Legacy Vol°1

"In the intricate tapestry of human existence, vengeance stands as a complex and multifaceted force, woven into the fabric of our emotions and actions. Defined by an inexorable desire for retribution, vengeance transcends mere retaliation; it becomes a profound exploration of justice, morality, and the human soul.

Vengeance is a manifestation of the moral compass within us, a compass that swings between the poles of right and wrong. It emerges from the depths of perceived injustice, where the aggrieved seeks balance in the scales of morality. At its core, vengeance is a quest for equilibrium, a pursuit of redress for the wrongs endured.

Yet, we must tread carefully through the labyrinth of ethical considerations. Vengeance, when unchecked, has the potential to spiral into a destructive force, consuming not only the target but also the soul of the seeker. The fine line between justice and vengeance becomes blurred, and the very quest for balance may tip the scales towards chaos.

As the tendrils of vengeance extend, their impact reverberates beyond the immediate target, casting a long shadow over the lives of those intimately connected to the seeker. The pursuit of retribution becomes a perilous journey, fraught with the risk of collateral damage to the bonds that tie us to our closest kin and allies. In the pursuit of justice, one may inadvertently sow the seeds of discord, tearing apart the very fabric of familial and friendly ties.

The threads of vengeance weave a tapestry that not only ensnares the target but entangles the emotions and well-being of those standing in proximity. The toll exacted upon the seeker's close ones is often unanticipated, a silent consequence that echoes through the intimate corridors of relationships. The pursuit of justice, when fueled by vengeance, becomes a double-edged sword, cutting deep into the hearts of those who share emotional bonds with the seeker."

Main story:

The moon hung low in the obsidian sky, casting an ethereal glow over the realm of dreams. In this liminal space between consciousness and the subconscious, Zenjiro found himself standing at the precipice of an expansive void. The emptiness stretched infinitely in all directions, an abyss that seemed to defy the very concept of boundaries.

From the depths of this infinite expanse, the plaintive cries of a woman echoed, a haunting melody that reverberated through the void. The cries were laden with a sorrow so profound that it seemed to seep into the fabric of Zenjiro's being. Without hesitation, he began to traverse the boundless emptiness, each step bringing him closer to the source of the mournful symphony.

As he moved through the void, the cries intensified, becoming an undeniable lamentation. The air itself seemed to pulse with the weight of anguish. With each step, Zenjiro felt the emotional resonance of the cries, a resonance that stirred a sense of empathy within him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he encountered her—the woman from the collision the night before. Her form materialized amidst the emptiness, huddled and weeping in a spectral silhouette. Strangely, the void seemed to absorb her tears, leaving no trace of their existence.

"Are you okay?" Zenjiro's voice cut through the silence, a compassionate inquiry reaching out to the tormented soul before him. The woman's cries momentarily ceased as she turned to face him, her features obscured by the ephemeral mist that enveloped her.

In a surreal twist, she reached out and grasped Zenjiro's outstretched hand, the touch devoid of physicality yet laden with an otherworldly connection. The void, once filled with her mournful cries, fell into an eerie silence.

But then, the atmosphere shifted.

As she turned to him, her countenance transformed. The spectral mist that veiled her face grew dark, obscuring her features in an ominous shroud. A chill crept over Zenjiro as he witnessed the enigmatic metamorphosis.

Whispers, incomprehensible and unsettling, emanated from the woman. It was as if the void itself carried her words, weaving an indistinct tapestry of sound that resonated with an unsettling intensity.

Perplexed and unnerved, Zenjiro withdrew his hand, taking a step back. The woman, now with an indistinct and foreboding expression, advanced towards him. Each step she took seemed to distort the very fabric of the void, creating an uncanny sense of dissonance.

As she drew closer, the woman's intentions remained unclear. Was she attempting to convey a message, or did a more malevolent motive lurk beneath the surface? The answer eluded Zenjiro as he grappled with the surreal and unnerving encounter.

With every passing moment, her proximity increased, and the oppressive darkness that veiled her face seemed to intensify. The dream, once a realm of ethereal exploration, took on an ominous hue, leaving Zenjiro on the precipice of an existential abyss.

Suddenly, her face contorted into an expression of malevolence, and the void itself seemed to respond, morphing into a vortex that swallowed Zenjiro whole. The inexorable pull of the abyss drew him into its depths, and the dream dissolved into an inky void, leaving behind only the lingering echoes of a silent and foreboding abyss.

As the first light of dawn painted the room in subtle hues, Zenjiro's eyes fluttered open, breaking free from the grip of the haunting dream. The surreal journey through the void, the cries of the mysterious woman, and the unsettling transformation hung in the air like the dissipating mist of a vanishing nightmare.

The transition from the dreamworld to reality was marked by the residual tremors in his hand—a physical manifestation of the ethereal encounter that had unfolded in the depths of his subconscious. The dream, though confined to the realm of sleep, cast a lingering shadow over the waking moments, blurring the boundaries between the imagined and the tangible.

With a breath that sought to dispel the lingering disquiet, Zenjiro surveyed the room, the familiar contours now bathed in the soft glow of morning. The dream, a nocturnal odyssey into the labyrinth of his own mind, had left an indelible imprint on his waking consciousness.

His gaze lingered on the window, where the dawn heralded the promise of a new day. The dream, though unsettling, had become a catalyst for introspection, urging him to confront the mysteries that lay beneath the surface of his thoughts.

The trembling hand, a lingering echo of the dream's touch, gradually steadied as Zenjiro stood, his feet finding solid ground. The transition from the ephemeral landscapes of the dream to the tangible reality of his room became a symbolic act of grounding, a silent acknowledgment of the dual realms he traversed.

As he prepared to face the day, the dream's residue clung to him like a veil of introspective shadows. The woman from the collision, the void, and the enigmatic transformation—all became threads in the intricate tapestry of his own existence, pulling him into the depths of self-discovery.

With a resolute determination, Zenjiro embraced the unfolding mysteries, carrying the echoes of the dream as silent companions on the journey into the uncharted territories of his own psyche.

The morning sun cast its gentle rays through the window, bathing the room in a soft glow. Zenjiro, caught in a contemplative gaze, studied the reflection that stared back at him. The aftermath of the vivid dream lingered in the air, and he couldn't shake the unsettling question that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness—had the dream transcended the boundaries of mere imagination?

Doubt wove its tendrils into his thoughts, blurring the lines between reality and the ethereal realm he had traversed in his sleep. The mirror, a silent witness to the internal struggle, reflected the visage of a young man grappling with the enigma of his own subconscious.

With furrowed brows, Zenjiro extended his trembling hand toward the cool touch of the tap, intent on washing away the lingering remnants of the dream. As the water cascaded over his face, he hoped for a return to the mundane clarity of waking life.

However, the moment his gaze returned to the mirror, a jolt of disbelief coursed through him. The reflection showed no signs of the ominous mark that had been imprinted on his hand in the dream. The line between the surreal and the tangible blurred, leaving him to question the very nature of his reality.

"Was it all just a figment of my imagination?" Zenjiro muttered to himself, his voice a whisper in the quiet room. The weight of uncertainty pressed upon him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the dream had woven itself into the fabric of his waking existence.

As if compelled by an unseen force, he scrutinized his hand, half-expecting to find the lingering mark that defied the boundaries of the dreamworld. To his surprise, there was nothing—a clean slate that contradicted the vivid imprint from the void.

"Am I losing my grip on reality?" The question hung in the air, a haunting refrain that echoed through the recesses of his mind. The dream, though confined to the realm of sleep, had left an indelible impact, casting shadows on the certainties of waking life.

In a hesitant attempt to dispel the lingering unease, Zenjiro focused on the mundane task of washing his face. The water, once a familiar and comforting sensation, now carried the weight of existential uncertainty. Each drop that slid down his skin seemed to whisper the secrets of the dream, leaving him caught in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

As he dried his face with a towel, the reflection in the mirror remained a silent witness to the internal turmoil. The room, bathed in the morning light, became a sanctuary for contemplation—a space where the boundaries between dreams and reality blurred, and Zenjiro found himself navigating the delicate threads that connected the two realms.

The mark may have eluded the tangible confines of his hand, but the imprint of the dream lingered, an intangible echo that defied easy explanation. With a final glance at the mirror, Zenjiro steeled himself for the day ahead, knowing that the enigma of the dream had become an inseparable part of his journey into the unknown.

Zenjiro's morning unfolded with a sense of urgency, the realization that time was slipping away echoing in his mind. "Oh no, I'm going to be late!" he exclaimed, a mix of panic and determination in his voice. The destination was a familiar one—a restaurant nestled in his neighborhood—a place with a history intertwined with his past.

As he rushed through the routine, the choice of working at this particular establishment resonated with a deeper sentiment. It wasn't merely a job; it was a return to the echoes of his childhood, a homage to his mother, Kimiko. The restaurant held memories that anchored him—a place where the owner, Yagi Mamoru, a close friend of the family, shared a genuine connection with Kimiko.

"Man, when was I back then, like 10 or something?" Zenjiro reminisced, his thoughts drifting to the warmth of the past. "Thank God that old pal is still alive and working at that place. If it wasn't for him, I would've been lost in this storm of events."

Yagi Mamoru, a figure of kindness and humility, stood as a pillar in Zenjiro's life. With a sense of gratitude, he approached the day's responsibilities, mindful of the mark on his hand. A fleeting concern crossed his mind—did others see it? Should he be cautious?

"I should be conscious of it," Zenjiro resolved, a subtle determination coloring his actions as he headed straight to the workplace.

The date marked the beginning of a new year—01/01/2039. The restaurant, a quiet haven with scattered patrons recovering from the previous night's revelries, welcomed Zenjiro. Changing into his uniform, he found solace in routine, though his mind buzzed with reflections on the peculiar choice of the restaurant to open on this day.

Amidst the mental chatter, a cheerful voice disrupted Zenjiro's thoughts, bringing a welcome interruption to the contemplative haze. It was Fujita Yasuhiro, his childhood friend and work partner, extending a warm greeting. Yasuhiro, the one who had invited him to the party, radiated an infectious enthusiasm.

"Hey, how was yesterday?" Yasuhiro inquired, his genuine curiosity lacing his words.

Zenjiro, caught between the desire to share and the inclination to keep his experiences to himself, responded with a touch of mystery. "No, nothing happened. I was just tired from being up the whole day."

Yasuhiro persisted, his camaraderie evident. "Man, you've missed out on a lot of fun. I wish you were there."

With a reassuring smile, Zenjiro brushed off the regret and said, "No, don't worry. It was quite fun." The exchange carried a sense of unspoken understanding, a dance between shared history and the unfolding present, setting the stage for the day's events in this tale of intertwined destinies.

The banter between Zenjiro and Yasuhiro unfolded in the familiar ambiance of the restaurant, their words weaving a casual yet poignant tapestry of friendship.

"Hey, by the way, there was this one girl that came to the restaurant last night; man, she was banging hot! I wonder why I didn't just ask for her number. Yasuhiro's tone held a hint of playful regret, a reflection on missed opportunities.

"Buddy, every single time you've tried to impress or just interact with a woman, you always flop. Last time, you got pepper sprayed," Zenjiro responded, his words carrying a mix of amusement and friendly teasing.

"Darn, for real, man can't get any type of relationship nowadays, huh?" Yasuhiro lamented, the frustration evident in his voice.

Zenjiro, with a sage perspective, offered a piece of advice. "Maybe you should work on yourself. With time, you'll get to have it."

Yasuhiro, though acknowledging the truth in Zenjiro's words, defended his stance. "Man, you do it too. Every man has the right to experience this kind of thing."

"Like I said, focusing on oneself is the key to a great life," Zenjiro concluded, the wisdom in his words resonating with a broader truth. The dialogue captured not just the surface-level banter but hinted at the nuances of personal growth and the pursuit of a fulfilling life—a subtle interplay in the ongoing narrative of their shared experiences.

In the dimly lit ambiance of the restaurant, Zenjiro leaned against the worn counter, his gaze fixated on the empty space before him. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead mingled with the soft clinks of glassware as Fujita meticulously dried each cup.

"It seems that people aren't coming around. Why did we even open in the first place?" Zenjiro's voice carried a tinge of frustration as he voiced his discontent.

Fujita sighed, pausing for a moment before responding, "Apparently, the old man wanted us to open because he was a little short on capital."

The revelation seemed to ignite a spark of indignation within Zenjiro. "Capital? Don't tell me he's going to—" His words trailed off, a mixture of concern and resentment evident in his features.

"Yes, and maybe more," Fujita interjected, his tone reflecting uncertainty. "I'm not sure about him, though. He never wanted this to happen in the first place, but his health is constantly getting worse over time."

Zenjiro's expression darkened at the mention of the restaurant owner's deteriorating health. "What about his family? Are they even doing something?" He inquired, his voice laced with disdain.

Fujita shook his head solemnly. "No, they don't even consider him a part of the family anymore."

The news seemed to fuel Zenjiro's growing frustration, with his emotions boiling over into a torrent of anger and resentment. "What is this nonsense? The only people who will help him are the pricks and punks who were raised by the old man himself. What a bunch of bastards," he spat, his voice filled with venom.

As the weight of the situation settled upon them, Zenjiro's demeanor shifted, his gaze falling to the floor as he grappled with the harsh realities of their predicament. "We have nothing to do then," he muttered, his tone resigned.

Fujita sighed, setting down the glass he had been drying. "Mostly, yes. I'm just going to find a new place to work. What about you?" He asked, turning to face his friend.

Zenjiro hesitated for a moment, his mind consumed by thoughts of uncertainty and dissatisfaction. "I'm thinking about it," he replied quietly, his voice tinged with resignation.

As the two friends lingered in the silent expanse of the restaurant, the weight of their unspoken worries hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over their once hopeful aspirations.

As the door of the restaurant swung open, Zenjiro's heart skipped a beat. Standing at the entrance was a familiar figure, her presence sending a jolt of surprise through his veins. "It's her," Zenjiro whispered to himself, his mind racing with questions and uncertainty.

"Why am I panicking?" he chastised himself inwardly, forcing himself to maintain a facade of calm as the girl's gaze met his. Her eyes bore into him, sending a shiver down his spine. "Why is she looking at me like that?" Zenjiro thought, a flicker of unease creeping into his mind.

Regaining his composure, Zenjiro approached the girl with forced cheerfulness. "Welcome, take a seat," he stammered, leading her to a nearby table and gesturing for her to sit.

As she settled into her seat, Zenjiro couldn't shake the feeling of deja vu that washed over him. "She looks like her... everything," he mused silently, his thoughts drifting back to the haunting dream that had plagued him.

"What could I bring you? We have breakfast, drin—" Zenjiro began, only to be abruptly cut off by the girl's curt response. "Food. I want food," she stated flatly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Taken aback by her abruptness, Zenjiro stumbled over his words. "What kind of food?" he asked, trying to regain control of the situation.

In response, the girl reached into her pocket and produced a handful of coins, placing them on the table with a sense of finality. "Anything that's worth this amount," she declared, her eyes flashing with determination.

Zenjiro hesitated, his mind racing as he struggled to process the situation. "Sorry, but this can't get anything here," he explained, his voice tinged with regret.

Before he could finish his sentence, the girl rose from her seat, her expression unreadable. Panic surged through Zenjiro as she made to leave, his instincts urging him to act.

"I'll buy you food; sit down," he blurted out, reaching out to grasp her shoulder in a desperate attempt to stop her. The girl's sharp gaze bore into his, causing him to recoil instinctively, his hand falling away as if burned.

After a tense moment of silence, the girl relented, sinking back into her seat with a reluctant nod. As Zenjiro retreated to the kitchen to fulfill her order, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air—a sense of foreboding hanging over their unexpected encounter.

"Here's your food; enjoy," Zenjiro said softly as he placed the steaming dishes in front of the girl. She wasted no time, diving into the meal with a fervor that caught Zenjiro off guard. "She is... hungry," he observed silently, noting the desperation in her movements.

Without hesitation, Zenjiro hurried back to the kitchen to fetch more food, piling plate after plate onto the table until the girl's insatiable hunger seemed to be sated. "Was that enough?" he inquired tentatively, watching as she rose from her seat without a word, her abrupt departure leaving him and Fujita bewildered.

"Do you know her?" Fujita asked, his confusion evident in his voice.

"No, but I saw her last night. From the looks of it, she's poor," Zenjiro replied, his mind still reeling from the encounter.

"This was the weirdest thing I've ever experienced here," Fujita remarked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Maybe I should go see where she lives," Zenjiro suggested, a sense of determination settling over him.

"What, are you crazy!?" Fujita exclaimed, concern etched on his face.

"No, she's clearly having a hard time finding food. She's lucky she found this place," Zenjiro insisted, his mind made up.

"As you wish, man, but be careful. She looks kind of sketchy," Fujita cautioned, his brows furrowing with worry.

"I've got myself. Don't worry about me. Just make sure to cover my shift while I'm out. If the old man asks about me, tell him I'm sick. Okay, then, I'm heading off," Zenjiro said, determination lacing his words.

"Take care," Fujita called after him as Zenjiro departed, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. "Should I even do this? I hope she doesn't turn out to be dangerous," he mused, the weight of his decision heavy on his shoulders.

As Zenjiro stepped out into the cool evening air, a sense of determination mingled with apprehension gripped his heart. "Why am I even doing this?" he questioned silently, the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him like an invisible burden. The memory of the mysterious girl's hurried departure lingered in his mind, her silent plea echoing in the recesses of his thoughts.

"Why does she look like the one from the dream?" Zenjiro mused, his mind racing with unanswered questions. The resemblance between the girl and the haunting figure from his nocturnal visions was uncanny, sending shivers down his spine. Was it mere coincidence, or was there something more sinister at play?

With each step he took, Zenjiro felt the weight of his choice pressing down on him. Yet, there was a flicker of hope amidst the shadows of doubt—a hope that perhaps he could offer some form of assistance to the girl to ease whatever burdens weighed upon her soul.

In the quiet streets of the neighborhood, Zenjiro's resolve hardened, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Little did he know that this impromptu decision would lead him down a path fraught with mystery and danger, where the lines between right and wrong would blur and the truth would reveal itself in unexpected ways.

Just as Zenjiro's footsteps echoed through the quiet morning streets, the cool air of dawn brushed against his skin, carrying with it a sense of anticipation and uncertainty. With each step, his determination grew, fueled by the burning need to unravel the mystery that surrounded the enigmatic woman.

The soft glow of the rising sun cast long shadows across the pavement, adding an ethereal quality to the scene. It was a moment suspended in time, as if the world itself held its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

With a quickening pulse, Zenjiro followed the woman's trail, his senses heightened to every sight and sound around him. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a leaden cloak.

And then, in a sudden twist of fate, the woman turned sharply towards an apartment complex, her movements swift and purposeful. Relief flooded through Zenjiro as he watched her disappear into the building, his heart pounding with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

As he approached the entrance, the imposing facade of the building loomed before him, a silent sentinel guarding its secrets. With a deep breath, Zenjiro crossed the threshold, steeling himself for the revelations that awaited him within.

Inside, the air was tinged with the scent of morning dew and anticipation—a palpable energy that seemed to hum with possibility. Every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of the wind sent shivers down Zenjiro's spine, as if the very walls held the answers he sought.

It was a moment of reckoning, a turning point in his journey, as Zenjiro delved deeper into the labyrinth of secrets that lay hidden within the walls of the apartment complex.

As Zenjiro navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the apartment complex, a sense of unease settled over him like a heavy shroud. The silence that enveloped the building was deafening, broken only by the echo of his own footsteps echoing off the walls.

With each passing moment, the tension in the air grew thicker, suffocating him with its oppressive weight. Every shadow seemed to dance with sinister intent, and every creak of the floorboards sent a chill down his spine.

Yet, despite the palpable sense of foreboding that hung in the air, time stretched on endlessly without incident. It was a cruel game of anticipation, with each moment dragging on interminably as Zenjiro's nerves frayed at the edges.

Just as he began to let his guard down, a sudden jolt of electricity shot through his body, sending a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. His instincts screamed at him to move, to react, but before he could even turn around, he felt the cold steel of a gun pressing against the small of his back.

A shiver ran down Zenjiro's spine as he realized the gravity of the situation. It was her, the mysterious woman he had been tracking, now standing behind him with a weapon trained on his back. In that moment, time seemed to stand still as Zenjiro braced himself for whatever came next, his mind racing with a thousand unanswered questions.

The tense atmosphere hung heavy between them as Zenjiro struggled to find the right words. "What do you want from me?" The woman's voice sliced through the silence like a blade, sending a shiver down Zenjiro's spine.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. "Look, maybe it's a misunderstand." His words were cut short as the woman's voice grew even more menacing, cutting through his feeble attempt at explanation. "Shut up!" she snapped, the gun pressing against his temple with a chilling precision.

Zenjiro's heart pounded in his chest as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, hey, I'm not here to do anything," he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. "I just wanted to help you out." He paused, swallowing hard, before continuing. "After I saw you back there at the restaurant, I just—"

The weight of the woman's gaze bore down on Zenjiro, leaving him paralyzed with fear. He struggled to find his voice amidst the suffocating tension, his mind racing with a million thoughts.

As the seconds stretched into eternity, an oppressive silence enveloped them, broken only by the sound of their ragged breaths. Finally, the woman's voice pierced through the stillness like a dagger.

"Turn around," she commanded, her tone sharp and commanding. Zenjiro's heart sank as he complied, his movements slow and deliberate, each step feeling like an eternity.

With bated breath, Zenjiro turned around, half-expecting the barrel of the gun to meet his gaze once more. To his immense relief, he found the woman lowering the weapon, the tension in the air dissipating like a wisp of smoke.

As the gun fell to her side, Zenjiro felt a wave of relief wash over him, his muscles relaxing from their tense stance. Though still wary, he dared to hope that perhaps this encounter wouldn't end in bloodshed after all.

As the girl's words echoed in the air, Zenjiro felt a pang of guilt prick at his conscience. Her admonition struck a chord within him, prompting him to reconsider his impulsive actions.

"You could've died, you know that, right?" Her voice held a weight of gravity, forcing Zenjiro to confront the recklessness of his actions. With a solemn nod, he acknowledged her words, realizing the peril he had placed himself in.

"Never go on someone's back again, and yeah, I don't need your help." The firmness in her tone left no room for argument, and Zenjiro couldn't help but admire her resilience in the face of adversity.

As he gazed upon her face, etched with the scars of past trials, a sense of empathy welled up within Zenjiro. Despite the initial hostility, he couldn't shake the desire to offer her solace and pull her from the depths of despair.

"I want to get you out of your despair," he found himself blurting out, the words tinged with genuine concern. However, the girl remained silent, her piercing gaze fixed on him with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine.

With cautious steps, the girl began to approach Zenjiro, her movements calculated and deliberate. A surge of apprehension gripped him as questions raced through his mind. Was she going to attack him? Was this the end?

To his surprise, the girl passed him without a word, her destination clear as she made her way to her apartment and closed the door behind her. Zenjiro stood rooted to the spot, the encounter leaving him with more questions than answers but a newfound determination to understand the enigma that was the girl in the apartment complex.