Lucien7

(Dark Historical Fantasy / Evil Protagonist)

Death was just the beginning.

A man awakens in feudal Japan—not as a warrior, not as a hero, but as a nameless shadow wearing the skin of a dead boy.

With every beat of his heart, strange memories slip into his mind. With every breath, he feels the cracks in his stolen flesh. But he doesn’t care.

For he has discovered the first rule of this world: only the ruthless survive.

Now, in the blood-soaked courts of the Kiyohara clan, a silent game begins. Stolen identities, whispered secrets, and a hunger that defies death itself.

Some call it reincarnation.

Others, possession.

He calls it opportunity.

(Historical events will be mentioned!)

Hui Sheng: The Immortal Soul

I woke to a pain shooting through my ribs. A light kick, but without hesitation.

"Get up," the voice said. Cold, without anger. Just an order.

I swallowed hard. The pain wasn't just a punishment—it was a warning. He knew it was coming next.

I grabbed my knees and slowly stood up. Silently, staggering out of the hut.

There were children outside. Six boys, my age. One girl. I remembered them. Their blank expressions. The kind of look that didn't suit a child.

There was no exchange of words between us, no curiosity. I'd fallen yesterday, and they hadn't known if I'd get up. Now they knew. That was all.

But the instructor didn't leave us there.

He kept walking, and I followed. My legs trembled, my feet bare.

We stepped through a bamboo fence and into a larger space, surrounded by old planks and a low ceiling. A dojo.

Not the kind you see in movies, smooth, clean, with polished wooden floors.

The floor was dirt, scarred from falls and punches. There were dark stains everywhere—dried and uneven, untouched by the ground. Old blood. Lots of blood.

A bitter, metallic smell hung in the air.

Bokken, I thought (wooden swords) leaned in the corner. None of them were new. All chipped, with barbs in the handles. Wielding them required accepting the pain that would come.

In the corner, alone, a training dummy. It was just a thick stake with dirty straw around it, tied with ropes. That was it. No protection. No foam.

This is where the kids learned to fight.

The instructor said nothing. He just pointed with his chin at a smooth, round piece of wood, supported by two sharp stones on either end, on the side of the dojo.

We lined up next to him, making no noise. No questions, no stares. We all know what to do.

One of the boys stepped forward, his muscles tense, like a cornered animal. He gritted his teeth, and climbed up onto the beam without hesitation.

He stood, arms outstretched to the sides, trying to balance himself. The wood was unstable.

The second in line picked up a stick—a dry, cracked bamboo pole with a few splinters on the end. Without emotion, he walked over and began to hit.

Thigh. Rib. Arm. The other side of the rib.

The boy on the beam didn't scream. He just frowned, his eyes watering. One of the blows made him tremble, and for a moment he almost fell. But he steadied himself. He dug his toes in hard.

The instructor watched silently, his arms crossed.

I knew it. It would soon be my turn. The old Ichiro could barely stand it, almost fainting every time, but I knew I would be able to do well, after all, how could I have less resistance to pain than some children?

This was not just the instructor's sadistic pleasure, but rather to teach us that the world around us could crumble, but we had to remain standing, we could not falter on the battlefield no matter what!

The pain of the kick seemed like a joke compared to what was to come.

First day