The sunrise painted the sky in shades of gold and amber as Hiro stood on the balcony of his small apartment. His breathing was slow and controlled, despite having spent most of the night practicing with Raijin. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, evidence of his relentless training.
"You've made progress," Orochi's voice echoed in his mind. "But it's still not enough. The blade dissipates after barely five minutes."
Hiro didn't respond immediately. He gazed at the city of Kuoh, watching as it slowly came to life. People moved about, unaware of the supernatural forces that lurked in the shadows. Unaware of the ancient dragon sealed within the boy watching them.
"I know," he finally said. "But I can't rely solely on your power."
A mocking laugh resonated through his consciousness. "Pride? Or fear?"
"Neither," Hiro replied coldly. "Strategy. If I depend entirely on your power, what happens when I face someone who can seal it? Or when I exhaust my energy? I need my own strength."
Silence followed his words. Hiro could almost feel Orochi weighing his response, analyzing his reasoning.
"Perhaps you are not as foolish as I thought," the dragon finally conceded. "But what do you propose? Your human body is frail, your human techniques ineffective against the forces you will face."
Hiro turned away from the balcony and walked back into his apartment. The confrontation with Rias and Sona had made one thing clear: he was a target now. Whether he liked it or not, the supernatural world knew of his existence. And they would come for him.
"My family," he said quietly. "They were the guardians of your temple for generations. They must have had ways to defend themselves, even before I was chosen as your vessel."
Orochi remained silent for a moment.
"Yes," he finally admitted. "The priests of my temple were trained in an ancient form of swordsmanship. A style developed specifically to combat supernatural threats."
Hiro's heart quickened. "And would my father have known this style?"
"All the head priests did. It was their duty to pass it down."
A memory flashed in Hiro's mind—his father sorting through ancient scrolls, speaking of things beyond human understanding. Had he been preparing to teach Hiro? Had he known what lay in his son's future?
"I need to find out if anything survived the fire," Hiro said, his decision made. "I need to go back to the temple."
The ruins of the temple looked smaller than he remembered. Ten years had passed since that fateful night, and nature had begun to reclaim what the fire had destroyed. Weeds grew between charred wooden beams, and small trees had taken root among the ashes.
Hiro stood at the entrance, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't been back here since the day his family died. Since the day his childhood ended.
"What are you looking for exactly?" Orochi asked, his voice unusually subdued.
"I don't know," Hiro admitted. "Anything. Some sign that my family's knowledge wasn't completely lost."
He moved carefully through the ruins, mindful of his surroundings. The area had been abandoned after the fire, deemed unsafe, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Each step stirred memories—playing in the courtyard, helping his father with the scrolls, his mother's gentle smile.
The main hall, where most of the scrolls had been kept, was completely destroyed. Nothing remained but ashes and broken stone. Hiro felt a deep disappointment settling in his chest. What had he expected? That something would have miraculously survived the inferno?
He was about to leave when Orochi spoke again.
"Your father was clever. A true priest of the old ways. He would not have kept all his knowledge in one place."
Hiro paused. "What do you mean?"
"The head priests always had a hidden sanctuary. A place where the most sacred texts were kept, away from prying eyes."
"Where?" Hiro asked, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
"I cannot tell you exactly. Each priest chose their own location. But it would be somewhere significant to him. Somewhere only family would know to look."
Hiro closed his eyes, trying to remember. Where would his father have hidden his most precious possessions? What place would have meant something special to him?
Then it came to him—a memory so distant he had almost forgotten it. His fifth birthday. His father taking him to a massive cherry tree behind the temple, showing him a hollow at its base.
"This is our family's secret spot," his father had said. "When you're older, I'll show you what's hidden here."
Hiro's eyes snapped open. The cherry tree. It had to be there.
He moved quickly to the back of the temple grounds. The tree still stood, blackened on one side from the fire but still alive. Its branches were bare now, winter having stripped it of its blossoms, but it remained tall and strong.
Kneeling at its base, Hiro ran his fingers along the trunk until he found it—a small, almost invisible opening. It was barely large enough for his arm. Taking a deep breath, he reached inside.
His fingers touched something cold and metallic. A box.
With trembling hands, he pulled it out—a simple metal lockbox, scorched on the outside but intact. There was no lock, only a simple latch that opened at his touch, as if the box had been waiting for him.
Inside, wrapped in faded silk, lay a katana. Its sheath was black lacquer with silver inlays depicting wolves running beneath a crescent moon. The handle was wrapped in dark blue cord, worn with age but still tight.
Beneath the sword was a leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age, and a sealed envelope bearing his name in his father's handwriting.
Hiro stared at the items, unable to speak. He had found it. His family's legacy.
With reverent care, he drew the sword from its sheath. The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming silver despite its age. It felt perfect in his hand, balanced and deadly.
"The Kage Ōkami," Orochi said, a note of respect in his voice. "Shadow Wolf. The blade passed down through the head priests. It's been many centuries since I've seen it."
Hiro carefully resheathed the sword and opened the envelope. The paper inside was covered in his father's elegant script:
My son,
If you are reading this, then I have failed in my duty to protect you from the burdens of our lineage. For generations, our family has guarded the secrets of the ancient dragon, Yamata no Orochi. We have stood as the barrier between the mortal and supernatural worlds.
The blade you now hold is Kage Ōkami, the Shadow Wolf. It is more than a weapon—it is our family's pride and legacy. With it comes the responsibility of our style, the Kuro Okami-Ryū—the Way of the Black Wolf.
In the book, you will find the techniques of our school. Learn them. Master them. They were developed over centuries to combat forces beyond human understanding. The style focuses on speed, precision, and the exploitation of the enemy's weaknesses.
Remember, Hiro—a sword is only as strong as the hand that wields it, and a hand is only as strong as the heart that guides it. Our way is not about power alone, but about resolve.
I had hoped to teach you these techniques myself when you were older. If fate has decreed otherwise, then know that I have always been proud of you, and that I believe in your strength.
May the Shadow Wolf guide your path.
Your father
Hiro read the letter twice, his vision blurring with tears he refused to shed. His father had known. He had prepared for the possibility that Hiro would one day need this knowledge. That he would one day face the same dangers that had eventually claimed his family.
"Will you honor his legacy?" Orochi asked quietly.
Hiro carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the box. He picked up the book and the sword, feeling their weight—not just physical, but the weight of responsibility they represented.
"Yes," he said, his voice firm with resolve. "I will learn. I will master this style. And I will use it to find those responsible for my family's death."
As he left the ruins of the temple, carrying his family's legacy, Hiro felt a sense of purpose he hadn't known in years. The void inside him—the emptiness that had consumed him since that night—began to fill with something new.
Not peace. Not happiness.
But resolve. Cold, unshakable resolve.
Over the next weeks, Hiro's life fell into a new routine. His attendance at Kuoh Academy became sporadic at best. He would show up for roll calls, then disappear for hours or sometimes entire days, earning concerned looks from teachers and curious glances from students.
Issei had tried to approach him several times, following Rias's orders, but Hiro remained distant, offering only the briefest responses before slipping away. He could tell the Red Dragon Emperor was growing frustrated, but he couldn't afford distractions. Not now.
Every moment away from school was dedicated to training. He had found an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, far from prying eyes. There, surrounded by crumbling concrete and rusted metal, he immersed himself in the Kuro Okami-Ryū.
The book his father had left contained detailed instructions for each of the ten techniques, along with philosophical principles underlying the style. It was a comprehensive guide, but translating those written instructions into physical movements proved challenging.
Hiro trained until his muscles screamed in protest, until his hands were raw and blistered from handling the sword. He pushed himself beyond exhaustion, channeling his pain and rage into each swing, each cut, each footstep.
"Your form is sloppy," Orochi commented one evening as Hiro practiced the first technique, Ikkitōsen. "You're letting anger cloud your precision."
Hiro stopped, breathing heavily. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. "I thought you approved of anger."
"There is a difference between cold rage and blind fury," the dragon replied. "One sharpens your blade. The other dulls it."
Hiro wiped his face with the back of his hand and resumed his stance. The first technique—Ikkitōsen, The Warrior Who Equals a Thousand—was an iaijutsu move, a lightning-fast draw that could cut down an opponent before they even registered the attack. Speed was everything.
He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. The book described it as "drawing and cutting in a single breath, a single thought." He had to move beyond conscious thought, beyond the limitations of human reaction time.
For hours, he practiced the drawing motion, over and over, until his arm felt like lead and his fingers could barely grip the handle.
"Better," Orochi admitted reluctantly. "But still too human."
"I am human," Hiro reminded him.
"For now," came the cryptic reply.
Hiro ignored the comment, focusing instead on the second technique—Kiba no Shippū, Gust of Fangs. A series of rapid strikes targeting vital points, it required a level of control and precision he had yet to master.
Day after day, he trained, dividing his time between physical conditioning, sword techniques, and practicing with Raijin. He became a ghost at school, appearing just often enough to avoid being expelled, then vanishing to continue his training.
He was meticulously careful about his movements, never taking the same route twice to his training ground, always checking for followers. He knew Rias and her group were watching him, waiting for him to slip up, to reveal his power. But he wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
At night, he studied the book, memorizing the details of each technique, the principles behind them. The Kuro Okami-Ryū was not just about physical movements; it was a philosophy, a way of thinking, of seeing the world.
"Strike like the wolf—silent, precise, lethal," the book instructed. "Move like the shadow—formless, unpredictable, everywhere and nowhere."
Three weeks into his training, something changed. As Hiro practiced Ikkitōsen for what felt like the thousandth time, something clicked within him. His mind emptied, his body moved without conscious thought, and the blade seemed to draw itself.
There was a flash of silver, so fast he barely saw it, and then he was standing in the completion position, the Shadow Wolf extended before him. The cut had been perfect—faster and cleaner than anything he had managed before.
"Impressive," Orochi said, genuine surprise in his voice. "You've grasped the essence of the first technique."
Hiro stared at the blade, feeling a strange mix of pride and sadness. This was his heritage, his birthright. Something his father should have taught him in the peaceful courtyard of their temple, not something he had to learn in a decrepit warehouse while on the run from supernatural forces.
"What is it?" Orochi asked, sensing his shift in mood.
"Nothing," Hiro replied, sheathing the sword. "Just thinking about what comes next."
He knew Ikkitōsen was just the beginning. The most basic of the ten techniques. The road ahead was long, and time was a luxury he might not have.
Sona Sitri frowned as she reviewed the attendance records on her desk. "Hiro has missed more classes in the past three weeks than any other student this semester."
Across from her, Rias Gremory sipped her tea thoughtfully. "He's not dropping out. He shows up just enough to maintain his enrollment. He's being strategic."
"The question is, what is he doing during those absences?" Sona adjusted her glasses. "Tsubaki followed him twice, but he noticed her both times and managed to lose her."
"He's training," Rias said with certainty. "I can sense it. The power within him is growing, becoming more controlled."
Sona set down the papers. "Should we confront him again?"
"Not yet," Rias decided. "Let's see what he's preparing for. Or who."
Both devils knew the fragile peace in Kuoh could shatter at any moment. And when it did, they would see exactly what Hiro was capable of.
In the abandoned warehouse, Hiro stood in the center of the empty space, the Shadow Wolf held loosely at his side. His body ached from weeks of relentless training, but he felt stronger than he had in years. More focused.
He raised the blade, watching as the dim light filtering through the broken windows gleamed along its edge. This was his family's legacy—a weapon designed to protect, to fight against forces beyond human comprehension.
Alongside it, he now had Raijin, the Blade of Divine Lightning—one of the eight aspects of Orochi's power, a weapon of supernatural might.
Two swords. Two paths. Both his to walk.
"You have taken the first step," Orochi said. "But the journey ahead is long, and your enemies are gathering. Are you prepared for what comes next?"
Hiro sheathed the Shadow Wolf with a smooth motion, his eyes hardening with determination.
"I am," he replied, his voice quiet but resolute. "And they won't see me coming."
As the sun set over Kuoh, casting long shadows through the warehouse, Hiro resumed his training. The Shadow Wolf flashed in the dying light, a silver streak cutting through darkness.
And within him, Orochi watched, eight heads stirring with anticipation for the battles to come.