By the time the voices grew clearer, the excitement had already thinned into something sharper. The boy no, the man inside the boy stood still in the hallway, listening.
Two voices. Close in age. Confident. Familiar with the house. Brothers. He inhaled once, steadying himself. Five years old. He had to be five years old.
The system lingered faintly at the edge of his vision, silent now. Watching.
Footsteps approached from the far end of the corridor. The first brother rounded the corner casually, a towel draped over his shoulder. Dark hair tied back loosely. Older. Twelve, if the body's memory aligned correctly.
Sharp eyes.
They paused when they landed on him.
"You're up early," the boy said.
The tone wasn't warm. Not cold either. Just observant.
Roen forced his shoulders to relax. "Couldn't sleep."
Too steady.
He caught it immediately. Five-year-olds didn't answer like that.
The older brother's gaze lingered half a second longer than necessary. Measuring. Adjusting. "Go wash your face," he said. "Father's already outside."
Father.
The word landed heavier than expected.
Roen nodded quickly, adding a small awkward shrug for effect. "Okay."
The brother moved past him without another word. The air in the hallway shifted subtly as he did. Roen exhaled only after the footsteps faded.
First mistake avoided.
Barely.
He found the washroom through instinct and residual memory. The body knew the house; that helped. Cold water splashed against his face, grounding him further. He studied his reflection again.
Small. Unassuming.
Good.
He needed to remain unassuming.
The system flickered faintly across his vision.
Behavioral deviation detected.
Recommend emotional modulation.
He ignored it. He needed to learn the baseline first. No optimisation. Not yet.
Then came another set of footsteps.
Heavier.
Measured.
Not rushed. Not careless.
Controlled.
His pulse slowed instinctively. This one carried weight. When he stepped into the yard, he saw him immediately. The father stood near the wooden training posts, adjusting the wrappings around his forearm. Broad-shouldered. Composed. No wasted motion. No excess presence. Yet the air around him felt denser somehow, as if discipline alone had weight.
Former ANBU commander.
Even standing still, the man radiated assessment.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
For the first time since waking up, something cold brushed against the back of Roen's mind.
Not hostility.
Evaluation.
"You woke early," the father said.
His voice was low. Even.
Roen lowered his gaze slightly "Yes."
One word. Age-appropriate.
The father studied him a moment longer than necessary. Not long enough to alarm. Just long enough to register.
Then he nodded once.
"Stand over there."
Roen obeyed.
The brothers were already stretching nearby. The oldest moved with quiet efficiency, movements precise and economical. The second carried restless competitiveness in every shift of balance. The third, closer to Roen in physical age, struggled to match the rhythm.
Roen took his place at the edge and copied them. Slowly. Carefully.
His body lacked refinement, but something inside him tracked angles, balance, breathing patterns.
COG: 7.
The number surfaced unbidden.
He suppressed the thought immediately. Not here. He loosened his movements slightly, allowing minor imbalance. Too perfect would be noticed.
The father's gaze passed over him again.
Brief.
Unreadable.
Roen felt it nonetheless a subtle prickle at the back of his neck. ANBU instincts did not vanish. They dulled, perhaps. But they did not vanish.
Right now, he was being weighed.
Not as a son.
As a variable.
The system pulsed faintly.
Host stress levels rising.
Activate Cognitive Dampening Mode?
He hesitated.
Not yet. Not unless necessary.
The father turned away to correct the third brother's stance, adjusting his foot placement with two precise taps.
The pressure eased.
Barely.
Roen inhaled slowly.
This wasn't a fantasy. This wasn't a playground. The Shinra household had rules. This man had killed for a living. And if Roen slipped even slightly there would be no dramatic confrontation.
Only a blade.
The realisation did not scare him.
It sharpened him.
Meaning.
But earned.
Morning training did not proceed as a single unit.
After stretches, the father separated them without explanation. The eldest remained in the center of the yard. The second and third were sent toward the far post to work paired drills. Roen was directed to the edge near the wall.
"Balance and footwork," the father said. Nothing more.
The eldest retrieved the heavy dadao from the rack. The weapon alone distinguished him from the others; even resting against his shoulder, its weight demanded control. The kodachi remained sheathed at his left side.
The father stepped opposite him.
No announcement. No ceremony.
They began.
The exchange was measured, not explosive. The father did not move with unnecessary speed. He moved with precision. Each swing of the dadao carried pressure rather than flourish. The eldest met him head-on, but his shoulders rose slightly before impact a tell Roen noticed by the third clash.
The father corrected it without words. A subtle change in angle redirected the force of the strike, and the flat of his blade tapped the eldest along the ribs.
"Too committed," the father said evenly. "Your right shoulder rises before contact."
The eldest adjusted immediately and reset.
Roen watched carefully. The Shinra style was not built on wide arcs or dramatic spins. The right-hand blade forced space and weight; the left-hand kodachi controlled transitions. The movements were compact. Every motion served a purpose.
He shifted his own stance and began basic footwork drills. Step forward, pivot, reset. The first few attempts were uneven. His legs lacked endurance, and his balance wavered as expected for a five-year-old.
He kept it that way.
As repetitions continued, his corrections came faster. His body began adjusting more quickly than it should have. When his heel landed slightly off-line, he corrected before completing the pivot.
He forced himself to miss the next step intentionally.
Across the yard, steel struck steel again. This time the sound carried a sharper undertone. For a brief instant, faint static crawled along the father's blade, and the air near the point of impact seemed to tighten before releasing. The eldest stepped back immediately, adjusting his stance.
No one commented on it.
The second and third brothers did not react.
Roen noticed then returned his focus to his own drill.
"Hold," the father said suddenly.
Roen froze mid-step.
"Single-leg stance."
Roen obeyed, lifting his right knee and balancing as instructed. The third brother groaned quietly but followed suit. The second held steady.
Seconds passed. Roen felt the strain build in his ankle and calf. His breathing remained even, steadier than it should have been. He deliberately allowed his foot to wobble once, then stabilised.
The father continued sparring the eldest while speaking. "Balance fails when you negotiate with it. Either you hold it, or you fall."
Roen absorbed the instruction without reacting outwardly. When the burn in his leg intensified, he let himself lose balance naturally and step down.
The father did not look at him immediately.
But he did not need to.
"Again," the father said.
Training resumed.
By the time the session ended, Roen's arms trembled from light striking drills against the post. His knuckles were red, skin irritated from contact. The eldest remained in the center with the father, sweat soaking through his shirt. The second corrected the third's grip on the kodachi with visible impatience.
Roen wiped his hands on his shorts and stepped back toward the wall.
He had learned three things.
The Shinra style valued pressure over spectacle.
The father noticed everything.
And whatever that faint shimmer along the blade had been, it was not something the others could replicate yet.