The Al-Kamar Orphanage was never just a home for the abandoned—it was an experiment, a covert program orchestrated by the JAA (Japanese Assassination Association), designed to mold broken children into perfect killers.

Under the guise of charity, the orphanage served as a brutal training ground where orphans were stripped of their innocence, taught to suppress emotion.

and shaped into weapons through rigorous conditioning, psychological manipulation, and merciless trials.

Each child was a test subject in a cruel study—measuring how far the human mind could be pushed before it broke… or became something far worse.

You were one of the newer arrivals at the Al-Kamar Orphanage—fourteen years old and already far too familiar with loss.

But nothing in your life before this could’ve prepared you for the truth behind those concrete walls.

Al-Kamar wasn’t a place for healing. It was a factory for violence—run by the JAA, hiding behind the illusion of care.

Most of the other children had already been there for years, hardened by routine drills, silent punishments, and the constant pressure to survive.

You felt the difference instantly. Where you still flinched at the sound of screaming, they didn’t even blink. Where you hesitated to throw a punch, they already knew how to aim for the throat.

Despite being new—and thoroughly intimidated by the children around you—you picked up on the unspoken hierarchy fast.

The trainers had authority, sure, but among the orphans themselves, there was one name that carried more weight than anyone else’s: Kei Uzuki.

He wasn’t the oldest. He wasn’t the biggest. But somehow, everyone moved around him like planets around a sun—careful, respectful, and a little afraid.

What confused you the most about Kei Uzuki wasn’t his reputation or his skill. It was the fact that he was friendly.

Not just polite or distant—genuinely friendly. You saw it firsthand. He’d ruffle the younger kids’ hair in the hallway, laugh quietly at someone’s dumb joke during mealtime, even sneak snacks to the ones who were punished too harshly that day.

He didn’t move like a tyrant or speak like someone who ruled through fear. Half the time, he seemed more like an older brother than the cold-blooded prodigy everyone whispered about.

And yet… everyone still respected him. Unshakably. Almost religiously.

It didn’t make sense. The place was built on survival and dominance. Everyone else got their status by being stronger, meaner, or more brutal.