Chapter 1: Birth of the Hunter

The sterile hum of fluorescent lights filled the corridor as Nurse Aiko wheeled the incubator through the labyrinthine halls of the Lycan Hunter Corps Tokyo branch. Each door they passed bore a different label: Containment, Research, Armory—but this one was marked simply Neo-Genetics Unit. Inside, Dr. Haruto Nakamura adjusted his glasses, eyes fixed on the tiny, fragile figure within the transparent capsule.

The infant’s hair, already a shock of white, drifted like silk in the gentle airflow. His skin was pale—almost luminescent—against the polished steel of the incubator. No other newborn in the Bureau’s history had ever looked like this. The boy was a living testament to humanity’s desperate gamble: grafting modified lupine DNA onto a human embryo to create the ultimate werewolf hunter.

“Amazing,” whispered Dr. Nakamura, voice hushed. “Even at one hour old, his reflexes are… extraordinary.”

Aiko glanced down at the sleeping child. “The paperwork says we call him Shiro. White.”

“Yes,” Haruto nodded. “Shiro it is. His destiny begins today.”

Eighteen years later, the corridors of the Bureau had become home to Shiro. He strode through them with silent confidence—white hair tied back in a neat knot, dark eyes sharp and unreadable beneath heavy lids. At 176 centimeters tall, he moved with the fluid grace of a born predator. He carried his silver katana on his back, its hilt polished to a mirror finish, and a custom semi-automatic pistol hung from a thigh holster. Both weapons were loaded with argent rounds designed to pierce the toughest lupine hide.

“Shiro,” called Master Takeda, emerging from the training hall. The old hunter’s grizzled face broke into a rare smile. “You’re on time.”

Shiro inclined his head. “As always.”

Inside, the wooden dojo was immaculate. Tatami mats were swept clean, and practice dummies lined the walls, each scarred from countless drills. Takeda crossed his arms. “Today, we test your pistol marksmanship under pressure. The target will simulate a wolf in human form. Are you ready?”

Shiro exhaled slowly. “Yes, Sensei.”

The firing range was dimly lit, the far wall marked with shifting holographic silhouettes—some human, some lupine. Shiro raised his pistol, breathing steady. The first figure flickered into view: a man in a business suit, clutching a briefcase.

Bang. A single silver bullet punched through the hologram’s chest. The silhouette dissolved into crimson mist.

Next: a snarling wolf, claws extended.

Bang. Bang. Two shots. Both true.

Then: a woman, smiling innocently.

Shiro hesitated—no hesitation in his finger, only in his mind. He squeezed the trigger. The target shattered.

Master Takeda’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Excellent. You didn’t hesitate long enough to lose the shot. But remember: werewolves in human form can mimic any expression. Never let empathy cost you the kill.”

Shiro reholstered his pistol. “Understood.”

Later that evening, Shiro stood on the rooftop terrace overlooking Tokyo’s neon-lit skyline. The city pulsed with life—unaware of the shadows beneath its glow. He sheathed his katana and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Smoke curled around his white hair.

Aiko’s voice came through his earpiece. “Shiro, we have reports of a sighting in Shinjuku. Possible rogue werewolf. Coordinates sent to your HUD.”

Shiro stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m on my way.”

He leapt over the low parapet, landing silently on the adjacent rooftop. From there, he sprinted across a series of rooftops, every muscle coiled. The wind whipped at his coat tails, carrying the distant scent of rain and exhaust fumes—and something darker, metallic.

At street level, chaos reigned. Pedestrians scattered as a massive lupine creature tore through a convenience store’s glass façade. The werewolf’s eyes glowed amber, fur matted with fresh blood.

Shiro dropped from the rooftop in a roll, drawing both katana and pistol in one fluid motion. He fired a silver round into the creature’s shoulder. The wolf howled, spinning toward him, claws raking concrete.

Steel met claw in a burst of sparks. Shiro’s katana bit deep into fur and muscle; the beast retaliated, slashing across his forearm. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth and countered, driving the point of his blade between its ribs.

The werewolf collapsed in a spray of blood. It convulsed, then shifted—fur receding, bones clicking, until it stood on two legs: a man in tattered jeans and a soaked T‑shirt, eyes wide with fear.

Shiro approached, blade poised at the man’s throat. “State your name and affiliation.”

The man’s voice trembled. “I—I’m no one. Please… don’t kill me.”

Shiro’s dark eyes bored into him. He holstered his katana and raised the pistol. “We’ll see if you’re telling the truth.”

Back at the Bureau, under harsh interrogation lights, the man—Kazuo—admitted he’d been part of an underground pack forced into violence. He was starving, unable to control his transformations when blood was near.

Shiro watched impassively as Aiko administered sedatives. “He’s a survivor,” she murmured. “Not a killer by choice.”

Shiro’s hand tightened around the hilt of his katana strapped to the table. “Survival doesn’t excuse murder.”

Aiko met his gaze. “Then why did you spare him?”

He closed his eyes, recalling the way the man’s human form emerged—terrified, begging for mercy. “I needed to know his story.”

She nodded. “That’s what makes you different from the rest.”

Shiro stood and turned away. Outside, the city lights shimmered. Somewhere in the darkness, more wolves waited. And somewhere in his past, secrets waited to be uncovered.

He sheathed his pistol. “Get him to the holding cell. We’ll decide his fate tomorrow.”

As he walked down the corridor, footsteps echoing, Shiro felt a familiar whisper in his mind: the hunter… the monster…

He did not respond. Instead, he pressed on—ever forward into the storm of blood and steel that defined his life.