The dawn came slowly, bleeding pale light into the valleys, brushing the mountain ridges with a silver hue. The Kagutsuchi home stood quiet, the wooden beams still cool from night air, the scent of smoke lingering faintly from the fire Akane had tended. Haruto stirred early, his body sore from yesterday's endless drills. His arms ached, legs trembled even when he stood still, and yet… there was a fire inside him that refused to sleep.
Today felt different.
He could sense it the moment he stepped into the yard. His father was already waiting there. Renga Kagutsuchi leaned against his cane, shoulders straight despite the illness gnawing at his body. His presence alone filled the space like a mountain rising from the ground. His gaze sharpened on his son.
"Today, Haruto," Renga said, his voice calm, measured, "your true training begins."
Haruto's heart leapt. His breath hitched in his throat, but he forced himself to stand tall. He wanted to ask, What do you mean? But something in his father's tone told him not to speak, not yet.
Renga gestured toward the treeline. "The Way of Flames is not something written in books, nor carved into steel. It lives in you — and if you are to wield it, you must understand fire itself."
He turned, walking slowly toward the forest path, cane tapping against the earth. Haruto followed, his bare feet brushing dew-wet grass, the morning air sharp and cold against his lungs.
They walked in silence for a long while until Renga stopped beneath the towering cedars. The forest was hushed, shadows still clinging to the trunks, mist curling low to the ground. Renga turned and fixed Haruto with eyes that burned despite the weakness of his body.
"Fire," he said, "is hunger. Fire consumes. Left wild, it devours everything — wood, flesh, even steel. That is why demons fear it. But fire is also warmth. It keeps us alive in winter. It cooks our food. It carries light into the night. Tell me, Haruto… what do you think fire is?"
Haruto hesitated, struggling for an answer. His breath fogged in the morning chill. "…Strength?" he guessed.
His father shook his head faintly. "Strength without direction is destruction. No, Haruto. Fire is resolve. The will to continue burning, no matter how the wind howls. To wield the Flame Arts, you must sharpen that resolve into a blade. And that begins… with your senses."
He motioned, and Haruto realized, with a sinking feeling, that his father had already prepared something.
The boy's eyes darted left, then right. He noticed ropes strung between trees, wooden posts buried in the soil, faint glimmers of sharpened sticks in the undergrowth. His heart tightened. Traps.
Renga lowered himself onto a rock, leaning on his cane. "The first lesson is awareness. Demons are swift, merciless. If you cannot sense the world around you, you will die before your blade even leaves its sheath. Close your eyes."
Haruto obeyed.
"Now breathe. Draw in the spiritual energy around you. It moves through the world like the wind moves through the trees. Feel it. Let it sharpen you."
The boy inhaled deeply, the cold air filling his chest. He tried to imagine the energy, like his father had taught him before: threads running through the earth, air, even his own blood. At first, it was vague — a faint warmth deep in his stomach, a hum he couldn't quite grasp. His mind wavered.
And then—
A snap. Rope whipping through the air.
Haruto's eyes flew open just as a log swung down from the trees. He stumbled backward, falling hard onto the dirt. The log thudded into the ground where he had stood, splinters scattering. His heart hammered in his ears.
Renga's voice was calm, unyielding. "You moved too late. Again."
Haruto scrambled up, his palms scraped raw. He closed his eyes once more, inhaled shakily, trying to feel for the next threat. His father's voice pressed into him:
"Do not look for danger. Sense it. The world whispers before it strikes. You must learn to hear it."
The boy steadied his breathing. In, out. His mind reached outward, grasping at the intangible. And then—
Rustling to the left. A whisper of air displaced.
His body reacted before thought. He dropped low. A weighted bag swung over his head, slamming into a tree with a heavy crack.
Haruto's eyes snapped open, breath rushing out of him. He'd avoided it.
Renga nodded slightly. "Better. Again."
The forest became a battlefield. Logs swung from hidden ropes, stones rolled down from camouflaged slopes, wooden darts hissed through the air. Haruto stumbled, fell, scraped his arms, bruised his ribs. But each time, his father's voice called him back to his feet:
"Again."
"Too slow."
"Listen to your breath."
"Do not let fear cloud your senses."
The boy's lungs burned. Sweat poured down his back. His muscles screamed as he rolled, leapt, ducked. The traps seemed endless, and his father's sharp voice gave no quarter.
By midday, Haruto collapsed against a tree, chest heaving, body trembling. He could barely lift his head. "I… I can't…"
Renga stood over him, eyes hard as steel. "You think demons will stop because you are tired? You think they will wait while you catch your breath? No, Haruto. They will tear your flesh while you lie there. Now stand."
The boy's fists clenched against the dirt. Tears stung his eyes. His body screamed no — but his father's words cut deeper than pain. He forced himself up, swaying on his feet, vision blurred.
"Good," Renga said quietly. "Now again."
Hours passed.
By late afternoon, Haruto's movements had changed. They were no longer clumsy, desperate reactions. He began to anticipate the air shifting before a log swung, to hear the faint click of rope before darts flew. His body flowed with his breath, guided not by panic but by instinct.
At last, as the sun dipped low and the forest turned gold, Renga called, "Enough."
Haruto collapsed onto the grass, every limb trembling. He lay staring up at the canopy, chest heaving, heart pounding. For the first time, he felt not just exhausted — but alive.
Renga stepped closer, his shadow long in the fading light. "That is the first step. To see without eyes, to hear without ears, to move without thought. That is what it means to sharpen your flame."
He sat heavily on a rock, coughing into his hand, but his eyes never left Haruto. "Tomorrow, we begin with the Flame Arts themselves."
The next morning dawned sharp and clear. Haruto rose with sore muscles, but fire in his chest. He followed his father back into the forest.
Renga carried only a thin wooden staff. He planted it in the soil and faced his son.
"The Flame Arts," he said, "are the form our family has given to spiritual energy. They are not tricks, not illusions. They are the fire of resolve, shaped into strikes. I will teach you the first."
He stepped back, inhaled deeply, and for a moment the air around him seemed to still. His thin frame straightened, his eyes flared with old strength, and then—
The staff cut the air. A single slash downward.
But Haruto saw fire. Not literal flames — not yet — but a searing impression, a streak of burning resolve that lingered in his vision, as if the air itself had been split by heat. The ground quivered, a thin line carved into the soil.
"Flame Arts: First Technique," Renga said softly. "Scarlet Slash."
Haruto's mouth hung open. His father's movement had been too fast, too sharp for his eyes to follow.
Renga planted the staff in the ground. "This is not strength. This is control. The fire of your spirit, focused into one strike. It will consume your energy quickly at first. But when mastered, it will cut through even the flesh of demons."
He handed the staff to Haruto. "Now. Try."
Haruto swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the wood. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, drawing in the flow of spiritual energy. He tried to feel the fire within, to sharpen it. His lungs burned as he exhaled and swung.
The staff whooshed through the air. The strike was strong, but clumsy. No fire. No lingering heat. Only a boy's effort.
Renga shook his head. "Again."
Haruto tried. Again and again, sweat soaking his shirt, hands blistering. Each swing drained him, his chest heaving, but no flame came. Only exhaustion.
At last, he stumbled, falling to his knees. His father's voice cut sharp: "What fuels fire?"
Haruto gasped, "Wood… air…"
"No." Renga's voice thundered through the trees. "Resolve. Without it, there is no flame. What do you fight for, Haruto?"
The boy's mind reeled. He thought of his mother's smile, the warmth of their home, his father's unyielding eyes. His heart clenched. He forced himself up, gritting his teeth.
"I fight… to protect!"
He swung.
For a heartbeat, the air shimmered. A faint streak of heat followed the strike, vanishing in an instant. But it was there. Real.
Haruto froze, breath catching. His father's lips curved faintly. "Good. You touched it. That is enough for today."
Days turned into weeks.
Haruto rose with the sun, trained until his arms screamed, collapsed into sleep long after dusk. His father drilled him mercilessly: trap after trap, strike after strike.
Slowly, painfully, the Scarlet Slash grew sharper. He could call a faint flame now and then, though it drained him to the bone. His father's voice pressed him forward always:
"Again."
"Do not swing with anger. Anger is a wildfire, uncontrollable. You must burn steady."
"Feel the flame in your lungs. Let it out with purpose."
One evening, as the cicadas sang and the air hung heavy with summer heat, Renga demonstrated a second movement.
He stepped forward, thrusting the staff like a spear. The air rippled, heat shimmering.
"Flame Arts: Second Technique — Burning Fang. A piercing strike, fast and direct. Like the fang of a beast, unyielding."
Haruto tried, nearly stumbling with the effort. His thrusts were wild, sloppy. But again, his father's voice anchored him:
"Not rage. Not fear. Resolve. What do you protect? Who do you protect?"
And so the boy trained.
Weeks bled into months.
Haruto's body hardened. His senses sharpened until he could walk blindfolded through the forest and avoid every trap. His spiritual energy flowed stronger with each breath, no longer sputtering like dying coals but burning like a steady fire.
He could summon Scarlet Slash with effort, and Burning Fang sometimes flashed true when his spirit burned high. Each success left him drained, but each failure taught him more.
At night, he lay beneath the stars, muscles aching, staring at the infinite sky. His father's words echoed: "Fire is resolve. Carry it, or it will consume you."
And Haruto swore, silently, as the crickets sang and the world turned dark —
I will carry it. No matter how much it burns. I will carry the flame.
To be continued…