Five months had passed since Tahomaru's third birthday. Each dawn, before the household stirred, he slipped quietly into the small garden beside his room and settled onto the cool stone border, folding his legs beneath him. Above his closed eyelids, the familiar panel of his PRS hovered, glowing softly in his mind's eye.
[Updated Status
Health: Below Average
Mental State: Good
Traits:
Physique: Novice Lv 0 (40 / 100)
Observation Haki: Novice Lv 4 (275 / 500) ]
He watched as the "Observation Haki" level bar increased and the numbers slowly settled. He had spent the past 150 days — exactly five months — meditating three hours a day, the maximum his frail stamina allowed. Even at peak focus, he could only gain about 1.5 exp per hour.
(A/N: 3 hours/day × 150 days × 1.5 exp/hour = 675 exp.)
He opened his eyes as they reflected the pale morning light, turned off the panel, and let out a quiet breath. Level 4… he had climbed one full level, but the bar still had a long way to go. Even so, knowing the exact numbers steadied his resolve.
Sliding to his feet, he paused for a moment. His legs trembled, as they always did, then he stepped toward the garden path. Omi stood just inside the doorway, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression calm and watchful. With a patient bow, she offered him the thin bamboo stick he had grown accustomed to.
Together, they began his daily walking practice. He gripped the pole with one hand; with the other, he reached out to brush his palm against the cool wooden railing lining the veranda. Each deliberate footfall — heel first, then the trembling arch, until finally his toe lifted — felt like an eternity. The entire world seemed to slow down, every grain of gravel in the path, every breeze of wind coming into sharp focus under his Observation Haki.
"Omi," he murmured, panting despite the effort, "I can… do a little more today."
She slowly nodded, ready to steady him if he faltered. He set the pole aside, risking balance for a moment of freedom, and lifted his arms out to the sides as if mimicking a bird's wings. His core shook violently; his breath grew ragged. Still, he wouldn't give up. Using his small hands, he caught Omi's sleeve, his fingers curling tightly around the silk.
She remained silent, not moving to help him. But the pink aura around her shimmered softly — something warm and different. Slowly, he took three more steps — one, two, three — before dropping to his knees, panting hard.
Omi knelt beside him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. The morning light spilled across his sweat-damp hair, and for a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then she smiled softly and murmured, "Well done, Young Master. Now please, take a rest." After saying that, she took the cloth and quietly left the garden.
As he leaned back on his heels, catching his breath, Tahomaru let his gaze wander over the garden he had come to cherish: the single persimmon tree, the bright petals of the camellia bush, the rough stones smoothed by countless footsteps.
After each circuit around the garden, he would pause at the persimmon tree and rest his forehead against its rough trunk, feeling the morning dew seep into his hair. The tree was old, far older than him, its branches twisted and patient, like a silent guardian watching over him.
From inside the house, he sometimes sensed the distant auras of the elders and some servants, dull gray or sickly green, filled with cold impatience and hidden disgust. He had begun to understand those feelings more clearly now. They didn't see him as a child, but as a fragile placeholder — an heir who existed only in name.
Once, a few days ago, while he practiced near the old lantern stand in the corner, he felt a sudden shift in intent — a sharp dark flicker hidden behind a servant's steps. Before he could even turn fully, the heavy wooden lantern began to tilt forward.
His body reacted almost by instinct, Observation Haki pushing his senses into sharp clarity. He threw himself to the side, rolling clumsily onto the damp moss. The lantern crashed where he had been, wood splintering and dust rising into the air like a silent scream.
Omi ran to him instantly, gathering his small, panting body into her arms, her face pale and mouth slightly open as she searched his limbs for injuries. In her trembling hands and frantic breaths, he understood the unspoken truth: this world would not grant him mercy, not even as a "child."
That night, as I laid under the thin futon, I replayed the moment again and again, each time feeling the cold echo of that malicious intent. In my past life, I had seen the looks of my father, the cruel words, the endless disappointments — but at least in the end, they let me be. But here… here I could not afford to be disobedient or weak, otherwise I'd lose my life. Even though I later heard from Omi that the servant was executed, I felt something wasn't right. Somebody was already targeting me.
Sometimes, when the mornings were still gray and the garden dew clung to my fingertips, Mother would slip quietly into my room, carrying a small lacquer tray with steaming herbal medicine. She always sat beside me, her slender fingers brushing back my hair as if she were trying to memorize the shape of my face. I could feel her fingertips tremble faintly, even though she tried to hide it behind a gentle smile. When I sipped the bitter liquid, her gaze softened for a moment, and she would whisper small words of encouragement I could barely hear over my own heartbeat. I knew these tonics were part of the reason my frail body had started to strengthen little by little; each sip left a strange warmth crawling through my veins, and each morning I found it slightly easier to stand. But that warmth would vanish whenever I caught her eyes lingering on the bandages around my knees or when she touched the bruises hidden beneath my sleeves. After the assassination attempt, I saw a terror in her eyes I had never seen before — her hands had turned cold as she clutched my shoulders, her breath was short and uneven, as if she feared I would disappear right there in front of her. In those moments, I realized she was the only person in this place who saw me not as a tool or a fragile heir, but simply as her son, a child she desperately wanted to protect, even if her own heart might shatter from the effort. That day for the first time, I cried, cried for the second time in this world. Because I don't know why, but at that moment she reminded me of my mom from my past life. The woman I thought I'd forgotten about, but deep down inside my heart, she's still there, alive.
My eyes drift shut, allowing the world to pour into my mind, through that sharpened sixth sense — every flicker of movement beyond the paper doors, every hesitant footstep of servants, the gentle, hidden warmth of Omi's watchful gaze behind me, and even the sincere presence of my mother as she lingered beyond the hallway. All of it flowed together, weaving a living tapestry i alone could feel.
As the first rays of sun slid across the mossy stones, catching on the old wooden railings, a strange feeling crept into my chest. "Hope."
---
[Updated Status
Health: Average
Mental State: Good
Traits:
Physique: Novice Lv 1 (45 / 200)
Observation Haki: Novice Lv 6 (75 / 700)]