The moon hung heavy in the night sky with the radiance of its light casting down onto the scene below, cutting through the darkness and reflecting off the puddles of blood that pooled on the ground.
A boy stood near the center of the gore, his clothes stained red by the force of which the liquid sprayed out of the two people in front of him. They were his parents and they had been murdered right before the eyes of their son.
The man who did this stood over the bodies with his face beset with red as gore dripped from the set of fangs jutting out from his wolf like snout.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
The monster said as he reached out for the boy with his jaw open wide in preparation to devour the child.
No scream came as the teeth inched closer, only the hammering of his heart rang out in his ears when a clawed hand wrapped around his neck.
Then something leapt down from the buildings above and in an instant as moonlight reflected off a shining object that flashed through the air, he fell to the ground.
Looking up, he saw that the monster was dead. The tip of a sword was poking out from its neck while a man stood atop the beast with his hands clutched around the handle of the weapon. The man met the child's eyes as if seeming to notice him for the first time. The boy shook in terror as he darted his sights to the limp forms of what was once his mother and father to somehow regain some instinctual protection the primitive part of his brain screamed for.
The man followed where the boy was looking and stared, emotion removed from his damaged, bloody face. Then he returned his attention to the only survivor of this night.
"What's your name kid?"
The boy stared blankly at the man, his mind still unable to fully understand what happened.
"I said what's your name?"
The man said again with a tone denoting an order rather than a question.
"I-Izuku Midoriya."
He responded with the fright still strong in his voice.
The man paused as he removed his sword from the corpse of the beast with a tug as he planted a boot squarely on its head to get proper footing before having the blade exit with a satisfying gushing sound and set about cleaning it of gore before sheathing the weapon on his back. He then walked off the corpse and grabbed the boy by the arm, taking him along without a thought.
Izuku struggled with all the strength he could muster to no avail as he was dragged down the street by the man who saved his life.
"Where are you taking me!?"
He finally screamed in an almost animalistic fashion that was grating in the way only the young can be to those with little patience.
"I'm taking you home, kid."
He continued to hit and scream at the man in his fear induced panic as another question left his mouth.
"Who are you!?
He asked as tears began to stream down his freckled cheeks with every attempt to break away and return to his parents.
The man stopped with blood dripping off his broken nose as he considered the question.
"I'm called Stendhal."
Pain rocked the boy's body when the man sent a fist into his belly that rendered him unconscious.
As he carried the child under the crook of his arm like he was little more than a duffle bag, the man couldn't help but to wonder what this meant. He had lost so much and yet learned more than he could have ever believed in that battle. He cast a look at the boy once they returned to the graying concrete structure that was his apartment building. Perhaps this was a sign of things to come in his quest for a better world, perhaps he was destined to find the boy for just that reason. After all, what point was carrying on his work if none were left to follow it when he was gone?
Perhaps this boy would serve a purpose far greater then he could on his own. He stared at the boy once more as he laid him down on the brown felt sofa and removed the knife from the holster on his leg, the steel shining by the light of the moon.
It had a heft that surpassed any of his other blades, barring the sword on his back. The weight granted it a perfect edge for slicing through tough material. Air barely flowed from his shattered ruin of a nose, the nostirls smashed beyond recognition by those heavy knuckles. This would not do, he couldn't afford any weakness, not anymore when the whole of civilization rested on his actions. His red eyes traveled back to the boy, the breathing coming from his body was steady and constant with terror forfeited to slumber that was rightly earned for one witness to something so traumatic.
Light shined on the knife once more as he held it in a slowly slackening grip. This boy probably had nothing now. No parents, no family, no connections to anyone or anything in this world. Once more he examined the weapon, the pain from his injuries panging away even now. With a click it was returned to the holster on his leg. Happiness did not take him, nor did any emotion that he could identify. The man known as Stendhal crouched down to watch the child dream peaceably.
This, he decided, would be his great deed to save this crumbling society. Justice, courage, righteousness were things that needed to be enforced by way of example and teaching, something most forget in this age of nihilistic idolatry. Here was a being of pure potential that could fight against such rot one day if properly raised.
His hand touched the wrap of his sword, the sweat soaked cloth sinking perfectly in line with his fingers as he removed it from the scabbard. The curved blade glistened in the moonlight, showing every scratch, dent and chip made to the steel in its long history of service. Attachment to things was something he believed himself to be pass, but in truth, he had grown quite fond of the weapon. Always he considered this to be a tool and nothing more, a trusted one to be sure yet not completely irreplaceable. Thousands of times he had held the sword, feeling the weight, smelling the steel as the air touched it, testing the sharpness, simply basking in the presence of the weapon as he continued his crusade to save the world.
However, something different about it struck him now, as if he was seeing a hidden power inside the sharpened bar of metal that he had never considered. For the first time, he began to appreciate the symbolism and meaning behind such an item. This was a weapon used by the ancient samurai, who's morals surely didn't coincide with his own, but to one so innocent that could be changed. Lead by examples of the present and the past and never shall the roots be upturned.
He ran a thumb down the dented edge and winched slightly when the skin parted. This wouldn't do, not when things needed to be taught. A murmur came from the boy, drawing the eye of the vigilante as he spoke gibberish in his sleep. The man allowed his sword to lower. So much was depending on this, the very future depended on it.
A hand was placed down the boy's face, feeling the tears still clinging to his cheeks collect on his fingers. Emotions stirred within him, pity and anger mixed with cold determination. He wanted to scream out at the cruelty of the world for subjecting an innocent to such pain, but he knew it was pointless, what had been done could never be undone and right now he was the only one left for this boy in the whole world, the only one who even cared and as such, he needed to continue on.
His eyes lingered on the child for a minute longer, then returned to the damaged sword. This was far beyond what it once had been and now it would act as a rod that would strengthen this boy's resolve.
One day he would grow strong enough to stain his hands like he himself had so long ago, but for now, that burden rested solely on him. He needed to repair his body and his tools to be ready for when his new life truly begins. It would be difficult, no doubt, but everything worth doing is difficult.
Striding over to the desk where he set his whetstones, the steel of his sword sang that night with the promise of things to come.