Chapter 1: The Demon’s Origin & The Birth of Blood Moon Hashira
A Life That Started as a Gamble
Before I ever took my first breath, my life was already a risk.
I wasn’t born in a hospital, wrapped in blankets, welcomed into the world with safety and comfort.
I was in my mother’s belly when she crossed the border from Mexico to the U.S.
She could have been caught.
She could have been sent back.
I could have been an undocumented immigrant, forced to grow up in a country that didn’t recognize me.
But she made it.
And because of that, I was born with something many others in my position didn’t have—papers.
A legal right to exist in this country.
I should have felt grateful.
And for years, I did.
I felt like I owed my parents everything. Their struggle. Their pain. The sacrifices they made to escape poverty and the war on drugs in Mexico.
But how do you balance gratitude with resentment?
They sacrificed for me.
But they never saw me.
Forced to Grow Up Too Soon
I was a child, but I never got to be one.
My childhood wasn’t filled with laughter, innocence, or the carefree joy that other kids had. Instead, I lived in fear.
Not just of my father’s rage.
Not just of my mother’s disappointment.
But of something much bigger—the government.
I was terrified the police would take my parents away.
Every siren I heard, every cop car that drove by, I wondered if this was the day they would come for us.
I learned at an early age that the system wasn’t made to protect people like us—it was made to keep us afraid.
I was five or six years old when I realized my world wasn’t safe.
My mother would send me with her to run errands, using me as a shield in the dark whenever she needed to go outside.
I remember the nights in Coalinga, CA, when she would go out to gather the clothes hanging on the line. She’d pull me close, gripping my hand, whispering that it wasn’t safe for her to be alone.
And there I was—five years old, standing in the dark, protecting my mother from demons.
But the demons I feared weren’t the ones from the stories.
The real monsters were the ones with badges.
The ones with the power to rip my world apart.
The ones who could decide, in a single moment, that my mother and father didn’t belong here.
We were always moving, traveling for agricultural work, following the seasons between California’s Central Valley and Central Coast.
Packing up. Leaving. Starting over.
Everywhere we went, it was the same. Work, survive, stay quiet, don’t get caught.
It was a life where stability didn’t exist.
And neither did safety.
Chapter 2: Purgatory – The Descent into Destruction
The First Time I Felt Rage – Defending My Mother
I was four years old the first time I met my demons.
It wasn’t in the shadows.
It wasn’t in nightmares.
It was in my own home.
The night my father hit my mother.
I don’t remember what they were arguing about. All I remember is the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the way she cried out, the way my tiny hands clenched into fists.
Something inside me snapped. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to stop him. I wanted to make him pay.
So I attacked him.
But I was just a child.
He grabbed me like I was nothing. Lifted me effortlessly, his grip burning into my small frame. And with one throw, he tossed me onto the bed—right next to my mother.
I landed hard. My little body too weak to fight back. My mother held me close, and we cried together.
That was the moment I realized I was powerless.
That no matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I fought, I couldn’t protect her.
And I hated that feeling.
I hated myself for being weak.
I hated the world for making me watch.
That night, something buried itself deep inside me—a rage that I didn’t understand, a fury that had no outlet. It settled in my bones, waiting for the day I would be strong enough to do something with it.
For years, that rage stayed quiet.
Until July 15th, 2025—when I fought back.
Chapter 3: The Night I Became the Demon’s Wrath
It was 10:45 PM, towards the end of my shift. I was exhausted, my nerves already shot from the long day, my body aching from the weight of my thoughts.
I was sitting in Dullahan—my patrol vehicle.
Dullahan wasn’t just a car. She was my warhorse. My partner. The one thing I never gave up on.
In all my time as a security guard, I never abandoned my post.
Never ran. Never backed down.
Then, he came.
A would-be robber, his hand hidden inside a bag.
I knew what that meant.
I knew what he wanted me to believe.
He wanted me to be scared. To back down.
But I wasn’t that four-year-old boy anymore.
I stepped out of Dullahan and stood my ground.
If he had a gun, let him use it.
For a split second, deep down, I kind of hoped he would.
At least then, I could catch up on sleep.
I had no intention of running. No fear. Just pure instinct.
He tried to swing. I took his blows to the head, but I paid him back harder.
Blow for blow, I kept going until he gave up and ran.
But it wasn’t over.
I saw him turn toward a family loading their goods into their car.
I saw the way he moved toward them like a vulture, like a demon hunting for an easy target.
And something inside me exploded.
The rage, the fury, the helplessness of being that little boy watching my mother get hit—it all came rushing back.
This time, I wasn’t defenseless.
This time, I wasn’t letting it happen again.
I ran toward them, my body moving before my mind could think.
I fought like my life depended on it. Because in a way, it did.
It wasn’t just about stopping a robbery.
It was about stopping my past from repeating itself.
By the time it was over, I was bruised, bloodied, my right eye partially blackened. The police arrived and took him away.
And me?
I never slept better in my life.
For the first time, I had faced the demon head-on—and won.
Chapter 4: Purgatory – The Demon Child’s Descent
Before I ever stood my ground, before I ever fought back, I fell.
For years, I thought power was the only way to survive.
I learned young that the world doesn’t reward the weak.
So I made a choice.
If strength was the only thing that mattered, then I would become the strongest.
If power was the only way to survive, then I would become a goddamn monster.
And I did.
Chasing Power, Losing Myself
It started small.
Taking what wasn’t mine.
Not because I needed to.
But because I wanted to feel something.
I wanted control.
I wanted proof that I could take something if I wanted it.
I wanted to stop feeling so damn powerless.
The first time I did it?
It felt good.
But the problem with power?
It’s never enough.
By the time I was 13, the stakes got higher.
One night, walking home alone, I was robbed.
Gun to my chest.
I was a kid, but the streets didn’t care.
They took what little I had.
And something inside me changed.
I told myself, never again.
If the world was going to take from me, then I would take first.
By 15, I joined a gang.
I wasn’t just a kid anymore.
I wasn’t a victim.
I was the one doing the taking now.
That’s when the destruction truly began.
Power, Violence, and the Illusion of Freedom
The streets don’t give a damn about pain.
They don’t care about trauma.
They don’t care about your past.
They only care about who has power—and who doesn’t.
And for the first time in my life, I had power.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I wasn’t getting pushed around anymore.
I wasn’t weak anymore.
I wasn’t that kid crying on the bed with his mother anymore.
I was the Demon Child.
I took what I wanted.
I didn’t ask.
I didn’t wait.
I didn’t care.
And every time I did, I felt nothing.
The rage, the fire inside me—it wasn’t going away.
I thought if I hurt others the way I had been hurt, maybe it would make me feel whole.
But it never did.
The truth?
I was still that powerless kid.
Only now, I was just wearing the mask of a demon.