The sun wasn't high yet, but its first rays slipped through the wooden beams of my tatami room, slicing the shadows into thin ribbons of gold. The light played across my face as if mocking my wish for five more minutes of peace. It was persistent, merciless—much like this place.
I stretched on the mat, my body cracking in quiet rebellion. Fifteen years old, and yet I already felt like an old man in training. Soon, I'd reach the age for the clan's missions. Soon, everything would change—or so everyone said. I wasn't sure whether to look forward to it or dread it.
In the small mirror propped against the wall, a stranger always seemed to stare back. Skin pale as new snow, face too sharp to be called gentle yet not rough enough to be manly. My hair, mostly gold but streaked with dark strands, fell in uneven layers that caught the morning light. I looked... off-balance, like someone who wasn't sure which side of himself to trust.
But my eyes were what gave me away. One blue, calm as a clear sky; the other red, burning like an ember that refused to die. Everyone knew what that meant—hybrid, mutt, mistake. Born between two worlds, belonging to neither. Still, here I was, in the heart of the strongest clan in the central region. Not because I earned it, but because the Kyoshi tolerated me. Maybe even pitied me.
I wrapped my hands for training, the rough fabric scraping lightly against my skin—a ritual I clung to. Breathe. Eat. Prepare. Endure. Simple steps, but all that stood between me and chaos.
Breakfast was quiet. Steamed rice, a few vegetables, a strip of dried fish that smelled faintly of salt and smoke. Around me, servants moved with silent grace through the pavilions. Every motion was deliberate, like notes in a song only they could hear. Even the air seemed trained to obey discipline here.
"Don't fall asleep in your rice, Abel," came a familiar voice from behind.
I turned. Stipo Kyoshi, my teacher—towering, broad-shouldered, his red hair untamed, his beard trimmed just enough to pretend he cared. A gut hung over his belt, proof that even warriors weren't immune to comfort. He looked like someone who could crush a boulder with his bare hands, then complain about back pain after.
"I'm not asleep," I muttered through a mouthful of rice.
He chuckled. "I know. Just making sure you're not too busy staring at the girls across the hall. Eyes up, boy—those colors of yours cause enough trouble as it is."
My spine stiffened. I turned my gaze away quickly, pretending to focus on my bowl. He wasn't wrong—my eyes always betrayed me, revealing everything I didn't say. And somewhere in the back of my mind lingered that quiet rumor, whispered through the corridors: that I wasn't supposed to be here. That I'd been switched at birth, raised in the place of the clan leader's true son, while the real heir lived somewhere far away, oblivious to the fate stolen from him.
After breakfast, I walked to the training courtyard. The morning air carried the scent of wet earth and polished wood. The clan grounds stretched wide and ordered, banners fluttering lazily in the wind. Every stone, every tile, seemed heavy with history. Even silence had a weight here.
Stipo stood waiting, hands behind his back, eyes sharp. "Today, you'll learn something about the tanto," he said, nodding toward the two short blades at my waist. "They're not just for killing. They're for listening. Feeling. Reading the space between you and your enemy."
I nodded, gripping the hilts of my two tantō — twin short blades, forged for those who fought without room or hesitation.They weren't weapons of ceremony, but tools of survival: meant to strike in silence, to defend and finish in a single motion.Each blade was no longer than his forearm, perfectly balanced, light enough to feel like an extension of his own hand.The right flowed like thought; the left guarded, waiting for the counter — two breaths of the same movement.In the clan, most favored katanas, proud weapons meant to be seen.But the tantō were different.They demanded precision, restraint, and calm — qualities Abel had honed only because strength had never been his gift.And perhaps that was why, as some whispered, they were the only weapons that didn't reject him.
The lesson began. Stipo's movements were sharp yet fluid, like a storm restrained by discipline. Each strike flowed into the next, each parry deliberate and efficient. When I tried to imitate him, my shoulders burned, sweat stung my eyes, and every motion felt too heavy, too slow.
Then came sparring. The younger trainees lined up, eager to face me. I braced myself—and... lost. The first hit caught me off guard, the second swept my legs, and by the third, I was eating dust and pride together.
I stood, cheeks burning, breathing hard. Stipo's shadow loomed over me before his arm—heavy, warm—landed across my shoulders.
"Don't look so damn crushed," he said, voice rough but not unkind. "Every loss has a lesson. Yours just likes to shout louder than most."
A reluctant smile broke through my frustration. "Guess that means I'm learning fast, huh?"
He smirked. "We'll see. Maybe by the time you're eighty."
The courtyard echoed with faint laughter as he walked away, leaving me there, aching and alive. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stared at the twin blades in my hands. They glinted weakly under the sunlight—like they were mocking me, or maybe waiting.
This was my life: wake, train, fall.
A cycle that scraped away weakness one bruise at a time.
I wasn't the strongest. I wasn't the most talented. But I was here. And that—somehow—still meant something.
As the sun climbed higher, spilling gold across the rooftops, I felt something shift in my chest. Not pride, not confidence, but something quieter. A spark of defiance.
Maybe one day, when they looked into these mismatched eyes, they wouldn't see a mistake or a replacement.
They'd see someone who refused to stay broken.
To be continued…