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

The order was simple: go up and get hit, go down and hit.

We didn't exchange words. Each one accepted his fate with his eyes downcast.

The sound of the baton cutting through the air filled the dojo, dry blows on flesh and the small grunts that escaped.

The pain was already transmitting numbness, transmitted with the baton from one child to another.

He didn't stumble—he fell. His body suddenly sank, he fell to his knees. A hoarse groan escaped his throat, and he lay there, motionless, covered in dried blood.

I watched the instructor walk toward him. And, without saying anything, he grabbed the boy by the collar as if he were a rag and dragged him to a corner of the dojo.

There was a piece of tree trunk, about a meter long and thick enough that an adult couldn't hug it. In the middle was a hole, the inside already charred and filled with pieces of charcoal.

I felt my skin go cold, I already knew what was going to happen.

The boy tried to pull away, pleading with his eyes, but the man dug his fingers into his shoulders and forced him to his knees.

"Hold on tight," he ordered, for the first time. Holding the piece of charcoal with two twigs as if they were chopsticks.

The boy hesitated. He cried without making a sound.

When the first charcoal was placed in his hands, the silence disappeared. The scream filled the dojo like a blade cutting through the air. The other children didn't even move.

The boy screamed as the charcoal burned his hands. His fingers twitched, the skin crackling in the embers like roast meat. My stomach turned, not with pity, but with disgust.

Damn. Maybe I'll have to put up with this shit too.

After about 10 seconds, the instructor took the charcoal back. The boy's hand was already completely red and covered in small blisters.

The instructor looked at me. There was no choice.

I climbed onto the beam, my calloused feet feeling every splinter of wood. The first blow hit my ribs.

I took a deep breath of cold air. I gritted my teeth, but no sound came out.

This time on my thigh. A muscle twitched involuntarily. Damn, it hurt.

I looked to the side. The boy with the burns was crying in a corner, his hands destroyed. If I couldn't hold on, I would end up like him.

Third. This time. Something hot rose up my throat.

Meanwhile, the boy with the burns wasn't crying anymore. He was just breathing, like a dying man.

Wherever my skin was exposed—my shins, my neck, my forearms—little slivers lodged themselves, driven deeper by the force of the blows.

Thin strands of blood, like strands of hair, slowly trickled down my legs. The pain throbbed, but it was still bearable.

In my head, I repeated a single thought, like a mantra: I won't fall. I won't fall. I'm not that kid anymore.

And then, finally, it was over. I fell. Without saying anything. Without looking at anyone. My right knee was shaking. The muscle in my thigh was almost raw—if it got infected, I would be in trouble.

I got back to my position. The instructor was watching me. For a second, just a second, his gaze changed. It wasn't one of approval, it wasn't one of praise. But there was a slight frown on his face.

As if he was sizing me up. In his past life, that body would have fainted before the second blow.

Barb Marks