraying me, for wanting to stop. It felt like my heart had been ripped out and stomped on until there was nothing left of it. And I was the one to blame. And at the same time I hated my dear brothers that I had saved from the hands of awful parents. Ironic that they perished by the hands that once nurtured them.
I gained Karusu's kekkai genkai, that's how it worked. If you killed him, you got the power he had. I wasn't able to erase them like I wanted to. Karusu's own kekkai genkai reminded me of him every time I looked at my hands or felt the tingling call of the reaper. I could also hear their voices, taunting me relentlessly. Reminding me of how they existed. How they betrayed our brotherhood. I tried to use little bells that I tied to the three braids in my hair to block them out. It didn't work, so I turned the bells into chakra-powered weapons. Call it a habit. Or a coping mechanism.
I went insane for a while, drowning my pain and regret in blood. Blood seemed to make everything better. Bodies piled up higher than they ever had before, casting a shadow over me, never letting me escape. Some of their voices came back and joined Muitsu and Karusu's calls. I hated the voices, so I blocked them out with more blood.
There was a boy's voice. He reminded me of Muitsu. He had been curled up in an alley just like my brother had been. I remembered feeling angry and sad and everything in between looking at that boy. I couldn't take him in like Muitsu and Karusu, he wouldn't be able to keep up and I wouldn't be able to deal with another betrayal. I walked up to him, sword in hand. He looked up and started to beg for his life, saying he wanted to live. I ignored him and cut off his head. His voice came into my head a week later, begging me to stop killing. Telling me they all wanted to live.
Next was an old woman's voice. I had just slaughtered her village. She stood in the middle of destruction confidently and said, "For murdering my family, you will die Jashin," Jashin? Who the hell was that? I had noticed people calling me that but I had never thought anything of it. I had laughed in her face and replied, "I'm immortal. You'll never be able to kill me," Then she started to do hand signs, the easy way of calling on chakra. When she finished, I couldn't breathe. The air around me was choking me. It made me mad. I darted forward and drove my sword through her heart. Her voice joined a couple days later, criticizing everything I did, reminding me of the cynical old woman whose blood painted the streets of my home town.
A man joined next. He wore standard temple acolyte clothes and a necklace that had a triangle within a circle. I had just killed everyone in his temple, just to get to the basement where a ritual was taking place. two of his comrades were already dead, their blood staining the floor. He looked at me and screamed "For Jashin!" before rushing me. I sent my knife through his throat. I'll never forget the insane fever in his eyes. All for me apparently. His voice joined after a couple of weeks, yelling in that insane passion how great his Jashin was, how every one of his actions was to be praised. He and the old woman didn't get along very well.
The last thing I remember were whispers. The Senju and Uchia clans were making an alliance in the Land of Fire. They were going to start a village.
Then the gods stepped in. I hate the gods.