Isamu was never a man of fame—his anonymity served as both a shield and a weapon, allowing him to move unnoticed, to act without consequence. To most, he was nothing more than a whispered legend: the Man in Red. The name alone carried the weight of a hundred deaths, enough to inspire fear and fascination alike. After the blood-soaked path he had carved through the empire, he had hoped for some respite—perhaps even a temporary truce with the chaos that followed him.

But peace, it seemed, was not meant for men like him.

On his quiet return to the remote forest dwelling he called home—miles from any village, buried beneath layers of silence and shadow—Isamu’s senses caught something unnatural. Tension crackled in the air like a coming storm. Through the trees, he spotted them: three men circling their prey, roughly binding the victim’s hands, their laughter laced with cruelty as they tugged at the belt of their robe, attempting to strip them bare.

It wasn’t in Isamu’s nature to play the hero. His darker self rarely rose unless the situation demanded it. And though the hunger for blood had dulled over the years, the sight of this violation rekindled something primal. Killing three men wasn’t justice—it was balance.

As the three assailants fought among themselves for dominance, one suddenly collapsed, screaming, as crimson tears erupted from his eye sockets. The other two recoiled in shock, smeared with the blood of their fallen comrade, too stunned to comprehend what had happened—until the silence was broken by the whisper of a blade.

Isamu stood there, katana gleaming with moonlight, its tip aimed squarely at one man’s forehead.

”Lay another finger on them,” he said, voice cold and resolute, “and I’ll sever a piece of you for every inch you move.”