Here's the next chapter, hope you'll enjoy it :)

djinn - Thanks so much. The purpose of the weapon will revealed in this chapter, but Michael's blood will be left until a future chapter. Linking MHA and Demon Slayer universes was risky, but the story I'm going with is the same the researcher proposed in 'The Disappearing Hero'. The gene that contains a quirk is dormant for most of human history, but there were anomalies. Some of these anomalies was Muzan, who could turn people into demons, and the demon slayer corps, who can use breathing techniques. However, I do have to note that I haven't finished Demon Slayer yet so the narrative could be completely wrong, but that's the best explanation I can come up with. Thanks for reading.

wellingtonlucas282- No problem, hope you enjoy the next chapter.

Guest - Pretty much. There will be a lot of revelation in this chapter. I'm really excited to carry on this story, but I can't update as often as I like because of my other stories. -sigh- Anyway, Thank you for reviewing, I really appreciate it.

RubixJr - Thank you so much, hope you enjoy the next chapter.

aguilarfederico05 - Thank you so much, I'm so glad you're are enjoying it so far. I think I already said this in my other story, but this story takes place a few months before Tanjiro's family is killed. Thank you again and I hope you'll like the next chapter.

Idknows - I hope this chapter answers some of your questions. Thanks so much.


Chapter 3: Standing Man

Pain.

Searing pain.

Searing pain so indescribable that Michael had no idea what was happening.

It was a blur for him. He's fairly sure he was screaming in agony and clutching his face, but he had no idea what else what was happening. Since he had fired the revolver quite near his face, his ears rung and he couldn't hear a single thing. He was just there. No sight. No hearing. He might as well have been floating in space. Convulsing and withering pathetically while his brain and body tried to make sense of the pain.

There was one, very small, part of his mind that acted rationally, but since he couldn't sense anything, the rational part had to make assumptions. One of them was that he assumed that the monster was still over him ready to tear him to spreads. He must have shrugged off the bullet like he did with the Luger. But if that was the case then why wasn't he dead?

He assumed he was still alive; it certainly felt like it. Unless, this is what being dead was like. An eternity of agony and isolation.

He could have pondered more about it when he felt something grab onto his shoulder and something else under his knees.

Was that the monster finally killing him?

No.

It didn't feel like the claws of the vicious beast. It felt like hands. Human hands. Lifting him up off the floor and carry him somewhere in a hurry. He was jostled around, shaken left and right like a rag doll. The whole experience making him feel slightly nauseous.

It was by that time that the ringing quietened down a little bit and he could finally hear an echo of a voice.

"I- h-"

What was that? He couldn't make out the words, but the voice sounded familiar.

"I'm- so- Mi-"

Again, he couldn't hear what he was saying, but he knew that voice. However, before he could think anymore he was finally put down on something soft.

He sniffed. It smelled like leather. The sort you would find in a car. Was he in a car now?

He then heard a distant slam that was unmistakably from a car door, followed by the rumble of an engine revving up and suddenly the seats he was lying on back to shake. He felt a forward motion that was rather disorientating, but after a while his body began getting used to it.

"Don- wor-" the voice called out to him again from somewhere, "I'm goi- to tak- you som- saf-. The- wil- hel- you. I'm sorr- Micha-. I didn- mean to get you invo- with this. Pleas- stop screami-. You're goin- to be alrig-"

And suddenly, Michael recognised the voice and instantly felt his throat become dry. He couldn't believe. After all this time, he was here.

'Dad?' he thought.


Michael must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew he was being carried again. Despite the ringing in his ears completely vanishing, every sound he heard was distant and distorted as if he was at the bottom of a deep well. He heard what sounded like rapid footsteps on gravel and his father's panicked breathing. Ever so often he would hear his voice reassure that he was going to be fine and that he was going to get him healed.

Of course, there was no way he can reply to him or ask him any questions, so only had to lay limply in his arms and suffer in agony.

Finally, they stopped and something slamming against a wood.

"Tamayo!" he father shouted, followed by more rapid crashing, "I need you now! Tamayo!"

'Who's Tamayo?' Michael briefly wondered.

He then heard the sound of footsteps coming from somewhere and then the sound of shoji door opening.

'Who is he taking me to?'

"Are you insane, Edward!" an angry male voice shouted, "How dare you kick our doo- Chikushō! What the hell happened to him?"

"Yushiro, I need Tamayo to heal him," his father urgently told him.

"There's a perfectly good hospital not too far away. Take him there and bother them."

"No, she has to do it. He's already lost too much blood."

"My lady is not yours to command. You can't just come here just because the boy is stupid enough to-"

"He was attacked by one of Muzan's demons," his father coldly said.

Michael heard Yushiro hesitate slight before he coughed, "So, he has been targeted by...him...and therefore you put us in danger by bringing that-"

"Yushiro," a new voice cut him off. This time it belonged to a woman, "Let him in this instant," she calmly, but sternly ordered.

Michael heard Yushiro move away almost instantly and mutter an apology to his father. It was followed by the sound of footsteps on wooden floorboards coming closer to him. He then felt his head lifted up gently by soft hands which then moved his face to the left as if the she was inspecting him.

"Tamayo," his father softly said, "Can you help him?"

She didn't reply for a few moments before she felt her lift her hands away from his face, "Follow me. I'll try my best," she said as Michael felt himself being moved again, "You did well to stop the flow of blood, but it's clear that he has already lost so much on the way here," she said in concern, "He doesn't look like he's part of the corp. Is he a civilian?"

"He's my son and he isn't supposed to be here," Edward gravelly said.

He heard another shoji door open and after a while he was finally put down on the floor with a mat placed underneath him.

"Yushiro," Tamayo said as she kneeled beside his head, "Can you please take Edward to another room and get him settled down," she requested.

"Of course, my lady," he said obediently before Michael heard the shoji door close.

He was left alone with the unknown woman, but for some reason he wasn't worried at all. He felt her gently stoke his hair comfortingly and peel away something that was covering his eyes. Although, it did nothing to lessen the pain, it was still a nice feeling to experience.

"Good evening, Edward's son," she softly said, "Everything will be just fine. I'm just going to give you some morphine and the pain will go away for a while. Is that fine?"

Before he could make any sort of response, he felt something prick his arm and he began to feel slightly dizzy. The pain did ebb away, but he also felt his conscious drift as well and soon he fell asleep.

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His began to feel himself wake up and fell a dull pain going up and down his entire body. It wasn't as horrendous as before, but he assumed that was because of the morphine. He didn't feel the woman's presence anymore and he tried to open his eyes to find her, but for some reason he felt resistance holding his eyelids closed. He frowned in delirious confusion and tried to raise his hands to investigate what was keeping them shut but found that he couldn't as he still felt numb from the morphine.

Instead, he just laid there; not really knowing what to do with himself. That was until he heard footsteps from outside the room he was staying and the sound of the shoji door opening. It was by a small gasp and a suppressed sob.

"I'm sorry, Edward," the voice of Tamayo softly said, "I was able to fix his leg and stop the bleeding. He will live, but...I wasn't able to salvage them."

"Oh God," his father uttered, trying to fight down another sob, "He shouldn't have been here. It's all my fault."

'What's going on?' Michael thought in confusion, 'What wasn't she able to save?'

He heard an impatient sigh, "You have to leave now," Yushiro muttered, "immediately."

"Yushiro," Tamayo firmly scolded.

"My apologies, my lady, but if he was targeted by...him. Then we're in danger of being discovered ourselves. We can't let them stay any longer."

"I...understand," Edward sighed, taking deep breaths to control his emotions, "But he'll be in more danger if he comes with me. Besides he needs time to recover."

"Can't you put him on the next ship back to Hong Kong?" Yushiro questioned.

"The harbour is closed indefinitely," Tomayo reminded, "I don't suppose he can stay with the Corps."

"They won't let an outsider in. Especially one that was recently targeted by him," Edward muttered before he paused in thought. Finally he sighed, "Do either of you know it Yamamoto Akira is still alive?"

"Yamamoto," Tomayo uttered, "Yes, I believe so. Although, I haven't heard from him in quite a while. But he lives over 100 miles away."

"And you're not going to get that automobile that far into the countryside or up the mountains."

He heard his father sigh in frustration, "He will have to do. Once the harbour opens he can send Michael back to Tokyo and get him out of the country. I'll go as far as I can in the car and then ditch it and buy a horse and cart to take us the rest of the way."

"Well, you better start now. The sun is going to come up in an hour."

Michael listened to all of this, growing more confused and angry by the second.

'What the hell is going on? Who is Yamamoto? Why am I taken to him? Where is my father going that's so dangerous? AND WHY CAN'T I OPEN MY EYES!?' he shouted in his head. He felt the feeling return to his hand and he was now able to lift up slowly, 'I've had enough of this.'

He raised his hand to his face, expecting to feel some sort of cloth keeping him blinded. However, when his fingers brushed where his eyes are, he pulled back with a small gasp.

He didn't feel any blindfold, but the familiar feel of string dug into where his eyes should be.

They were stitches...they had stitch his eyelids shut.

His immediate reaction was to scratch them out, the thought of something preventing him from seeing horrified and disgusted him, but before he could touch them again he felt a strong but soft hand grab his wrist before he could.

"No, no," Tomayo gently told him, "Don't touch them."

"What did you to me?" he choked out, "Why did you sew my eyes shut?"

He heard somebody kneel down next to his head, "Michael, it's me your father. You have to stay calm-"

"I can't see," Michael uttered in panic, "I can't see! Take them out!"

"We can't do that, Michael."

"I can't see, please take them out!" he begged, starting to struggle against her grip.

"Michael, come down," Edward ordered as he held on to his other arm.

"But I-"

"Tomayo has to remove your eyes," he suddenly said, causing him to stop squirming in shock, "They were damage during your fight with the demon, so she had to remove them. I'm sorry Michael, but...you're blind."

The words echoed in his head. There was no way that this could be true, but why would he lie to him. Confusion and panic melted away into despair as it dawned on him. He was blind, his entire life had changed. No longer will be able to read books, watch films, or see another person. He will never be able to gaze up into the night sky, see his future wife's face or even look happily down on his first born. He can't even see colours: only nothingness.

His sight was taken away from him...and it was all because of that monster.

"No, no, no, no, no," he muttered as he began to shake violently.

He felt strong hands hold him down, trying to prevent him from moving too much to disturb his injuries. But at the moment he didn't really care. He just wanted to wake up from this nightmare that he was thrown in.

"Damn, he's having a panic attack," Yushiro grumbled as he held onto his legs, "my lady, maybe you should give him an extra dose."

"No," Edward firmly said, "No more morphine. He'll become addicted if you give him more."

"It's only a small dose," she reassured, "It will put him to sleep and ease his pain. You will have to administer more doses for a few more days when you're travelling. After that he'll be fine, I promise you."

He heard his father sigh reluctantly, "Fine, just do it."

Michael felt something prick his arm again and for the second time he began to feel dizzy and he soon stopped shaking and fell unconscious once again.

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He woke up in a completely different place. Judging by the leather seat underneath him and a door slamming, he must have been back in the car covered in a warm blanket. He heard metal keys jingle as they were inserted into the ignition. Michael's mouth felt dry and he was still feeling sleepy, but there was one thing he needed to tell him.

"Dad," he uttered.

"Go to sleep," Edward ordered calmly, "I promise I'll get you out of here."

"Henry is..."

"I know, Michael, but I'll explain to him what happened to you. Please don't w-"

"...he's dead."

He heard Edward pause for a few moments. Michael wished there was a better way he could have told him, but he felt that there wouldn't be another opportunity.

"He was killed... in the war...shot...trying to save someone...like a hero," he uttered.

His father didn't respond immediately, but after a few seconds he heard him give a sad hum.

"Right...thank you, Michael for telling me. Now go to sleep; we've got a long trip ahead of us," he said in a strained voice. Michael knew he was trying everything to keep it together in order to keep him safe.

Soon, Michael began to feel drowsy once again and he promptly fell asleep to the sound of the car engine roaring to life.


-Flashback Nine Years Ago -


Saint Thomas' Hospital, London

Michael had always been sickly child.

The doctors couldn't agree on what was exactly wrong with him, but they guess it was something to with his blood. Apparently, his father had the same condition when he was young, but it wasn't as severe. Micheal would spend days and months in hospitals trying to recover with only the view outside the window as any sort of distraction. He reckoned that majority of his childhood was spent in a hospital bed. Now that he was lying helpless in the back of the car, he couldn't help but dream of all those time he looked out that hospital window.

However, this time it was different.

On that day, labourers were striking for higher wages and better working conditions and the march was making it's way up to Parliament, from over Westminster Bridge and right past his hospital room. It was astonishing to see. Hundreds of men and women were taking to the streets, waving banners and chanting fiercely. He may not have known what they were protesting about at the time, but Michael was grateful to watch something interesting.

That was until the police came on their horses and dispersed the crowds. In a few minutes, the protesters had ran away or else they get hit by a truncheon.

However, there was one man who didn't run. He looked to be in his fifties and even from the fourth war he could see that he was nothing but skin and bones. His clothes were old and dirty, his face was hardened and weary and he looked...well normal. However, what really caught his attention was that every time a police officer would push him down to the ground, the man would wearily stand up and face the line of policemen.

He would get hit.

He'll stand up.

Again they push him.

But again he would stand on his feet.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not once did he attack his aggressors, nor did he say anything. He just stood there taking every single punch, smack, kick and push. Not once did he ever stop.

Michael had watched him for what felt like hours and he was torn away as soon as he heard his hospital door open suddenly and his mother stormed in, her usual stern glare falling on him.

"Get away from the window this instant," she demanded as she made her way over and closed the curtains, "And what did I say about slouching. You're not a ruffian."

Michael sighed and sat back on his bed before he muttered, "Good morning, mother."

"Don't use that tone on me. Can't you be grateful to see me just this once."

It was then that his father came in, apologising profusely to one of the nurses, "I'm terribly sorry about my wife. She's just worried, that's all," he told her before turning to Michael with a bright smile, "Good morning, Michael. How are you feeling?"

"A little better."

"Good," he said as he pulled up a chair and sat next to his bed, "Sorry, we would have been here earlier but we hit a bit of traffic on the way here."

Charlotte sniffed irritably as she looked out the window, "It was those protestors' fault; blocking the roads and streets with this buffoonery."

Edward raised an eyebrow, "That's a little harsh, dear."

"The police should have shot them on sight," she coldly remarked with a cruel sneer.

"Charlotte," Edward warned.

She gazed back at her husband and saw the stern look on his face as if to say, 'don't say things like that in front of Michael'. She sighed, turned on heel and briskly headed to the door.

"I'm going to speak to your doctors on why you haven't gotten better yet," she told them as exited his room.

Michael glared at her as she left while Edward frowned sadly. This was more or less what she was like and they were used to it. Finally, Michael reached over to the curtain again, pulled it aside and peered down to see the standing man again. However, he was disappointed to see that he was being dragged away by four police. Edward hummed curiously and looked out the window as well.

"Oh dear, what a horrible sight."

"But dad, he did something amazing."

"Oh he did."

Michael explained what the man did and when he finished Edward nodded in understanding, "I see. Well, Michael, that man sounds very strong to be able to do that."

His son frowned in confusion, "Strong? But he looked so frail.

"The strength of an individual is not measured by how large their muscles are or how much weight they can carry. Strength is the willingness to carry on, preserver and show the world that you cannot be beaten. It's something that lives in the hearts of people and only shines when one stands up for what they truly believe is right."

"But why does he keep getting up?" Michael asked, "What's the point of standing up when you are just going to get beaten down again. Wouldn't it be better to admit defeat then suffer."

Edward shook his head, "Suffer. My dear boy, that man suffers every day of his life. He gets up early every morning, he works long, arduous hours with little pay and no rest, he goes home and uses the little money he received that day to buy scraps of food for him and his family and then he does it again the next day and then the next, until he drops dead. What he experiences daily is no different to what he experienced on the street down below."

Michael sighed sadly, "I...still don't get it. I don't see why he would do that to himself," bowing his head as if ashamed for not understanding.

His father frowned at his downtrodden expression and placed his hand gently on his shoulder, "When people like him have nothing in their lives, no family, no friends, no future, and they are so...so tired that their bones feel like they are going snap if they took one more step, then they will hang on to what little hope they can get. The only thing they could do is to get back up and stand on their feet once again and say to the world 'no more'. No more hunger, no more pain, no more poverty, no more bullying and being pushed around. The world may take away everything from that man except for one thing...the strength to stand up. You may not understand now, but they'll be a day where you'll find your strength and then you'll be able stand up no matter how many times you get knocked down."

He remembered looking up at him and seeing the hopeful smile on his face, but that about it. As the memory ended, darkness began to cloud his mind and he was no longer on that hospital bed.


-Flashback End-


Unknown Place

Michael up with a groan and a splitting headache.

He didn't do anything but lie on, what he assumed was, a mat and stayed still until he stopped feeling dizzy. Once, he felt slightly better, except for the dull pain in his leg, he felt around and found that he was wearing yukata. He tried to open his eyelids, but found that he couldn't. That is when he remembered what his father told him.

His eyes were gone.

It was an odd sensation being blind and it was not what Michael had expected it to be like. It's not a simple as closing your eyelids, because you're only just looking at the back of them, being blind was way different. For one thing, it wasn't dark. It's an understandable mistake to make for anybody who wasn't visionally impaired. But no, since his brain can't process any sights anymore, that part of him just doesn't exist anymore. It's like having your arm amputated, there are no nerves, no muscle, no bone and therefore doesn't exist anymore on your physical body. This was a strange concept since your eyes have been working since you were born and, for a non-visually impaired person, it was completely unimaginable. However, just like with amputations, Michael still the phantom pain where his eyes should be.

The thought of them gone forever echoed in his mind and he tried so hard not to panic again. He felt despair flow through him causing his stomach to churn and his breathing to become shallow. He would have cried, but his lacrimal glands were gone as well.

'No stop!' he shouted in his mind, 'I don't have time to be upset about this. I need answers right now."

With some self-encouragement, he reached up to touch the stitches gently only to pull back when he felt nothing but skin.

'Have they healed already? How long was I out for?' he thought as he sat up and felt his surroundings until he felt a wooden pole by his mat. After a bit more investigation, he found that it was a walking crutch.

He hummed and tried to move his previously broken leg. It was stiff and painful, but he found that he can move his toes and feet. Satisfied, he started to feel his surroundings again, but there was nothing else nearby. He assumed he was indoors, judging by the wooden floorboards, but there was nothing else he could work out.

He was about to lie down again and sleep again when he heard gentle music in the distance. The tune sounded like it was coming from a flute which mixed and swirled around him, soothing and calming him down with its beauty. The mere sound of it almost made him forget about all his problems.

Curious, Michael grabbed the crutch, tossed away the blanket covering him and shakily got onto his feet. It was difficult and he almost fell over, but eventually he stood up leaning heavily on the crotch and lifting his left leg up slightly. He began to limp towards the sound, accidently bumping into things on the way until he found a door outside. As soon as he poked his head out the door frame, a blast of wind hit his head which made him stagger slightly, but he grabbed onto the frame for extra support. Using his crutch, he leaned down and poked the ground outside the door to inspect it. After a few solid taps, he came to the conclusion that there were stone steps and gently and slowly made his way down them using the crutch and door frame for support. As soon as got down from the last step and felt the paved stone beneath his bare foot, he took a deep breath through his nose. The air felt fresh and clear and there was the gentle scent of flowers flowed up his nose. The wind was strong and ruffled his hair wildly about, but it still felt nice and cool on his skin.

And yet he could still hear the music. He was getting closer.

He began to limp across what felt like some sort of courtyard until the music was coming right in front of him. He felt the presence of somebody sitting in front of him as well and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me," he asked in a croaky voice.

The person stopped playing for a moment before deciding to ignore him and carry on.

"Excuse me," he tried again.

The person only played harder to drown him out.

Michael frowned in annoyance, "Excuse me."

"WHAT!" the person bellowed, suddenly jumping up and getting in his face, "CAN'T AN OLD MAN JUST PLAY HIS SHAKUHACHI! IS THAT SUCH A CRIME! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT...CAN'T YOU HEAR THAT I'M BUSY RIGHT NOW! I'LL GET TO YOU IN A MOMENT!"

After that, the man sat back down, sighed in annoyance and began to play his flute. Michael frowned before reluctantly standing there until the man finished his tune. A few minutes later, the man finished his song and hummed peacefully.

"I see you have awoken, boy," he said in a calm tone.

'Don't act mystical after throwing a temper tantrum!' Michael thought before calming down and responding, "Yes...sorry for...interrupting...your...flute performance."

The man grumbled, "It's not a flute, it's a shakuhachi."

"Sounded like...flute."

"Well, it isn't."

"What...difference?"

"...I assume you have questions about where you are or what happened to you," he said, causing Michael to sweat drop.

'He avoided the question. What a petty person.'

He heard the man stand up again and take his arm, "Here, sit down," he told them, helping him onto another mat on the courtyard, "My name is Yamamoto Akira and you're staying at my house in northern Honshu. Do you want me to describe it to you?" Michael nodded to say yes, "It's a decent sized wooden house with a round courtyard that we're now on the edge of. We're currently sitting under one of my sakura trees, but they are not blooming at the moment. You may have noticed the gales, well, that's because we're on top of a mountain. They're particular strong up here. We're currently sitting on the edge and overlooking a valley with a nice little town situated at the bottom. You can get the best mochi in all of Japan down there. You do know what mochi is, right?"

"No," Michael answered honestly.

"Then I guess we'll have to go down and get some later."

"Who are you...really? And...why my father...leave me here?" Michael asked, turning his head to Yamamoto.

He paused for a second and he assumed that he was gazing at the scenery in contemplation. Eventually, he hummed thoughtfully, "I don't suppose the word 'hashira' means anything to you."

"As in...pillar?"

"Indeed, but it also harbours a different meaning to us. Those who have been given the title of hashira have proven that they are the most elite and powerful of their fighting style. A 'pillar' of their craft, the highest ranking in our organisation. I had retired many years ago, but I once know as the Wind Hashira. And why your father left me with you is because I'm the only person who can protect you."

Michael raised his hand to his face, "The...monster? The one...that did this," he asked pointing at where his eyes should be.

"That monster is called a demon. They consume human blood in order to survive and are gifted with powers known as Blood Demon Arts. They used to be humans but were turned into the wild beasts you know of by a demon by the name of Muzan."

"Muzan," he uttered, "You mean...the man...from...meeting. He was...one who...my father was being...hunted by," he tried to stand on his feet, "Must...save him."

He felt a strong hand grab his left shoulder and Yamamoto pushed him back onto the mat, "You're not going anywhere. I promised your father to keep you here until you're healed and the harbour opens back up. Besides you think you're going to trek cross-country battling demons barefooted, limping and blind."

Michael grumbled but admitted defeat, "You know...where he...is?"

"Nobody does," the old man replied, "He says he's been working on some project, but was light on details. From what I heard, he's working on a weapon that could kill any demon even Muzan. But I have my doubts."

He frowned slightly at that, 'Dad's not really a secretive person...well I don't think he is anyway. Does it have something to do with that revolver? I remember firing it at its head, so does it mean I killed it. Speaking of which, where is the revolver? Dad must have taken it with him when I was unconscious,' he cleared his throat, "Err...you mention...fighting style. Do you battle...demons?"

"Retired," Yamamoto repeated, "Also I don't know how much I should be telling you this."

"Who...am I...going to blab to. I've got...nobody."

He felt the old man's piecing gaze on him, "Fine, I used to belong to an organisation known at the Demon Slayer Corps. Set up hundreds of years ago, its purpose is to eradicate the demon menace and to protect humanity. The Hashira are its elite warriors who are masters of one of the five Breathing Styles. These styles are Water, Flame, Thunder, Stone and Wind. These are the main ways of fighting in the Corps."

"And how do...you kill demon."

Yamamoto hummed, "Decapitation or exposure to sun light. Demons can't go out during the day."

Michael frowned in confusion, "Is that all?"

"Yes, demons can heal their wounds rapidly making them hard to kill."

'Then that proves that there's something special about that gun. All of this is too much to comprehend. I'm getting answers but I don't feel like I'm getting any closer,' he thought desperately, "Why...me? Why did Muzan...go after me?"

Yamamoto sighed, "There's no reason. You...just happened to be at the wrong place at he wrong time. A victim in all of this. I'm sorry to tell you that."

As soon as he said that, Michael felt as if a giant had slammed its fist in his stomach, knocking him out onto his back. He couldn't believe it. That was all he was in the grand scheme of things.

He was just a victim.

Always the victim.

He was too weak, too insignificant, too unimportant to make any sort of contribution. He doesn't fit in upper class society and didn't fit among the poorer classes. He didn't fit anywhere or with anybody. He was just some useless person who gets in people's way and now his sight was taken away from him like it was some cruel joke.

And Michael was furious.

His hands gripped tightly into fists and snarled, "Can anybody...be part of...the corps."

He heard Yamamoto sigh, "Don't you even think about. I promised your father-"

"My father...not here...please teach me."

"I will not. Not only did I promise your father, but you're injured and you can't see. Now don't ask me again."

"But-"

"ENOUGH!" he roared at the surprised Michael, the wind around them seemed to whip fiercely as soon as said that. After a few seconds Yamamoto, took a deep breath and clamed himself down, the wind also seemed to go back to a gentle breeze as well, "Now you made me hungry. Get up, we're going down to the village," he ordered much to Michael's anger, "Oh and you better wear this."

He then felt a cloth wrapped around his head, placed over where his eyes should be. Yamamoto then tied the cloth around the back of his head and tapped his shoulder to say that they should go. Grumbling bitterly, Michael reluctantly went with him.


The fastest and most convenient way of getting to the village was by a horse and cart. Yamamoto sat at the front of the cart driving the horse while Michael was stuck in the back, trying to hang on as they travelled over uneven roads. Even then, it took about two hours to finally get to, what Yamamoto described as, the pretty, little village untouched by the modern world by how remote it was.

Unfortunately, he had to take his word for it.

However, even if he couldn't see it for himself, Michael still enjoyed the fresh countryside air, calming him down from earlier. It reminded him when he and family holidayed in Cornwall. He loved the place which, of course, also meant that his mother hated it. But his father insisted every year and there was nothing that his mother could...

'Mother,' Michael thought, 'She has no idea about any of this. I wonder if she... no, she probably wouldn't care. After all, her favourite son had already died.'

He was brought out of his thoughts when the cart came to stop. He heard Yamamoto get out of his seat and went around the cart so he can help him off as well. Once Michael landed on his one good foot, now wearing a waraji or a type of woven sandal, he listened around him and heard the sound of people walking by some of them talking to each other, the loud clang of a blacksmith hitting his anvil, children running and giggling as they played with each other. Finally, he felt a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to move forwards.

"We're in the marketplace. Don't worry, I'll lead you through it safely," Yamamoto told him.

CRASH!

"Ah!" Michael cried as his leg collided with something heavy.

"Sorry, didn't see that," he said sheepishly, "From now on, you'll be safe."

Michael muttered distastefully as he was led into the village. They soon stopped somewhere and sweet aroma filled Michael's nose, causing him to hum in delight.

"Hina!" Yamamoto called out beside him, "How is everything!?"

A female voice who sounded middle-aged in front of them gave a small sigh, "Ojichan, you're not going to buy more mochi are you? This is the fifth time this week, I'm starting to get worried."

"Ah, but it's not all for me this time. I have a guest."

Hina hummed in interest, "Oh so you do."

"Boy," Yamamoto said, patting his shoulder, "This is Hina. The goddess of mochi and this is her shop."

"Be quiet, Ojichan. I sell more then mochi if you bothered to buy something else from me," she scolded, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Oh my, what an unusual hair colour you have."

Michael smiled nervously and felt his messy hair, "Thanks...Scottish heritage...my name...Michael."

Hina paused for a few seconds before she said, "I'm sorry. I can't understand your accent. Where are you from?" she aske, making him frown slightly in disappointment.

"He's not from around here," Yamamoto answered from him, "From across the seas."

BANG!

A loud noise nearby surprised Michael, making him jump slightly. It sounded like something collided into something, but Hina was already shouting before he could inquire what had happened.

"Satoshi! What did I say about kicking that ball near my stall. You almost hit my customers!"

"Sorry mama," a young boy called back from behind them, "Can I have it back, mister red hair?"

Michael raised his eyebrows at being addressed and tried to come up with a way to find the ball when Yamamoto tapped his shoulder.

"It's by your feet. Hold on I get it," he said as he presumably picked the ball up and gave it back to Satoshi, "Here you go."

"Thanks!" the boy said before he ran off to play again.

Hina grumbled something under her breath, "Honestly, the child. Michael is it?" she asked him kindly, "Would you like to sit down, I just know Ojichan is going to take his sweet time choosing which mochi he's going to buy."

His foot was getting tired so Michael nodded and took her offer. He was led somewhere and placed on what felt like a wooden bench, taking the weight of his foot. He then sat there, listening to the people walk by. Occasionally, he would hear some chatter that involved about him, but the townspeople mostly left him alone. He couldn't help but feel lonely at the moment.

Suddenly, he heard a thud on the ground next to him followed by the same boy from before calling out to him.

"Sorry," he heard him say from somewhere. Michael smiled in amusement, leaned down to try to find the ball, but Satoshi spoke up again, "Don't worry, I'll get it myself, mister."

Michael frowned at this, but continued to look for the ball anyway. He searched and searched on the ground next to him until...he reached too far. He gave a startled gasp as began to fall off the bench, landing on his front roughly. He groaned in pain and used his arms to lift himself up and attempted to get back onto to his seat. That's when he heard the sound of running footsteps coming up to him.

"Mister!" Satoshi asked, causing Michael to lift his head up to him, "Are you alr-"

He heard the boy stop suddenly, gasp and shrieked in horror. The mere sound of it made Michael panic; it sounded as if a monster had jumped out in front of him.

"What...wrong?" he questioned, trying to get up.

"MAMA!" Satoshi screamed as he heard him run away, "A MONSTER! AN EYELESS MONSTER!"

Michael felt his blood run cold as soon as he said that, dread striking him at his core. He lifted his hand and felt his face and gasped when he felt the blindfold had come up onto his forehead. He hastily adjusted it, but he knew that the damage was done. A child screamed and ran away in terror; that was something nobody should ever had to experience.

"Michael!" Yamamoto's voice called out as he felt the old man pull him up to his feet, "Are you alright?"

"No," he muttered as he was led back to where Hina ran her stall.

As they approached, he could hear her scold Satoshi for being rude, but they young boy was not listening to her. He heard him yelp in fear as they came closer, causing Hina to groan in annoyance.

"I'm sorry Michael. He was just surprised about your...your...he was just surprised," she said, "Satoshi, go and apologise now."

"No!" Satoshi whimpered and Michael could picture him hiding behind her from him, "I don't want to!"

"Satoshi!"

"Please, mama! I don't want to! He's scaring me!"

The utter terror in his voice was harrowing for him. He had never believed that something like this would ever happen in his life and Michael had no idea how to react. Not only that, but he felt the curious gazes of the other villagers on him, watching him with scrutiny. To save himself from listening to his shouting and to stop him scaring the young boy anymore, Michael waved his free hand dismissively in front of him.

"It's fine...sorry for...the bother," he told them before turning to Yamamoto, "Please take me...back to...cart."

The elderly man hesitated slightly, but hummed in agreement, "If you insist."

He lead him back to the cart away from Satoshi as he chid behind his mother. He may have been safe from the eyeless monster, but Michael was still haunted by what just happened. His screams would give him nightmares for years to come.


Yamamoto's House

The ride back was completely silent, neither Yamamoto nor Michael spoke about what happened in the village.

Michael bowed his head and balled his hands into tight fists, thinking about how he's so ugly that he can scare children just by looking at them. He felt his heart tighten in his chest as he realised that was probably the worst thing he had ever experience. Worse then the demon tearing his eyes out.

He heard a grunt from Yamamoto, "You know...he didn't really mean to call you a monster. He just got spooked that's all. He'll be fine after a while."

Michael hummed, "I know," he replied before thinking, 'Doesn't mean it's any less painful.'

The cart and Yamamoto, once again, helped him off and began leading him to his house. Once he felt the familiar stone slab courtyard beneath his feet, he felt the elderly man pat his shoulder and walked forwards.

"Wait here a moment and I'll get you something to sit on. I'll prepare dinner after that," he told him from ahead.

However, before he could enter his house, Michael said something that made him stop in his tracks.

"Please...teach me."

Yamamoto grunted, "What part of retired do you not understand?"

"I'll do...whatever. Please...teach me to be...slayer of demons," Michael begged, bowing his head as far as he can.

"You're injured."

"I'll heal...be stronger...improve."

Yamamoto didn't say anything for a few seconds, but after that he heard him walk calmly away. Michael was about to call out to him again when he heard footsteps coming towards him. Yamamoto grabbed a hold of his hand, lifted it up and placed something heavy in it. He felt the object with his thumb and found it was a smooth wooden stick. Using his other hand to inspect it, he found that it felt like some sort of sword.

"In you hand is a bokken," Yamamoto told him, "It's a practise sword that slayers use to train. If you want me to train you and be part of the Corps then you only have to strike me with your bokken once. However..." he heard the sound of a sword swooshing through the air, "...If I manage to strike you first then you have to give up. Let us begin."

"Wait!" Michael uttered, "But that's-"

Instinctively, he moved his head back in time as Yamamoto swung his bokken back at him. He limped back and held his bokken out in front protectively. He tried to listen for Yamamoto, trying to detect his movement, but gritted his teeth when he failed. When he thought he heard him to the side of him and turned around, he heard him his footsteps behind him in a split second. It was almost comical what Michael was doing and he must have looked ridiculous as he twirled around his circles.

'Damn it! Where is he!?' he thought, 'How can he move so fast for an old man!?'

He had no choice; he swung his bokken wildly in front of him, hoping that luck would be on his side. However, he knew he was being optimistic as he felt sharp blow to his stomach knocking him off his feet and onto the ground, causing him to shout in pain. He tried to get up, but he felt the tip of his opponent's bokken poking him in the throat.

"How underwhelming," Yamamoto muttered.

Michael gritted his teeth furiously, "Not...fair."

"Fair!?" the elderly man barked, "You think this a stupid children's game. When you fight against a demon, you either walk away victorious or have your flesh eaten. There's no such thing as a fair fight," the tip of his bokken left his throat and he heard him walk away, "I'm going to play my shakuhachi. Do whatever you want, but don't bother me."

Michael laid on the ground, his mind filled with rage and agony. He sat up and frowned deeply.

This was not over.


Two Weeks Later

Michael has been nothing but a headache to the former wind Hashira. Every morning and evening, when Yamamoto wanted to play his shakuhachi, Michael would challenge him to another battle so he can finally defeat him and get him to train him. The elderly man reluctantly agreed to every proposal and they would battle.

And Michael would lose every single time.

Twice a day over the next fortnight, Michael would suffer lost, after lost, after lost.

He tried to use different strategies, stayed up all night and day practising his bukken swings and studied the entire courtyard intensely to gain a greater advantage. Even when his leg had completely healed and he no longer had to use the crutch was he unable even come close to winning.

However, today was different. He knew it.

Yamamoto was playing a gentle tune, but stopped when he felt a presence behind him. He sighed wearily, "Why do you always interrupt my playing."

Michael smiled, "It annoys you...more."

"Fine, let's get this over with. I want to buy some more mochi today."

"Actually, today will be...different," he told him, causing him to hum in interest, "Instead of...first person to be hit. I'll have ten minutes...to strike you and you...can hit me...as many times...as you like."

Yamamoto fell silent for a few moments before sighing, "You really not going to give up, are you?" he asked. Michael shook his head in response, "Fine, fine. It won't work anyway," he grumbled as he stood to his feet, "Hold on. I think I got a clock we can use to keep time."

A few minutes later and everything was set up. Michael stood confidently on the circular courtyard while Yamamoto was across from him, ready to start the clock. They both had their bukken in their hands with the young man gripping the handle tightly in anticipation.

'This will work,' he thought to himself, 'This has to work.'

"Well, let's get this over with," Yamamoto sighed, "You have five minutes to strike me. Are you ready?"

"Wait! I said ten-"

"Let's begin!" the elderly man interrupted as he began to clock.

Almost instantly, Michael was struck in the shoulder blade, causing him to stagger back in shock. However, he didn't fall. Instead, he backed away to the edge of the courtyard to limit how many directions Yamamoto will come at him from. He stood firm, concentrating on listening for his opponent. Suddenly, he heard rapid footsteps coming towards his left and positioned his bukken to defend himself. However, it was fruitless as Yamamoto merely ducked his blade on the his defence and hit his stomach. Michael stumbled back, but caught himself at the last moment. Knowing that his opponent was right in front of him, he charged forwards and swung his bukken at him.

But he hit nothing, but air.

He cursed when he was hit in the shoulder blade again, causing him to fall to his knees as he suffered another hit from Yamamoto. He gritted his teeth and stood to his feet only to be hit again by a blow to his stomach.

This continued again and again. Michael would try everything to defend himself, but he would always get hit and fall to the ground. He would stand up again, but get knocked over. Finally, after a few tiring minuets, Michael was kneeling on the ground completely exhausted by the barrage of hits. His body was racked with pain, sweat poured down his forehead and he was panting rapidly.

'What am I doing?' he thought miserably, 'I thought that at least with all the training and strategising I would at least have a chance. I even allowed him to strike me as many times before the countdown ended so I wouldn't be an instant win for him. But it's useless. He's a trained master and I'm just a stupid boy who thinks he can defeat him in a fight. I can't continue. What's the point of standing up when you are just going to get beaten down again. It'll be better to admit defeat then suffer,' he sighed. However, he then realised something, 'Wait...I've said that before. Back in my hospital room.'

He remembered the standing man who, no matter how many times he was pushed down, got back up again with a neutral expression on his rugged face. Despite the police brutality always found the strength to just stand up again. It was the most powerful thing Michael had ever witnessed. He recalled the words his father said to him on that day:

'When people like him have nothing in their lives, no family, no friends, no future, and they are so...so tired that their bones feel like they are going snap if they took one more step, then they will hang on to what little hope they can get. The only thing they could do is to get back up and stand on their feet once again and say to the world 'no more'. No more hunger, no more pain, no more poverty, no more bullying and being pushed around. The world may take away everything from that man except for one thing...the strength to stand up.'

Michael gripped the bukken tightly, his heart began to race and he gritted his teeth. He may be exhausted and bruised all over, but there's no way he's going to stop now.

He heard footsteps in front of him and knew that Yamamoto was standing over him, ready to deal the final strike.

"Another lost," he mumbled, "What do want to achieve in this meaningless battle? Revenge? To restore your pride? Whatever it is; it's obviously not worth it. Just give up now or else you'll just suffer."

He heard the swooshing of the wooden sword come down at his head and Michael only had a spilt second to react.

THWACK!

Yamamoto hummed in slight fascination when his bukken collided against Michael's, the young man having held up the wooden sword horizontally above him in a flash. He turned his head up to him, a determined scowl evident on his face.

"I suffer everyday...of my life," Michael told him in a serious tone, "This battle is no different."

Feeling his opponent's full weight pushing against his bukken, Michael jumped back so Yamamoto would be off valence. Knowing that this his best chance, he leapt forward, he weapon poised to strike at his shoulder.

"You think I desire something petty!" he shouted, "My goal is far greater than revenge and I'll show you how determined I am!"

He was about to swing in down on Yamamoto, earning him the win of the battle. When suddenly...

Ding! Ding! Ding!

He stopped midway in shock as heard the chimes of clock echo throughout the courtyard. He turned his head to where the noise was coming from in despair.

'No...that can't be...' he thought.

Yamamoto grunted, "Time's up, boy. Looks like you lost...again," he heard him walk towards the clock and stopped it from chiming, "You we're close though. If only you were a second faste..."

However, Michael had stopped listening by then. He dropped his bukken on the ground with a loud clatter and fell to his hands and knees. In anger, he slammed his fist into the stone slab below him and scowled in anguish and fury.

"I lost again. Why can't I do anything right in my life," he uttered as tasted defeat for the umpteenth time.

He felt a shadow pass over him, but he didn't bother to look up. He knew that Yamamoto was looking down at him, shaking his head at the pathetic person that he was. After a while, he gave a soft hum.

"Michael, why do you want to be in Corps?" he questioned, "Your disabilities prevents you from being a proper warrior and yet you remain stubborn. If it's not out of revenge, then what?"

He sighed wearily and kept his head down to the ground, "For all my life...I've been...burden on...others. I had to be...cared for...treated like something fragile. I am so tired of it. However, when I...do anything...I cause more problems for everybody. I sometimes feel...like curse," he took a deep shaky breath, "I lied...I do want revenge. I want...to kill every last demon...for what they did to me. I know...it's petty, but I lost everything because...of them...and now I'm weaker...and...alone. But, that's not all. I also want to help. I want to be useful. I want to be needed by somebody. I want to...protect the innocent...instead of other people...protecting me. Protecting humanity is what...the Corps do and I would like to be...part of it. I will do anything...so I can be useful."

Michael had no idea what any of this would achieve. He had to face it, he's going back to England and complete and utter failure. He's going to live the rest of his life in a secluded hospital room or an asylum cell, because he knew his mother wouldn't bare the sight of him. He's going to die...completely alone, helpless and forgotten.

However, he was surprised to feel a comforting hand on his shoulder, causing him to turn his head up at him.

"It's not going to be easy, but, by the sound of it, nothing in your life has been," he said before he straight up, "We'll start tomorrow morning at five o'clock. From now on you will call me sensei and you will not question my teachings, is that clear?"

Michael's eyebrows raised in disbelief, "You'll teach me?"

"Yes, yes. You win," he told him.

"But what about...promise...to my father?"

"Well, he isn't here is he. In order for you to become part of the Corps you will need to go through the Final Selection. Hopefully, I can raise your battling, physical strength...well everything about you from really poor to acceptable by that time. I hope you're grateful, I was really enjoying my retirement."

For the first time in ages a bright smile formed on Michael's face as he bowed his head to him, "Thank you, sensei. Thank you," he said as a small, happy chuckle escaped his lips.

He heard Yamamoto hum in appreciation, "Don't sweat it, boy. Now to commemorate the event, why don't we go down to the village and buy more mochi."

Michael lifted his head up and raised an eyebrow, "Hina was right. You are addicted."

"Shut up boy! I can eat what I want!"

He gave another small chuckle, 'This is it. Nothing is going to stop me now.'


Mountain Peak

The Next Day

"Are you...insane?" Michael deadpanned, frowning at the old man.

Yamamoto struck the top of his head, causing him to shout in pain, "Don't disrespect my teachings. I'm being very serious."

Michael grumbled and rubbed his head, "But...it sounds...insane. Explain it again."

The old man sighed, "To achieve a Breathing Style the user must first master Total Concentration Breathing. The user must breath in a pattern for your body to obtain the maximum amount of oxygen. With more oxygen flowing through your arteries, your body and mind perform faster, better, stronger and improve your battling capabilities, making you capable of performing great feats that will help you in your battling. Does that sound insane now?"

"Yes," Michael replied instantly, "That is...not how...it works."

"Well, how do you know how it works?"

"Books."

"You trust a bunch of dusty books over me?"

"Considering...what you...are going to...get...me...to do...then yes."

Yamamoto grumbled, "Wind Breathing involves the user to mimic the wind. You must immerse yourself into the gale; let it flow through you, guide you, become one with it. Only then will you be able to control it and cast anything from the gentlest of breezes to the fiercest of typhoons. To become one with it and learn flow of the wind, you must embrace it. Right here," he tapped something that sounded wooden, "Is a podium 50 feet tall, making it the tallest point of the mountain. For three hours every morning, you will sit on top of it and endure the wind while you play your shakuhachi. This will expand your lungs and prepare you to be able to use Total Concentration Breathing. Once you finished your morning practise, you will endure more physical training. Then at midday, you will run down to the village and up again. After you returned, you will practise your sword stances and then for the last three hours of the day you will be on top of the podium and play to the setting sun. Do you understand?"

"That still sounds...completely...insane," he replied before he smirked, "I am...eager...to start."

The old man chuckled before he took his hand and placed the musical instrument, that he had spare, in it, "Then you better get started, boy."

"Yes, sensei," Michael said as he reached out and found the handholds that would take him up the podium. However before he could climb up, he stopped, "I don't know how to play the flute."

"Shakuhachi. And I'm sure you'll work it out," he told him.

Michael took a deep breath, tucked the instrument in his belt and began to climb with some difficulty. About halfway up, he called down to him.

"Is there a safety net on this."

"Hmm a safety net. I'll think of that next time."

He frowned, "And what if I fall off?"

He didn't need his eyes to know that Yamamoto was smirking up at him, "It'll be a shame if you did."

"Stupid old man," Michael muttered as he continued to climb up.

Yamamoto watched him as he did with a deep frown on his aged face. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering the night that Edward brought him to him.


- Flashback Five Weeks Ago -


Edward laid a sleeping Michael down on his mat and placed a blanket over him. He sighed sadly as he looked at his face and stoked his hair comfortingly. After a few moments, he stood up again and rubbed his tired eyes as he made his way out of his simple bedroom, through the hall and out into the circular courtyard through the shoji doors. He looked up and saw Yamamoto waiting patiently for him.

Yamamoto Akira was a man in his late seventies with balding grey hair, sharp green eyes and vicious scar across his left cheek. He stood at about six foot and, despite his age, he was still muscular underneath his emerald green yukata. He frowned sympathetically as Edward approached with a saddened expression on his face.

"Are you sure he'll be fine here," Edward asked.

"Don't worry. There hasn't been a demon spotting for years in these parts," the old man reassured with a wave of his hand, "How's the kid."

"Sleeping. Tomayo said to keep him sedated for a few weeks until his leg's recovered. His...eyes should heal in couple of weeks so make sure to-"

"I know, I know. What did I say about worrying," he interrupted, causing him to nod in understanding.

"Thank you."

Yamamoto looked up at his house and the back at him, "So, the demon that attacked him. Did you kill it."

"No," Edward told him before he lifted his hand up into the air. Instantly, a crow landed on his arm, "Huginn, here, informed that he was there, but I was too late."

"Sorry! Ah!" Huginn the crow cawed sadly, "Maybe If I flew faster or chose a different direction or-"

"I told you, it's not your fault, Huginn," Edward said, stroking under his beak with a finger.

Yamamoto raised an eyebrow, "So, if you didn't kill it, who did?"

Despite his depression, Edward couldn't help but give a small proud smile. Reaching into his pocket he pulled the revolver and showed it to him, "It was Michael. He used Spathi on it."

Yamamoto eyebrows raised in surprise, "It works!"

"Turned the demon bastard into nothing but dust before it could regenerate. After all these years, I finally got it to work," he said before the smile dropped from his face, "However, I'm unsure if it can be used against somebody like Muzan, so, for now, I can't reveal the experiment yet."

"Understandable," he gravelly said, "Are you sure you want me to train him? It's going to be difficult."

Edward put Spathi back into his belt and let Huginn fly away, "I have faith in him. Despite what people think, Michael's strong and more the capable of doing anything. However, he needs to realise that himself. Please keep all your knowledge of all this a secret, he needs to focus on his training."

"I will," Yamamoto promised.

"Then I'll take my leave. I...have another son to mourn," Edward uttered as he began to make his way to the gate that bordered the courtyard.

However, before he can pass through, Yamamoto called out to him, "It's not going to be easy for him when he wakes up. Losing his sight, being in a strange place and dropped into a world full of demons and dangers. One day, he was a normal human and the next he was an innocent victim. What if he succumbs to melancholy and fails to succeed?"

Edward turned back him with a serious expression, "Fate may have brought him into this world unexpectedly, but he is far from being an innocent victim. He too has a part to play when the time comes, but he will have to discover where he belongs on his own. Besides..." he gave a small smile, "...he is my son. He will always be special to me."

And with that, he turned around and left through the gate. The elderly man hummed before he looked towards his house again, knowing that Michael was sleeping peacefully.


- Flashback End -


Yamamoto now stared up at Michael, who had now reached the topic the podium and tried his best to balance. Once he sat down, he took a few shaky breaths before pulling out his shakuhachi and started to play it as the wind battered him constantly.

The old man hummed and rubbed his wrinkled face, "I really hope you know what you are doing, Edward."


And that's it!

Wow, it was so difficult to write this chapter. To give an idea of what Michael is experiencing, I decided to not describe the scenery unless it's in a character's dialogue and using what he hears, smells and feels instead. It's a first person perspective even though it was written in third person (which, admittedly, is a little confusing). The Standing Man idea came from the (absolutely amazing) movie 'Bridge of Spies' with Tom Hanks. I didn't intend it to be anything political, but rather about the strength of the human spirit in dire times.

Also, I mentioned the use of morphine as it was a common anaesthetic at the time, but I have no knowledge of the addictive drug or how much to apply it to a patient, so I used it a plot convenience.

For people who like their mythology, Edward's crow was names after one of Odin's raven in Norse mythology. His name translates into 'Thought' and, like his namesake, overthinks too much.

Anyway, hope you had enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you next time.

Thanks :)