The chalk squeaked against the blackboard, a rhythmic, grating sound that usually bothered Hitoshi Asda. But today, his mind was elsewhere. He was staring at the window of the small primary school in the outskirts of Tokyo, watching the cherry blossom petals drift aimlessly in the wind.
At fifty-eight, Hitoshi was a man of quiet routines. He was the teacher who never raised his voice, the husband who always remembered the groceries, and the father who helped his daughter, Hana, with her history homework. The callouses on his hands were now from gardening and carpentry, not the grip of a cold steel hilt.
"Asda-sensei?" a small voice chirped.
Hitoshi blinked, turning back to his class. A young boy was pointing at the clock. Class was over.
"Right. Forgive me, Kaito," Hitoshi smiled, a gentle expression that reached his weary eyes. "Everyone, remember to finish your calligraphy practice. Dismissed."
He watched the children scramble out, their laughter echoing through the halls. It was a sound he had fought to protect fifteen years ago—a sound he thought he had bought with blood.
Later that evening, the smell of miso soup filled his modest home. His wife, Akiko, was humming a tune in the kitchen while Hana sat cross-legged on the floor, glued to the evening news.
"—and in the Shinjuku district tonight, police are still baffled by the string of vigilante attacks," the news anchor's voice rose with an edge of excitement. "Eyewitnesses claim the attacker wore a traditional demon mask and utilized high-level martial arts to dismantle a known drug-running ring."
Hitoshi froze, his hand hovering over the television remote.
"Look, Dad!" Hana pointed. "They have footage from a dashcam!"
The screen flickered to a grainy, low-light video. In the center of the frame, a figure moved like a blur of ink against paper. It wasn't the clumsy flailing of a street brawler. It was a dance—a terrifyingly familiar sequence of strikes.
The figure stepped into the light of a streetlamp. He wore a matte-black tactical bodysuit, but over his face was a porcelain Hannya mask, its red lips pulled back in a permanent, demonic snarl.
The figure disarmed a man twice his size with a lightning-fast wrist lock, then delivered a palm strike to the sternum that sent the attacker flying backward. The vigilante didn't follow up with a lethal blow. Instead, he reached into a pouch and tossed something onto the unconscious body.
A small, wooden token. A red lotus.
"The Ronin has returned," the anchor whispered, echoing the sentiment of a thousand social media posts.
Hitoshi felt a cold sweat prickle at the base of his neck. The movements were his. The Kuzuryu style—the "Nine-Headed Dragon"—was a secret art he thought had died with his master. But there was a difference. The figure was faster, more acrobatic, and notably… non-lethal.
"Hitoshi?"
He turned. Akiko was standing in the doorway, her face pale. She remembered the nights he had come home smelling of iron and rain. She remembered the scars he hid beneath his long-sleeved shirts.
"It's just a copycat," Hitoshi said, his voice sounding hollow even to himself.
"He's using your symbol," Akiko whispered, her eyes darting to Hana, who was still mesmerized by the screen. "He's using your life."
Hitoshi looked back at the TV. The young man on the screen—whoever he was—moved with a desperate kind of hope. He was fighting as if he could save the city without losing his soul.
He's mimicking my moves, Hitoshi thought, his jaw tightening, but he doesn't understand the mindset. He's playing at being a hero in a city that only understands monsters.
"He's going to get himself killed," Hitoshi muttered.
"You promised," Akiko said, her voice trembling. "You promised that part of you was dead."
Hitoshi looked at his hands—the hands of a teacher. Then he looked at the screen, where a ghost was haunting the streets of Tokyo.
"If he dies wearing that mask," Hitoshi said, "the peace I built dies with him. And then they'll come for families like ours again."
The "Ghost on the Screen" wasn't just a news story. It was a summons. The Ronin hadn't just returned; he had never truly left.