The morning broke with a thin veil of mist clinging to the ridges. The mountains breathed slowly, the valley yawning open to the golden light of dawn. Cicadas had not yet found their rhythm, and the quiet was heavy — the kind that precedes both storms and lessons.
On the packed earth behind their home, Haruto Kagutsuchi stood barefoot, his wooden training sword clutched tightly in his blistered hands. His body still carried the bruises of yesterday's trials. His palms ached, his shoulders burned, but his spirit refused to bow.
Opposite him stood his father, Renga Kagutsuchi. He looked thinner than he had yesterday, the cane he leaned on a stark reminder of the illness that gnawed at him. Yet even in that frailty, his presence dominated the air. His robe hung loose, but his eyes — sharp and searing like molten steel — cut through the mist.
"Today," Renga said, his voice low and unyielding, "we duel."
Haruto blinked. "With you?"
"You will never understand flame by avoiding fire. If you cannot cross blades with me — even at my weakest — you will never be ready for what waits beyond these mountains."
The words sank like stones in Haruto's chest. He bowed his head, steadying his breath.
"Yes, Father."
Renga drew the wooden practice blade tucked into his sash. Though it was only a length of oak, it radiated menace in his grip. He didn't raise it in any formal stance. He didn't need to. Every line of his body whispered experience — the years of battles fought, of demons slain.
"Begin," Renga said.
Haruto launched forward, heart pounding. His first strike was clumsy but earnest — a diagonal slash meant to test his father's guard.
He never saw what happened.
The next instant, his sword was knocked wide, his balance broken, his knees in the dirt. His father hadn't even moved from his spot; only the faint vibration in the air betrayed his strike.
Haruto staggered up, chest heaving.
"Again," Renga commanded.
This time, Haruto adjusted, circling, trying to watch his father's weight, the position of his shoulders. He feinted, then thrust.
A blur — his blade flicked aside. A tap at his chest. Haruto stumbled back, stunned at the speed.
"You think too much," Renga said, his voice sharp as embers snapping in the fire. "A flame does not hesitate. Hesitation is water upon fire — it kills before you ignite."
Haruto gritted his teeth. "Again."
Again he attacked. Again he fell. Time and again, the duel repeated, Haruto lunging with all his strength, his father brushing aside his efforts with casual flicks of the wooden sword. The gap between them was immeasurable, like a boy trying to strike down the mountain itself.
Sweat stung his eyes. His lungs burned. His arms trembled.
At last, he collapsed onto one knee, gasping for air. His wooden blade lay trembling in his grip.
Renga studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered his weapon.
"You lack everything," he said plainly. "Form, speed, judgment. You swing as if the world owes you victory. The world owes you nothing, Haruto."
Haruto's chest tightened. Shame prickled hot across his skin.
"But…" Renga's voice softened, barely. "…you rose again every time I cast you down. That is something. Even embers, when pressed, can become flame."
He turned, his cane tapping the earth. "Come. We go deeper."
The forest swallowed them as they walked.
Morning light pierced through the canopy in fractured shafts, dappling the moss-covered roots. The deeper they went, the older the trees grew, their trunks wide and gnarled, their crowns blotting out the sky. The air grew heavy, the silence broken only by the whisper of leaves.
Haruto followed, still aching, but determined. His father's back was straight despite the illness, his cane striking the earth with unhurried rhythm.
At last, they came to a clearing. The ground was uneven, roots snaking like the veins of the mountain itself. The air here felt different — thicker, charged.
"Here," Renga said. "You will learn what it means to wield flame not against traps, but against something that fights back."
Haruto blinked. "What do you—"
The words froze in his throat.
From the shadows between the trees, a figure stirred.
It was no man.
A demon slithered forth, its body hunched, muscles coiling beneath ash-gray skin. Its single eye glowed like a lantern in the dark, bloodshot and feral. Its mouth stretched too wide, lined with jagged teeth, saliva dripping to the earth. Its claws raked bark as it advanced, hunger steaming off it like heat from a kiln.
Haruto's blood ran cold. He gripped his wooden sword tighter, though it suddenly felt as flimsy as a twig.
"Father—"
"This is your lesson," Renga said, voice calm, as if he had summoned the beast himself. "Stand. Face it."
The demon roared, a guttural sound that shook the clearing. It lunged.
The demon roared, a guttural thunder that shook the clearing. Its single crimson eye burned like a furnace as it charged, claws gouging the earth.
Haruto's breath hitched — but he did not retreat. His legs trembled, but he forced them forward, wooden blade raised.
I can't run. Father is watching. If I fall back now, I'll never rise again.
With a shout, he swung. The strike landed — a clean diagonal aimed at the demon's torso. For a heartbeat, hope sparked in him.
The next instant, despair followed.
The wooden blade cracked against the demon's hide as though striking stone. Splinters exploded in Haruto's hands, the blade snapping in two. Shock jolted up his arms, pain biting deep into his palms.
But still, he did not stop. With the broken hilt, he lunged again, slashing towards its face. The demon easily dodge it.
The demon's claw swept toward him, faster than he could track. Haruto raised the broken hilt in a desperate block. The impact hurled him backward, his body slamming into the dirt. His chest burned, his breath ripped away.
Pain flared in his side. He tried to rise, but his body would not answer. His legs quaked. His vision swam.
The monster loomed, drool hissing as it struck the ground. Its single eye glared with hunger. Claws rose, poised to carve him open.
Haruto grit his teeth, dragging himself up on shaking arms. Even if I die… I won't close my eyes. I'll face it.
The claw descended.
A sound like thunder split the clearing.
Renga had moved.
For the first time, Haruto saw it: not the frail cane, not the wooden sword — but the real blade. A katana, its scabbard worn, its surface dull and broken, like it had fought many battles. The steel did not gleam. It carried no shine. Yet when drawn, it bled red light — flame tempered heat, restrained and absolute.
The blade whispered through the air.
The demon froze mid-strike. A red line split across its body, from collar to hip. A heartbeat later, it fell apart, dissolving into ash before it touched the ground.
Renga stood in silence, his katana lowered, its glow fading as quickly as it had come. His breathing was steady, though a faint cough betrayed the strain.
Haruto, still on his knees, stared in disbelief.
That blade had not looked sharp. It had looked lifeless. But in his father's hands, it was a fire more absolute than any torch, more merciless than any inferno.
"Do you understand now?" Renga's voice broke through his shock. His eyes glowed like dying embers reignited. "Strength is not in wild swings or frantic strikes. It is in control. In purpose. The flame does not waste itself — it strikes where it must, and no further."
Haruto's throat was dry. "That speed… that power… Father, how—"
Renga looked at him, and for the briefest instant, the steel in his gaze softened.
"You are not ready to know. For now, know only this: what you saw was not mine alone. It is the flame of generations, carried forward, refined, and given to me. One day, if you endure, it may be yours."
He turned away, coughing faintly into his sleeve. The sound lingered, harsh and raw against the silence of the clearing.
"Rise, Haruto. We return."
By dawn, the forest spat them out again. The world was washed in pale gold, mist rising from the earth as though the mountains themselves exhaled.
They walked in silence. Haruto stole glances at his father, awe still burning in his chest. That single strike had shattered every image he'd held of strength. His father was not merely a teacher, not merely a sick man clinging to life. He was something far more.
When they reached the house, Renga turned. "I go to the village. You will rest."
"Yes, Father," Haruto said, though his heart still pounded.
As his father disappeared down the path, Haruto remained on the veranda, staring at the wooden hilt still clutched in his hand.
His mother stepped out, her presence soft as morning light. "Haruto? You look pale."
"Mother…" He turned to her, words rushing like water from a broken dam. "How strong was Father… before his illness?"
Akane's gaze lingered on him, then drifted toward the distant trees where Renga had vanished. A shadow crossed her eyes.
"When your father was twenty-four," she said quietly, "his illness began. It spread slowly, weakening him year by year. But before that…" She shook her head. "Before that, he was unmatched. Even after the illness struck, he fought on. For six years he battled demons — each one falling before him. Even weakened, he slew more than most men ever dreamed of."
Haruto's heart thudded. "Six years… and then?"
"By the time he was thirty, the illness worsened. He could no longer hide it, even with his strength. So he retired from the Order."
"The Order?"
"The Demon Hunter Order," she explained. "A brotherhood bound not by blood, but by oath — to stand between humanity and the darkness. Your father joined when he was twelve. From then until his illness, not a single demon survived an encounter with him."
Haruto's breath caught. His father… twelve years old… already hunting demons?
"But…" he asked hesitantly, "after his illness, did any demon escape him?"
Akane's lips curved in a faint, sad smile. "Not an ordinary demon. No. But once… there was one. The Demon King."
Haruto froze. The title alone chilled him. "He faced… the Demon King?"
She nodded slowly. "Two years after his illness began. I can still see it… the sky split with fire, the mountains trembling. Your father stood alone, his body already failing him, yet he fought. The Demon King survived only because reinforcements came… and because your father's illness weakened him. Had they met before the sickness took root, perhaps the world would have seen a different end to that battle."
Her gaze softened, but her voice held a weight that pressed into Haruto's soul. "After that day, the Demon King vanished. Hiding in the shadows, waiting. And your father… his illness deepened. He used his spiritual energy to hold it at bay, but the cost was terrible. The more he resisted, the more it spread."
Haruto's chest tightened. The image of his father, standing unshaken before the Demon King himself, clashed with the fragile man he now saw leaning on a cane.
"And then?" he whispered.
"Then," Akane said softly, "he retired. He left the Order, and he chose me. We married. We came here. He gave up the world's battles… for a smaller one. To protect this valley, this family."
Haruto's throat burned. He looked at her, the weight of her words pressing deep.
And from the shadows just beyond the veranda, unseen, Renga Kagutsuchi sat silently. His eyes closed, his body weak — but he heard every word.
The days that followed fell into rhythm.
Haruto trained from dawn until dusk, his body bruised and battered, but his spirit sharper. He began to help the villagers as well, carrying wood, mending fences, listening to their worries. They greeted him warmly, though he often caught his father watching from afar — silent, unseen, measuring.
At night, Akane tended his wounds with gentle hands, her words reminding him that strength without compassion was emptiness.
But not all was steady. Renga's illness worsened. Some evenings, he coughed until blood flecked his sleeve. Akane would sit beside him, her hand steady on his back, though her eyes trembled.
"You shouldn't strain yourself," she whispered one night, tears threatening.
He shook his head. "If you falter, Akane, he will see. He must not see. You are our strength. If you waver, not only me but he will also break before he begins."
She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, whispering through her tears, "Then let me carry this with you."
Renga closed his eyes, his hand tightening over hers. "Together, then. Always."
The night held them there, flame and warmth bound together against the dark.
And in the silence of his room, Haruto lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The weight of legacy pressed heavy upon him. His father's strength. His mother's kindness. The shadow of the Demon King.
All of it waited.
All of it burned.
The broken hilt rested on the floor beside him, its wood charred from the demon's touch. Haruto closed his fist around it, his chest tight but steady. The flame inside him was faint still — but dawn had come, and it was growing.
To be continued…..