Morning at "Tenran" was cool and quiet. Dew still sparkled on the stones of the open-air training ground when Seiya stepped into the yard. In his hands, he clutched that same katana—dull, with a simple guard, but polished to a shine.
He took a deep breath, recalling Reiden's words from yesterday's lecture.
"Imagine your energy is water. And the blade is a pipe. You need to direct the flow, not pour in a lake."
Seiya closed his eyes, trying to feel the Scars within himself. There were so many—a chaotic swarm, warm and restless, like bees under his skin. He tried to gather them in his palms, direct them into the hilt...
And failed.
The "water" didn't flow through the "pipe." It gushed out in a wave, heavy and dense. The air around Seiya thickened. The stones underfoot cracked, covered in a web of fine fractures. His aura—a greenish, trembling haze—materialized for a second, condensing into a visible halo around his body. The glass in the lanterns at the edges of the ground rang and shattered.
Seiya gasped, let go of the katana as if it were red-hot. It fell onto the stone with a dull thud. The aura collapsed, leaving behind a resonant silence and his own desperate breathing.
"Again..."
"What, reactor won't start?"
The voice was rough, familiar. Seiya turned. In the entrance arch, leaning against the wall, stood Ryūnosuke Morohashi. A not-malicious but caustic smirk played on his face.
"I..." Seiya lowered his eyes. "It's not working."
"I can see," Ryūnosuke pushed off the wall and slowly approached. His gaze slid over the cracked stones, then over Seiya's face. "Kagetori told you about pipes and water, right?"
Seiya nodded.
Ryūnosuke snorted.
"He's a genius, sure. But sometimes explains like a scientist—complicated. Listen up, rookie." He bent down, picked up Seiya's katana, weighed it in his hand. "This isn't a pipe. It's a partner. And you can't force a partner. You have to invite it. Metal... it feels. Respects respect. Not force."
He handed the katana back.
"Try not to push. Listen. The blade's old, right? From your father? It has memory. Find it."
Seiya took the katana, his fingers closing on the familiar rough wrap of the hilt. He closed his eyes, discarding all instructions. Instead of "directing," he simply... listened.
At first—nothing. Then... a faint echo. Not a sound. A sensation. The cold of steel. The rhythm of a heartbeat in palms. The smell of blood and sweat ingrained in the wood of the hilt. Images flashed in fragments: shadows, movements, instinctive dodges, the fury of survival at any cost.
His father's katana. It remembered. Remembered every fight.
And in that moment, when Seiya's consciousness touched that ancient instinct for survival, something responded.
Not within him. From the blade.
The shadow at his feet thickened, swirled, rose. The air grew cold. From a semi-transparent haze, a figure grew—vague, bestial. Two glowing dot-eyes. A snarl. A shadow wolf woven from memories of danger and fury.
Seiya recoiled. He hadn't summoned this. It came on its own.
The shadow wolf didn't attack him. It turned its head, as if sniffing a world it didn't understand. Then growled—a sound like grinding stones—and lunged at the nearest training stone boulder.
Claws of condensed darkness sank into the stone. The boulder—weighing half a ton—shuddered, a chunk breaking off. The wolf struck again and again, with blind fury, destroying everything around. The training ground was turning to ruins.
"What have you done?!" Ryūnosuke shouted, but it was too late.
Seiya stood frozen, feeling the connection. Fragile as a spider's thread. He felt the wolf's rage, its blind instinct, its loneliness. This wasn't an attack. It was the panic of a creature torn from oblivion.
And then, deep inside, an instinct stronger than fear kicked in. If it came out... it could be sent back.
Without thinking, Seiya stepped forward, reaching out not to the wolf, but to that thread of connection. An image flashed in his mind: not banishment, but... an invitation back. "You're not alone. Come back. I heard you."
The shadow wolf froze, turned its glowing eyes towards him. For a moment, something like recognition flickered in them. Then the shadow wavered, flowed like ink in water, and rushed back towards Seiya—not into the blade, but into himself.
A cold stream pierced him through. Seiya cried out from shock, not pain—from overwhelming fullness. A foreign power—wild, sharp, instinctual—surged in his muscles. His vision sharpened. The world slowed. He felt every stone underfoot, every gust of wind.
And his katana... flared.
Not with fire. With a silvery, cold light emanating from the metal itself. Vein-like patterns ran along the blade. The hilt grew warm, almost alive.
Ryūnosuke froze, his smirk replaced by wary interest.
"What now..."
Seiya wasn't listening. The impulse, the instinct borrowed from the wolf, guided him. He didn't even swing. He simply took a step and drew the katana across a neighboring, still-intact boulder.
There was no familiar sound of steel on stone. A quiet whistle, as if the blade cut not matter but the air itself.
The katana passed through the stone like butter. A perfectly smooth cut. The upper part of the boulder slowly slid down and thudded to the ground. The inner plane of the cut was smooth, almost polished.
Silence.
Seiya stared at the katana, at the cut, at his hands. The silver light faded. The power, foreign and wild, receded, leaving a slight tremor and emptiness. But also knowledge—a vague, instinctive understanding: he hadn't just charged the blade. He had imprinted an echo into it. An echo of instinct. An echo of survival.
"Not bad," a voice came from the edge of the ground.
They turned. Under the arch, in the shadow, leaning against the post, stood Reiden Kagetori. A light, approving smile played on his face. How long he'd been watching—they didn't know.
"Found your door after all," Reiden said, approaching. His golden eyes studied Seiya carefully, then the cut boulder. "Not the one I showed you, but your own. More interesting."
"That... that wasn't what you said," Seiya muttered, still unbelieving.
"I can't teach everything," Reiden shrugged. "I can only show where to look for keys. Which door to open—that's your choice."
He came closer, his gaze growing more serious.
"Just remember, Seiya. What you did today... you didn't create. You listened. And invited. Every such echo—it wants to be heard. Understood." He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, his voice lowering. "But be careful. Some of those you call... won't want to let go. And then it won't be you mastering the blade, but it mastering you."
Ryūnosuke, who had been listening silently, grunted.
"So we'll teach him not just to call, but to send away?"
"We'll teach him to distinguish who's worth calling," Reiden corrected. He smiled again, but now the smile held something of a shadow. "Well then, rookie? Enjoy having guests?"
Seiya looked at his katana. It was just a piece of steel again. But somewhere deep inside, at its very core, an echo now slept. And he knew—this was only the beginning.
He nodded, still not trusting his voice.
"Then clean up the training ground," Reiden said cheerfully, turning to leave. "Then—breakfast. Growing a whole zoo inside yourself—need to eat well."
Ryūnosuke shook his head, but his gaze no longer held mockery. It held something like respectful bewilderment. He nodded to Seiya and followed Reiden.
Seiya was left alone among the debris and cut stones. He picked up the katana, pressed it to his forehead. The metal was cold, but somewhere deep inside he felt a faint response—sleepy, bestial, but his own.
"Thank you," he mentally whispered. Not knowing to whom—the blade, the echo, or the memory of his father fused into the steel.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt not fear of his own power, but curiosity. What other doors would open? And who would be waiting on the other side?
He sighed, began gathering stone fragments. A long day lay ahead. And, as Reiden said—a whole zoo to understand.