Been meaning to post this between classes and other things. Here's my copy of Living Blood from Kaze Shirota that I received back on January 18th. The illustrations are gorgeous, and it has one of Joel.
Per the artist's request, I will not be uploading scans of this book. If you would like to purchase a copy, you can find it here. Keep in mind, if you live in the States like me, shipping will cost you around $41.57 USD (or ¥6,287). The book however, goes for $3.82 USD (¥570).
Completely forgot to post these, even though I have some of them since January 2024 🤦🏼♀️
Newest addition to my Blood+ Collection, left to right:
Blood+ 20th Anniversary Unofficial Anthology
A Rose is a Rose, Solomon Goldsmith Unofficial Fanbook
Homme Fatale, Karl Fei-Ong Unofficial Fanbook
Season Calls Me Blood+ Unofficial Anthology (the 18th or 19th? I'm not sure)
Perspective, Blood# & Blood+ Short Story Unofficial Fanbook
Artworks of Akiharu Ishii (who is the official Character Designer of Blood+!!!) + a beautiful case that came with it
Sidenote: Do you know how long I tried to get my hands on "Artworks of Akiharu Ishii"?! I tried to buy one in 2023, but they sold out so fast 😭😭😭Fortunately, I got one last year when they did a reprint! And let me tell you, there's a lot of Haji artwork in there
The Tragedy of Saya: A Monster Who Understands Humanity
To humans, they will always be a monster.
"It’s strange how they fear me, yet call on me when the real monsters come knocking."
No matter how much Saya does to protect humanity, she will always be seen as the other—something unnatural, something to be feared. Her immortality, predatory instincts, and capacity for violence mark her as a monster in the eyes of the world. And humans, by their nature, fear what they cannot understand.
Even those who work closest with her, such as the Red Shield, cannot fully separate her personhood from her monstrous capabilities. They rely on her strength, but they do not trust her. She is a weapon they wield when necessary, a tool to protect their fragile existence, but never someone they embrace as one of their own.
For Saya, this truth is inescapable. She has given her life—over and over again—to fight for a world that will never truly accept her. And no matter how many lives she saves, no matter how much blood she spills on humanity’s behalf, she remains an outsider. They will never see her as anything more than the thing that goes bump in the night.
Forced to hide their monstrosity to fit in.
"To fit into their world, I had to cut away pieces of myself. Now, I’m not sure what’s left."
Whenever Saya wakes from her hibernation, she finds herself thrust into a new world, unfamiliar and distant. Time moves on without her, leaving her adrift in a society that has forgotten her sacrifices. And to survive in this ever-changing world, Saya must hide what she truly is.
She wears the mask of humanity, blending into a society that would recoil in horror if they knew her nature. Her hunger, her instincts, her strength—these are things she cannot show. She must suppress every part of herself that screams predator, lest she be hunted, feared, or destroyed.
But this isn’t just about survival. There is a deeper pain in hiding her true self. By masking her monstrosity, Saya is forced to deny the very essence of her being. She becomes a shadow of herself, existing on the edges of humanity, never fully a part of it but unable to escape the desire to belong.
The horror lies not just in her monstrous nature but in the constant reminder that she must conceal it. Every suppressed instinct, every forced smile, every act of restraint is a knife twisting in her gut—a reminder that she can never be her true self.
Pull their teeth, blunt their claws, file down their jagged edges.
"I’m not sure which hurts more—fighting what I am or knowing what I could become if I didn’t."
The imagery of a predator dulling its natural weapons mirrors Saya’s daily existence. Her fangs, her claws, her strength—they are all parts of her, necessary for survival, yet things she must constantly suppress.
She starves herself, pulling her metaphorical teeth, to avoid feeding on humans. She restrains her power, blunting her claws, acting with precision and care when her instincts scream for unbridled violence. And she tempers her sharp demeanor, filing down her jagged edges, to appear approachable, even when it feels unnatural.
This suppression doesn’t just hurt—it erases parts of her. Saya is a predator forced to live like prey, a being of immense power pretending to be small. It is a denial of her very nature, leaving her feeling hollow and disconnected from herself.
Yet, the alternative is even more horrifying. If Saya were to embrace her monstrosity fully, she would lose the fragile connections she has with humanity. She would become the thing they fear most, a nightmare made flesh, and the idea terrifies her as much as it tempts her.
They cannot return to monsterhood entirely, either, with their knowledge.
"I could give in, let the monster take over. But I can’t pretend I wouldn’t know the cost."
Saya’s tragedy is compounded by her understanding of humanity. She has lived among them, loved them, fought for them. She knows their complexities—their kindness, their cruelty, their strength, and their fragility. This knowledge binds her to them in ways that other monsters might never experience.
But it is also her greatest burden. Saya cannot fully return to her monstrous nature because she understands the consequences too well. Every life she takes, every drop of blood she spills, carries a weight. She knows what it means to end a life, to extinguish the light in someone’s eyes.
This understanding keeps her in limbo. She is no longer a pure predator, free to act on instinct, but neither is she fully human. She knows too much, feels too deeply, and cannot unlearn the empathy that ties her to humanity. And so, she exists between two worlds, belonging to neither.
They understand, and a part of them can't help but want to belong.
"Belonging is a human thing. But sometimes, I catch myself wishing it could be mine too."
Despite everything—the fear, the rejection, the pain—Saya yearns for connection. Her understanding of humanity has made her long for something she cannot have: acceptance. She wants to belong, to be seen not as a monster but as a person.
This desire is a quiet, persistent ache in her heart. It drives her to form relationships, even when she knows they will end in tragedy. Haji, her chevalier, was perhaps the only one who truly accepted her for who she was. In his presence, Saya felt seen, understood, and loved.
But Haji is gone, and with him, much of Saya’s hope. She remains guarded, reluctant to trust, yet unable to completely give up on the idea of belonging. This contradiction defines her interactions with others—she keeps them at arm’s length but secretly hopes for connection.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it destroys them.
"Their world isn’t kind to me, yet I find myself unable to turn away from it. It’s a cruel irony."
Saya’s attempts to connect often end in tragedy. Those she loves grow old, die, or are taken from her. Her immortality is both a gift and a curse, leaving her to watch as the people she cares for fade away while she remains unchanged.
Yet, she cannot stop herself from trying. Her continued fight for humanity, even at the cost of her own happiness, speaks to this internal conflict. She sacrifices her needs, her desires, and even her identity for a world that fears her.
The horror of Saya’s existence lies in this cycle of pain and loss. She gives and gives, only to be met with rejection or tragedy. And yet, despite the hurt, she persists. Her love for humanity, flawed and fragile as it is, drives her forward, even as it destroys her piece by piece.
Final Thoughts: The Monster Beneath the Skin
"Monsters are supposed to be cold, unfeeling. So why do I carry this ache that never leaves me?"
Saya’s existence is defined by duality. She is a predator who understands humanity too well to fully embrace her nature, yet too different to ever truly belong. She exists in the liminal space between monster and human, torn between the two.
The horror of her existence is not just in her monstrous nature but in the knowledge of what she can never have. She knows what it means to love, to belong, to connect—and she knows she will never fully experience it. This understanding is both her greatest strength and her deepest wound.
In the end, Saya is a monster with a human heart, a being caught between two worlds, belonging to neither yet unable to abandon either. Her tragedy is not just that she is feared, but that she yearns for the very thing she can never truly have. And it is this yearning, this quiet, unrelenting hope, that makes her both monstrous and profoundly human.
