The man's red hair stood out strangely against the gray backdrop of the city, and he was incredibly tall. His face stayed hidden, an outline in the little light. Kanji started to feel fear, a primitive sense alerting him to impending peril. Beside him, Marumaya froze, her eyes wide with fear.
The man's eyes, which were an unsettling shade of blood red, were locked on them. Kanji felt as though they were cutting right through him. He wore all black clothing with elaborate golden emblems all over it. He was certainly strong, a physique developed by discipline.
(You repeat visual intimidation traits often — consider letting one detail imply the rest.)
A horrific grin stretched over the man's face, his grotesque features twisted into a horrible caricature of enjoyment. Kanji's mind raced, attempting to come up with a plan to stop the impending catastrophe. Trying to diffuse the situation, he blurted out, "Hey, well, could you show us the route to the city?"
His query hung there, a weak attempt to cover up his dread. The man smiled more broadly, a more malevolent look emerging. Then Kanji's eyesight was filled with blackness.
Kanji's eyelids were heavy, like lead weighed down. A persistent reminder of the assault he had experienced was a throbbing agony that surged through his neck. His eyelids strained slowly open to discover a cramped, gloomy room. Flickering flames on the walls, reminiscent of the Middle Ages, provided the sole illumination. A view of the moonlit sky was provided by iron bars that obscured the windows.
His heart fell as his eyes moved to the left. Marumaya was shackled to the wall by heavy iron chains that tied her wrists. Her face looked strained and pallid, apparently sleeping. Kanji started calling her name in an attempt to rouse her up, his voice resonating through the deserted room.
With an expression of bewilderment, Marumaya's eyes slowly opened.
"So, did anyone here awaken?" With a deep, scary voice, he remarked. "I guess you're ready for some fun."
Kanji gave the man a scowl as his rage fueled a wave of defiance. The man with red hair became serious. "Why do you have that kind of stare at me?" He stepped closer to Kanji, growling, "I definitely don't like anyone gazing at me like that."
The man with red hair moved in closer, his hand just over Kanji's shoulder. "Let me explain everything before you get angrier than you already are," he continued in a menacingly low voice. Kanji felt a cold rush through him.
The guy went on, sounding almost hypnotic. "You must not realize, but you're a remarkable youngster, Kanji." Kanji's eyes grew wide with uncertainty. How could this unknown person know his name?
The guy replied, his voice growing ominous, "You will know the cause in the future, but before I explain why I got you specifically, your uncommon abilities make you a unique kid."
Kanji's perplexity increased. Strengths? What topic was he discussing? I'm not sure if God exists in the true sense, but I do know that the paranormal exists! The guy said, his voice brimming with disdain. "You know, there is a very rare breed of people in this world that are born with a 'Yin.'"
"What on earth is a Yin?" Kanji yelled, his bewilderment and rage erupting. With a raised hand, the guy quieted the kid. Calmly, he continued, "Wait, I'll explain. On someone's hand there is an odd symbol known as a Yin. For a human to possess it, they must have both the genetic makeup and a compelling cause to activate it. And to raise my commandant's position, I have made it my goal to acquire as many of those as I can on this planet."
Kanji's mind raced, trying to process the information. What was this man talking about? A Yin? A commandant? It was all too much to comprehend.
With ominous light shining in his eyes, the guy gestured skyward. "And guess what, To become one of my first troops, I need to give the person using said Yin a cause to activate it. If they don't know how, I will make them use it. Once they do, I will battle them, defeat them, and train them to become my soldier." he added, his voice dripping with cold calculation.
Kanji's thoughts were racing. He heard what the man had to say. All he had to do to call on the enigmatic Yin was to incite Kanji to fury. And that strategy included Marumaya's attendance. He was overwhelmed with fear at the thought of what may transpire.
The man narrowed his eyes and turned to face Kanji. "You do realize what I'm going to do by now, don't you?" he questioned, a dark smirk creeping across his lips. One of his fingers started to glow a sinister crimson, as if to drive home his message. He revealed a sign engraved on his palm as he turned his hand over. It was the same as the Greek letter, a Phi.
With a growing ring of fire around his finger, he said, "My name is Enazumi Hidetoru, and this is my Yin (Phi)." It was an amazing sight, but also scary. Without conscious thought, Kanji knew what would come next. A battle raged inside him as he turned to face Marumaya.
"Not her, please!" Kanji shouted, his voice filled with anguish.
The red-haired man, Enazumi, approached Marumaya, flames forming a makeshift fire sword out of his fingers. He struck her shoulder with such force that her skin was sliced by the flames. Marumaya let out a sharp cry as her body erupted in pain.
Kanji's fury increased. He made fruitless attempts to break free from the chains that bound him. He forced himself to settle down and use common sense out of desperation for a solution. He could try talking his way out of this one. Perhaps he could persuade Enazumi to instruct him without endangering Marumaya.
He noticed that Marumaya had several wounds from Enazumi, leaving her shoulders covered in blood, as he concentrated on his strategy. When panic struck, Kanji started trying to escape again. Grasping the chains with both hands, his skin tore away from the metal.
"That's it! I just need to cut my skin off," he muttered to himself, his determination unwavering. He gathered all his strength and focused on breaking free.
Enazumi turned to look at Kanji, who wore a peculiarly dejected expression. He muttered, seemingly to himself, "I wish there was another choice for this." In complete contrast to his earlier behavior, the words hung in the air. He appeared to be tormented by what he had done. Kanji couldn't figure it out. Though this man was obviously insane, there was a tiny bit of humanity in him.
Weak but determined, Marumaya's voice rose above the mayhem. Trying to put on a comforting smile, she said, "Don't worry about me. My skin is only slightly perforated by these cuts. It's not all that horrible." Though intended to console Kanji, her words had the opposite impact. They made him feel like there was no hope. He was unable to let her go.
Kanji tugged at the chains with a newfound vigor, the constant strain tearing his skin. Enazumi proceeded with his ghoulish rite, stabbing Marumaya with increasing severity. Blood gathered at their feet, the cold stone floor turning into a red lake.
"Why do you do this the way you do? I understand why!" With a voice hushed from rage and desperation, Kanji yelled at Enazumi. With a mask of indifference covering his face, the red-haired man said nothing. Nevertheless, Kanji noticed an oddity. Tears were pooling in Enazumi's eyes. It seemed as though this terrible deed was being forced upon him against his will.
"Just quit doing this if you don't enjoy it!" Kanji begged, his voice desperate. But Enazumi paid him no attention, concentrating only on cutting Marumaya's skin. The torment went on.''
A tempest of fury swallowed Kanji whole; his rage was a maelstrom. He promised to exact unfathomable suffering on Enazumi, his voice a venomous hiss full of retaliation. Looking at Kanji with a mixture of expectation and amusement, the red-haired man seemed unfazed.
Kanji was suddenly surrounded by an ethereal, raw-power-pulsating golden aura. An unearthly energy surged through the symbol that materialized on his palm: a mysterious Upsilon. The floor beneath him trembled as his presence sent a shockwave through the chamber, breaking the chains in the burst of rage.
Kanji roared like a tiger and threw his fist at Enazumi. With casual indifference, the red-haired man easily deflected the blow, and in response delivered an open-palm strike to Kanji's stomach. The collision threw Kanji through the wall, opening it wide. The impact sent a tremor through the chamber.
The cold night air washed over Kanji as he tumbled into the forest, his body aching from the impact. He lay on the forest floor, gasping for breath, his mind racing.
-------------------------------Back at Church------------------------------------
The bed was still made in the careful, almost apologetic way Kanji always left it—corners pulled tight, blanket folded once, then again, as if repetition could ensure correctness. The chair by the window held the same jacket, sleeves draped unevenly, one pocket turned inside out. A book lay open on the small desk, its spine pressed flat by use, not neglect. Dust had not yet learned the shape of the place.
Absence, the priest learned that morning, does not announce itself with chaos.
He stood in the doorway , his hand resting on the frame as if the wood might speak to him if he waited. He called Kanji's name once. Then again. His voice echoed too easily, as though the walls had already rehearsed the sound.
At first, he thought of embarrassment—of a young man forgetting the time, missing his duties, losing track of responsibility the way youth sometimes does. He told himself he would scold him gently, maybe tease him, pretend the worry had never existed.
But worry had already begun to root itself, quiet and stubborn.
He checked the kitchen. The storeroom. The courtyard behind the church where weeds grew fast. He walked the perimeter once, then again, counting steps without realizing he was doing so, as if numbers could impose logic on the morning.
By noon, the sun had climbed too high for denial to survive.
Kanji did not return.
The priest sat at the small wooden table where they used to eat and folded his hands together, then unfolded them, then folded them again. He tried to pray. The words came easily—he had said them thousands of times—but they felt detached from meaning, like coins pressed into the palm of a man who no longer knew what to buy.
Please, he said inwardly. Not to God at first. To the room. To the walls. To the habits that still lingered like warmth in cold cloth. Please let him walk back through the door.
The door remained closed.
He told himself not to imagine conclusions. Not to dramatize. People disappeared for reasons that did not involve tragedy. People left. People ran. People chose silence.
Still, the thought followed him.If he left, why did he leave everything behind?
The jacket.The book.The quiet, deliberate way Kanji lived.
When evening came, the priest went to the authorities.
The report was filed with the indifference of routine. A young man, no family, no official address beyond a church that barely registered on city maps. The questions were asked in a tone that already assumed the answer: runaway, transient, not urgent.
The priest nodded through it all. He signed where they told him to sign. He thanked them when they dismissed him.
Outside, the sky had begun to darken, and he realized—painfully—
That night, he did not lock the door.
He told himself it was practical. If Kanji returned late, tired, ashamed, he should not have to knock. The priest sat in his room with the light on long past the hour he usually slept, listening to the building settle, every sound sharpening his attention.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kanji's body protested the effort as he struggled to stand, but his mind was a battlefield of wrath and resolve. Strong arms caught him before his head made contact with the unforgiving ground. He was being held by Enazumi, the person who had caused him pain, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"My son, you performed admirably," Enazumi murmured, his tone oddly tender.
Kanji was startled awake the next morning, his thoughts racing. The building he had broken into was immaculate, unaffected by the pandemonium of the night before, as he observed. A wave of uncertainty hit him. Had he dreamed this whole thing?
A grin appeared on Enazumi's lips as he appeared in the corner of Kanji's vision. His voice was full of sarcasm as he said, "Oh, hello, sleepyhead, and welcome to the Yin Club."
Kanji fired off a barrage of punches and kicks as he instinctively activated his Yin. With smooth and precise movements, the red-haired man skillfully avoided each strike.
Enazumi calmly said, in the middle of the confusion, "Let me explain one thing to you. The girl is still there, barely alive, and the only way you can save her is by killing me, so please, find the strength to do that."
Kanji's fury increased. The thought of Marumaya's suffering was intolerable. He attacked with renewed vigor and strength, his strikes coming faster and heavier.
Then Enazumi sent the boy flying with a simple flick of his finger, declaring, "You see those trees? This is a little demonstration of what could be with the Yin you have."
He then continued, "Solar Ignis." His symbol turned a deep red as Kanji was still airborne. The red-haired man launched his hand at a speed Kanji could not perceive, and in a single moment, a massive explosion engulfed the surrounding trees—a testament to the destructive power of his Yin. Kanji was thrown backward, landing hard on the ground.
Kanji, fueled by nonstop friction of anger, continued trying to hurt the red-haired man, but it was futile. And so hours, and even days, passed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He checked the roads. Asked around. Visited places Kanji had once mentioned casually, in passing, the way people reveal their lives without knowing it. He spoke to shopkeepers who remembered nothing, neighbors who remembered a face but not a name, strangers who nodded politely and forgot him the moment he turned away.
After a while, hope became likely.
He'll come back when he's ready.He just needs time.Some wounds require distance.
The priest cleaned Kanji's room every week. He did not move anything. He dusted around the objects, careful not to disturb their arrangement, as though displacement might sever an invisible thread.
He continued to cook two portions of food out of habit. At first, he laughed at himself for it. Later, he stopped noticing.
When people asked him—politely, awkwardly—what had happened to the young man who helped around the church, the priest answered honestly:
"I don't know."
That answer began to feel like a confession.
At night, doubt crept in—methodical. It questioned him the way an accountant questions numbers that do not align.
Did I miss something?Did I mistake silence for peace?
Kanji had never spoken much about his past. The priest had taken that as humility. Now, he wondered if it had been tragedy.
He replayed conversations in his mind, searching for signs, pauses that lingered too long, smiles that arrived too late. Memory became unreliable, reshaping itself under scrutiny, every kindness suspect, every reassurance insufficient.
Prayers.
He prayed without expectation, the way one continues to knock long after believing no one will answer—because stopping felt like betrayal.
Faith, he learned, is not always belief.
Sometimes it is refusal.
Refusal to conclude.Refusal to accept silence as final.
One winter morning, as frost gathered on the edges of the windows, the priest stood in Kanji's room and realized something that unsettled him more than fear ever had:
He no longer knew whether he wanted Kanji to return unchanged.
If the boy came back broken, would he know how to help him?
If he came back hardened, altered, distant—would he recognize him at all?
The thought made him sit down heavily on the bed.
Tears came—not sudden, not violent, but slow and steady, like water finding its way through stone. He covered his face with his hands and felt old in a way years had not prepared him for.
"I did my best," he whispered, though he no longer knew to whom.
He stayed.
And the door remained unlocked.