No Time for Perfection
Rai didn't train because he loved it. He trained because he had to.
He'd seen the timeline. He remembered the headlines. The battles. The end-of-the-world scenarios.
Loki. Chitauri. Ultron. Thanos.
He knew how quickly this world could burn.
He wasn't a soldier by nature. He wasn't born for war. But he'd be damned if he met gods and monsters as just another corpse in the rubble.
There were days he didn't feel like moving. Days he sat on his couch, replaying news clips and reading about Oscorp acquisitions, Stark prototypes, gamma radiation spikes. Trying to predict when the world would tilt.
But even when his body ached and his knuckles bled, he got back up.
He couldn't afford not to.
Still Rai, But Not the Same
In public, he was still Rai. Quiet. Low-profile. A ghost in plain sight.
He'd nod at his neighbor. Make small talk at the bodega. Occasionally help carry someone's groceries up a flight of stairs. He wasn't trying to be a saint—he was just trying to stay grounded.
But even that was slipping.
He talked less. Slept worse. Ate whatever didn't take time. His apartment smelled like sweat, metal, and old ramen cups.
Yet, despite the wear, his civilian identity remained intact.
Because when the world did go to hell, he'd need it. He couldn't be the Devil full-time.
Training in the Cracks Between Survival
He trained when he could. Not always clean. Not always perfect. But real.
Some mornings, his muscles screamed. Some nights, his hands trembled from overuse.
He pushed through chakra control drills with bloodshot eyes. Practiced Fire Release until his lungs felt scorched. Meditation sometimes turned into accidental naps—sitting against the wall, mind drifting from focus to exhaustion.
But progress came.
The Clone Jutsu became reliable. Transformation sharper. Substitution smoother.
And then—finally—the Fireball Jutsu.
It took months of trial and error. But one night, in an abandoned lot beneath a bridge, he knelt in the snow, took a deep breath, and unleashed a wave of fire that lit the night like a second dawn.
He just sat there afterward, shivering and coughing smoke.
It wasn't joy he felt.
It was relief.
Lines He Wouldn't Cross
He had rules—not because he was a hero, but because not everyone deserved to die.
He could tell when a man was a killer at heart, and when he was just desperate. That's where the Sharingan helped—not just in combat, but in truth. In intention.
A kid robbing for rent? He left him alive—with a warning and a broken hand.
A trafficker with a smile and a history of blood? He didn't leave anything behind but a smoldering trail.
Some deserved a second chance.
Others deserved none.
The Warehouse Massacre
Twelve men. Human cargo in crates.
Rai didn't hesitate.
He dropped in from the skylight with steel and fire. He moved with brutal intent—genjutsu throwing them into chaos before the first kunai struck.
He didn't waste chakra where steel would do.
By the time the last scream faded, the women were free. The men were either dead or begging to be.
He left a message on the wall, burned into steel with a concentrated fire stream:
"WE SEE EVIL. WE BURN IT."
—Red-Eyed Devil
Second Tomoe
It happened mid-hunt. A cybernetically-enhanced enforcer—fast, lethal, precise.
Rai wasn't faster. Not yet. But in that moment, everything slowed.
His Sharingan spun into its second form. Time dilated. His enemy's movements read like an open book.
The fight ended in seconds. A kunai to the spine. A whisper in the dark.
And Rai stood alone, his vision sharp as blades, his pulse steady.
SHIELD's Eyes Turn
Fury noticed.
Not just the crime scenes—but the lack of them. Enemies neutralized without trace. Criminal networks collapsing without cause. Surveillance footage wiped clean. No tech. No prints. No identity.
Only red eyes.
Coulson called it "surgical urban warfare."
Hill said, "Not ours. But effective."
Fury? He just poured a drink.
"Let him run. So far, he's doing our job better than we are."
Armor Evolves
The armor went through changes, too. No labs. No WayneTech. Just Rai and scavenged parts.
He reinforced it with carbon fiber, layered it over kevlar, and stitched chakra-sensitive cloth beneath. Fire-resistant. Blade-tolerant. Stealthy.
Still crude. Still imperfect.
But every time it held up in a fight, it bought him another day to refine it.
It wasn't a symbol of hope. It was a message.
"I'm ready. You're not."
Not a Legend—A Warning
By 2006, the underworld adapted. Paranoia bloomed.
Gangs hired mystics. Arms dealers whispered of a ghost with spinning eyes. Police found scenes too clean to be human—and too brutal to be tech.
And Rai?
He stood on rooftops, watching it unfold.
Still tired. Still unsure how far he'd go. Still human beneath the armor.
But always ready.
Because he remembered what came next.
And he would not be caught unprepared.
[To Be Continued…]