Part I: Clash in the Mist
The demon lunged from the shadows with a snarl that split the silence.
Kaito spun instinctively, blade flashing in a reflexive arc—Thunderclap and Flash, the first form of Thunder Breathing. But the demon twisted mid-air, claws scraping bark and the strike missed by inches. The blade bit into empty mist.
The demon landed low, its limbs too long and its grin too wide. Its skin shimmered with a sickly sheen and its eyes glowed like coals. It hissed, crouched and then pounced again.
Kaito dodged, barely. His feet moved before thought, sliding into Rice Spirit, the second form—circular, reactive, defensive. He pivoted around the demon's claws, sword raised, but the angle was wrong. The blade met resistance, not flesh.
The demon snarled, retreating into the fog, then darted left—then right—then lunged again. Kaito blocked, countered, retreated. The rhythm was off. His body knew the forms, but his mind hadn't caught up. He was fighting on instinct alone.
The demon was fast, erratic, unpredictable. Kaito was precise, reactive, calculating. But neither could land a decisive blow.
They circled each other in the mist, both breathing hard.
Kaito's sword arm trembled. His grip was solid, but his stance was slipping. The demon's claws had grazed his shoulder—shallow, but enough to sting. Blood warmed his sleeve.
The demon hissed again, circling, testing.
Kaito narrowed his eyes. He wasn't strong. He wasn't trained. But he was observant.
He watched the demon's footwork. It's breathing. Its hesitation.
It was fast—but not smart.
The fight had stalled. Neither had the upper hand.
Yet.
Part II: The Point Earned, But Not Yet Claimed
The demon lunged again—same angle, same speed.
Kaito didn't dodge.
He stepped into the attack.
The claws grazed his side, shallow but sharp. His blade moved faster—Thunderclap and Flash, refined by instinct. Steel met flesh. The demon shrieked, staggered, retreated.
Kaito pressed forward, not with rage, but calculation.
The demon's left arm hung limp. Its balance was broken. It's breathing erratic.
He circled, forcing it to pivot. Each step was deliberate. He wasn't stronger—but he was smarter.
The demon lunged again, desperate.
Kaito feinted left, spun right—Rice Spirit—his blade arcing in a wide loop. The demon overcommitted, exposed its flank.
Kaito struck.
Steel sliced through bone.
The demon collapsed.
Silence returned.
Kaito stood over the corpse, breathing ragged, sword dripping.
Inside his chest, something shifted.
A pulse.
A point.
But it didn't absorb.
It hovered—like a glowing ember waiting for permission.
Kaito felt it: the system had acknowledged the kill, but the point remained unclaimed. He hadn't chosen a seed yet. The system wouldn't feed power into an undefined path.
He knelt, breathing slowly.
The point pulsed faintly, orbiting his core like a question.
He had earned it.
But he hadn't committed.
Not yet.
The system was waiting.
He would need to choose a seed before the point could be absorbed. Only then would the skill tree begin to grow.
He closed his eyes and the seeds revealed themselves.
Part III: The Seeds and the Echoes
Five glowing seeds hovered in his mind's eye.
Each pulsed with a distinct rhythm, a different promise.
Storm-seed – Fast, precise, electric. Enhances Thunder Breathing with speed boosts, reflex counters and lightning-based counters.
Iron root – Defensive, grounded. Grants enhanced durability, parry techniques and terrain-based resistance.
Ghost veil – Stealth and misdirection. Unlocks silent movement, illusion feints and shadow-based evasion.
Blood flare – Aggressive, volatile. Converts damage into power, unlocks berserker strikes and demon blood manipulation.
Mind spike – Tactical and sensory. Enhances perception, predictive combat and battlefield mapping.
Each seed had three branches. Choosing one would lock the others forever.
Kaito's gaze lingered on Storm-seed—it resonated with his Thunder Breathing. But the others tempted him with possibilities he hadn't considered.
Then something stirred.
A flicker.
A memory.
Not from Japan.
From here.
Wooden swords. An old instructor. The sting of failure. The weight of expectation.
He remembered standing in formation. Remembered the cold mornings. The drills. The silence.
It wasn't full memory.
But it was real.
This body had lived here. Had trained here. Had earned its place.
He hadn't inherited it.
He had become it.
The sword at his side hummed softly.
The point pulsed again.
The seeds waited and the mountain whispered.