Project Superior: A Hero's Awakening

Born of Venom

August 4th, 1778

Shirakawa-go, Japan

I remember it all as if it happened just yesterday. I was born to parents I would never know, left alone until I was sold to a man named Kagehiro Sakai. He became my master.

Kagehiro Sakai wasn't a parent or a guide. He was cold, ruthless, training me and other orphans around my age to be obedient—perfect instruments for his will. In his eyes, we were nothing more than puppets, useful only for what he could shape us into. Training us meant breaking us down; he drove us to the brink of exhaustion, starved us when we disappointed him, and punished any disobedience without hesitation.

We lived on Mount Koya, where the cold bit into our bones and the forests hid all manner of beasts. Each day was spent on brutal training, dragging us into those misty forests where we learned to endure the harsh conditions and survive with next to nothing. We trained not just in strength and agility but in shadow—how to ambush, assassinate, poison, and kill with quiet efficiency. The target's age, nationality, or innocence didn't matter. If someone paid for their death, we were to deliver it without question or mercy.

My companions were just ordinary children shaped into something unnatural, but I was different. I was one of the rare "gifted," blessed with a unique ability that Kagehiro favored above all. He pushed me harder, expected more of me, yet I was numb to the mystery of my past. I didn't wonder about my real parents or why my life was filled with violence. All I knew was that I had been made into a weapon—a Shinobi. My hands were stained with innocent blood, shed for the shadowed deals that profited men like Kagehiro.

One rainy morning, as my fellow "siblings" and I sat shivering, the youngest of us, a girl we called Eighteen, looked up at me, clutching her growling stomach. "Big Sis, I'm hungry," she murmured.

I met her gaze, sadness filling my voice. "I'm sorry, Eighteen. I don't have anything for you right now," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle.

Her stomach growled again, louder this time, and she grumbled in frustration.

"Would you shut up already?" grumbled Thirty-One, sitting a few feet ahead, scowling at her. "All your whining is distracting."

Eighteen shot him an annoyed look. "Why are you trying to act all tough again? Trying to impress Big Sis?" Her words drew laughter from the others, making Thirty-One turn beet red.

"W-What? I'm not trying to look cool for Sixteen!" he stammered, his face a shade darker as he glared at her.

She only stuck her tongue out in response, taunting him further. I watched their antics with a quiet laugh, but beneath the amusement, I noticed Eighteen shivering from the biting cold.

Our master's voice echoed in my memory: "Endurance must be your only comfort. Strength is found only in hardship. A tool has no value if it breaks when called upon."

None of us ever dared to talk back to him, so we endured. This brutal training was what let us survive on almost no food, no water, and no rest. It allowed us to withstand intense heat and biting cold, though not without cost. Those who fell to exhaustion or cold were simply left behind. Yet somehow, the intense conditioning kept us alive on missions.

As I draped a strip of cloth over Eighteen's shoulders, the silence broke with the sound of a familiar bell—a sharp, cold ring that meant it was time to train again.

We all rose in unison, moving like the trained hounds we were. Eighteen slipped off my lap, standing with the rest of us as we shuffled outside from the bare, broken-down room into the biting chill of the morning. We sprinted toward the training grounds, each of us knowing today's session would be anything but routine.