The snow fell in silent, heavy sheets, blanketing the remote mountain village of Shirakawa in a pristine layer of white. For most, it was a picturesque scene, a tranquil moment in the harshness of winter. But for Kenjiro Akagi, the endless white only served to amplify the vibrant, cursed crimson of his hair. From his small, isolated hut on the outskirts of the village, he watched the smoke curl from the chimneys of the homes below, a stark reminder of the warmth and community he was denied.
At sixteen, Kenjiro had long grown accustomed to the whispers and fearful glances. "The boy with hair the color of fire," they would say, "a bad omen." His parents, simple charcoal makers, had loved him dearly, but their reassurances did little to shield him from the village's deeply ingrained superstitions. After they succumbed to a plague five years prior, Kenjiro was left utterly alone, the villagers content to leave him to his fate, providing just enough support to quell their own consciences but never enough to bridge the chasm of their fear.
His days were spent in the solitude of the forest, his senses honed by the silence and the constant need for survival. He learned the ways of the woods, the tracks of the animals, the whispers of the wind through the pines. It was a lonely existence, but in the embrace of nature, Kenjiro found a semblance of peace. The forest did not judge him for the color of his hair; it simply was, and it allowed him to be.
As dusk began to settle, casting long, purple shadows across the snow, a primal fear, colder than the winter air, gripped the village. A scream, sharp and piercing, shattered the evening's tranquility. It was a sound Kenjiro had only heard in the hushed, fearful tales of the elders – the sound of a demon attack. The whispers of man-eating monsters that roamed the night were no longer stories. They were here.