Heikō Mu.

Heikō Mu was known for his serenity. His followers often spoke of his unwavering calm, his absolute control over every emotion, every thought, every aspect of his being. His presence brought stability to the chaotic world of the shinobi a living embodiment of perfect balance. Yet beneath that calm exterior, there were depths that even his most trusted disciples could not fathom. There was a darkness within him that he had kept hidden, even from himself. A darkness that whispered in the silence of meditation and haunted his dreams with vague and unsettling images.

Heikō was the God of Shinobi, a being beyond mortal understanding, yet he was not invulnerable to the fears that plagued all sentient beings. And there was one fear that towered above all others—the fear of the monster that lurked within his own soul. He had given that darkness a name: **Fukushū Yū**, the "Presence of Retaliation." It was a name that filled him with dread, for it was not just an aspect of himself. Fukushū Yū was his opposite, his antithesis, a shadow that threatened to engulf the light of his mastery.

The meditation session had begun as any other—a deep, grounding practice with his most loyal followers, those who had pledged themselves to the way of the shinobi. They sat together in a tranquil clearing, surrounded by the soft rustling of leaves and the steady rhythm of a bubbling stream nearby. The air was cool and fresh, and the presence of his disciples was a comfort to Heikō. They were his strength, his grounding point in the world. Together, they entered a deep meditative state, their collective consciousness touching the realm of pure energy and spirit.

For a time, Heikō floated in the familiar expanse of his inner self, where all distractions faded away and only clarity remained. Here, he often communed with the essence of his power, seeking wisdom in the quiet spaces between thoughts. But something felt different this time—a disturbance in the stillness, a ripple in the serene pool of his mind. It was subtle at first, a faint pulse that grew stronger with every breath. It was as if an unseen presence was drawing closer, like a shadow creeping at the edge of his awareness.

Heikō tried to ignore it, focusing on his breath, the slow inhale and exhale, the calming rhythm that always brought him back to his center. But the shadow grew bolder, pressing against the boundaries of his consciousness. His heartbeat quickened. There, in the depths of his meditation, he saw a figure—a silhouette, barely distinguishable in the darkness. It had no face, no distinct features, only a suffocating aura that made his skin crawl.

"Who... who are you?" Heikō's voice echoed in the emptiness of his mind, but the figure did not respond. It simply *stood*, unmoving, as if waiting for something. And then, suddenly, it *moved*—stepping forward with a fluid grace that was both familiar and utterly alien. In that moment, Heikō understood with a cold, sinking certainty. This was not some foreign entity invading his mind. This was a part of *him*, the side of himself that he had always suppressed, the embodiment of all his suppressed rage, hatred, and desire for vengeance. This was **Fukushū Yū**.

The figure's form solidified, taking on a more human shape, but its eyes remained hidden in shadow. Heikō felt his breath catch in his throat, his carefully cultivated calm shattering in an instant. This presence, this monstrous other-self, radiated an intense energy that was both intoxicating and terrifying—a power that promised destruction without limit, a rage that sought only to burn everything in its path.

For a brief, terrible moment, Heikō felt himself slipping, losing his grip on reality as the darkness within threatened to overtake him. Fukushū Yū did not speak, but Heikō heard his voice as a whisper in his mind, a twisted reflection of his own thoughts. The words were not coherent, but they carried a promise—one of revenge, of retaliation against all who had wronged him, of power unrestrained by morality or discipline.

"No," Heikō muttered, his voice breaking the silence, but it was as if Fukushū Yū had heard the denial and smiled. There was no mercy in that shadowed grin, only a relentless hunger. Heikō felt his control slipping, his carefully honed techniques, his mastery of shinobi arts, all wavering in the presence of that dark reflection. Panic surged through him, and with a desperate effort, he forced himself out of the meditation.

Heikō's eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around him spun, and he felt the cold sweat trickling down his face. His followers, sensing the shift in his aura, opened their eyes and saw their master—usually so composed and unshakeable—clearly in distress. They exchanged worried glances before closing in around him.

"Heikō-sama, what's wrong?" one of them asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

Heikō's gaze was distant, unfocused. He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm the pounding of his heart, but the memory of Fukushū Yū's presence lingered like a shadow in the corners of his mind. He felt vulnerable, exposed, as if the darkness within him had left a permanent mark on his soul.

"I... I saw something," he said slowly, his voice hoarse and unsteady. His followers leaned closer, their eyes filled with concern and curiosity. Heikō hesitated, the words catching in his throat, but he knew he could not hide the truth—not from those who had pledged themselves to follow him, who trusted him with their lives.

"There is... a side of me," he began, choosing his words carefully, "a side that I have always kept hidden. It is... my opposite. The shadow to my light. His name is Fukushū Yū—'Revenge Exists.' He is... everything I am not, yet he *is* me."

His followers remained silent, listening with rapt attention. They had never heard their master speak in such a vulnerable way, had never seen him so shaken. It was as if the unbreakable foundation of their world had begun to crack.

Heikō closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. He could still feel Fukushū Yū's presence lingering at the edges of his mind, a constant reminder of the darkness that lay within. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, and his followers had to strain to hear him.