Kai was on his knees. Blood trickled from his mouth, a stark crimson line against his pale skin. His breathing was ragged, barely audible over the low, predatory hum of Spectra energy. And Vance Krait stood over him. Calm. Cruel. His hand glowed with that impossible, malevolent violet. A cold dread seized me, colder than the concrete floor beneath my cheek.
"No—" I tried to speak, tried to scream, but my throat was a desert. Nothing came. My body wouldn't move; my arms hung limp, held in the unyielding grip of the elite who'd beaten me into the dust. Emi lay just feet away—conscious, I thought, but barely clinging to it, her gaze fixed on Kai with raw terror. Kaito wasn't even moving, a still, heavy form.
This wasn't just a defeat. This was execution. A public, humiliating dismemberment of everything we had fought for.
I watched, helpless, as Vance raised his hand, his voice a low, deliberate murmur that cut through the haze of my own pain. I couldn't hear the words, but I felt them – a pronouncement. Something final. Absolute. The air in the warehouse tightened, suffocating with impending death.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a desperate, futile act. Helpless. Useless. Dad… what would you have done if you were here?
And then— A warmth. Not the sharp, burning heat of my Green Spectra, nor the icy sting of bruised flesh. It was a soft, familiar current that spread from my core, gentle, like sunlight behind closed eyelids. Like the mornings I used to wake up to in a world far less broken than this one.
I opened my eyes. And everything was profoundly, jarringly different.
The choking scent of dust and damp concrete was gone—replaced by something faint and nostalgic. The distant, comforting smell of miso soup drifting from downstairs. The clean, crisp scent of laundry softener. The faint, rhythmic creak of a ceiling fan lazily turning overhead.
I sat upright slowly, one hand dragging down my face like I was wiping off a long, heavy dream. The sunlight filtering through half-open blinds cast lazy stripes across the familiar wooden floor, dancing with dust in the morning sun. There was a stillness in the air—not the kind that follows battle, but the quiet hum of a peaceful home.
"That was... one hell of a dream," I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could stop them. This was warm. Quiet. Safe.
Then I heard it. "Renji! Breakfast's ready!" Mom's voice—cheerful, distant, alive. I froze. A second passed. Then another. And then she called again, that same teasing lilt she always used when I slept in too long. "Come on, you'll miss the good stuff! Your dad already finished the miso!"
Dad. I looked around—really looked. The sword-patterned quilt. The manga piled high beside the lamp that never worked right. The cracked corner of the desk I'd sworn I didn't break. The faint scent of rice and eggs drifting in from the kitchen. It all wrapped around me like a childhood blanket I thought I'd lost.
This was my room. My old room. And I was Renji again.
My heart trembled, but not from fear. From an overwhelming, aching sense of impossible reality. I stood barefoot on creaky wooden floors, blinking back the blur in my eyes. The air was too gentle. The sunlight too soft. The world… too kind.
I didn't question it. Maybe it wasn't a dream… but this is real now. This is home. And if it was a lie— It was one I didn't want to wake up from.
I stepped into the hallway, my fingers brushing the old wallpaper on instinct. The floorboards creaked the way they always had, announcing my every step with warm defiance. Everything was so normal it hurt. The smell of breakfast grew stronger—miso, grilled fish, eggs with a hint of soy, and that ever-awful instant coffee Mom always refused to give up. I turned the corner and—
There they were. Mom stood by the stove, humming under her breath, her hair up in that messy ponytail she never bothered to fix. The same faded apron with bear ears wrapped around her waist, slightly stained from years of use. Dad sat at the table, newspaper in hand, legs stretched out like he owned the floor. His joggers, the ratty tank top, even the towel draped around his neck from his morning run—it was all perfectly wrong. Too real. Too vivid. Too...impossible.
He glanced up at me and grunted, "About time you got up, sleepyhead." Something cracked in me. A dam behind my eyes threatened to break. I stepped forward, faster than I meant to, and wrapped my arms around them both. Mom squeaked in surprise, arms flailing briefly before returning the hug. "Well, this is new. Did you hit your head or something?" Dad chuckled low. "The hell's gotten into you?" I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just held them for a second longer than I should have—because something in me knew this wasn't real. Not yet. But I didn't want to break the moment.
Eventually, I let go, rubbing my eyes like I'd just woken from a deep sleep. "You both… look really good today," I said, voice softer than I intended. Mom gave me a suspicious look. "You're acting weird. Did you dream about failing your math exam again?" I laughed. God, even her teasing felt like home. Dad snorted and folded the paper. "Eat first. We've got training after. You've been slacking." "Oh, come on," I groaned, playing along. "I just woke up." "You think a fight waits for you to finish your eggs?" I rolled my eyes and sat down, digging into the food. The miso was exactly how I remembered—just a little too salty, the way I secretly liked it. The rice was warm and sticky, the egg perfectly soft. Mom poured herself that same instant coffee and grimaced at the first sip. Everything was as it should be. Too much so.
I chatted between bites. Joked about her coffee addiction. Laughed at Dad's usual insults. It all felt effortless. Like I had stepped back into a time that had never moved forward. A loop where nothing had gone wrong.
But beneath it all, something stirred. A distant whisper of discordant memories. A distant name. A face. Kaito.Emi.Kai— My chopsticks paused midair. I stared at my reflection in the tea. A shiver, colder than any morning breeze, snaked up my spine. Then Dad stood up, stretching his arms. "Yard. Now. Before your food coma kicks in." I hesitated. Then smiled, pushing the strange feeling away. "Alright… one match."
The yard hadn't changed. Same half-rusted training poles lined against the back fence. Same uneven stone tiles, stained with years of weather and memory. The old wooden rack with chipped bokken leaned just where it always had, as if time itself had been politely waiting for us to return.
My father was already stretching his shoulders, rolling his neck with that familiar, bone-popping rhythm. He was in his usual training wear—an old gray shirt, sleeves rolled, loose pants tied at the ankles. Barefoot on cold stone. I followed silently, still soaking in every detail like I was seeing it all for the first time again. My own body felt... younger. Smaller. Limber. No bruises from Spectra clashes. No soreness in my ribs or ringing in my ears. Just the gentle pull of old muscles still growing into themselves.
"Warm up," Dad said, voice clipped. I nodded, stretching out my arms and legs. I could feel the weight of the wooden sword in my hand—just the right heft, not too light, not too dense. The handle worn smooth by years of use. Mine. This part of the dream—or whatever this was—felt real in a way that made my chest ache.
Dad took his stance across from me, legs steady, bokken resting diagonally across his body. His eyes weren't unkind, but they were sharp. Measuring. Testing. "You've gotten sloppy," he said flatly. "Didn't know I'd be sparring today," I replied, a small smirk tugging at the edge of my lips. "No such thing as off days."
He moved first. The opening strike came quick, a clean diagonal cut aimed high. I blocked, the wooden blades clapping together with a hollow crack. But he didn't stop. A follow-up thrust to my chest. I twisted to deflect it. He rotated on his heel, striking low—my leg barely cleared in time. There was no hesitation in him. Every move was refined muscle memory, disciplined and honed. I was reacting. He was controlling.
I tried to return fire—two quick strikes aimed at his ribs and then his shoulder. He turned his body, let them glance off, then punished me with a jab to the center of my chest that knocked me a step back. My breath came faster. Arms heavier. Heart pounding. He was dissecting every weakness, every lapse in form I didn't know I had. I lashed out again, this time with more frustration than form. He didn't dodge. He caught my swing mid-arc and used my own momentum to throw me off-balance. My foot slipped. The world tilted— And I landed hard on my back. Stone against spine. Air punched from my lungs.
I stayed down for a second, eyes blinking up at the sky. The clouds looked exactly how I remembered them—gray, gentle, drifting without urgency. I sat up slowly, legs folding beneath me. The bokken lay beside me in the grass. Dad didn't say anything. He just waited. "…You're still strong," I muttered, not looking at him. A pause. "You didn't even try that hard, did you?" He gave a small shrug, neither confirming nor denying. I let out a quiet breath. "I've trained so much. Fought so hard. And you still feel… unreachable." Another beat of silence. Then I looked up at him, eyes narrowing with quiet resolve. "I want strength like yours, Dad."
"You want strength, son?" He lowered his sword. His voice was steady. Calm. Not teaching—reminding. "Then listen closely—power isn't something you're handed. It's something you earn, every single time you refuse to stay down." "There will be days when you're shoved into corners you didn't choose. When enemies are faster, stronger, crueler. And when all you've got left is grit—that's when you find out who you really are."
He began to pace slowly, his footsteps light across the grass. His eyes never left mine, sharp and unwavering. "Strength isn't your fists. It's not your speed. It's not even how hard you hit back. It's the part of you that refuses to break—even when everything else does." "Your bones will snap. Your body will scream. But if your will keeps standing—then you haven't lost."
He came to a stop in front of me, then lowered himself to one knee. His hand rested firmly on my shoulder—warm, grounding. "Pain will blur your vision. Fear will try to choke you. And you'll feel alone… even when you're not." "But in that moment—when you want to give in, when the world feels like it's falling apart—" "You don't run." "You don't look away." "You stand." "You remember what you're made of." His voice softened, but there was fire behind every word. "And you—" "Light the fire within."
Then the world began to fade. Not vanish—it began to peel away. The warmth of the sun dulled. Colors bled into blinding white. Shadows lost their purpose, dissolving into the stark nothingness. The air turned utterly still, silent, hollow.
And then the ground disappeared. My body jerked instinctively, but there was nothing beneath me—no up, no down, no sky. Just a blinding, endless white. I wasn't falling. I was floating—adrift in a silence so deep, even my heartbeat felt distant, a phantom thump in a world of stillness.
"Akira." My name. Spoken in a calm, grounding tone. But I couldn't tell where it came from—only that it knew me. I turned—and saw him. My father. But something was profoundly, terrifyingly off. He stood tall, composed, unwavering in the nothingness. He looked exactly the same—stern jaw, rough hands, eyes that had always seemed to see more than they said. But this… wasn't him. Not truly. His form began to ripple at the edges, like heat haze.
"You're not… him," I said softly, the words barely a breath in the vast silence. The figure nodded once, not hiding it. "Then… what are you?" My voice cracked—part fear, part disbelief, part overwhelming exhaustion. "Who are you?"
He didn't speak right away. Instead, he stepped forward. Each step somehow made a soft, resonant sound on the weightless white, like gravity bent just for him. "I am not here to be understood," he said, his voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "Only to remind." "Remind me of what?" I snapped, the tremor in my voice not from anger, but from everything threatening to unravel. "What is this? Why am I here? My friends are dying, and I'm—stuck—talking to some... thing pretending to be my father!"
Silence. A heavy, pregnant stillness. Then, he answered—measured, firm, his voice resonating with an ancient power. "You are here because you needed to remember. To see again what you once knew: what strength means. You could not hear it from anyone else. You would not believe it from anyone else." His gaze pierced through me, as if seeing through both lives, through every layer of my being. "Renji died chasing redemption. Akira was born with the chance to find it. But now, both are collapsing under fear."
I stared at him, stunned. The truth of his words, so impossible yet so undeniable, slammed into me. "You're not a dream," I said, barely above a whisper. "No." "Then… what are you?"
He paused. And then said, simply: "Something old. Something watching. Something that chooses." It didn't make sense—but it didn't have to. The sheer force of his presence was its own truth. He extended his hand—not to offer help, but to push. A silent, immense force pressed against my chest.
"Akira," he said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "You are not done." I swallowed hard, the taste of ash in my mouth. "You said they're still there?" "Yes. Kai. Emi. Kaito. All of them. And they will fall—if you don't rise." "But… I don't—" I choked. "I'm not strong enough." His eyes didn't soften. But they didn't need to. They burned with an unshakeable conviction. "You will be."
Then his voice lowered—not harsh, but undeniable, like a commandment echoing through the void. "Get up." The wind, non-existent moments ago, suddenly shifted, swirling around me. "Save them." The light behind him flared—a blinding, all-consuming nova. The white void imploded around me, pulling me back, faster and faster, toward something fast—something real.
And I opened my eyes.
Vance's hand hovered above Kai's head—glowing, humming with that deadly violet light. One more second and— No. The word didn't form in my mind. It didn't need to. It detonated in my chest.
My body moved on instinct. With a sharp, guttural roar, I twisted my shoulders, breaking the elite's grip like it was made of paper. My elbow slammed into his jaw with a crack of bone and air, sending him sprawling backward, skidding across the concrete floor. Gasps filled the warehouse. I was already moving. "Hands off him!"
My feet pounded the floor, heel to toe, each step thunderous, cracking under the force of my momentum. The world blurred—walls and broken lights streaking past in a tunnel of fury. The green energy flared around me—blazing out of my skin, burning from my veins. And then, mid-sprint, something changed. The air thickened. My vision sharpened. And my Spectra—turned violet.
It started at the eyes—an electric glow that burst outward. Down my neck. Through my arms. Across my chest and spine. Down to my legs. A shimmering pulse of impossible color, coiling like lightning around every fiber of my body. The ground splintered beneath each step. "RAAAAHHH!" The scream tore from my throat as my fist cocked back—
—and then drove forward. Vance turned too late. The punch connected dead center in his chest. BOOM. A shockwave exploded outward—dust and broken metal lifting from the floor. Vance's body was flung backward, soaring through the air like a ragdoll before crashing into a wall with a deafening crunch. The concrete behind him fractured like glass.
Silence. Dust swirled around me. Static crackled in the air. The violet aura surged, alive, unstable, licking at the edges of my limbs like wild firelight. Kaito stirred. Emi's eyes were wide, lips parted in shock.
Vance didn't move. And I— I stood there, my fist still raised, chest heaving, breath ragged. Alive. Awake. And burning.