300 Years Of The Demon: Part 1

My name is Takeshi Nimishura, and for three hundred years crime has known my face. I am the Farseeing Demon.
The odds say that you do not know the heel of oppression, or the sting of slavery. You have not suffered under the rule of a madman, nor been forced to bow before one.
There lived a man who would have changed that. There lived a man who would have beaten your world into submission and twisted it into his image. The only reason that he did not was because the Demon was there to stop him.
It began in 1962. I woke up in my home in Tokyo; my wife was away. Every window was shut, every door locked from the outside. I had only begun to suspect what was happening when I saw the folded piece of paper on the floor. I scooped it up and opened it; written on it were the words that would change my life forever.
I fell down to my knees, closed my eyes, and clasped my hands together. It did not take long. I heard a door open, the soft sound of feet on carpet moving towards me, felt the presence of others in my home. I remained still as they threw their hands around me. I felt one sharp blow at the back of my neck and, as I fell into darkness, the words written on the folded paper echoed in my mind.
Who will you be?
I awoke in a room lit by candles, dark shapes huddled around me, urgent voices speaking in hushed tones. My clothes were gone. I clambered to my feet, feeling the slimy texture of cobblestone on my skin. The shapes became men in hooded robes as my eyes adjusted. A cold wind blew. My skin began to crawl, and it took everything in me to keep from shivering as I scanned those hooded faces, knowing any one of them could be him.
I stood still, at attention, as one hooded figure broke apart from the rest. It stepped forward, held up a gloved hand, and what little sound there was disappeared. Yellow eyes, seeming to glow dimly from beneath the hood, regarded me without emotion.
I locked eyes with the figure, and it removed its hood. There, his blood red face revealed, his golden fangs bared, the Demon stood before me. He spoke.
"Takeshi Nimishura," he said, his voice resonating through the chamber. "I am the Skyrider Demon. Since 1949 I have continued the war on crime started by our founder in 1600. I replaced the Gunsilver Demon, and he the Bladewalker Demon, and countless before him. The Order has chosen you, Takeshi Nimishura, to replace me."
"And in time I shall be replaced," I said. I knew the words already.
"And someone shall replace you," the Demon said.
"And countless after him," I said.
The Demon gave a slight nod.
"And you understand the dangers you are facing? You understand that you will come face-to-face with the worst this world can create?"
"Yes," I said.
"You understand that you may be killed? That your enemies will stop at nothing to destroy you?"
"Yes."
"You understand that, even if Takeshi Nishimura should be killed, the Demon must live on?"
I felt no twinge of regret as I said yes, yes, yes. I felt nothing but dedication, respect, as I spoke the words that would damn me.
The Demon nodded again. He stepped forward, brought his hands up to his face, and pulled it off.
The red skin became a wooden mask, one passed down over three centuries. The Demon became a man in robes, clean-shaven, and with lines crisscrossing his face that did not come from age. He smiled, or maybe it was a trick of the light, as I raised the mask to my face.
The man who was once the Skyrider Demon pulled his hood up and stepped backward, disappearing into the crowd. I felt someone drape a robe around my bare shoulders even as I put the mask on.
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, the occupants of the chamber were kneeling before me.