Rain.
That was the first thing he felt.Not the warmth of rebirth, nor the peace of an afterlife —just the sharp, merciless bite of cold water running down his face.
He opened his eyes to a sky of steel.Gray. Empty. Silent.Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled —as if mocking him for surviving.
Again… I'm still alive?
His body trembled.The smell of rot and metal filled the narrow alley where he lay.Each breath scraped his throat like broken glass.He was nothing but bones and scars in human form — a corpse that refused to die.
The memories came slowly, like waves fighting against a storm.A sea of fire.Flags of rebellion.A name once shouted across the world — Dragon.And then… nothing.
Now, there was only this dying shell in a world that wasn't his.
So… another world has chosen me. But why?
He tried to move. Pain greeted him like an old friend.His hands — thin, trembling — pressed against the wet concrete.Somewhere nearby, a group of voices echoed through the rain.
"Oi, check it out. Street rat's still breathing.""Bet we can sell his organs."Laughter.
He didn't flinch. He didn't speak.He simply raised his head —and the wind answered.
The air turned sharp.The rain bent around him, drawn into spirals.Pressure built, silent and invisible — until the world exhaled.
A blast erupted from his body.Thunder cracked. Metal screamed.
And when it was over, the laughter had stopped.The only sound left was the rain… and the quiet hum of power beneath his skin.
He looked at his hands again —hands that once commanded storms strong enough to split mountains.
Now, they shook. Weak. Mortal.But the storm… it was still there.
You never really die, do you?You just wait for me to call again.
He rose, unsteady but alive, and walked toward the mouth of the alley.Each step left ripples in the puddles beneath his feet.Lightning flashed once more, painting his silhouette across the slums.
A passerby gasped, whispering under her breath:
"Who was that…?"
He didn't answer.He didn't need to.
The wind spoke for him, carrying his new name through the rain-soaked streets —a name the world would one day fear,and perhaps, one day, remember.
Arashi.
And thus, the storm that should have died…breathed again.