Kyoto's ancient breath whispered through narrow alleys and forgotten shrines, carrying scents of old incense and damp stone. In the sleepy stillness of dawn, a boy stood before a weathered torii gate carved with fading runes. His eyes, gold like molten fire, held a weight that didn't belong to a sixteen-year-old.
Takashi Kurokami.
That was the name given to him by hospital staff. He had no memory of his previous life, only fragments—images of fire, screams, and shadows. Found unconscious in a forest bordering the outskirts of Kyoto, he awoke in a sterile white room with no past, no possessions, and no one claiming him.
Doctors called it amnesia. He called it something else.
From the moment he opened his eyes in this world, he felt wrong. His heartbeat echoed louder than it should have. Shadows lingered too long at the corners of his vision. Strangers looked past him like he wasn't really there. But most of all, it was the fire. The black fire. It came in flashes—brief, painful—flickering across his skin like a memory trying to claw its way out.
Now, three months later, he stood at the entrance of a long-abandoned shrine nestled in the hills of Mount Kurama. Cracked fox statues lined the stone path like silent sentinels. Vines curled around broken steps, and yet the air shimmered with something ancient.
Something alive.
Takashi stepped forward. Each movement felt guided, not entirely his own. The wind changed direction. The clouds drifted apart, letting morning light spill across the shrine.
He raised a hand.
"You called me," he whispered.
A breeze curled around his fingers. Then—flames.
Black, flickering fire danced across his palm. It didn't burn. Not like fire should. It was cold and sharp, almost like it was thinking.
He didn't scream. He'd seen this flame before. In dreams. In visions. In nightmares.
Black flames devouring battlefields.
A hand—his—reaching out from a world wreathed in ruin.
A name surfaced from the depths of his mind: Infernal Requiem.
He didn't know what it meant, but it clung to his thoughts like a scar.
Symbols shimmered faintly beneath his feet. He looked down to see the ground glowing—ancient runes lighting up in a pattern, circling him like a seal.
The shrine pulsed.
Then came the voice.
"You are not human."
It didn't come from outside. It came from within. Deep inside his chest, vibrating through his bones.
Takashi stumbled backward. The flames vanished. The runes faded. But the presence lingered.
He collapsed to his knees, breath shallow, sweat clinging to his brow despite the cold morning air.
"What am I?" he muttered. "What is happening to me?"
But no answer came.
He looked at his hands again. Pale, trembling, human—yet not. Something else coiled beneath his skin. Something waiting.
Down below, the city of Kyoto stirred. A bus honked. Birds began their morning song. Life continued.
But Takashi Kurokami had changed.
The world just didn't know it yet.