A plain-looking boy walked out the front gates of his high school.
There was nothing particularly striking about him. His black hair was cut short and messy, unstyled. His frame was average, maybe just a bit lanky. At 172 centimeters, he stood slightly taller than most of his classmates—but not enough to be called tall.
Just another sixteen-year-old boy with tired eyes and a plastic convenience store bag in his hand.
Akira Kaijō.
Nobody special.
He walked alone through the backstreets of Kyoto, avoiding the bustling main roads filled with tourists and students still chatting in clusters. The city's spirit was alive, but he walked through it like a ghost.
His eyes eventually landed on a run-down house nestled behind a rusted gate and half-broken stone lantern. A traditional Japanese home, long past its prime—chipped wooden panels, sliding doors barely hanging on, and weeds curling through every crack in the stone path.
Akira paused at the entrance, staring at the sagging roof.
'I really need to clean up soon…' he sighed inwardly, pushing the door open with a dull creak.
"I'm home," he said out loud, voice faint, as though greeting someone who didn't exist.
The house replied with silence.
He walked to the kitchen. The fridge opened with a tired hum, revealing a few bottles of water, one half-empty bottle of soy sauce, and a container of instant noodles that had been his dinner five nights in a row.
It was six now.
He boiled water. Slurped noodles. Didn't taste a thing.
Later, he pulled out a dusty tatami mat and lay down, staring at the faded ceiling.
This boy lived alone.
Almost.
Because I live with him.
In the dim light of the room, shadows curled and twisted unnaturally. Darkness began to take form—shimmering, formless—before coalescing into a swarm of pitch-black crows. They fluttered down soundlessly, their feathers brushing the tatami as they gathered near the sleeping boy.
Then, gently, the crows began tucking the blanket around Akira's sleeping figure.
'Always so clumsy, kid.'
I said it aloud, but no human ear could hear me.
Once, I was a formidable spirit—a demon, born of hatred and strife. I battled beasts, humans, dragons. I tore through mountains and consumed entire forests. I was a name whispered in fear.
And then I was sealed. By an exorcist too powerful, too skilled, too arrogant.
As I lay dying in a prison made of light, the exorcist told me something before walking away.
But honestly? I don't even remember what he said. It doesn't matter now.
What matters is this boy.
Akira Kaijō.
He is nothing. Not a chosen one. Not a hero. Not even a sorcerer.
But to me, he became something more.
After I escaped my prison—shattered and aimless, barely more than a whisper—I drifted endlessly. I came upon this boy and thought I'd possess him, consume his flesh, and use his body to recover my strength.
But I couldn't bring myself to harm him. I couldn't attack him,something didn't allow me.
Instead, I watched him.
Day after day.
I saw how he struggled to live, how he endured the sneers, the whispers, the cruel glares of people who thought they were better. I watched him give his seat to old ladies on trains. I watched him help stray cats in the rain. I watched him save yen by skipping lunch to send more money to repay his parents' debt.
And I began to feel something I hadn't felt in over a thousand years.
I began to feel... shame.
I wondered if the path I once walked—of blood, of hate, of fire—had been wrong all along.
I began to care.
But I'm still a demon, born of resentment. I can't offer blessings or luck. My powers are twisted, built to curse and destroy.
So the only thing I can offer him is this.
My protection, from the shadows.
'Sleep well, Akira…'
My voice fades into the dark.
The morning came too soon.
Akira yawned and walked lazily down the street toward school.
"I've got the first job at 4:30," he muttered to himself. "Then the second one at 7:45. And tomorrow there's the construction shift at 6 a.m…"
His voice was lifeless.
Akira's parents were human garbage—criminals, gamblers, thieves. When they vanished, they left behind a debt of 110 million yen.
Roughly 703,000 dollars.
Akira, at sixteen, had already managed to pay off ten million yen.
A miraculous amount for a high schooler.
But nowhere near enough.
Nowhere close.
As he turned the corner toward school, something smacked the back of his head. A milk carton.
"Hehehe!"
"Poor bastard!"
"Hey! Paid off that debt yet, money-slave?!"
Laughter followed. Rich kids with rich blood. Children of executives, lawyers, and company presidents.
Akira said nothing. He kept walking.
He couldn't retaliate. If he laid a hand on them, he'd be buried under lawsuits and school suspensions. The law was never on the side of the poor.
I watched from the rooftop. I hated them.
Be cursed, you bastards.
As the head bully strutted like a rooster, a soccer ball flew from nowhere and struck him in the head.
"G-GAH! WHO DID THAT?! COME OUT!!"
No one did.
School passed like usual—the snickers, the glares, the whispers. Akira ignored it all.
After school, he went straight to work. And then to his next job. And then—
Night.
The streets were quiet now. Cold wind slid across the empty sidewalks.
Akira walked home, steps heavy.
Then he saw it.
A small black cat with a white underbelly, sitting in an alley.
"Sorry, buddy," Akira whispered, kneeling beside it.
"I can't take care of you... I can barely take care of myself."
"Meow?" the cat tilted its head, confused.
And then—
The cat suddenly bolted, fur bristling, as if it sensed something.
"Huh?"
Akira turned—
And looked down.
A blade was protruding from his chest.
What...?
Blood dripped to the concrete. His body stumbled.
"Helloooo~!"
A voice came.
A good looking man was holding the other end of the weapon.
"SHINSEI!"
The man took the weapon out with maneuver before Akira slumped and fell to the floor.