A/N: Check out this Mha fic ( MHA: Threadbound) highly recommended...
Patreon.com/Hunchovroy1
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"DIIEE!"
Haruka exclaimed as he pivoted to the left and swung his left fist towards the man who ducked right on time to dodge the attack.
'He's fast.' The blonde assassin noticed as dodge the attack. The blonde assassin swiftly moved at a decent speed to gauge out the throat of Haruka who leaped backwards while doing a black flip.
…
I charged at the blonde in a random workshop which was covered in dirt and cobwebs, a workshop abandoned by some random yakuza who was assassinated in a mission a few months ago.
The blonde charged at me as his eye piqued a random weapon hanging at the top left corner of the workshop. The blonde flash stepped away from the incoming fist thrown by me and quickly grabbed the huge iron saw.
I quickly leaped backwards as the iron saw cut through his forehead, as he licked the blood which slid down his face. I charged again towards the blonde with a wide grin on my face as I let loose of my tie on my suit and threw it towards the blonde who simply ducked to the left. But as the instant he ducked to the left.
I had already grabbed two long concrete nails on a stainless table beside the workshop.
'Where did he go?' The blonde quickly noticed as he duck, evading the surprise attack from behind and threw a front flip to keep his distance.
"Haruka! Dead or alive with the bounty of 100,000 yen." The blonde spoke as he let loose of his suit tie.
"It doesn't matter to me if it's a thousand yen or a million yen on my head. I'll fucking kill whoever I wish to kill since I've been taught that all my life from the orphanage I grew up." Haruka muttered, "let me tell you a story before I kill you."
"Go on."
"The orphanage I grew up in was taught how to kill from a very tender age and after years of training as an assassin, I killed each and everyone in the orphanage including the sisters."
"Ho? Was that the cause of the bounty on your head?"
"I don't give a fuck about that."
I flipped the nail on my right hand and kicked it at a decent speed towards the blonde who caught the nail with his teeth.
The blonde quickly spat the nail away from his mouth and a flash-step in front of me and dealt a devastating blow on my face which was repelled by me as I quickly brushed the blonde from the ground and quickly stabbed him on the left eye with the nail on his arm.
I've always believed death has a sound. A whisper at the back of your neck. A click behind the silence. A heartbeat before the blade. Tonight, in the heart of an old warehouse drenched in rust and shadows, death screamed.
I crouched on a steel beam high above, my eyes locked on the blond Yakuza below. Six of them. Armed. Smoking. Joking. Comfortable. They thought this place—a forgotten weapons stash turned hideout—was a sanctuary. To them, I was just a rumor. A shadow with no weight. But tonight, I'd carve that shadow into their skulls.
I moved.
Not with footsteps, but like breath. Down the beam, to the scaffolding, then the chain. I let myself drop, catching a low-hanging pipe with one hand, slowing my fall. The floor creaked. A whisper. One turned, blinking into the darkness.
Too late.
My knife kissed his throat, swift and silent. His cigarette hit the floor before his body did.
"Oi—what was that?"
Four guns raised. One man bent over the corpse, swearing in Kansai dialect. I was already gone, slipping behind a shelf lined with chainsaws, machetes, throwing stars—tools of death collecting dust. This place was more museum than base. And tonight, I was the curator.
I threw a kunai.
It was embedded into another Yakuza's thigh. He howled. His partner swung his pistol around, firing blindly. The echoes were deafening. Sparks danced off steel. I slid low and slashed, cutting deep behind his knee. He crumpled, screaming. Two down.
The third came for me, yelling curses, swinging a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. I met him halfway. The barbed tip grazed my shoulder—warm blood bloomed. But I grinned through the pain. He saw the knife too late. I jammed it into his ribs, twisted, and let go.
Three.
The last two tried to run. Smart. But not smart enough. I darted across the floor, grabbed a sickle from a wall. It felt good in my hand—ancient, blood-hungry. I threw it. One running man stumbled, neck split open. He gargled as he fell, painting the wall red.
I caught the last one before he reached the door.
He turned, trying to beg, to bribe. "Haruka, please—I know your mother. She—"
My blade answered for me. The gurgle was familiar. I'd heard it before—on the night they slit my mother's throat and left me in the rain. I remembered the way her blood mixed with mine. The silence that followed. The men were laughing.
These men.
I stood in the center of the warehouse, the metallic scent of blood thick in my nose. My chest rose and fell, slow, steady. The job was done. But this—this was just the beginning.
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The next morning, I stood at the gates of the most infamous institution in the world: Kurokawa Academy—the #1 assassin school in the country.
You don't apply to Kurokawa.
You don't ask.
You kill your way in.
The guards at the gate wore black suits and red gloves—stained and proud. One stepped forward, hand on his gun.
"Name."
"Haruka."
"Proof."
I threw the duffel bag at his feet. He opened it, his nose wrinkling at the stench. Inside: six Yakuza tattoos, neatly sliced from their backs, and a flash drive containing the warehouse security feed.
He said nothing. Just tapped his earpiece.
A moment later, the gates opened.
I stepped through.
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Kurokawa wasn't a school—it was a forge. And every student was a blade waiting to be sharpened—or shattered. The walls were obsidian black. The air carried hints of sulfur and gunpowder. Cameras lined every corner. No windows. No teachers outside of combat. You learned by surviving.
On my first day, we were given two rules:
No mercy!
No failure!
Everything else was blood.
We slept in barracks surrounded by traps. Classes ranged from poisons and pressure points to hand-to-hand combat, psychological warfare, and seduction. Every hallway was a battlefield. Every student is a potential target.
I kept to myself.
Not out of fear—but focus.
I wasn't here to make friends.
I was here to become the best.
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Two weeks in, we were thrown into the first "Test of Elimination." Fifty students entered a locked arena—a five-story concrete maze. Only ten were expected to walk out. The rest? Collateral.
I woke up with a needle in my neck and a timer on my wrist. "3 hours to survive," it said.
I ran.
No time to trust. No time to wait. Traps lined the floors. Other students had already teamed up—foolish. Trust was weakness.
One came at me with twin daggers. Fast. Good stance. Better than the Yakuza, at least.
But he hesitated.
I didn't.
I slammed his head against the wall and took his blade.
Another tried poison gas. I rolled under a broken pipe, used my scarf to filter air, then took her out with a well-aimed shuriken. Cold, efficient.
Every kill made me colder.
Harder.
Alive.
When the timer ran out, I was the only one standing.
Not even ten. Just me.
The instructors watched through glass above. One clapped. The others scribbled on tablets.
Later that night, I found a card slipped under my door.
"You've been chosen. Top class. Room 0."
Room 0 was for monsters.
The top ten assassins-in-training.
All killers. All scarred.
But I wasn't afraid.
Because I wasn't just here to learn.
I was here to conquer.
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Weeks turned to months.
Each class is more brutal than the last.
One day, we were dropped into a simulation city filled with android targets—civilians, guards, VIPs. We were told to assassinate the mayor within 20 minutes, without alerting a single alarm.
Two students blew their cover in five.
Three more died trying.
I walked through a side alley, disguised as a janitor. Climbed the drainpipes. Found the mayor on the 17th floor with his fake family. I slit his throat while he tucked his daughter into bed.
No alarms.
No mercy.
No failure.
But even in a school of killers, there were whispers.
About me.
"The warehouse killer."
"The boy with dead eyes."
"Haruka the Hollow."
I let them talk.
Because talk doesn't kill.
Skill does.
And I had plenty of that.
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