Morning came softly over Kyomisu Village, spreading gold light across the bamboo hills. The air carried mist from the high waterfalls, each drop glowing faintly with Ryuma—the village's lifeblood and the essence every warrior trained to master.
Three boys moved across the courtyard beneath the ancient cedar at the village's edge, each repeating forms taught by the same voice, every motion perfect in rhythm but different in nature.
Kevin, the eldest at ten, practiced slow, deliberate strikes, his movements quiet as drifting leaves. A faint shimmer of shadow trailed behind each motion. When he breathed, the air darkened slightly, as though dusk followed him wherever he went.
Beside him, Kris and Dylan—both eight—were opposites in spirit though equal in drive. Kris's strikes landed with thuds that made the training stones tremble. His Ryuma stirred dust into the air, bending it around his fists. Dylan's training left streaks of light—thin arcs of electricity dancing across his skin before vanishing.
Their father, Kelivin, watched from a shaded veranda with a cup of tea resting untouched beside him. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, followed every detail—the way Kevin's stance wavered, Kris's overcommitment to brute force, and Dylan's reckless bursts of speed.
"Stop," he said at last, his voice light yet commanding enough to still the wind. "Strength without balance is a blade without a handle. And speed without focus cuts its wielder first."
The boys froze, breathing hard, exchanging looks of mixed pride and frustration.
Kelivin rose. His long coat rustled with embedded talismans, faintly glowing as his energy stirred. "Again," he said. "But this time—together."
Kevin, Kris, and Dylan fell into formation. Their father's figure seemed to blur as shadows wrapped around him. In one instant he stood before them, in the next he reappeared behind Kevin, tapping him on the neck with two fingers. The boy stumbled, teeth clenched.
"Feel before you move," Kelivin said, unyielding. "Technique means nothing if you can't sense what's around you. The world breathes, boys. The earth hums, the air pulses, even light carries rhythm. When your Ryuma aligns with the world, that is when you stop fighting it."
He clapped his hands once, and the training field shifted. The air shimmered, filled with faint motes of light like drifting embers—shinsei dust, fragments of the Market that occasionally spilled into Kyomisu's air before vanishing. The boys reached for it instinctively, fascinated.
Kelivin turned away. "Respect its presence, but do not chase it. The Shinsei knows who is ready."
Dylan frowned. "You've said that before, Father. What is it, really?"
Kelivin's gaze lingered on the mist‑veiled cliffs beyond the valley. "A place that teaches the price of power."
None of them understood, but Kevin noticed the faint tremor in his father's voice—the kind that never appeared during training.
The lesson continued until the sun slipped behind the peaks. When Kelivin finally dismissed them, the boys collapsed on the grass, laughing between gasps. The bond they shared felt unbreakable; though their elements differed, their hearts beat in time.
As night fell, Ryuma lanterns flickered to life across Kyomisu. Shadows lengthened, and faint music drifted from the town's plaza. The brothers walked home with bruised arms and blistered knuckles, racing one another through the narrow alleys.
From the veranda, Kelivin watched them go. For a heartbeat, his composed expression cracked. He looked toward the mountains, where hidden lights shimmered faintly through the mist—the invisible threshold of the Shinsei Market.
Beneath his breath, he murmured words no one heard:
"Let them be strong enough… when the seal calls again."