[October 12, 2002 — 12:56 A.M. | 19th Ward, Tokyo]
The room still smelled of blood from his last training. Hayato sat cross-legged on the futon, a rag clutched in his hands, running it over the little wooden toy car his father had found in a junk heap. It didn't roll properly — one wheel was broken — but he liked it anyway. It reminded him of… before.
I shouldn't remember this much, he thought. The cold. The dark. Dying. But it won't leave. Maybe that's why I don't sleep well anymore.
His mother sat near the window, darning a sleeve by candlelight. His father was out hunting — he never said where or who, but Hayato was old enough now to know what it meant when the door clicked shut after midnight.
The knock came again. Not gentle. Three times. The same rhythm as before.
Hayato's stomach turned. His mother's sewing needle froze mid-stitch.
She rose, placing herself between Hayato and the door. "Who is it?"
The midwife's voice: "Family."
The door slid open before she allowed it. The same midwife stood there, shawl soaked from rain. Behind her was not the smooth-voiced man from before, but a younger figure — tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp crimson eyes and an expression carved of stone.
He stepped inside without invitation, gaze sweeping the room, then settling on Hayato. His mouth twitched in something that wasn't a smile.
"This him?" His voice was low, almost bored.
The midwife nodded. "Hayato Seno. Eight years old. Kagune awakened early."
The man crouched, resting his elbows on his knees. "You don't look like much." His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly. "Show me."
Hayato's hands tightened around the toy car until the wood bit into his skin. He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder, protective, trembling.
"He's a child," she said. "Not your sparring partner."
The man ignored her. "Your bloodline doesn't raise weaklings. If he can't even stand, then maybe the Doves should have him instead."
Hayato's stomach twisted. Rage, fear, and hunger churned all at once. He rose slowly, fists clenched.
His mother's grip tightened. "Hayato—"
But he shook her hand off, jaw set. If I hide now… they'll think I'm weak. And if I'm weak, they'll keep coming until I break. No. I won't let them.
He stepped forward into the middle of the room.
"Good," the man said. He shrugged his coat off, revealing a plain black shirt. His kagune burst forth in a flash — a Rinkaku, four crimson tendrils writhing behind him, slick and gleaming. They swayed lazily, but each movement carried promise of violence.
Hayato's breath hitched. He's… huge.
"Call it," the man ordered.
Hayato closed his eyes, heart hammering. The ache bloomed in his spine, fire racing under his skin. With a cry, the crystalline shards tore free, jagged wings spreading unevenly, glowing faint red.
His knees buckled, but he forced himself to stay standing.
The man tilted his head. "Ugly. But sharp. Let's see if it cuts."
Before Hayato could brace, a tendril lashed out. He barely dodged — the air split with the force of the strike, cracking the plaster wall. He stumbled, breath sharp in his chest.
Too fast—
Another tendril whipped. He raised his shards instinctively — the crystalline edge screeched against the Rinkaku, sparks flying. The impact hurled him back into the table, splintering wood. Pain lanced through his small body.
"Better than I thought," the man muttered.
Hayato staggered to his feet, coughing, shards trembling. Blood dripped down his side where one strike had grazed him. His vision swam.
His mother shouted, voice breaking. "Stop this! He's a child!"
The midwife's cold reply: "He's a Seno."
The man lunged again, tendrils striking. Hayato grit his teeth, forcing his body forward, shards slashing desperately. One tendril recoiled, a shallow cut along its surface.
For a heartbeat, pride flared. I hit him—!
The man's expression sharpened. "So you can bite."
Pain exploded as another tendril smashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling. He gasped, clutching his side. Tears pricked his eyes, but rage burned hotter.
I won't let them laugh at me. I won't let them take me.
With a scream, his shards flared brighter, jagged growths extending further than before — crooked, monstrous, but deadly. He swung wildly, one shard carving a shallow line across the man's arm. Blood splattered the floor.
The man froze, eyes widening faintly. Then, for the first time, he smiled — thin, cruel.
"…Good."
He stepped back, kagune retracting. The midwife's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. "He'll do."
Hayato collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, shards retracting with a wet hiss. His mother rushed to him, pulling him into her arms, glaring at the intruders with fury that could burn a city down.
"You've seen enough," she spat.
The man only wiped the blood from his arm, examining it like an insect bite. "Strong. Stronger than most at his age. He'll grow into something worth shaping." His eyes flicked to Hayato. "Remember this pain, boy. It will either kill you or sharpen you. Nothing in between."
He turned, leaving with the midwife at his side. The door shut. Their footsteps faded into the night.
The room was silent but for Hayato's ragged breathing. His mother clutched him tightly, rocking him back and forth, whispering fierce reassurances he was too dazed to hear.
His father returned minutes later, bloodied from his own hunt, freezing at the sight of the broken table, the splattered walls, and his son trembling in his wife's arms.
"What happened?" he demanded.
The mother's eyes were sharp with rage and fear. "They came again. And they won't stop."
Hayato buried his face against her chest, small fists trembling. His ribs throbbed, his pride ached worse.
If they come again… I'll be ready. I swear it. Next time, I won't just cut them. I'll make them bleed.
His eyes glowed in the dark, crimson burning hotter than before.
The door clicked shut behind the midwife and the stranger, leaving only silence. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, heavier than sound.
Hayato sat slumped against his mother's chest, his body shaking with pain and exhaustion. Blood seeped from the shallow cuts across his ribs and arms, staining her nightclothes. His father crouched in front of them, gaze sharp and frantic.
"What did they do?" he demanded.
His wife's voice cracked, raw with fury. "They tested him."
His father's hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles whitened. "On my son? At eight years old?" His voice broke into a growl, low and dangerous. "I'll—"
"You'll do nothing," she cut him off, though her own hands trembled as she held Hayato. "If you go after them, the clan will know exactly where we are. We'll all be dead before morning."
Hayato stirred weakly, whispering, "Tou-san…" His voice was small, thready, but stubborn. "I… I hit him."
His father froze. For a moment, the anger on his face gave way to something else — pride, faint but real. He placed a hand on his son's head, heavy and grounding. "Yes. You did."
His mother closed her eyes, pressing her lips to Hayato's hair. "You don't need to prove anything to them," she whispered fiercely. "Not to them. Not ever."
But Hayato's thoughts churned like stormwater. I was weak. He toyed with me. If I were stronger, they wouldn't look down on me. If I were stronger… they wouldn't scare me.
The glow in his eyes lingered faintly even as exhaustion pulled him under.
[October 13, 2002 — 3:18 A.M.]
The apartment was dim, the only light from a single candle on the table. His parents' voices rose and fell in sharp whispers.
"They won't stop," his father said. "You saw it. They'll keep sending people. Next time, they'll try to take him."
His wife shook her head, jaw tight. "And what do you suggest? Run? Hide in another ward? We'll only paint ourselves as prey."
"We're prey now," he snapped.
Hayato lay on the futon, pretending to sleep, though his eyes remained shut tight. Every word burned into him.
They're afraid. They're angry. But they don't understand. I don't want to run. I want to fight.
He turned his face into the pillow, chest aching where the Rinkaku had struck him. He remembered the stranger's words: Remember this pain. It will either kill you or sharpen you.
Then sharpen me, Hayato thought. Sharpen me until they can't ever touch me again.
[October 16, 2002 — 12:03 A.M. | The Alleys of the 19th Ward]
Hayato slipped out while his parents slept. The night air was damp, carrying the stink of rust, garbage, and faint smoke. The ward was quiet at this hour, only the occasional stray cat darting through the shadows.
His small feet padded over cracked pavement until he reached the narrow alley where his father sometimes trained him. His chest was tight with nerves, but excitement burned beneath it.
He braced himself, clenched his fists, and drew a sharp breath.
"Come on," he whispered to no one. "Come out."
The ache bloomed instantly, burning under his ribs. He grit his teeth, tears stinging his eyes, and pushed harder. The shards tore free — crooked, jagged, uneven wings glowing faint red. He gasped, knees buckling, but forced himself upright.
He slashed at the air, the shards cutting grooves into the damp walls. Sparks flew when he struck metal pipes. Each movement tore at his back, but he kept swinging, kept pushing.
Faster. Stronger. I won't fall again. I won't.
He stumbled, coughing blood into his palm, but pushed on. Again and again he called the kagune, forcing it out, forcing it back in, until his body shook violently. His vision swam, black dots crowding the edges.
I can't stop. If I stop, I'll always be weak. If I stop, they'll win.
He screamed into the night, shards thrashing wildly, carving deep gouges into the walls. His voice cracked, breaking into sobs, but he didn't stop until his body betrayed him — the kagune retracting with a wet hiss, his small form collapsing into the grime of the alley.
He lay there, trembling, face pressed to cold stone, tears mixing with blood.
"…I'll show them," he whispered, voice hoarse. "…I'll make them regret touching me."
The shadows of the alley swallowed his words, but his resolve remained, hot and bitter as blood on the tongue.
[October 17, 2002 — 2:11 A.M.]
When he slipped back into the apartment, his legs barely carrying him, his father was waiting.
The man sat at the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the candlelight.
Hayato froze, caught.
His chest heaved, his shirt damp with blood and sweat.
For a long moment, his father only looked at him. Then, finally, he spoke.
"…Good," he said quietly. "At least you're not afraid to fight."
Hayato blinked, stunned.
His father's voice hardened. "But don't think you can do it alone. The night will eat you alive if you keep sneaking out. If you want to be strong, you train with me. Under me. Under control."
Hayato lowered his eyes, fists trembling. "…Tou-san… I don't want them to take me."
His father's jaw clenched, but his hand came down heavy on Hayato's head, not unkind. "They won't. Not while I breathe. And not while you learn."
Hayato's chest burned with something sharp and fierce. Then I'll learn. And one day, I won't need anyone to protect me.
His eyes glowed faint red in the dark, the same color as the shards that slept just beneath his skin.