[HALF YEAR BEFORE THE STORY STARTED]
The air in the ramen shop was thick with the savory steam of tonkotsu broth and the sharp tang of disappointment. Sora Ryoichi, barely sixteen, knelt on the floor's worn wood, the knees of his patched trousers stinging. He kept his head bowed, the familiar, bitter taste of begging on his tongue.
"What do you mean I'm not qualified?" His voice was a raw plea, fragile with the onset of manhood, but his eyes, fixed on the old floorboards, held a fierce, desperate intelligence. "Is it my lack of experience? Please, I promise you, I'm skilled. I can cook better than most chefs and clean faster than your bots."
The shop owner, a stoic man whose face seemed carved from granite, simply returned to polishing the steel countertop. His silence was a heavier judgment than any shouted rejection. Sora understood. To a man who could hire a cheap, tireless labor-bot, a scrawny sixteen-year-old with desperation in his eyes was only a liability.
Sora needed this job. He needed the scent of ramen, the clatter of bowls, the warmth of steady pay. He needed it for Anna. He had found her five years ago—a small, terrified two-year-old—abandoned in a rain-soaked dumpster. He was eleven, already an orphan, navigating the brutal reality of a world scarred by the Despair Demons. His parents had been victims of the initial, catastrophic attacks.
Now, at sixteen, Sora was the sole guardian of a seven-year-old girl. His life was a ceaseless, brutal scramble. He juggled mandatory school hours with a relentless, often fruitless, search for work. He'd become a chameleon of the gig economy: a week as a carpenter, the next as a kitchen-hand, then a cleaner. He'd learned to cook, not from recipes, but by meticulously observing the cooks at the evacuation center, every wrist flick and spice measurement burned into his memory. Cleaning at firing ranges and rundown martial arts dojos had, ironically, gifted him a rough-and-ready knowledge of combat fundamentals and how to handle a weapon.
When the sun was up, he was Sora Ryoichi, the quiet, hardworking student. When the moon rose, he was a ghost, a transient worker. The paltry, inconsistent pay barely covered the rent for their cramped, one-room apartment in the poorer districts and the cost of one meager meal a day. Anna, his little sister, was growing fast. Every night, Sora portioned the food, ensuring Anna's bowl was always fuller than his, ignoring the gnawing, familiar hunger in his own stomach. She was his blood, his family, the single, precious anchor in his chaotic existence. Her well-being was his only priority.
With a deep, defeated sigh, Sora pushed himself up from the floor. The rejection was final. He would have to try the market stalls—maybe a porter, a carrier, anything that required human muscles, not robotic circuits.
Pulling the worn hood of his jacket low over his brow, he stepped back into the cacophony of the city. He moved quickly, trying to merge with the shadow line, hoping the hood would obscure his face from any of his more affluent classmates. The last thing he needed was pity.
As he walked, a familiar, heartbreaking sight caught his eye: an alleyway where a small group of impoverished citizens were beating a VADS work-class robot with pipes, their faces contorted with rage. Sora averted his gaze and kept walking.
Ever since the emergence of the mechanical nightmares—the beings now universally called the "Despair Demons"—which had nearly conquered the globe, the world had been thrown into permanent, desperate chaos. Nations had united to activate massive, energy-draining protective domes over the last major territories, saving barely a billion human lives from the previous six.
Into this devastated world, a corporation named VADS Inc. (Vortex Armaments & Dynamo System) had risen to obscene prominence. They monopolized the world's industrial base, producing highly advanced robots for every conceivable task: construction, security, healthcare, and even military roles.
But this robotic proliferation came at a devastating social cost. The ubiquitous "work bots" had displaced millions of human laborers, gutting the job market and savagely widening the chasm between the ultra-rich and the desperate poor. Sora was one of the many whose future had been stolen by silent, efficient chrome. The poor didn't discriminate against the Despair Demons alone; they often took their rage out on the peaceful, work-class VADS bots, seeing them as the immediate, tangible source of their prolonged suffering.
Sora's melancholy sigh was almost a physical thing. The meager rations he could afford would barely sustain even Anna. He decided he would give her all of it tonight.
He tried to tune out the rising protests—the angry, desperate shouts and the rhythmic banging of signs that were blocking the main thoroughfare. The demonstration trapped him.
"I'll be stopping here, sir," Sora mumbled, opening the taxi door. He dropped the few coins into the robot driver's payment slot and stepped onto the pavement, continuing his way on foot. The apartment was still a fifteen-minute walk.
The street closures forced Sora into a narrow, filthy alleyway. His muscles tensed automatically; years of life on the edge had taught him that shortcuts were where trouble always waited.
And, as if on cue, trouble emerged.
At the alley's dead end, three hulking thugs were pinning down a young woman, their harsh laughter echoing off the damp brick walls. As one of them moved to assault her, Sora didn't hesitate.
A battered metal garbage can, hefted with surprising power, crashed against the head of the closest thug. The others whirled around, spotting the thin figure standing near the entrance, his face obscured by the shadow of his hood.
Before they could even form a threat, Sora was already moving. He calmly slipped his hands into his pockets, pulling out a pair of customized brass knuckles. They were crude but effective: sharp, reinforced steel spikes protruded from the striking surface, and a small, hastily wired battery pack on the wrist guard fed a jolt of electric current to the spikes, creating a faint, crackling blue aura.
Sora gave them no time to process the situation or their pain. He launched himself into the fight with the practiced, economic brutality of someone who couldn't afford to lose.
Ten minutes later, Sora surveyed the alley. The three thugs lay groaning in the filth, temporarily disabled by precise, agonizing strikes. He nodded a silent acknowledgment toward the terrified, huddled woman before turning to walk away. Moments later, the high-pitched sirens of law enforcement robots arrived, followed by a sleek black limousine. Six human bodyguards—highly unusual in the current economy—swarmed the alley, guiding the young woman to the expensive car. Sora didn't look back. He had a sister waiting.
Sora reached the edge of the deep, old forest that bordered their neighborhood. He stopped, looking up at the oppressive, dark sky, which was distorted by the faint, shimmering energy field of the protective dome.
"I still can't move on, huh?" he muttered, a sad, exhausted chuckle escaping his lips. He pushed through the thorny undergrowth and walked into the shadowed forest.
Suddenly, a familiar, chilling sensation—a crushing wave of pure dread—washed over him. It was a premonition, the phantom echo of his parents' last moments. Then, he saw it: a wave of ominous orange light flickering erratically in the distance, followed by columns of smoke. That region, their district, was not supposed to have electricity at night.
A wave of icy dread replaced his exhaustion. "Despair Demons…" The mechanical nightmares had found a gap. "They're attacking? No… Anna!"
He ran. He didn't think about the burning in his lungs or the screaming ache in his malnourished muscles. His sole thought was Anna, and the adrenaline-fueled terror for her safety pushed his battered body beyond its breaking point.
It took him three agonizing minutes to reach his apartment block.
What he saw confirmed his worst fears.
Buildings were collapsing into smoking rubble; massive, unnatural flames were licking at the sky. Blood, scattered corpses of humans and VADS bots alike, and the terrifying, black-chrome figures of the Despair Demons were tearing through everything in their path.
Sora rushed to their ground-floor unit. He burst through the flimsy door, a whirlwind of motion. He scooped up Anna, shielding her eyes and ears from the sight and sound of the carnage with his own body.
He navigated the destroyed streets with the instincts of a desperate animal. He dodged flaming debris and the erratic firing patterns of the Despair Demons.
Each pounding step sent jolts of pain through his legs; each ragged breath scorched his lungs. He spotted a military jeep, its rear hatch open, evacuating a small group of civilians. He sprinted toward it, his hope surging, only to watch in horror as a swarm of Despair Demons descended on the vehicle, gunning down the occupants in a hail of laser fire.
Sora was forced to change course, darting into a maze of back alleys. He ran until he was trapped—a dead-end alleyway, the high brick walls boxing him in. The chilling, guttural whirring of the Demons' advance grew louder, closer. They were upon him.
Sora pushed Anna behind him, covering her small body with his own. He was the shield. He would protect her, even if it meant his death.
The mechanical beings raised their integrated laser weapons. Their cold, crimson optical sensors locked onto the helpless duo.
Sora closed his eyes, accepting his fate, embracing the final, devastating heat.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
He opened his eyes. The world was frozen. The air was a silent, thick medium, the laser blasts hanging motionless mere inches from his body. Even the smoke and the flames were static.
[ARE YOU WILLING TO PROTECT EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE?]
A voice, not of a person, but of an all-encompassing presence—mysterious, ancient, and resonating deep within his skull—echoed in the frozen silence.
"Who are you?" Sora managed to ask, his voice a ragged whisper in the sudden vacuum. He kept his stance, his body still protecting Anna.
[ARE YOU WILLING TO PROTECT EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE?]
The voice repeated the question, its cadence demanding an answer, not an inquiry. Sora realized he wouldn't get a further explanation.
"Yes," Sora said, the word ringing with his lifetime of struggle and sacrifice. "I am willing to protect everything and everyone."
A long, profound silence followed, heavy with cosmic judgment.
[THEN ACCEPT THIS GIFT. BE THE LIGHT OF THIS WORLD. BE THE HOPE THAT EVERYONE NEEDS.]
[YOUR MISSION NOW IS TO PROTECT THE CIVILIANS.]
The voice vanished, leaving a powerful, ringing emptiness. A blinding, pure white light—intensely bright but painless—erupted, forcing Sora to throw his hand over his eyes.
When his vision cleared, the light had condensed. In his open palm hovered a sleek, sophisticated device resembling a high-tech mobile phone, its surface glowing faintly. He looked down to see a mysterious, heavy belt wrapped around his waist. It was black and silver, equipped with two palm-sized, segmented boxes flanking the central buckle.
He instinctively opened the box on his left. Inside, nestled on soft foam, was a crimson-red USB drive. A chibi-style drawing was etched into its surface, depicting a figure in armor that seamlessly blended traditional samurai elements with futuristic, modern combat designs, complete with a ferocious red kitsune (fox) mask.
Sora read the faint, embossed label: "Mecha Fox?... Let's rename you Crimson Fox."
He inserted the USB drive into one of the designated slots on the belt. A metallic CLUNK confirmed the connection. He pressed the activation button on the belt buckle, and a loud, synthesized, mechanical voice boomed out.
[MECHANIZER STAND BY]
[ARE YOU READY!!!!]
"Uhhh… mechanized?" Sora stammered, feeling awkward and utterly exposed. He waited, then realized he needed to follow the instructions that flashed briefly on the buckle's screen: Twist and Press x3.
He twisted the USB key and pressed the button three times in rapid succession.
Sora felt an impossible lightness sweep through his battered body. From the belt, streams of glowing red holograms erupted, swirling around him like a raging cyclone of digital energy. The light began to condense and solidify, forming plates of powerful, dense armor. Phantom hands, made of pure light, guided each piece into place, gently, meticulously encasing his scrawny frame in the protective, magnificent shell.
A brilliant red kitsune head materialized above him, dissolving into holographic particles that flowed down to form his helmet. The upper part of his face was covered by the fierce, iconic mask, while the lower part was shielded by a modern, articulated tactical mask.
As the final piece snapped into place, the mechanical voice achieved its maximum volume and impact.
[MECHA MECHA MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA RYOICHI!!!!!!!]
The mechanical voice announced the name of the protector, the champion of justice, the new light of hope: MECHA RYOICHI!
Time slammed back into motion.
A Despair Demon's crimson blast, which had been frozen mid-air, was deflected by the newly formed armor's energy field. The deflected beam smashed into the alley wall, sending up a massive cloud of dust and debris.
As the smoke cleared, a commanding figure stood in the alley. He was clad in magnificent, crimson armor—the perfect marriage of samurai artistry and modern combat engineering—with the ferocious, unreadable gaze of the red kitsune mask.
The Despair Demons, their cold processors detecting a sudden, massive spike in threat level, collectively realized one thing: they were screwed.
Anna, peeking out from behind his leg, took off her blindfold and stared up in wide-eyed awe at the armored giant.
"Can you close your eyes for me, Anna?" Sora's voice was deep, resonant, and unfamiliar, altered by the armor's vocal modulator. Anna, however, recognized the familiar tone of command and protection. She recognized him. She closed her eyes without a sound.
Sora twisted the red USB drive four times. The mechanical voice spoke again, this time with a sharp, martial tone.
[CRIMSON BLADE]
A katana, wreathed in roaring, magical fire, materialized in the air beside him. Sora grabbed the hilt, the metal cool beneath his armored glove, and smoothly unsheathed it. He caught his reflection in the polished, deadly-sharp blade: the Red Fox, the protector. The sight shocked him, but there was no time for self-reflection. He had a mission.
"Your mission now is to protect the civilians," he echoed the mysterious voice's words.
In the blink of an eye, Sora—Mecha Ryoichi—disappeared in a burst of red flames, reappearing instantly on the other side of the alley, his katana gently resting back in its sheath. Moments later, the air itself seemed to shudder. Precise, fiery cuts appeared on the bodies of the mechanical Despair Demons, and in a synchronized shower of fire and shrapnel, they exploded into inert metal pieces.
Sora didn't linger. He picked up Anna, holding her securely against his armor, and carried her out of the alleyway, cutting down any Despair Demon that dared cross his path with blazing speed and efficiency.
On the other side of the district, the last military battalion—a desperate mix of human soldiers and VADS security robots—struggled against a ceaseless tide of Despair Demons. Understaffed and outgunned, the soldiers prepared for their final stand, bracing for the overwhelming onslaught.
Then, a blur of crimson and fire flashed across the battlefield.
Suddenly, the Despair Demons surrounding them were all erupting in explosions. The smoke cleared to reveal the red-armored figure, standing in the center, his fiery katana sheathed, his presence radiating an almost palpable menace. An angel of death to his mechanical enemies.
The shell-shocked soldiers immediately noticed the distinctive, fierce kitsune helmet.
Sora walked quickly to one of the human soldiers and offered a sharp, decisive nod, signaling toward the terrified civilians huddled behind the military line. The veteran soldier, recognizing a sudden, impossible savior, immediately began guiding the civilians toward a nearby, reinforced evacuation center.
Sora watched as his only family, Anna, was led inside. He sighed in relief, but the moment the tension eased, a searing, white-hot pain erupted throughout his body. His heart hammered a violent rhythm against his ribs; his blood felt like boiling oil. He was losing consciousness.
He had taken down over two hundred Despair Demons—albeit just a scouting party—in the short, brutal trip to the evacuation zone. The physical and energetic strain on his already-malnourished body was catastrophic.
His armor was faltering. He knew that if he collapsed, the armor would disintegrate, revealing his battered, scrawny identity. He couldn't risk it. He might be poor and desperate, but he wasn't dumb enough to be turned into a lab experiment to uncover the armor's secrets or its replication process.
He mustered the last dregs of his consciousness, rushed out of the evacuation center, and sprinted back toward the deep forest line. He reached the shadowed sanctuary and collapsed, his body hitting the dirt with a dull thud. The magnificent red armor instantly vaporized into a cloud of red holographic particles, leaving behind only his unresponsive, battered, and utterly exhausted teenage body.
Sora opened his eyes to a painfully familiar white ceiling. The sterile smell of antiseptic and sickness confirmed his suspicion: he was in a hospital. To his left, a life support machine ticked and beeped a steady, rhythmic pattern.
He knew what he had to do. He always ditched. The hospital staff had a history of severely chastising and threatening him—and occasionally worse—when they discovered he was the same patient who repeatedly skipped out on astronomical medical bills.
Quickly, methodically, he slipped out of the hospital gown and into the worn, patched clothes he'd arrived in. He crept to the window and slipped out, jumping from the third-floor ledge. He landed with a surprising, almost impossible grace, without breaking a single bone. He heard a commotion near his room—the staff discovering his absence—and took off running like a phantom.
Outside the hospital, a black, heavily customized VADS executive van waited, its tinted windows offering absolute privacy. Inside, four people were sitting: two heavily armed bodyguards in the front seats, clad in military-grade gear and the latest VADS-patented firearms.
In the back sat a man in his late thirties, impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit, beside his fifteen-year-old daughter. Her attire, though expensive, paled in comparison to her father's suit, which likely cost more than Sora's entire lifetime earnings.
The man, known universally as Mr. VADS, was quietly reading a stack of medical documents—documents that belonged to the boy who had saved his daughter from the alley thugs.
The girl, finally restless, grabbed the documents and began to read aloud, her voice tightening with every sentence.
Patient Medical Record
Patient Information
Name: Sora Ryoichi
Date of Birth: October 25, 20XX
Age: 16 (Nearing 17)
Sex: Male
Status: Unaccompanied Minor / Orphan
Financial Status: Indigent; Significant Outstanding Debt (See Finance Report 1A)
Primary Care Physician:: Dr. Aris Thorne, MD
Hospital: Apex Trauma Center, Tokyo
Chief Complaint
16-year-old male presenting via emergency transport following a high-impact collision (pedestrian vs. heavy machinery). Patient is critically injured, in hypovolemic shock, and exhibits extreme malnutrition and signs of chronic physical trauma.
Physical Examination
General Appearance: Cachectic, skeletal frame. Skin is thin, pale, and covered in a tapestry of old scars, lacerations, and fresh contusions. Patient appears significantly younger than his stated age due to severe developmental stunting from malnourishment.
Vital Signs: Unstable. Heart rate erratic; blood pressure critically low.
Skeletal System: Extensive current and historical fractures. Palpable crepitus throughout multiple limbs and torso. The skeletal survey looks like a dropped box of matchsticks.
Nutritional Status: Severe acute and chronic malnutrition (Kwashiorkor/Marasmus features). Muscle mass minimal. His body is feeding on itself.
History of Present Illness & Chronic Injuries (Ages 14-16)
Patient Ryoichi presents with a medically unprecedented history of catastrophic injuries and repeated resuscitation. Records from Apex Trauma Center detail a continuous cycle of near-fatal trauma, emergency stabilization, and unauthorized self-discharge.
Incident Details
Aug 05, 20XX (Age 16): Industrial Accident (Crushing injury). Injuries: Near-amputation of right hand, crushed rib cage (flail chest), ruptured liver, bilateral kidney failure. Outcome: Resuscitated x5; unauthorized discharge 2 days post-op.
Feb 01, 20XX (Age 16): Severe Blunt Force Trauma (Assault). Injuries: Comminuted fractures in all major long bones (humerus, femur, tibia), orbital fractures, traumatic brain injury (TBI), multiple organ failure. Outcome: Declared deceased upon arrival; resuscitated after 45 minutes of CPR (Return of Spontaneous Circulation achieved). Unauthorized discharge 1 day post-op.
Current Admission (Age 16): High-impact collision. Injuries: All major bones fractured (pan-skeletal trauma), critical internal hemorrhaging, near-total organ failure, extreme hypovolemic shock. Outcome: Admitted to ICU; prognosis grave.
Finance & Administration Report (Finance Report 1A)
Patient Status: Indigent. No next of kin on file.
Outstanding Medical Debt (Accumulated between ages 14-16):
Total Billed (JPY): ¥1,245,300,000 (Approx. 8.4 Million USD)
Total Paid (JPY): ¥0
Status: All bills referred to collections. Patient has zero assets.
The girl's jaw dropped. It was a perfectly reasonable reaction. Who in the world could survive such continuous, life-ending injuries? And the sheer amount of the debt—over a billion yen—was staggering. Even to her father, whose wealth was nearly infinite, this debt was a testament to Sora's stubborn, almost supernatural will to exist.
Mr. VADS, his expression grim but his eyes alight with a strange mixture of relief and recognition, closed the file. He pulled out a customized, secure phone and made a call.
"This is Mr. VADS speaking. I want to pay the entire outstanding debt of young Sora Ryoichi. Yes, the full amount—one billion, two hundred forty-five million, three hundred thousand yen. I know that figure is… substantial, but rest assured, I can pay you for it. This is simply his reward after saving my daughter," he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, final command. "Good. Have a wonderful day."
He ended the call, looking at his daughter, relief washing over his face that she was physically safe. He then looked at the small, blurry picture of Sora attached to the file: black hair, deep brown eyes, and a face that was thin and pale from malnutrition. If he were healthy, Sora Ryoichi would undoubtedly be a remarkably attractive young man.
Mr. VADS smiled lightly, a ghost of a memory passing over his face. "I guess the Ryoichi clan didn't die out yet. I'll take care of your son, old friend."
His daughter looked at him, confused by his cryptic words, but her attention was fixated on one thing:
Sora Ryoichi, the boy who fought like a veteran, bled like a martyr, and survived like a miracle. Her savior.