They didn't give me a name.
Names are for people who matter. People with blessings. People who get chosen by something pretending to be a god.
I got nothing. Not even an abusive father to fucking kill later on.
So they called me what I was worth.
Kuzuya.
Trash. Scum. It's funny.
People think being powerless is the worst thing that can happen to you.
It's not. The worst thing… is being invisible.
No one hates you. No one fears you. No one even bothers to remember your face. You could die in a ditch and the world wouldn't pause for a second.
I didn't hate that.
I loved it. Because I knew someday that would be the end of them.
The first time someone burned me, I was seven.
Fire magic. Show-off trick. He wasn't even aiming at anything—just bored, waving it around like an idiot until it landed on me.
My arm blistered. Skin split. It smelled like cooked meat. He laughed. Didn't even look at me.
I didn't scream - knew it wouldn't make a difference. Didn't cry - cuz who cares? What the hell would be the point?
Instead, I watched. Because the pain wasn't the interesting part.
I saw that his wrist flicked for a second before firing, indicating the magic.
Sloppy. So fucking sloppy.
That's when it clicked.
If you're weak, you don't fight. Well you do, but in a different way.
If you're weak, you don't complain.
If you're weak…
you shut up and pay attention.
People are disgusting when they think you don't matter. Disgustingly simple that is.
They show you everything.
Every habit. Every flaw. Every tiny, stupid mistake they repeat because no one's ever punished them for it or even noticed
They think they're untouchable. I think they're easy.
By seven, I stopped getting hit.
By ten, I started deciding who did.
By thirteen… I got bored.
'Killing' someone isn't hard.
Doing it properly is.
One guy who stole my fucking food even when he was never in another life gonna eat it. He did it just for the fun of harassing a homeless man.
He liked to drink after training. Same place. Same time. Same cup. Every. Single. Day.
Predictable as shit.
I watched him for weeks. Counted the steps he took. Noticed how he left his cup unattended when he laughed too loud. Noticed how no one ever questioned him.
Why would they?
He had power. That's all this world respects.
So I didn't poison the drink.
That's amateur shit. I poisoned the cloth he used to wipe the rim.
Small doses. Slow build. Just enough to dull his reactions and slowly weaken him.
Nothing obvious. Nothing dramatic.
Just a quiet little nudge toward death.
The actual kill?
That wasn't even mine.
That's the best part.
It was a sparring match at the academy. I watched from the sides even though I wasn't even allowed in.
Wooden blades. Controlled strikes. Safe.
Except he was slower.
Just a little.
Just enough.
The blade went through his throat.
Not supposed to happen.
But it did.
An accident.
That's what they said.
I almost laughed out loud.
I stood at the edge of the training yard, hands in my pockets, watching the panic spread.
No one looked at me.
Of course they didn't.
I'm just trash.
God, I love this. I'm almost masturbating.
That was the moment I understood it perfectly.
I don't need power.
I don't need talent.
I don't need to win.
I just need to decide how you lose.
This world runs on strength.
On blessings.
On idiots who think being chosen makes them untouchable.
It doesn't.
It just makes them predictable.
And me?
I'm not bound by anything.
No rules. No limits. No expectations.
No one watches me.
No one suspects me.
Which means I can do whatever the fuck I want.
They still call me Kuzuya.
Say it like it's an insult.
Like it means I'm nothing.
They're wrong.
Trash piles up.
Spreads.
Rots everything it touches.
And by the time you notice the smell—
it's already too late.