A few days passed.
Physically, I was almost back to where I'd been before the Yokai crushed me—ribs still tender, legs still aching, but somehow I could walk. That part surprised me the most.
Ito said I had a strong body. Said I'd become a great Taoist.
So I guess I'm already good at this, I thought.
The idea sounded better in my head than out loud.
Akira ran a hand through his black-and-white hair and stared into the cracked mirror. A pale ring scarred his scalp like a branded crown. The mark on his chest—once more than just a birthmark—had felt like a promise.
When it started to fade, panic set in.
If it disappears, he'd thought, maybe the promise disappears too.
So he'd done something stupid.
A knife. A clean cut. Forcing the scar back into existence.
It worked.
But the other kids at the orphanage had stared at him like he was something broken. Dangerous. By the next morning, he was gone.
Now Akira pulled a shirt over his head—plain white, bold black letters stamped across the back:
KING.
The fabric pressed lightly against his ribs. The word didn't feel like arrogance anymore. It felt like a challenge he'd thrown at the world and refused to take back.
"King shirts," he muttered. "Never thought training clothes would count as luxury."
After I recovered, they moved me to a Yoru military base outside the city where I'd taken that bodyguard job—some city whose name I couldn't remember even if my life depended on it.
Akira eased a heavy door open and stepped into a long, echoing hall.
Two teens waited inside.
One leaned against the wall, relaxed but alert. The other stood a little straighter, fingers fidgeting near the hilt of a blade at his hip.
"You're Akira, right?" the girl said, stepping forward. Her blue hair was tied back in a messy knot, her grin sharp and daring rather than friendly. "I'm Sora. This is Gaku."
She shoved the boy toward Akira with a flick of her wrist.
He startled, rubbed his hands together, then bowed awkwardly. "Gaku. N-nice to meet you."
Akira barely had time to respond before Sora grabbed his hand and shook it—hard.
"Eh," she said, squeezing until his knuckles screamed. "Thought you were supposed to be strong."
Akira winced but didn't pull away.
She released him with a shrug and stepped back. Gaku bowed again, quieter this time—like he was apologizing for her existence.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Ito appeared, resting a hand on Akira's shoulder the way a veteran might greet a new recruit. "She'll warm up," he said calmly. Then he turned and gestured down the hall. "Come on."
The doors at the end opened into a wide dojo.
Sunlight cut through high windows, carving long slashes of gold across the floorboards. At the center—like a deliberate imperfection—sat a small plant, growing through a ring of stones.
"This is where you'll learn Tao," Ito said. "Though I don't expect it to take just a day."
Ito gestured toward a nearby door. "Teaching you control won't take long. What matters is understanding how Tao works."
He glanced at Sora.
"Most Taoists are born with an innate talent. Without one, learning Tao takes years." His eyes didn't leave her. "Sora has no natural gift. She learned through sheer determination."
Sora crossed her arms.
"That's why," Ito added, "she expects gifted Taoists to be stronger than her."
"Good for her," Akira said. "But it's kinda dumb. Even if we train the same amount, she'll still be weaker than me."
Ito shook his head—slow, patient, tired.
"You really think she trains the same amount as prodigies like you?"
Silence stretched.
The dojo smelled of old wood, sweat, and discipline beaten into muscle memory.
Akira straightened.
"All right," he said. "Let's start."
"I've got catching up to do."