Chapter 8: The Mask of the Shadow

[Scene - Edge of the Ironwood Forest – Year 211 of the Velgrith Union, Kuro age 10]
The wind at the edge of the Ironwood Forest did not just die; it surrendered.
In the vast, swaying meadow that bordered the capital city of Valerion, the air grew heavy with a pressurized stillness that defied the laws of nature. Standing in the center of this localized void was a boy who, by all physical accounts, should have been a child of ten. 
But the soul inhabiting that small frame was ancient, tempered by a life of terrestrial trauma and the cold, clinical study of human manipulation .
Kuro Velgrith—the boy born to retired A-Rank adventurers—was gone. In his place stood a silhouette carved from the very fabric of the Abyss.
Kuro’s silver hair, a trait of his Velgrith lineage, had bled into a ravenous, unnatural black. This was not a mere physical change but the work of a dark dye stone and high-tier illusion magic, designed to create a mask that even the prying eyes of the gods could not penetrate.
His face was hidden behind a visage of white and purple—a featureless porcelain surface save for two narrow slits where glowing purple eyes burned with the intensity of a dying star.
He adjusted the heavy, black cloak draped over his shoulders. Its golden trim flickered like dying embers in the encroaching twilight, a stark contrast to the tattered, shadow-like robes that drifted around his legs even in the absence of a breeze. 
On his mask, ancient sigils etched in silver and violet pulsed with a rhythmic, low-frequency light—a heartbeat for a boy whose own heart had cracked into fragments long ago in a Tokyo apartment.
“Ten years,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with a depth that no child should possess. 
“Over a decade in this second life. I have studied their archaic language, their filtered history, and the deep-seated corruptions that rot beneath their False Peace.” 
He looked toward the horizon, where the spires of Valerion glinted with a deceptive radiance. He knew the truth that the rest of this world had forgotten: the First Hero was no savior, but a secret villain who had collaborated with demons for a century to maintain a controlled, profitable conflict.
“The chessboard is set,” he murmured, his purple eyes narrowing. “Well… now they will finally know the name of the player in the shadows.”
Suddenly, the boy turned his head. His senses, sharpened by the Shadow Core he had developed in the Abyss, picked up a discordance in the air.
Shouts of desperation. The panicked whinny of horses. The rhythmic, heavy clang of steel meeting steel.
“There,” he said.He did not run. He simply moved. To an outside observer, he appeared to teleport, his form flickering through the ancient trees of the Ironwood Forest like a glitch in reality. 
He utilized a rudimentary application of Time Hand I, slowing his perception of the world until the falling leaves seemed to freeze in mid-air, allowing him to navigate the dense undergrowth with terrifying speed.
As he approached the source of the noise, his gaze grew distant, like fading mist. The emotional desensitization he had mastered as Kiyoshi Ishida allowed him to profil the situation without the interference of adrenaline or fear . 
He was no longer a boy; he was a tool of lethal efficiency.
The scene on the forest road was one of absolute chaos. A black royal carriage, adorned with the silver leaf of the Ironwood monarchy, lay shattered on its side, its axles snapped like dry twigs.
By its side, the royal guards were being slaughtered. These were men trained for traditional warfare, but they were being overwhelmed by attackers who moved with the grace of predators. These men wore dark robes and carried daggers that hummed with a forbidden, sickly allure—the signature of the Devil Guild.
“Capture the princess!” one of the robed men shouted, his eyes glowing with an unnatural, magically-induced bloodlust. 
“Forget the guards—kill the witnesses! We leave no traces for the King to follow!”
Only two guards remained standing, their armor dented and slick with their own blood. One of them, a veteran with a scarred face, held a heavy shield over a small gap in the carriage. Inside, collapsed against the velvet upholstery, was a young girl.
“Your Highness,” the guard gasped, his breath coming in ragged, wet rattles. 
“If we fall… you must run! Don't look back!”
The girl, Alisa Ironwood, looked up. She was perhaps eleven, a year older than Kuro’s current body. Her long blonde hair was tied with golden ribbons that were now frayed and dusty. Her emerald eyes were wide with the sudden shattering of her world, yet even in her terror, there was a spark of bravery that refused to be extinguished.
The attackers raised their daggers, the blades glowing with an obsidian light. The veteran guard closed his eyes, bracing for the end
Fwsh.
A shadow passed.It did not feel like a physical presence. It felt like a sudden drop in temperature—a coldness that seeped into the marrow of everyone present.
One second.
Two.
In that span of two seconds, the world went silent.
There was the sound of Blood hitting the dry dirt in a heavy, synchronized rhythm. Then the Crack of magically-imbued steel shattering into a thousand useless shards.
All five attackers lay collapsed in the dust. Their throats had been slit with clinical precision; their weapons were pulverized; and the forbidden magic they had channeled had been torn from their very cores, leaving their bodies as empty husks.
Standing in the center of the carnage, his robes undisturbed and his mask impassive, was Shujin.
The two surviving guards stared, their mouths hanging open. They looked at the pile of dead assassins, then at the small, masked figure who stood among them like a dark god of judgment.
“A... a child...?” the veteran guard whispered, his shield arm trembling.
“He moved like light... no, faster than light... I didn't even see him draw a blade.”
Princess Alisa stepped forward from the wreckage of the carriage. Though her royal gown was stained with dust and the hem was torn, she walked with a dignity that surprised even Kuro. She stood before her savior, her emerald eyes searching the featureless purple mask.
She gave a gentle, trembling bow.“Oh... you saved us,” she said, her voice small but clear. “I am Princess Alisa of the Ironwood royal family. Thank you, noble little hero. You have the gratitude of the crown.”
The boy said nothing at first. He stood as still as a statue, his purple eyes reflecting her blonde hair and the setting sun. He was profiling her—analyzing her "usefulness to his future plans. She was the daughter of the Eastern King, a vital piece on the board if he was to dismantle the First Hero’s propaganda.
Finally, his voice echoed in the air. It was a cold, calm sound, vibrating with a weight that felt significantly deeper than his ten years.“I am no hero, Your Highness.”
He turned his masked face toward her, and for a moment, Alisa felt as though she were looking into the Abyss itself—the same cold void that Rei would later describe as the heart of the Darkness Lord.
“I am Shujin,” he stated, the name echoing like a death knell. “The Master of Shadows.”
The guards flinched at the sheer pressure of his aura. It was a sliver of the same immense power that world leaders would later sense across the continent—a power that made even the gods of the realm tremble in their white sky.
Alisa’s emerald eyes widened. She didn't feel fear, but a strange, deep familiarity that she couldn't place—as if she had known this darkness in another life.
“Master of Shadows...” she began, reaching out a hand.
Whoosh!
Before she could finish her sentence, Shujin vanished. There was no smoke, no magical circle—just a sudden absence where a person had been. He had retreated into the darkness of the trees, leaving only the scent of ozone and the silence of the dead.
The forest began to breathe again, but the guards remained frozen.
“That boy...” one whispered, his voice shaking. “He killed them all... without a single incantation. Not one word of magic.”
The veteran guard looked at the shattered remains of the attackers' daggers. “That’s no mere child, Leo. That’s a monster. Or a demon.”
Alisa didn't listen to them. She gazed out through the cracked window of the carriage, staring at the spot where the masked boy had stood. Her eyes were not filled with the terror of the ambush, but with an insatiable curiosity.
“Shujin, the Master of Shadows,” she repeated softly. “Why would such a person save a princess?”
She didn't know then that this encounter would define the rest of her life.
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[Scene- Devil Guild Hideout – Deep Underground]
Deep beneath the streets of Valerion, in a stone chamber illuminated by flickering green torches, a man in a sharp, modern suit slammed his fist onto a mahogany table.
“What!? All ten of my elite men are dead?! In less than a minute?!”
A spy knelt before the table, his head bowed so low it touched the cold floor. He was trembling violently.
“The report from the survivors... they said they were intercepted by a boy in a mask. He called himself... Shujin. The Master of Shadows.”
The room fell into a suffocating silence. The other guild members, mages and nobles who profited from the slave trade, looked at one another with growing unease.
Then, the leader—a man whose eyes were as sharp and cold as a snake’s—began to smile. It was a jagged, ugly expression.
“So,” he murmured, glancing at a list of royal collaborators and contracts of intimidation spread across his desk. “He’s made his move. The Darkness Lord has finally decided to step onto the board.”
He stood up, his shadow stretching long and distorted against the damp obsidian walls.
“If this Master of Shadows thinks he can clean up the filth of this kingdom,” the leader hissed, his voice dripping with malice, “then we must make sure the entire kingdom is cleansed in blood before he can take another step.”
He looked at the empty space on his wall where a map of the five kingdoms hung.
“Tell our contacts in the Demon Empire. Tell the First Hero's agents. A new variable has entered the game. And he must be erased.”

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✦ To be continued...