Every legend begins with a human. Every human becomes a legend when myth and truth merge.
Shino Taketsu's story was never just about a boy in a dark room, or a student winning prizes, or a teenager rejecting normalcy. It was about transformation — from silence to fire, from ashes to stone, from boy to strategist, from shadow to eternal flame. Yet the more one tries to define him, the more he slips away, like smoke escaping through fingers.
Some remembered him as the quiet one who rarely spoke, whose gaze cut deeper than words. Others whispered he was dangerous, that beneath his calm smile lived a storm. Some called him a leader who could move people like chess pieces on a board. Others claimed he was a mystery that no mind could truly solve.
And then there were those who said he was more than all of this. That Shino Taketsu was not merely a person but a force — the kind that appeared once in a generation, burning through time like fire on paper, leaving only ash and story behind.
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The Fragments of Memory
In the classrooms he once walked, his seat was always the subject of silent reverence. Juniors would touch the desk as if it carried some hidden energy. Teachers, when mentioning him, spoke with an odd mixture of pride and unease, as if recalling a student they admired but never fully understood.
Rivals recalled him differently. To them, Shino was the strategist who never fought with fists but always won with mind. They remembered the sting of losing not because they were weak, but because he made them play a game they never even realized they were in. "He didn't beat me," one competitor once admitted, "he rewrote the entire match before it even began."
Friends — if they could be called that — remembered him with silence. They spoke less about what he did and more about how he made them feel: as if standing near him meant standing at the edge of something vast and dangerous. Some swore that even when Shino laughed, there was always a shadow behind it.
And yet, for all these stories, no one agreed on who he really was. Everyone carried a different Shino in their memory — and perhaps that was his truest legacy.
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The Legend Spreads
Years passed, but his name refused to fade. College corridors still echoed with his presence, though his footsteps had long vanished. In society, his myth grew larger than the man himself. Some called him "The Silent Flame." Others, "The Shadow Strategist." His name became a story parents told their children: that there once was a boy who sat alone in a dark room, and from that darkness, he built an empire of thought.
But myths are dangerous things. The more they spread, the less they belong to the person who created them. Shino Taketsu, the human, was replaced by Shino Taketsu, the myth. A myth that could inspire. A myth that could terrify. A myth that could never be controlled.
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The Eternal Question
What became of him?
Some say he disappeared quietly, leaving nothing behind but notebooks filled with strange diagrams and half-written strategies no one could fully decode. Others claim he never left at all — that in certain competitions, a new name would appear out of nowhere, someone with a style too similar to be coincidence.
There were rumors. In another city, someone claimed they saw him sitting in a library corner, surrounded by books and silence. In another place, a team swore a mysterious figure guided their tactics to victory, then vanished before they could thank him. Even in foreign countries, whispers traveled: a strategist with eyes like burning coals, who appeared when games reached their most desperate point.
Was it truly him? Or was the world simply chasing a ghost it had created?
No one knew. Perhaps no one ever will.
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Myth and Man
What is a legend if not an echo that refuses to die? Shino's story proved that a human could become something larger than themselves. That silence could be louder than words. That a shadow could burn brighter than the sun.
Some tried to bury his memory, to move on, to insist that he was just a boy, just a student, just another face in the crowd. But every attempt failed. The more they tried to forget, the more the legend grew.
Because Shino Taketsu was not born to blend. He was born to stand above. Not to be ordinary, but to be remembered. His name would whisper through corridors, classrooms, arenas, and minds long after his footsteps faded.
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The Suspense of Flame
And yet…
On certain nights, when competitions grew intense, when strategies became wars of mind and silence fell heavy across the room, some swore they felt a presence. A pair of unseen eyes. A shadow leaning against the back wall. A flicker of flame in the corner of vision.
Some dismissed it as imagination. Others as paranoia. But a few believed. They whispered, almost in fear, "He's still here. Watching. Waiting."
Perhaps it was just the power of myth, wrapping itself around every generation that followed. Or perhaps… the eternal flame had never gone out.
Because the boy who once sat in the dark room had not simply become a legend. He had become something worse. Or something greater.
A presence.
A whisper.
A shadow that even time could not erase.
And if flames, once lit, do not die — then perhaps Shino Taketsu was not gone at all. Perhaps his story was only waiting… for the next spark.