Authors note: Yay, chapter 1, next chapter will be more action filled, this is more of an introduction to what has happened and what will happen.

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When the sea turns crimson

Chapter 1

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-Shikoku Island, Japan, 2011-

The wooden stick clattered to the ground, out of reach, and my back connected with the stone surface, an uncomfortable crunch vibrating through my ribcage. I was on the ground, chest heaving, my clothes dark with sweat and ice blue eyes wild with fury. His foot was firmly placed over my collar bone, effectively preventing any form of escape, and he shook his head in exasperation, eyes narrowed with disappointment.

"So much potential, and yet you ruin everything by giving in to your rage", he said.

I bit back a sharp response, struggling to calm down, to empty my mind of confusing thought and emotions, like he had taught me. It didn´t work. Sometimes I wondered if this was all I was; if there would be something left should the rage one day disappear. Not that it would, but still, I always wondered. I scrambled to my feet the moment he removed his foot, already feeling the beginnings of a bruise from where his stick had found its mark. The sky was a comforting pale blue, an almost mocking contradiction to my darkening frustrations. With a low bow I picked up my stick once more, taking up my previous position; the weight on the back of my feet, both hands folded securely around one end of my weapon. This time I was a bit more successful, and we sparred for about ten- fifteen minutes before he got the better of me.

"Better", he praised, eyes flinty.

I bowed my chin in submission.

"Thank you sensei".

The physical challenge was something I valued. It demanded full concentration, full commitment on my part, and thus it served as a most welcome distraction. In a way I suppose you could describe it as uncomplicated. Just like everything else I engaged in, it was a means to an end, and so long as I did not dwell on its future purpose it served as an escape. That being said I had never lost sight of my goal. It was there, hovering just at the back of my mind at all times, reminding me why I was here, at this exact place, at this exact time. I bowed my head once more as Takeshi gestured for me to follow him inside.

It was early afternoon, and time for one of our daily discussions. Tea was already prepared, and we sat down opposite each other, cross-legged and still, as he observed me, making sure I did everything to his standards. The Japanese were thorough people. Everything had to be done according to tradition, even something as simple as having tea and sharing lunch. As always we ate first. Takeshi was, like most sensei´s I imagine, nothing fd not traditional. Lunch consisted of neatly cut slices of sashimi, with sesame seeds and soy mixed with wasabi paste. A separate tray of vegetables was off to the side. As per usual we ate in silence, and he did not speak before the table was cleared, and tea had been served in exquisite handmade porcelain bowls.

"You read the article", he calmly stated, dark slanted eyes intently regarding me.

His hair was black, like most Asians, and it was cut short in the back, matching his aristocrat like features. He was shorter than me, but powerfully built, with the movements of a fighter. He was someone that shouldn´t be underestimated. Oddly enough the combination reminded me more of a businessman than what he actually was.

"Yes".

"And you are angry", he stated, voice laced with disappointment.

I met his gaze, face void of all emotion. There was nothing I could say in my defence. Despite my craving we both knew I was no were near ready, even though this was something I struggled to admit. Whenever I was reminded about the past I forgot why I was here, what I needed to learn in order to succeed. It was difficult, more so than the physical training. We had worked on my emotional issues for a long time, but somehow the wound was still to fresh, even after all these years.

"You must remain indifferent. If you wish to succeed in this, you must act with a clear mind. Your rage won´t help you".

"Sensei", I bowed my chin in agreement, on the verge of feeling ashamed.

I couldn´t recall how many times I had heard those words, and something told me I would hear them again, many times. When I came to him the first time I had almost punched him. Then the rage had been a defence mechanism, something I had no control of at all. At the time he had been hesitant to take me on as an apprentice. I had been too angry, to emotionally lost. It had taken quite some convincing, but in the end the potential he had seen was too tempting. Of course, this was two years ago, and the improvement was more than evident. Then again I started this with every intension of seeing it through till the bitter end. Improvement was a necessity.

"I will not disappoint", I said, voice calm, determined.

He nodded, dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Then do not underestimate your foe".

"I won´t".

He tilted his head to the side, contemplating me. I knew that he would always have my back, but this did not mean that he would tolerate anything but my best. Our relationship was simple this way. I spoke my mind, he responded with his honest opinion, be it approval or scorn.

"Patience", he admonished, waving his arm in dismissal.

The conversation was over, and I stood gracefully, taking my leave with another deep bow. I was aching all over, something I had gotten used to. Pain was a part of life, be it emotional or physical pain. This however, does not mean that it should be tolerated. The physical pain was easy to deal with; it would always fade over time. Bruises disappeared, broken ribs healed. As for the emotional pain that was something else entirely. It was a much deeper, much more complicated wound. A wound I suspected would never heal completely, revenge fulfilled or not. My enemy was formidable, but he was not aware of my existence. The element of surprise was something I was prepared to exploit. And while they continued their lives among the rich and privileged, I would learn everything there was to know, about every single one of them.

With careful, restrained movements I picked up the magazine, opening it where I had left a bookmark in between the pages. Dr. Tate´s picture was there, glaring up at me from the glossy pages. Next to her a distinguished looking grey haired man was smiling at the camera. They were surrounded by a dozen or so other people; faces I now knew down to the smallest of details. They were guilty faces, and it would only be a matter of time before the past would kindly deliver what they deserved. What their motivations had been, their reasons, I could only guess. Most of them were power hungry and ambitious, which grandfather had undoubtedly played on in his grand scheme to cover up his mistake.

For the average person leading an ordinary life, fame holds a hypnotic attraction. Many would sooner perish than exist in anonymity. But for the unlucky few who've had notoriety forced upon them, infamy can be a sentence more damning than any prison term. As for the others I suppose it didn´t matter much. What mattered to me was the end result, the outcome of their actions. And this was something that could not be changed. My attention returned to the grey haired man. He was smiling, mahogany eyes gleaming with charm. His built resembled mine; tall and athletic, with an easy elegance to every movement. I scowled at the realization, the rage returning full force. Voltaire Hiwatari, or as I knew him, grandfather.

He was Russian, but had grown up in New York. My family originated from Russia, hence the surname, but they had not been physically connected to the country for generations. He had, like his father before him, and his father before him, inherited the family business, one of the worlds largest manufacturer of computer parts. When he took over he had renamed it INC, for whatever reason, and started investing extensively in other companies. Apart from being a shrewd businessman he was equally ruthless; the ultimate recipe for success I suppose. How he could kill his own son I don´t know. And, like I said, the reason does not matter to me.

Guilt is a powerful affliction. You can try to turn your back on it, but that's when it sneaks up behind you and eats you alive. Some people struggle to understand their own guilt, unwilling or unable to justify the part they play in it. Others run away from their guilt, shading their conscience until there's no conscience left at all. If there ever was one to begin with. But I run toward my guilt. I feed off of it, I need it. My parents died, accused of a crime they did not commit, never knowing if the world would ever know about their innocence. For me guilt is one of the few lanterns that still light my way.

My parents allegedly died in a car crash. It happened on the 23 of December, in the evening. It was snowing, and the police believed her to have been unfocused, perhaps because of the accusations that had been made official earlier that day. Either way it had been labeled an accident. My young self had been in bed, sound asleep and completely unaware of the drama that was about to unfold. Of course, with the natural intuition of a child I had known that something was wrong when my father´s name was mentioned several times during the news that day, but I couldn´t quite understand what he had done. They had woken me in the middle of the night, trying to explain to me what had happened.

He had been there, grandfather, and somehow I had known with undeniable certainty, that it was his fault. Now that I am older proof had been easy to find. The bullet holes in the windshield of the car, the ruined brakes that should have functioned perfectly well in what had been a brand new BMW. He had covered it all up, bribed and extorted his way through the system, making sure that no one, and I mean no one, would even mention his name in the wrong context. With a sigh I closed the magazine, standing to place it in the large wooden box that rested in a corner of the room. The interior was distinctly Japanese, with cream-colored paper walls and black lining, the floor covered in fresh tatami mats. Outside it was starting to darken, and I carefully stretched my stiff limbs, sliding the door shut as I exited.

"Are you afraid?"

The question surprised me, and I sat down opposite him again, instantly knowing that tonight we would not perfect my close combat skills. We would talk.

"No".

"Then why are you so angry?"

I paused, unsure.

"You cannot leave here before you have your emotions under control. Whatever improvement you make in other things is irrelevant so long as you continue embracing your rage, your fear".

He was right of course, but letting go of once anger is easier said than done, especially when your grudge runs as deep as mine.

"I will learn to control it", I said, calmly.

"I ask no more".

The silence stretched on, but it was a comfortable one, and I gazed out at the sea, at the moon reflecting in the polished surface. Tonight the sea was crimson, a reminder of what was to come perhaps. It is a natural phenomenon, caused by the pigmentation in a special type of algae. I found the symbolical interpretation to be oddly appropriate. It had been like this all day, and I had observed the horrified tourists only hours earlier, as they had gone down to the beach only to discover that the sea was glittering in a devilish red. I smiled. Somehow the memory struck me as vaguely amusing.

"When will I be ready?" I wondered, although I already knew what he would say.

"That is entirely up to you".

Of course it was, as with everything else. Sometimes I wondered if everything was somehow my fault, although I knew it was not. Self-pity and confidence issues caused by childhood trauma Dr. Tate would probably have said.

"It is vital that you chose to return at the opportune moment. Only this way will your presence cause the chaos that is essential to fulfil your goal".

I nodded.

"At the 100 anniversary of INC", I slowly said, suddenly becoming aware of the possibilities.

The idea caused a slight smirk to tug at the corner of my mouth. It was an expression of glee, of cool anticipation. How wonderful that could be, to humiliate him on his big day, in front of all his friends and associates. For someone who´s life revolves around others perception of you, image is everything, and in matters of revenge you always take away that which they cherish the most. My plans were far reaching and complicated, which made it possible to explore all possibilities. Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan, but rolling with it here and there was part of the thrill, the experience. So long as the larger ramifications stayed in place.

One year, 12 months. That I could do. I bowed low yet again, and he dismissed me with a curt nod. Cold anticipation washed through me, as I strolled down the familiar stone steps, headed for the beach. The sky was dark and clear, stars glimmering brightly. The moon looked oddly out of place, sporting a deep, cherry colour. Reflecting the sea perhaps. I sat down in the sand, just within reach of the vermillion like waves. They washed over my bare feet, and I stared, fascinated. It looked like I had stepped in a pool of blood. Again, how appropriate. Everything I had become, everything I was at this moment; it was all because of him, I reflected, dipping one hand in the purplish substance. It was strange, how a person I could barely remember held the power to shape my life to such an extent. Funny how that worked.

I suppose I could say I knew him, at least to the best of my ability. Everything he did I kept an eye on. His business, his personal life, his friends, his accomplices. I knew them all, both by name and appearance. With slow, almost melancholy movements I reached inside my jacked, fishing out a crumpled piece of paper. It contained twelve names, starting with Judy Tate, written in black with neat, graceful letters, ending with Voltaire Hiwatari, written with a harsh, uneven hand. My eyes skimmed through the list once more, before I folded it, putting it back in the inner pocket of my jacket.

Judy Tate. The all important doctor turned liar and co-conspirator to Voltaire Hiwatari. She lived a happy life, married to a Thomas Tate, a computer researcher. Together they had a son, Max Tate, who was a couple of year younger than me. They lived in a spacious apartment in New York, and owned a summer house in the Hamptons. Mr. Tate worked for INC, as a consultant, and the family enjoyed a close bond with the head of INC, Voltaire Hiwatari. They were bound to him by money and secrets, by fear. And that is something which should not be underestimated. Max was currently studying business at Harvard, although his grades were by no means up to par. Secretly he wanted to become a professional chef, but this was of course something he could never admit to Judy Tate. Among the wealthy and the powerful you hired personal chefs, of course your son could never become one.

That being said he was obviously their pride and joy. They bought him expensive cars, paid for his education, showered him with gifts and attention. I had seen family photos of them; were they smiled and laughed, happily unaware of what was to come. This was something that had been taken away from me, something I would never get back. My family was gone, and Dr. Tate had ensured that all chances of a normal life had been taken from me. All I had left was my inheritance, which I had made sure no one would ever be able to trace back to Vladimir and Rena Hiwatari. As with everything else money is merely a means to an end. It cannot replace that which I have lost. Still, as a tool it was very useful, especially when it came to blending in with the crowd I was so determined to take down. Destroying them from the inside, a much slyer and most satisfactory way of ensuring their doom. As far as my identity was concerned they would not know anything, that I had made sure of. Kai Hiwatari was hidden for the time being, he would not announce his presence before it was too late. In the meantime I would be someone else, someone more anonymous.

When dealing with matters of revenge it is important to remember that giving back what they did to you will never be enough. As I said; two wrongs can never equal each other. This is why killing Judy Tate will never be enough, why my plans run so much deeper than this simple act. Judy Tate will die one day, but not before she has witnessed her family being torn apart from the inside, not before she has seen her lifes´ work being ripped to pieces, not before she has lost everything she ever cared about, like I did.

This is why you don´t kill the guilty, you ruin them.