Sparring started when Kuroha turned five.
Not real fighting. Not yet. Just controlled exchanges under Daigo's watchful eye.
The children were paired by size, gender and age.Or at least as close as it got.
Kuroha was matched with a boy named Takeru, six years old.
They stood across from each other on the heated stone floor. The other children formed a loose circle around them, watching in silence.
"Begin." Daigo ordered.
Takeru moved first.
A straight punch, telegraphed and clumsy. Kuroha sidestepped easily, the way he'd been drilled to do for months.
He countered with a palm strike to Takeru's shoulder. Light contact. Controlled.
Takeru grunted and reset his stance.
They exchanged blows for several minutes. Nothing serious. Just testing range, timing, reactions.
Kuroha felt his body responding well. His movements were sharp, his balance steady. He was faster than Takeru, more precise.
Despite the usual feeling of weakness that Kuroha had sort of started to ignore. Much how a constant loud sound seems to disappear.
Takeru's frustration was visible. His strikes grew harder, less controlled.
Daigo didn't stop him.
Kuroha blocked a wild swing and tried to create distance.
Takeru lunged forward, closing the gap.
His kick came fast and low, sweeping toward Kuroha's legs.
Kuroha tried to hop back.
He was too slow.
The kick connected solidly, knocking his feet out from under him.
He fell hard, arms flailing for balance.
His face met Takeru's other foot on the way down, as the older boy landed a follow up strike.
The impact was sharp and immediate.
Pain exploded across his nose and cheekbone. Hot and blinding.
Kuroha hit the ground and stayed there, hands pressed to his face. Blood poured between his fingers, thick and warm.
His nose felt wrong. Shifted. Broken. And it hurt. A lot.
He couldn't breathe through it.
The other children watched without expression, save from a nervous gulp, or two.
Daigo walked over and crouched beside him.
"Stand." the instructor said.
Kuroha blinked through tears and tried to push himself up. His arms shook. His vision swam.
"It hurts." Kuroha moaned.
Daigo gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "Ignore it. And do not make me repeat myself. It is Daigo sensei for you."
The man said, before ruffling his hair.
" Now. Kuroha. Breathe through your mouth." Daigo said. "The nose will set itself soon enough."
Kuroha nodded weakly, blood still streaming down his chin. If he was honest, his tears felt just as hot.
"Good." Daigo said, and turned back to the others. "Continue."
Takeru was already being paired with another child.
No apology. No acknowledgment.
Just training.
Kuroha stumbled to the edge of the room and sat against the wall.
His hands were covered in blood. His face throbbed with every heartbeat.
He pressed a given rag against his nose, trying to slow the bleeding.
No one came to check on him.
This was normal.
This was expected.
Didn't mean Kuroha liked it.
________________________________________
By evening, the bleeding had stopped.
His nose was swollen and crooked, the bridge visibly displaced. Every breath through his mouth tasted like copper.
His mother examined it briefly when he returned to her room.
"It will heal." she said, giving him a wet rag, and ruffled his hair, before returning to her painting.
That was all.
Kuroha cleaned the dried blood from his face and lay down on his mat. Sleep came slowly, interrupted by dull, throbbing pain.
_______________________________________
The next day, he was excused from sparring.
Not out of concern. Just practicality. He couldn't spar with a broken nose. He couldn't even breathe properly.
Didn't mean he couldn't go through the forms. Didn't mean he couldn't stand until every leg muscle burned.
So he was left alone after the usual training time children were required to do.
He left his mother's room and wandered through the corridors, heading deeper into the compound.
Away from the training halls. Away from the prayer chamber.
Toward the orchards.
________________________________________
The orchard was one of the few places in the ravine that didn't feel oppressive.
The air was still hot, still humid, but it carried the scent of fruit and earth instead of dried blood and steam.
Rows of bloodfruit trees stretched across the cavern floor, their bark slick and red, their branches heavy with ripe fruit. Petals littered the ground in shades of pink and crimson.
Kuroha walked slowly between the rows, his footsteps muffled by fallen petals.
It was quiet here. Peaceful, almost.
He paused beside one of the trees and looked up. The fruit hung low, round and dark, glistening faintly in the dim light of scattered oil lamps.
He reached up and plucked one.
No one was around to stop him.
The fruit was warm in his hand, its skin smooth and taut. He bit into it without hesitation.
Sweet and metallic, the juice ran down his chin. It tasted better here, somehow. Fresher. Probably just the environment.
He ate it slowly, savoring the moment.
For the first time in days, he felt almost comfortable.
He wandered deeper into the orchard, letting his feet carry him wherever they wanted. The rows of trees seemed endless, stretching into shadow.
Eventually, he found a thick tree near the edge of the orchard and sat down against its trunk.
The bark was warm against his back. The petals beneath him were soft.
He closed his eyes and let himself rest. Or, at least tried to.
The migraine hit without warning.
One moment he was sitting peacefully.
The next, pain split through his skull like a blade.
Kuroha gasped and doubled over, hands clutching his head.
It was worse than usual. Sharper. Deeper.
His vision blurred. His breathing turned ragged.
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate.
He fell forward, one hand bracing against the tree trunk for support.
The pain intensified.
His entire body felt wrong. Too full. Too tight. Like something inside him was trying to break free.
And then, for just a moment, he felt something.
Not the pain.
Something else.
A network. Threads of energy running through his body, pulsing, flowing, alive.
And not just in him.
In the tree.
He could feel the tree's pathways too. Faint, slower, but unmistakably there. A second network overlapping his own.
The sensation was overwhelming.
Too much information. Too much input.
His hand pressed harder against the bark, and something inside him rushed out.
Energy flooded out of him and into the tree. Or rather, it was pushed outwards against the bark, with most of it flowing into the tree.
Not much. Just a brief surge.
But it was enough.
A soft pop sounded, barely audible, and his hand twitched.
Almost like it was pushed off the tree by some kind of blowback.
And then the sensation vanished.
The migraine dulled slightly, the pressure easing.
Kuroha turned and slumped against the trunk, gasping for air.
He stared at his hand, confused.
`What was that?`
He'd felt something. Something moving through him. Through the tree.
Pathways. Energy.
Was that the divine gift?
It had to be.
What else could it be, but a pathway that this demonic power flowed through, to affect his body.
`But why? Why could i push it out, into the tree?`
He flexed his fingers experimentally, trying to summon the sensation again.
Nothing.
Just exhaustion.
He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, too tired to think anymore.
Whatever had just happened, he didn't understand it.
But he'd felt it.
And he knew, somehow, that it was important.
Something in the back of his mind, told him he had heard something like this before, but he couldn't remember.
________________________________________
When he finally returned to his mother's room, the sun had set.
She was painting, as always.
She glanced at him briefly, noted his disheveled appearance, and said nothing.
Kuroha lay down on his mat without a word.
His nose still throbbed. His head still ached.
But something had shifted.
He didn't know what.
Not yet.
But he would figure it out.
Eventually.