Shadows of Mind and Body

Prologue

Twelve years ago, a great fox spirit with nine tails tormented the lands. And he was so powerful that whenever his tails thrashed, the ground would shake and tsunamis would crash against the shores. The suffering people gathered the great shinobi clans to fight this menace, and at the end of this battle, one brave ninja was able to seal the demon away within the body of a child.

But this is not that ninja's story, nor is it the story of the unfortunate child who had the fox sealed within him. No, this story begins 15 years before that fateful day... with, as many stories do, a child.

In the darkened interior of a shabby, dilapidated building, a figure, covered head-to-toe in dark clothing, sat hunched over, cradling something in his hands.

In a tiny village on the border of the Land of Fire and the Land of Rivers, there lived a poor family – a man, a woman, and their newborn. They were a modest, humble, and above all else, normal couple, and their baby much adored by themselves and by the village.

The tiny something moved, wriggling in the man's grip, as he carefully set it down on the floor, before standing and taking a step back, putting distance between him and it.

But even in such an overlooked home, with such a mundane family, the young can become a target. Not just by bandits or thieves, or even ninja, but by... others. Others who would exploit the helpless in order to further their own power.

Behind the man's makeshift mask, his eyes closed, and, with a flicker and a flash of sickly golden light, an eye spiraled into existence on his forehead.

One night, a traveler came to the town. Polite and dressed in modest clothing, with a pack slung over his back. The villagers welcomed him with open arms, housed him, and treated his wounds. And he repaid them by sneaking into the couple's home and stealing away with their precious child.

A beat. Two. And then the night's stillness was broken by another yellow light, the same eye glowing upon the brow of the tiny child on the floor. The baby let out a wail of discomfort, whining, eyes squeezed shut, hands pawing at the air. Shadows – deep, purple masses that seemed not so much shadow but blotches of dark purple light – crept across the floorboards, expanding outwards from the man's still form.

The traveler, a man of not nearly so kind a disposition as he seemed, was a magician, a being who controlled the light and shadows of the human soul. And to him, the soul of this child was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

The shifting violet tendrils reached out, throwing the baby into deep shadow, and, just as the infant's wails began to peter off into quiet whimpers, pounced and tore into the delicate mind behind the golden eye.

Intending to take the soul of the infant, to use it in a corrupted bid to further his own power, the magician reached out with the shadows of the beyond.

But that night, something went wrong.

There was a wrenching, a twisting of reality, and a scream. The man flinched, eyes flying open in shock, as the baby writhed and cried, flailing desperately at the darkness latched onto it, and the man watched, frozen and unable to comprehend, as the tiny light he intended to take did not extinguish, but, with a horrible tearing sound...

As a magician, one has power over a human soul – but the shadows they draw upon are fickle things, always changing sides.

... tore itself in two.

And when forced to choose between a mediocre man attempting to play God and an innocent child...

The two halves boiled, writhed, even as the baby screamed and screamed, and then the shadows were turning back to their caster, and one-half reached out one tiny thread of awareness, and pushed –

... the shadows will always choose those who they deem worthy.

In the morning, the baby's hungry, terrified cries reached the ears of two concerned parents, and in desperation, they broke down the door. Splinters flew, barely missing the baby, and the door was wrenched aside before it fell, and the light that poured through the doorway fell upon the two figures – the baby, reasonably healthy and with only a single dim, unseen half of light swirling inside it.

And the thief lying empty on the ground, nothing save a hollow husk of his former self.

Years later, the infant – now a child with strange, tri-colored hair – would wake up dreaming of the man's dead, dead eyes, and a dark figure, his own disembodied shadow, would be standing beside his bed, with one hand outstretched, waiting for him to take it.

And take it he would.