His greatest enemy was never mankind. It was the Devil.
"Ooh, you look like a disgusting little demon! Why the hell would I ever want to sleep with you, Toshi? Stay away from me!"
She spat at his feet, right in front of the entire school yard.
Toshio wasn't the monster she made him out to be. Short for his age, yes, but with a face some might call handsome. Still, there were three things no one could look past: his snow-white hair, ruby-red eyes, and skin pale enough to be mistaken as a ghost. Those features made him look wrong.
"Demonic trash!" she hissed. He heard it every day from his classmates, from adults. But hearing it from her cut deeper. She'd been kind to him once. Never insulted him. He thought maybe, just maybe, she saw him differently. But apparently, asking her out was crossing a line. He turned away without a word. Shoulders low. He knew when he wasn't wanted. And when arguing was pointless.
Snow crunched under his boots as he walked home through Edo — or what his parents had called Edo, only a generation ago. Eyes followed him. Parents turned their children's heads away. "He looks like the Devil," a shopkeeper whispered. "Why's that demon boy crying?" an old woman murmured.
He wasn't crying. Not really. Just sniffling. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I was being stupid," he muttered to himself. "Horny and stupid. She never liked me. She was just tolerating me."
No prayer had ever changed his reflection. Dyeing his hair only made his eyes stand out more. He hated his life. And most of all, he hated the Devil. For making people afraid of his face. For making their fear feel justified.
~~~~~~~
He finished the last bite of senbei, brushing crumbs from his coat before stepping into his small house, slipping off his shoes and padding to the kitchen. He unpacked the day's purchases: a sack of rice, dried fish, a bottle of kampo and a small amezaiku shaped like a white rabbit. Freaky how accurate they make these.
Rabbits had always felt like kin to him, small and soft with white hair and red eyes. Creatures people found endearing. He poured the kampo into a small porcelain cup. Steam curled upwards as he waited a few minutes for it to cool. "Father," he called softly, stepping into the hallway.
Knock. Knock.
Two raspy coughs answered from the other side. Toshio shifted his weight, tapping his foot against the tatami. "Come in," came the voice, low and strained. Sliding the door open, he stepped inside. "Are you ready for your medicine, Father?"
He knelt, setting the tray down, and slid the cup past the curtain that separated them. "Thank you, Tosh—" His father's voice broke into sharp, hacking coughs. Toshio's hands curled into fists on his knees. He hated hearing that sound. When the coughing subsided, the old man drew a thin breath. "God truly blessed me with a wonderful, honourable son." Another cough rattled his chest, but he finished, voice warm despite the strain. "One I am very proud of."
"Thank you, Father. I'll keep trying to make you proud."
"I know you will, my son." Another sickly cough shook his body. For a moment, even the light outside seemed to freeze.. "I am going to die tonight."
His father's words were blunt but still true. No medicine could change that. Toshio's throat tightened. "I couldn't even find a girl to court, Father." The confession slipped out before he could stop it. A faint laugh; part warmth, part cough came from behind the curtain. "It's alright, my son. You will find a good woman eventually." "Eventually." The word drummed through his head.
Toshio clenched his fists. "I don't know if that will ever happen, Dad." His voice cracked, and a tear slid down his cheek. The curtain stayed still. His father stayed silent. "I don't, I don't know if I can ever make you proud. Not really. I'm hideous to the world. I look like the Devil himself." His breath quickened. "I'm an outcast. I don't even know if God loves me anymore." Still, no answer. "And if He can't." Toshio's voice dropped to a whisper, the words trembling. "Then who will?"
His father coughed. A wet, rattling sound before forcing himself upright. Every movement looked like it cost him pieces of his life. He lifted an arm, trembling, reaching past the curtain toward his son's face. "Toshio." "Yes, Father."
"You, my son are a Tadashima." Another violent cough wracked his frame, but he pushed on. "Our family is greatly beloved by the Origin." The name of God pressed down on the room itself. "We are destined for great things, to work in His plan, to bring a peaceful future for mankind. Which means—" The next cough was sharper still. Toshio almost reached out to steady him, but his father's hand pressed gently to his forehead; part command, part blessing, urging him to listen and stay still. "—which means you are not a mistake. You are not an accident. He has chosen you, and all who are chosen are greatly loved."
Toshio held his breath, listening. "God made you to look as you do. To be who you are: sensitive yet strong, kind yet just, peaceful yet ambitious. All of it was planned. Draw close to Him and you will find everything you need." His voice hardened. "Keep these words, Toshio. Keep them until the day you die. Promise me."
"I promise, Father. On my life."
"Good, my son." He coughed again, weaker now. "Someone will knock on this door later today. They will invite you to join them in something. Take it. Follow it with all your heart. It will give you a good life and you deserve a good life. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Dad." He smiled faintly.
"Your mother would say the same, if she were here" His breath hitched. "I love you, Toshio." His body sagged, hand sliding from Toshio's forehead to his cheek, lingering there for one last heartbeat before falling into his lap and then to the floor.
Toshio didn't move. Couldn't. The silence was deafening. His father — no, his dad — was gone.
~~~~~~~
Knock. Knock.
Toshio's face was still marked by dried tears as he rose to his feet. Could this be what his father had spoken of? If so, he had to take full advantage of this opportunity. He slid the door open. A man stood on the threshold: late thirties, light facial hair, pale blue eyes behind silver glasses. Subtle wrinkles. A pristine suit and top hat, polished to a mirror sheen. He had the air of wealth.
"Hello" Toshio murmured. The man's gaze flicked over him, then back again. A double-take. His polite smile seemed strained. "Ah—hello, my dear boy. My name is Yumata Koshiguro. I'm a doctor. Your father called for me." He bowed low, removing his top hat to reveal a balding head.
The gesture felt more Western than Japanese. "That's strange," Toshio said, narrowing his eyes. "My father didn't have the money to afford a doctor."
"Ah, you see, my boy. Your father and I were old friends. Reiji was an honourable man. Helped me many times in the past. He even told me about you." Toshio's brow furrowed. "You've had a hard life, I hear. Those distinct features of yours have caused people to mistake you for the Prince of Darkness himself. But you and I both know you're nothing like Youma." The Devil's name hung heavy in the air. "You're a strong, courageous young man," Yumata went on. "Just as your father described, yes?" Something about the man's eagerness put Toshio on edge. But his father had told him to open his heart to whoever came. So he would see what happened next.
"My father passed away today," Toshio said quietly.
"Tragic. Truly a tragedy. May his soul rest in peace." A hand fell to his heart in tribute.
"May I come in and inspect the body?" Toshio hesitated, then nodded. The man stepped past him, his pace brisk. Too brisk. Almost eager. It's probably nothing Toshio thought to himself, following the stranger deeper into the house.
The man moved through the house like he'd walked these halls a hundred times. It was unnerving how well he navigated his father's home. Something felt off about him but Toshio couldn't quite place it. "You alright there, young man?" Yumata asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"Well you know you can always talk to me if something's on your mind." Toshio just nodded. Yumata smiled, too wide. The kind of smile no man should wear after hearing his friend was dead. "Here it is," Toshio said quietly.
"Thank you, my boy." Yumata knelt beside the body, his gaze sweeping over it. Toshio could've sworn he saw the faintest glimmer of drool at the corner of the man's mouth. "Dad passed only a few hours ago," Toshio murmured.
"Tragic. Truly tragic." Yumata's tone was wrong; there was a tremor of excitement under the word, not grief. That was the moment Toshio knew. This was not the person his father had spoken of. His heart thudded in his ears. He glanced down at the cup of kampo on the floor — and froze. In the reflection on the dark liquid, Yumata's mouth hung open, saliva dripping like a starving animal's. But it wasn't the drool that chilled him. It was the eyes. Red as fresh blood.
Yumata followed his gaze to the cup. A small smile curled his lips and then split into a grin far too wide for a human face. "Who are you?" Toshio whispered.
"I really didn't want to do this to you," Yumata said, rising to his feet. "I came for the body, but it seems you've spotted me. You're quite the perceptive young man, aren't you?" Toshio backed away as the man stepped forward. In the dim light, his fangs caught the glint, wet with hunger. His crimson eyes blazed with joy. "I'd hate to kill someone who looks like my idol but oh well."
"What do you mean idol?" Toshio asked, his pulse pounding in his throat.
"Oh. Well." Yumata's grin widened to the edge of madness. "I happen to be one of the Devil's biggest admirers." The truth slammed into Toshio like ice water. This man was a dark entity, a spirit of evil. A Fiend. And even worse, he had allowed it to enter his home.