Prologue
Smoke. Screams. Gunfire.
The Britannian estate burned like a funeral pyre, its marble halls lit with orange fury. Somewhere inside, a bullet hit a lamp—glass shattered, oil spilled, flames roared. And a boy—fourteen, sharp-eyed, quiet—vanished beneath smoke and heat.
He should've died.
Instead, he woke in a hospital bed, wrapped head to toe in gauze, his lungs barely able to draw breath without the hiss of a mask clamped over his face. Machines beeped. Sterile lights buzzed. Time dragged.
His name was never spoken on the news. Not like Lelouch. Not like Nunnally. They were the royal martyrs—hostages shipped to Japan for politics. He? Just another forgotten sibling, collateral in a war no one claimed responsibility for.
His body ached. His skin itched beneath the bandages. His family visited, sometimes—awkward, uncomfortable, their eyes full of guilt but never honesty. His mother? Dead. His father? Absent. His brothers and sisters? Survivors who stepped over his ashes to keep walking.
Each visit made the fire inside him burn hotter than the one that ruined his face.
One morning, he left his recovery suite. Marble floors, rich tapestries—luxury pretending to be comfort. He wandered into a bathroom, leaned over the sink, and looked up.
The mirror didn't show a boy. It showed a ghost.
Eyes hollow. Skin gone. Bandages like a burial shroud. A monster created by someone else's war.
His fist flew. Glass exploded. Blood dripped.
He didn't feel it.
Back in his room, a book sat on the table. Some gift from a well-meaning doctor. He flipped it open with a trembling hand, pages fluttering until one stopped him cold.
A clan. Ancient. Ruthless. Silent as shadows.
The Foot.
Born from betrayal. Forged in secrecy. They answered to no kings, no nations. Only power, discipline, and vengeance.
He read every word.
And something inside him clicked.
They had no face. No mercy. No fear.
Like him.
Beneath the mask, his lips curled. Not a smile. A vow.
He would no longer be a forgotten prince, a broken body in a bed.
He would become legend. He would rebuild himself not in spite of the fire—but because of it.
And when the time came, Britannia would remember his name—not in reverence, but in fear.
Shredder.