The tatami behind him still smelled of wood and incense.
THUMP THUMP. THUMP THUMP.
Kairo's heart was racing out of control.
He still couldn't understand what had happened just minutes before.
That man with animal-like features… those two girls who had appeared from the pistols… what did it all mean?
His breath felt heavier than a boulder.
Who were they? wondered the young Kaiaba, the three mysterious figures flashing again and again in his mind.
His small footsteps echoed across the tatami, each one filled with childish hesitation and innocence.
Why did they want to erase my memories?
The question spun endlessly inside his six-year-old head.
---
Kairo slid the shoji door open and stepped into the garden.
A cool breeze ruffled his hair. Petals from the great cherry tree drifted silently down onto the pond.
Every step was a storm inside his thoughts. Too many questions for a child his age.
Why could I see those two sisters? Why did no one ever speak of them?
And above all… that creature.
The man with fox ears and a tail, with sharp white fangs and icy eyes.
It hadn't been a dream. It couldn't have been.
Who was he, really? And why did he stare at me like that?
Kairo's heart pounded harder, as if he were still standing before Shiranui.
—Sensei… —he began, voice wavering. —I wanted to ask—
FWOOSH.
Hayashi turned without a word. He drew his bokken and leveled it at the boy.
—Train. Now.
Kairo froze, eyes wide.
—But… I…
There was no time.
The first strike came swift and precise.
Kairo raised his bokken on instinct, blocking poorly. The impact rattled his arms.
The wind kicked up a flurry of petals around them.
Second strike — a blow to his side, bending him with a groan.
Third — his shoulder, a dull pain that nearly dropped him.
Fourth — straight to the wrist. The bokken slipped from his hands and fell among the petals.
---
Kairo panted hard, his chest burning.
The questions screamed louder than the pain.
Why me? Why do I see things no one else can?
Hayashi lowered the wooden blade. His voice was calm, but sharp as a knife.
—Until you strike me, you'll never have your answers.
The boy lowered his gaze, hands trembling as he picked up his weapon. His lips quivered, his eyes glossy.
—Then… I'll keep trying.
I'll keep trying until I hit you.
A faint smile tugged at the master's lips.
The cherry tree swayed in the breeze.
Somewhere in the branches, Shiranui's little bell jingled.
---
Kairo rose again.
Each time more exhausted.
Each time more battered.
Each time more furious.
The bokken felt like molten iron, but he gripped it as if it were part of himself.
Tears stung his eyes. His throat knotted tight.
Why do I see these things? Why won't anyone tell me?!
A faint glow flickered inside him — a thread of silver, fragile yet real, stirred the air around his small body.
For a heartbeat, his eyes gleamed with that light.
From the cherry tree, Shiranui bared his fangs in a grin.
His bell rang softly, unbidden.
—Heh… interesting.
---
Kairo lunged forward with a desperate cry.
The bokken fell from above, powered not by technique, but by heart.
Hayashi reacted as always: a perfect parry, a twist of the wrist, a decisive counter.
The boy slammed into the ground, breath torn from his lungs.
His weapon rolled away among the petals.
The master lowered his blade, certain the session was over.
His face showed no surprise, no doubt. To him, nothing had changed.
But Shiranui chuckled low, smoke curling from his kiseru.
—You don't even know, Seiji… that little brat touched you.
A tiny strike. Just for an instant. But real.
---
Hayashi turned toward the cherry tree, puzzled by the laughter.
Then his eyes returned to Kairo, lying on the ground, chest heaving among the pink blossoms.
The boy stared at the sky, convinced he had failed again — unaware that, for the first time, he had actually struck his master.
The bokken hung at Hayashi's side as he stood frozen.
Yet something gnawed at his mind.
—Heh, Seiji… don't you notice?
Shiranui's voice slid into his thoughts like the wind through leaves.
Hayashi tightened his grip on the weapon, refusing to look up.
Shiranui. What are you saying?
The Funereal Fox chuckled.
—Why don't you check your right thumb, old friend? Eheh…
---
For an instant, Seiji hesitated. He looked down.
On the thumb of the hand gripping his bokken… a thin red line.
A cut. Barely visible.
Hayashi's eyes widened.
Impossible…
—Oh, it's very possible, —Shiranui whispered with delight. —Your little student grazed you. A strike so small, hidden within your movements… but it was there.
Hayashi fell silent, staring at the boy who still struggled to rise, convinced he had lost.
The master's breath caught in his chest.
Shiranui laughed again, softer this time — like a secret shared.
—Don't tell him, Seiji. Not yet. Let him believe he failed.
You'll see what kind of fire that illusion will ignite.
Hayashi shut his eyes, unsettled.
For the first time in years, the legendary hunter didn't know if he was the one leading the training…
or if the child was leading his fate.
---
The training continued.
Each strike echoed like thunder beneath the cherry blossoms.
Each fall left Kairo bruised, trembling — but rising again.
I won't give up. I want answers!
The silver glimmer danced once more in his eyes, guiding his movements.
Fumbles turned into feints.
Clumsy strikes into something more.
Hayashi parried, deflected, countered. Yet he found himself surprised — this boy was thinking. Adapting. Searching for an opening even through his pain.
Shiranui's grin widened, smoke curling from his lips.
—You see it too, Seiji. The brat isn't just stubborn. He learns with every fall.
Hayashi grit his teeth, but said nothing.
Still, a truth weighed heavy in his chest: sooner or later, even he wouldn't be able to stop the boy.
---
At last, Kairo collapsed, drenched in sweat, his breath ragged.
Yet even on the floor, he refused to let go of the bokken.
His tiny hands clung to it as if it were part of his soul.
Hayashi's gaze lingered on him, silent.
The cherry tree swayed, showering the boy in petals like a quiet blessing.
Shiranui's voice was the final whisper on the wind.
—This is only the beginning.
---
Inside the dojo, calm returned. The breeze of the garden no longer reached them.
Hayashi sat beside Kairo and opened a small wooden box.
No gleaming medical tools, no modern machines — only bandages, cloth strips, and a jar of green salve pungent with bitter herbs.
Kairo pouted, cheeks puffed, glaring up at him.
—Eh, Master… why don't you heal me with something technological, like today's doctors?
Hayashi smiled faintly.
He scooped some of the salve and pressed it onto a scratch along Kairo's arm.
—Ahh! Ow! —the boy yelped, clenching his fists.
The master met his eyes, serious yet gentle.
—You feel it, don't you?
Kairo nodded through a pained grimace.
Hayashi continued, voice calm and grave:
—If you truly wish to pursue this martial path, you must learn to know pain. To channel it.
A wound that heals instantly is easily forgotten.
But the ones that burn… the ones that bleed… those stay with you.
They remind you of the fight you lived through. They remind you of what you lost to reach this point.
That's why I heal you this way.
Kairo squirmed and winced at every touch, each "ow!" and flinch betraying his discomfort.
But he never pulled away.
Within his pout burned a small spark of pride.
---
When the bandaging was done, Hayashi rose.
He walked to the old storage room, opened it carefully, and returned holding a folded sheet of paper.
He handed it to Kairo.
—Take a look. Tell me what you think.
The boy's trembling hands unfolded it.
His eyes widened.
It wasn't just any tournament.
It was the Shikom — the most acclaimed kendo competition in all of Tokyo.
Silence weighed heavy in the room.
Hayashi sighed, wearing a bittersweet smile.
—I have no other students, Kairo. Only you.
I opened this dojo to start a new life.
And the way you fought today… well, I believe that even at six years old, you might be able to do it.
Kairo looked up, stunned, almost disbelieving.
The master held his gaze firmly.
—But the choice is yours alone.
The boy lowered his eyes back to the sheet.
His small heart thumped like a war drum.
Fate, even then, was already knocking at his door.