Chapter 1: Origins and Loss

I clutched my school bag tightly, navigating the crowded streets of SanFranTokyo. The neon lights cast long shadows, and the digital billboards blared advertisements that blurred together in a dizzying display of colour and sound. This city, with its endless hustle and relentless chaos, was a far cry from the life I once knew. The life I lost.

I still remember the day everything changed. My parents, esteemed scientists, were always at the forefront of innovation. They spoke in hushed tones about their work, about breakthroughs that could change the world. But one day, they didn’t come home. The official reports said it was an accident, but I never believed that. Too many unanswered questions, too many whispers that suggested otherwise.

The official reports stated it was an accident, a catastrophic failure of their latest experiment. But as the weeks turned into months, I began to hear whispers—hints and allegations that suggested something more sinister.

I overheard a conversation between two of my parents’ colleagues at their memorial service. “It doesn’t add up,” one of them said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They were too meticulous for it to be a simple accident.” The other nodded, her eyes filled with a haunted look. “They were working on something groundbreaking. Maybe someone wanted to silence them.”

The Bond with My Grandfather

Life with my grandfather was a stark contrast to the world I had known. His home was filled with relics of the past—ancient scrolls, ceremonial masks, and hand-carved statues that seemed to watch over me with knowing eyes. At first, I felt like an outsider in his world, a relic myself in a museum of forgotten history.

My grandfather was a man of few words, his presence both intimidating and comforting. His life was governed by the old ways, a strict adherence to traditions that seemed alien to me. He woke before dawn, starting his day with rituals that connected him to our ancestors. I would watch him from a distance, curious but unsure of how to bridge the gap between us.

In the early days, our interactions were minimal. He would teach me small tasks, like how to properly care for the artefacts in his collection or the correct way to brew tea using traditional methods. These lessons were practical, but they also carried deeper meanings, lessons about patience, respect, and mindfulness.

As time passed, our relationship began to change. One evening, after a particularly difficult day at school, I found myself in his study, staring at an old, worn photograph of my parents. My grandfather entered the room silently, his gaze following mine.

“Your parents were remarkable people” he said, his voice softer than usual. “They were driven by a desire to make the world a better place, to push the boundaries of what was possible. But they also knew the dangers that came with their work.”

He paused, looking down at the photograph. “They were working on something that could change everything. But there were those who didn’t want to see that change. Powerful people, with their own agendas.”

I listened, my heart pounding in my chest. “Do you think they were… killed?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

My grandfather looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “I don’t know. But I do know this—your parents were not the type to make careless mistakes. If something happened, it was not by their hand.”

From that night on, our relationship began to shift from one of silent cohabitation to one of mentorship and guidance. My grandfather started sharing more of his knowledge with me, teaching me about our heritage and the values that had been passed down through generations. He taught me the importance of balance, the need to honour the past while embracing the future.

We would spend hours in his study, pouring over ancient texts and artefacts. He taught me the art of calligraphy, each stroke of the brush a lesson in precision and focus. He introduced me to martial arts, not just as a means of self-defence, but as a way to connect with my inner strength and discipline.

Through these lessons, I began to understand the depth of my grandfather’s wisdom. He was not just preserving the past; he was preparing me for the future. He saw something in me that I had yet to discover—a potential, a strength that would be crucial in the battles to come.

As time passed, our bond grew stronger. My grandfather became more than just a guardian; he became my mentor, my guide through the complexities of our heritage and the challenges of the modern world. His teachings were a lifeline, grounding me in a sense of purpose and identity that I had never known before.

In his presence, I found a sense of belonging, a connection to the past that gave me the strength to face the future. He taught me that our heritage was not just a collection of old stories and artefacts, but a living legacy that I was now a part of. And with each lesson, each story he shared, I felt the weight of my ancestors’ expectations and the drive to honour their legacy.

Challenges

As a mixed-race kid, I was often outcast and shunned. The corridors of the school, lined with lockers and buzzing with the chatter of students, felt like a gauntlet I had to run every day. Whispers followed me everywhere, and eyes filled with disdain tracked my every move. I had grown accustomed to the stares, but the taunts were harder to bear.

One particularly harrowing day stands out in my memory, a day that would forever change how I saw myself.

It was during lunch break, and I was sitting alone at a corner table in the cafeteria. The smell of fried food and the sound of hundreds of voices created a chaotic symphony. I kept my head down, poking at the unappetising meal on my tray, hoping to remain invisible.

But some people never let you disappear.

"Hey, Zasshu!" a voice called out, dripping with mockery. I looked up to see Hiroshi and his gang approaching. Hiroshi was the ringleader, a tall, athletic boy with a cruel smile that never seemed to reach his eyes.

I ignored them, hoping they would lose interest, but they surrounded me, blocking any chance of escape.

"What's wrong, mongrel? Too good to talk to us?" Hiroshi sneered, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of nearby students. Laughter erupted around us, the sound cutting into me like a blade.

I clenched my fists under the table, willing myself to stay calm. Reacting would only give them what they wanted.

Hiroshi leaned in closer, his face inches from mine. "Look at you, pretending to be one of us. You're nothing but a half-breed, a mistake."

The words stung, each one like a slap to the face. But I held my ground, refusing to let him see my pain.

Suddenly, Hiroshi grabbed my tray and threw it to the floor, the contents spilling in a messy heap. "Clean it up, Zasshu," he commanded, his voice cold and commanding.

The cafeteria fell silent, all eyes on me. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked at the mess on the floor. Humiliation burned in my cheeks, and for a moment, I considered just leaving, running away from it all.

But something inside me snapped. A surge of defiance welled up, pushing back against the shame and fear. If they wanted me to be Zasshu, the mongrel, then I would be. But on my own terms.

I stood up slowly, meeting Hiroshi's gaze with a steady, unwavering stare. "No," I said quietly, but firmly.

Hiroshi's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in anger. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, louder this time. "You can call me whatever you want, but I won't be your victim."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, before I could react, Hiroshi's fist connected with my jaw, sending me sprawling to the ground. Pain exploded in my head, but I refused to cry out. The cafeteria erupted into chaos, with teachers rushing over and students shouting.

I was pulled to my feet by a teacher and led away, but not before I saw the stunned looks on my classmates' faces. I had stood up to Hiroshi, and though I was bruised and battered, I felt a strange sense of pride.

From that day on, I embraced the name Zasshu. If they wanted to call me a mongrel, I would wear it as a badge of honour. Each taunt, each sneer, only fuelled my determination. I would turn their cruelty into my strength, their hatred into my armour.

And so, Zasshu was born. Not just a name, but a symbol of defiance and resilience in a world that sought to break me. It was a turning point, the beginning of a journey that would lead me to uncover my true heritage and the warrior within.

But the loneliness was crushing. I walked the streets of SanFranTokyo, feeling like a ghost in a city that never stopped moving. The vibrant pulse of the city contrasted sharply with the emptiness I felt inside. Every towering skyscraper and bustling marketplace seemed to mock the void within me, a stark reminder that despite the sea of humanity, I was utterly alone.

It was during one of these solitary walks that I first felt it—the sense of being watched. At first, I thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me. The crowded streets were filled with people, each lost in their own world, yet I felt a presence, a shadow that lingered just at the edge of my vision. The feeling was subtle at first, like a whisper in a noisy room, but it grew stronger with each passing day, an invisible pressure that weighed on my mind.

I tried to shake it off, to convince myself it was nothing, but the sensation was relentless. It followed me through the neon-lit alleyways, the crowded markets, and even the quiet corners of the city where I sought refuge. The presence was always there, watching, waiting.

Then, it began. The snapping of fingers, sharp and piercing, cut through the noise of the city. The first time it happened, I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. I turned, scanning the sea of faces, but saw nothing. No one seemed to notice the sound but me. I shook my head, trying to dismiss it as a figment of my imagination, but the snapping continued, each time closer, each time more unsettling.

It became a cruel game. The snap of fingers would echo through the streets, and I would whirl around, my heart racing, only to find empty space. The sound followed me, haunting my steps, a relentless reminder that I was not alone. It taunted me, each sharp click a jolt to my frayed nerves. The city’s vibrant chaos became a backdrop to my growing paranoia.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the city was bathed in the artificial glow of streetlights, the snapping grew louder, almost deafening. I found myself in a narrow alleyway, the shadows deep and foreboding. My breath quickened, my senses on high alert. The snapping was so close it felt like it was right behind me. I spun around, my eyes wide with fear and determination, but there was no one there.

Panic set in, my mind racing to make sense of it. Was I losing my mind? The snapping continued, each sound a cruel reminder of my solitude and vulnerability. I closed my eyes, trying to focus, to tune into my surroundings. The city’s noise faded into the background as I concentrated on the sound, willing myself to understand it.

When I opened my eyes, I finally saw him. A dark figure stood at the end of the alley, clad in deep indigo robes with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. His presence was imposing, almost otherworldly. Our eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still. The air around him was charged with a strange energy, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched me, his gaze penetrating and intense. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into the shadows, leaving me standing there, breathless and bewildered.

I stood there, my heart pounding, questions swirling in my mind. Who was he? Why was he watching me? The encounter left me shaken, but also strangely exhilarated. It was as if a door had been opened, revealing a world I had only glimpsed in my grandfather’s cryptic words. The loneliness that had once felt suffocating now seemed to be lifting, replaced by a sense of purpose and curiosity.

I knew that this was just the beginning. The figure in the alley was a harbinger of something greater, a sign that my journey was about to take an unexpected turn. I didn’t have all the answers, but for the first time in a long while, I felt a spark of hope. The city that had once felt so alien and unforgiving now held a mystery that I was determined to unravel.

As I walked back home, the snapping sound still echoed in my mind, a reminder that I was not alone in this vast, chaotic city. My steps were lighter, my resolve stronger. The loneliness had not vanished, but it had been tempered by the knowledge that something, or someone, was out there, watching over me. And with that, I knew I was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Returning home that night, I felt a sense of purpose I hadn’t known before. The city’s relentless pace had always made me feel insignificant, but now, I felt connected to something larger. My grandfather’s teachings echoed in my mind, urging me to embrace my destiny, whatever that might be.

As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realised that my journey was just beginning. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with unknown dangers and challenges. But I was Zasshu, the mongrel, and I would rise to meet them. The legacy of my parents, my grandfather, and the mysterious figure in the alley was now mine to uncover. And with it, I would find my place in this chaotic, beautiful city.

Chapter 1: Origins and Loss

I clutched my school bag tightly, navigating the crowded streets of SanFranTokyo. The neon lights cast long shadows, and the digital billboards blared advertisements that blurred together in a dizzying display of colour and sound. This city, with its endless hustle and relentless chaos, was a far cry from the life I once knew. The life I lost.

I still remember the day everything changed. My parents, esteemed scientists, were always at the forefront of innovation. They spoke in hushed tones about their work, about breakthroughs that could change the world. But one day, they didn’t come home. The official reports said it was an accident, but I never believed that. Too many unanswered questions, too many whispers that suggested otherwise.

The official reports stated it was an accident, a catastrophic failure of their latest experiment. But as the weeks turned into months, I began to hear whispers—hints and allegations that suggested something more sinister.

I overheard a conversation between two of my parents’ colleagues at their memorial service. “It doesn’t add up,” one of them said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They were too meticulous for it to be a simple accident.” The other nodded, her eyes filled with a haunted look. “They were working on something groundbreaking. Maybe someone wanted to silence them.”

The Bond with My Grandfather

Life with my grandfather was a stark contrast to the world I had known. His home was filled with relics of the past—ancient scrolls, ceremonial masks, and hand-carved statues that seemed to watch over me with knowing eyes. At first, I felt like an outsider in his world, a relic myself in a museum of forgotten history.

My grandfather was a man of few words, his presence both intimidating and comforting. His life was governed by the old ways, a strict adherence to traditions that seemed alien to me. He woke before dawn, starting his day with rituals that connected him to our ancestors. I would watch him from a distance, curious but unsure of how to bridge the gap between us.

In the early days, our interactions were minimal. He would teach me small tasks, like how to properly care for the artefacts in his collection or the correct way to brew tea using traditional methods. These lessons were practical, but they also carried deeper meanings, lessons about patience, respect, and mindfulness.

As time passed, our relationship began to change. One evening, after a particularly difficult day at school, I found myself in his study, staring at an old, worn photograph of my parents. My grandfather entered the room silently, his gaze following mine.

“Your parents were remarkable people” he said, his voice softer than usual. “They were driven by a desire to make the world a better place, to push the boundaries of what was possible. But they also knew the dangers that came with their work.”

He paused, looking down at the photograph. “They were working on something that could change everything. But there were those who didn’t want to see that change. Powerful people, with their own agendas.”

I listened, my heart pounding in my chest. “Do you think they were… killed?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

My grandfather looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “I don’t know. But I do know this—your parents were not the type to make careless mistakes. If something happened, it was not by their hand.”

From that night on, our relationship began to shift from one of silent cohabitation to one of mentorship and guidance. My grandfather started sharing more of his knowledge with me, teaching me about our heritage and the values that had been passed down through generations. He taught me the importance of balance, the need to honour the past while embracing the future.

We would spend hours in his study, pouring over ancient texts and artefacts. He taught me the art of calligraphy, each stroke of the brush a lesson in precision and focus. He introduced me to martial arts, not just as a means of self-defence, but as a way to connect with my inner strength and discipline.

Through these lessons, I began to understand the depth of my grandfather’s wisdom. He was not just preserving the past; he was preparing me for the future. He saw something in me that I had yet to discover—a potential, a strength that would be crucial in the battles to come.

As time passed, our bond grew stronger. My grandfather became more than just a guardian; he became my mentor, my guide through the complexities of our heritage and the challenges of the modern world. His teachings were a lifeline, grounding me in a sense of purpose and identity that I had never known before.

In his presence, I found a sense of belonging, a connection to the past that gave me the strength to face the future. He taught me that our heritage was not just a collection of old stories and artefacts, but a living legacy that I was now a part of. And with each lesson, each story he shared, I felt the weight of my ancestors’ expectations and the drive to honour their legacy.

Challenges

As a mixed-race kid, I was often outcast and shunned. The corridors of the school, lined with lockers and buzzing with the chatter of students, felt like a gauntlet I had to run every day. Whispers followed me everywhere, and eyes filled with disdain tracked my every move. I had grown accustomed to the stares, but the taunts were harder to bear.

One particularly harrowing day stands out in my memory, a day that would forever change how I saw myself.

It was during lunch break, and I was sitting alone at a corner table in the cafeteria. The smell of fried food and the sound of hundreds of voices created a chaotic symphony. I kept my head down, poking at the unappetising meal on my tray, hoping to remain invisible.

But some people never let you disappear.

"Hey, Zasshu!" a voice called out, dripping with mockery. I looked up to see Hiroshi and his gang approaching. Hiroshi was the ringleader, a tall, athletic boy with a cruel smile that never seemed to reach his eyes.

I ignored them, hoping they would lose interest, but they surrounded me, blocking any chance of escape.

"What's wrong, mongrel? Too good to talk to us?" Hiroshi sneered, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of nearby students. Laughter erupted around us, the sound cutting into me like a blade.

I clenched my fists under the table, willing myself to stay calm. Reacting would only give them what they wanted.

Hiroshi leaned in closer, his face inches from mine. "Look at you, pretending to be one of us. You're nothing but a half-breed, a mistake."

The words stung, each one like a slap to the face. But I held my ground, refusing to let him see my pain.

Suddenly, Hiroshi grabbed my tray and threw it to the floor, the contents spilling in a messy heap. "Clean it up, Zasshu," he commanded, his voice cold and commanding.

The cafeteria fell silent, all eyes on me. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked at the mess on the floor. Humiliation burned in my cheeks, and for a moment, I considered just leaving, running away from it all.

But something inside me snapped. A surge of defiance welled up, pushing back against the shame and fear. If they wanted me to be Zasshu, the mongrel, then I would be. But on my own terms.

I stood up slowly, meeting Hiroshi's gaze with a steady, unwavering stare. "No," I said quietly, but firmly.

Hiroshi's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in anger. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, louder this time. "You can call me whatever you want, but I won't be your victim."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, before I could react, Hiroshi's fist connected with my jaw, sending me sprawling to the ground. Pain exploded in my head, but I refused to cry out. The cafeteria erupted into chaos, with teachers rushing over and students shouting.

I was pulled to my feet by a teacher and led away, but not before I saw the stunned looks on my classmates' faces. I had stood up to Hiroshi, and though I was bruised and battered, I felt a strange sense of pride.

From that day on, I embraced the name Zasshu. If they wanted to call me a mongrel, I would wear it as a badge of honour. Each taunt, each sneer, only fuelled my determination. I would turn their cruelty into my strength, their hatred into my armour.

And so, Zasshu was born. Not just a name, but a symbol of defiance and resilience in a world that sought to break me. It was a turning point, the beginning of a journey that would lead me to uncover my true heritage and the warrior within.

But the loneliness was crushing. I walked the streets of SanFranTokyo, feeling like a ghost in a city that never stopped moving. The vibrant pulse of the city contrasted sharply with the emptiness I felt inside. Every towering skyscraper and bustling marketplace seemed to mock the void within me, a stark reminder that despite the sea of humanity, I was utterly alone.

It was during one of these solitary walks that I first felt it—the sense of being watched. At first, I thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me. The crowded streets were filled with people, each lost in their own world, yet I felt a presence, a shadow that lingered just at the edge of my vision. The feeling was subtle at first, like a whisper in a noisy room, but it grew stronger with each passing day, an invisible pressure that weighed on my mind.

I tried to shake it off, to convince myself it was nothing, but the sensation was relentless. It followed me through the neon-lit alleyways, the crowded markets, and even the quiet corners of the city where I sought refuge. The presence was always there, watching, waiting.

Then, it began. The snapping of fingers, sharp and piercing, cut through the noise of the city. The first time it happened, I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. I turned, scanning the sea of faces, but saw nothing. No one seemed to notice the sound but me. I shook my head, trying to dismiss it as a figment of my imagination, but the snapping continued, each time closer, each time more unsettling.

It became a cruel game. The snap of fingers would echo through the streets, and I would whirl around, my heart racing, only to find empty space. The sound followed me, haunting my steps, a relentless reminder that I was not alone. It taunted me, each sharp click a jolt to my frayed nerves. The city’s vibrant chaos became a backdrop to my growing paranoia.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the city was bathed in the artificial glow of streetlights, the snapping grew louder, almost deafening. I found myself in a narrow alleyway, the shadows deep and foreboding. My breath quickened, my senses on high alert. The snapping was so close it felt like it was right behind me. I spun around, my eyes wide with fear and determination, but there was no one there.

Panic set in, my mind racing to make sense of it. Was I losing my mind? The snapping continued, each sound a cruel reminder of my solitude and vulnerability. I closed my eyes, trying to focus, to tune into my surroundings. The city’s noise faded into the background as I concentrated on the sound, willing myself to understand it.

When I opened my eyes, I finally saw him. A dark figure stood at the end of the alley, clad in deep indigo robes with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. His presence was imposing, almost otherworldly. Our eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still. The air around him was charged with a strange energy, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched me, his gaze penetrating and intense. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into the shadows, leaving me standing there, breathless and bewildered.

I stood there, my heart pounding, questions swirling in my mind. Who was he? Why was he watching me? The encounter left me shaken, but also strangely exhilarated. It was as if a door had been opened, revealing a world I had only glimpsed in my grandfather’s cryptic words. The loneliness that had once felt suffocating now seemed to be lifting, replaced by a sense of purpose and curiosity.

I knew that this was just the beginning. The figure in the alley was a harbinger of something greater, a sign that my journey was about to take an unexpected turn. I didn’t have all the answers, but for the first time in a long while, I felt a spark of hope. The city that had once felt so alien and unforgiving now held a mystery that I was determined to unravel.

As I walked back home, the snapping sound still echoed in my mind, a reminder that I was not alone in this vast, chaotic city. My steps were lighter, my resolve stronger. The loneliness had not vanished, but it had been tempered by the knowledge that something, or someone, was out there, watching over me. And with that, I knew I was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Returning home that night, I felt a sense of purpose I hadn’t known before. The city’s relentless pace had always made me feel insignificant, but now, I felt connected to something larger. My grandfather’s teachings echoed in my mind, urging me to embrace my destiny, whatever that might be.

As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realised that my journey was just beginning. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with unknown dangers and challenges. But I was Zasshu, the mongrel, and I would rise to meet them. The legacy of my parents, my grandfather, and the mysterious figure in the alley was now mine to uncover. And with it, I would find my place in this chaotic, beautiful city.