Haruki read the letter three times, his heart swelling with each pass. He could hear her voice in the words, her soft laughter, the way she tilted her head when she was teasing him. He could see her face in his mind's eye—the delicate curve of her cheek, the warmth of her brown eyes, the way her lips curved into that shy smile that made his chest ache with longing.
I am a fool, he thought, folding the letter and pressing it against his chest. A complete and utter fool. Akira warned me about this. He told me not to get attached, not to let my heart rule my head. He said we needed strength, not love. Only when we became nobles could we pursue what we wanted.
And he had agreed. He had nodded along, had thrown himself into his training with a ferocity that had surprised even his instructors. He had become one of the Four Tyrants, a fearsome genius whose Rejection technique had made him the terror of the training grounds. He had pushed himself to the edge of his limits and beyond, driven by the promise that one day, he would be free.
But the heart was a fickle thing, and it refused to listen to reason.
He had met Kami only a few months ago, in this very forest. He had been returning from a mission, his body battered and his mind exhausted, when he had stumbled upon her—a young woman in elegant robes, her hair pinned up in the style of the Fujiwara court, her eyes wide with fear as she fled from a small curse that had been pursuing her. He had killed the curse without thinking, his Rejection technique shattering it into nothingness, and she had collapsed at his feet, weeping with relief.
He had helped her up, had spoken to her in the gentle voice he reserved for no one but Akira, and something had shifted between them. He didn't know what it was—perhaps the gratitude in her eyes, perhaps the softness of her hand in his—but from that moment on, he had been lost.
They had begun leaving letters for each other, hidden in the hollows of trees, tucked beneath loose stones, placed in the crevices of ancient oaks. She would write to him about her life at court, about the politics and the intrigues, about the gilded cage that was her existence. He would write to her about his training, about the battles he fought, about the dreams he held for the future. And each letter was a treasure, a precious artifact that he would read and reread until the words were etched into his soul.
He knew it was dangerous. He knew that the Fujiwara would not approve—that if they discovered his relationship with Kami, they would use it against him, would exploit his love to control him, would destroy him and everything he had worked for. But he could not stop. He would not stop. Kami was the first thing in his life that had felt truly his, a bright spot in the darkness of his existence, and he would not let her go.
I am a fool, he thought again, and this time, he allowed himself a bitter smile. A fool in love. Akira would be so disappointed.
He burned the letter with a surge of Cursed Energy, the paper curling and blackening in his palm, the words dissolving into ash that scattered on the wind. He watched the last embers fade, then descended from the tree, his feet landing silently on the blood-soaked earth.
The bodies of the bandits lay where they had fallen, their heads intact, their eyes still wide with the shock of death. Haruki moved among them with practiced efficiency, his knife flashing as he severed each head and added it to the sack slung over his shoulder. The work was gruesome, but it was familiar—a ritual he had performed a hundred times before, a task that had become as routine as breathing.
With this, he thought, I've completed this month's quota. I'll have time to train, to rest, to sneak away and see her. Maybe I can find a way to meet her more often, to steal a few extra moments with her before the next mission pulls me away.
The thought warmed him, a flicker of happiness in the cold void that had become his life. He hoisted the sack onto his shoulder and vanished into the forest, his steps carrying him back toward the grotto where his supervisor would count his trophies and mark him present for the day.
---
Several days passed. The routine of training and missions continued, the endless cycle of violence and exhaustion that had become Haruki's existence. But every spare moment he had, he spent in the forest, waiting for the familiar presence that made his heart race.
He was training in the clearing where they had first met, his blade slicing through the air in the forms his instructors had drilled into him, when he felt her aura—a soft warmth that seemed to pierce through the darkness of his soul. He froze, his sword lowering, and set up a small barrier around himself, just in case someone else was watching.
Then she appeared.
Kami stepped out of the shadows, her robes shimmering in the moonlight, her hair loose and flowing about her shoulders. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her steps light and hesitant, her eyes wide with a mixture of love and fear. She was beautiful—more beautiful than he remembered, more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen.
She's perfect, he thought, his breath catching in his throat. She's absolutely perfect.
She approached him shyly, her hands clasped in front of her, her cheeks flushed with a rosy hue. She was holding a basket, woven from reeds and filled with food—rice, fish, pickled vegetables, a small jar of sake. It was a feast, a treasure, a testament to her care for him.
"I brought you something," she said, her voice soft as silk. "I thought you might be hungry. You work so hard, Haruki-sama. You push yourself so relentlessly. I worry about you."
He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he was fine, that her concern was unnecessary. But the words would not come. They were caught in his throat, tangled with the emotions that swirled within him.
She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the world fell away. There was only her—only the warmth of her presence, the softness of her gaze, the way her lips parted slightly as she leaned in.
Then she kissed him.
It was a brief kiss, a gentle peck on the cheek that lasted only a second. But it was enough. It was everything. It was the first time she had ever touched him like that, the first time she had ever crossed the line between words and action, and it sent a jolt of electricity through his entire body.
She pulled back, her cheeks burning, her eyes downcast. "I should go," she whispered. "I shouldn't have... I mean, I wanted to see you, but it's dangerous. If anyone found out—"
"They won't," he said, his voice hoarse. "I won't let them."
She smiled—a shy, hopeful smile that made his heart ache—and pressed the basket into his hands. "Take care of yourself, Haruki-sama. Eat well. Rest when you can. And... and please, be careful."
Then she turned and vanished into the night, her robes billowing behind her like the wings of a bird taking flight.
Haruki stood in the clearing, the basket clutched to his chest, his heart pounding in his ears. He watched her go, watched until the shadows swallowed her, and then he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
I am in love, he thought. I am truly, completely, hopelessly in love.
He opened the basket, his hands trembling, and found the letter nestled among the food. He unfolded it with the same care he had shown the first one, his eyes scanning the elegant characters that danced across the page.
My dearest Haruki,
I have considered your proposal. I know that the path ahead is difficult, that the Fujiwara are not kind to those who dare to love outside their carefully arranged plans. But I believe in you. I believe in us.
If you can truly make it to the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad by the end of your training, I will petition my father to allow us to be together. I will fight for you, Haruki-sama. I will fight for us. Please do not give up. Please do not lose hope. Please hold on to the dream that we have built together.
Yours, forever and always,
Kami
Haruki read the letter three times, his vision blurring with tears he refused to shed. A wave of invigoration surged through him, a renewed determination that made his hands clench into fists. He would make it. He would join the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad. He would become worthy of her. He would give her everything she deserved.
He ate the food quickly, tasting none of it, his mind already racing with plans and strategies. Then he rose, his body humming with energy, and returned to his training with a ferocity that bordered on madness.
I will do this, he vowed. I will become strong. I will become worthy. And I will make her mine.
---
If Haruki had paid closer attention to Kami, he might have noticed the strange stitches on her head. They were faint, almost invisible, hidden beneath the cascading fall of her hair. But they were there—thin, neat lines that did not belong on the smooth skin of a young woman. They were the marks of a sorcerer's work, the signature of a master who had long ago learned to wear the faces of others like masks.
Kenjaku.
The ancient sorcerer had been watching Haruki for months, tracking his progress, measuring his potential. The Rejection technique was a rare and powerful ability, and Kenjaku had recognized its value immediately. A tool like Haruki could be useful—a weapon to be wielded, a piece to be moved on the board of the great game.
And what better way to control a man than through his heart?
Kami was real. Her feelings were real. Everything that Haruki felt for her was genuine, born from the depths of his soul. But the woman who had delivered the letter, the woman who had kissed him and whispered words of love in his ear—that woman was not Kami. It was Kenjaku, wearing her skin, playing her role, manipulating Haruki with the precision of a master puppeteer.
Haruki would never know. He would never suspect. The love he felt was its own poison, a sweet and beautiful poison that dulled his senses and blinded him to the truth. And like all poisons, it had no cure—only the slow, inexorable march toward its final conclusion.
He returned to his training with renewed vigor, his mind filled with dreams of a future with Kami. He fought harder, pushed himself further, became more relentless in his pursuit of power. And every night, he wrote to her, pouring out his heart in words he had never spoken to anyone else.
But he did not know that his love was a trap. He did not know that the woman he adored was a puppet controlled by a monster. He did not know that every letter he wrote, every word he spoke, every secret he shared, was being watched, cataloged, and exploited by an ancient evil that had been playing this game for so long.
All he knew was the warmth in his chest, the hope in his heart, the certainty that he would find a way to be with her. It was a beautiful delusion, a perfect illusion, and it would lead him down a path from which there was no return.
---
Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, Akira was returning from his own mission, his sack heavy with the heads of the bandits he had killed. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, his senses alert, his mind already turning to the next task.
He paused, his head tilting slightly. He could sense Haruki nearby—the familiar pulse of his Cursed Energy, the warmth of his presence. But there was something else there, too. Something strange. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
What are you up to, brother?
He wanted to investigate, to track down the source of his unease, to make sure Haruki was safe. But he knew better. Haruki was in a separate team, with separate supervisors, separate duties. Interfering in his missions would raise suspicion, would draw attention to both of them.
He's alive, Akira reminded himself. That's all that matters. He's alive, and he's strong, and he's surviving.
He turned away, forcing himself to walk on. But the unease lingered, a cold knot in his stomach that refused to dissipate.
I'll keep an eye on him, he thought. I'll make sure he's safe. And if anyone tries to hurt him, they'll answer to me.
He did not know that someone already had.
---
Author's Note:
And the other shoe finally drops. The saxophones are getting louder and the curtains of tragedy are about to fall. Enjoy your chapter Maximaru Out
And please I'll appreciate if you guys can throw in a few tips to support the story and others I write. No amount is too small and a single dollar or two would be very much appreciated
The Transparent World
The Transparent World was not a technique that could be taught. It was not a skill that could be practiced, not a power that could be seized through talent alone. It was a martial phenomenon—a fleeting state where perception transcended the limitations of the mortal body, where the boundaries between self and world blurred into nothingness, where combat became unbearably clear.
To those who stood outside its gates, battle was chaos. Blades clashed, fists flew, and movement blurred into instinct. Yet to one who had stepped into the Transparent World, combat became something else entirely—a symphony of intention and consequence, each action revealing itself before it was ever taken. The opponent no longer appeared as flesh and blood; their muscles were laid bare before the mind's eye, every contraction heralding movement before it began. Their heartbeat drummed like a war gong within their chest, revealing fear, hesitation, exhaustion, and murderous intent. Blood coursed through their veins like rivers across a map, exposing wounds hidden beneath skin and revealing precisely how much strength remained within their body.
There were no feints within the Transparent World. No deception. No wasted motion.
The slightest shift in weight became as obvious as thunder before a storm. A tightened finger revealed the trajectory of a sword strike. The expansion of one's lungs betrayed the moment they intended to attack. To its practitioners, battle was no longer a contest of reaction, but one of understanding—a dialogue between combatants that transcended the need for words.
Yet the greatest enemy perceived within the Transparent World was oneself. For the state demanded absolute tranquility. Anger muddied its waters, fear clouded its vision, and desire shattered its stillness. The mind must become an unbroken mirror—reflecting everything and grasping nothing. Only then could one perceive the world as it truly was, stripped of illusion and falsehood, reduced to the pure, unfiltered truth of existence.
Legends spoke of masters whose mastery reached even greater heights. Their presence vanished amidst battle, their killing intent becoming indistinguishable from the wind itself. Their movements carried neither hesitation nor excess, each action being the singular correct answer chosen from an infinite number of possibilities. To witness such a warrior was a terrifying thing—their sword did not move faster than yours; they simply knew where it would need to be before you ever chose to strike.
Some called it enlightenment. Others deemed it divine revelation. Martial artists throughout the ages had known it by countless names, but all arrived at the same conclusion: the Transparent World was not the act of seeing through one's enemy. It was the act of seeing through all falsehood, until nothing remained but truth itself.
Akira had first glimpsed it during the second year of training, a fleeting moment of perfect clarity that had vanished as quickly as it had come. He had been sparring with one of the instructors, his body pushed to its limits, his mind racing with the desperate need to survive. And then, for a single heartbeat, the world had shifted. He had seen the instructor's muscles contract before the strike, had felt the weight shift before the foot moved, had known exactly where the blade would land before it was ever swung.
It had lasted only a moment, but it had been enough. It had shown him what was possible. It had given him a goal to strive for.
And now, on the first day of the fifth and final year of their training, he had finally stepped into it fully.
The Transparent World enveloped him like a second skin, a state of awareness so profound that it felt like drowning in light. He could see everything—every muscle fiber in his opponent's body, every drop of blood coursing through their veins, every flicker of emotion that passed across their face. He could hear their heartbeat, could feel the subtle shifts in their Cursed Energy, could perceive the exact moment they intended to strike.
Combat had become unbearably clear.
His opponent—one of the senior instructors, a man who had trained hundreds of sorcerers over the course of his career—lunged at him with a speed that would have been impossible to track just a year ago. Akira saw the attack coming before it had even begun. He watched the muscles in the man's shoulder contract, saw the shift in his weight, felt the anticipation building in his Cursed Energy.
He stepped aside, and the blade passed through empty air.
The instructor stumbled, his momentum carrying him forward. Akira moved, his body flowing like water, and his fist connected with the man's solar plexus. The instructor crumpled, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with shock.
"How..." he wheezed. "How did you...?"
Akira didn't answer. He simply bowed, his movements fluid and precise, and walked away.
The Transparent World, he thought, his mind still reeling from the experience. This is what it feels like to see through all falsehood. To perceive nothing but truth.
He had heard legends of this state—tales of masters whose presence vanished amidst battle, whose killing intent became indistinguishable from the wind itself. He had always assumed they were exaggerations, myths created to inspire awe in the hearts of lesser warriors. But now he understood. The Transparent World was real. And it was terrifying.
With this, he thought, I can achieve anything. I can become anything. No one will be able to stop me.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, a flicker of doubt stirred in his chest. The Transparent World demanded absolute tranquility—a mind free of anger, fear, and desire. Anger muddied its waters. Fear clouded its vision. Desire shattered its stillness. And Akira, despite all his training, was not immune to these things. He feared for Haruki. He was angry at the Fujiwara. He desired freedom with every fiber of his being.
I will have to be careful, he thought. I will have to maintain my composure, no matter what happens. If I lose myself to emotion, I will lose the Transparent World.
He pushed the thoughts aside and turned his attention to the present.
---
The fifth year had begun with a somber acknowledgment of how far they had come. The trainees gathered in the dojo for the final time, their numbers reduced to just thirty. The others had fallen—some to the brutal training, some to the bandit suppression missions, some to the simple failure to meet their quotas. Only thirty remained of the original ninety-eight, and of those thirty, only five had actually died. The rest had been reduced to mere guards and foot soldiers, their dreams of nobility shattered by their own weakness.
The Four Tyrants remained, as they had always been—the strongest, the most feared, the ones who had refused to break. Jin and Mei knelt in their usual positions, their expressions cold and unreadable. Haruki was there too, his face distant, his mind clearly elsewhere. And Akira, of course, was at the front, his posture perfect, his eyes fixed on the instructor who stood before them.
"Congratulations," the instructor said, his voice flat. "You have survived four years of training. You have proven yourselves worthy of the Fujiwara name. By the end of this year, you will be official retainers—nobles in both name and title, holding the rank of Kebiishi regardless of which path you choose to follow."
A murmur rippled through the assembled trainees. Kebiishi—the imperial police force. It was a prestigious position, one that carried real authority and influence. It was the first step toward true power, the first taste of the freedom they had all been fighting for.
"The most talented among you," the instructor continued, "will have the opportunity to become provincial military commanders. You will be given command of soldiers, sorcerers, and resources. You will have the power to shape the destiny of this land. All of it will be yours, as long as you are strong enough to take it."
Akira felt a surge of determination course through him. Provincial military commander. That was his goal. That was the position that would give him the influence he needed to protect Haruki, to break free of the Fujiwara's control, to carve out a place for himself in this world.
I will seize it, he thought. I will seize all the power and influence I can. I will become strong enough to achieve the freedom I so desperately seek.
But even as the thought formed in his mind, he felt a flicker of unease. His instincts, honed by years of training and the relentless demands of the Hercules Method, were screaming at him. Something was wrong. Something was dangerously, catastrophically wrong.
He glanced at Haruki, and the unease deepened.
His brother was distracted. His eyes were unfocused, his mind clearly elsewhere. He had been like this for months now—distant, preoccupied, lost in a world that Akira could not see.
What are you hiding from me, brother?
---
The answer came to him a few days later, during a moment of quiet observation.
Akira had been tracking Haruki's movements, watching him from the shadows, using his Blind Sight to perceive what his eyes could not. He had noticed the pattern—the way his brother would slip away from the training grounds at odd hours, the way he would return with a strange look in his eyes, the way he would spend hours staring at letters that he burned as soon as he was done reading them.
And then, finally, he had seen her.
The woman was young—barely fifteen, by Akira's estimation—with delicate features and the unmistakable bearing of a Fujiwara noble. She moved through the forest with the grace of a dancer, her robes shimmering in the moonlight, her eyes bright with emotion. She met Haruki in a hidden clearing, and Akira watched from the shadows as his brother embraced her, as they exchanged words that he could not hear, as they parted with a kiss that made his blood run cold.
Fujiwara Kami.
The name surfaced in Akira's mind like a ghost rising from the depths. He had heard of her, of course—everyone had. She was one of the Fujiwara's most prized assets, a young woman bred and raised for a single purpose: to be married into the imperial family, to become a consort or an empress, to strengthen the clan's grip on the throne through the bonds of blood.
And Haruki—idiot, fool, blind Haruki—had fallen in love with her.
Akira felt a surge of cold fury. How could his brother be so stupid? Did he really believe that a young maiden regularly going to the forest would not be watched? Did he truly think that the Fujiwara would allow one of their most valuable assets to be stolen by a peasant-turned-trainee?
This is a disaster, Akira thought. A complete and utter disaster.
But there was something else, too. Something that made the fury curdle into something darker, something more primal. When he looked at Kami, when he focused his senses on her, he felt a nauseous disgust that he could not explain. It was like looking at a beautiful painting that had been painted over a rotting corpse—a surface of loveliness hiding something unspeakable beneath.
He scanned her over and over again, using every technique at his disposal. He probed her Cursed Energy, searched for any sign of manipulation, any hint of deception. But he found nothing. She was exactly what she appeared to be: a young woman, innocent and in love.
But Akira was not a fool. He trusted his instincts, and his instincts were screaming that something was terribly wrong.
---
He confronted Haruki three nights later, in the same hidden clearing where his brother had met his lover.
The moon was high overhead, casting silver light across the forest floor. Akira emerged from the shadows, his movements silent, his expression cold. Haruki looked up, startled, his hand instinctively reaching for his blade.
"Akira," he said, his voice tight. "What are you doing here?"
"Following you." Akira's voice was flat, emotionless. "I've been following you for days, brother. I've seen what you've been doing. I know about Kami."
Haruki's face went pale, then flushed with anger. "You've been spying on me?"
"I've been protecting you." Akira stepped closer, his eyes boring into his brother's. "Do you have any idea what you're doing? She's a Fujiwara noble, Haruki. She's destined for the imperial harem. If anyone finds out about this—"
"No one will find out." Haruki's voice was defiant, almost desperate. "We've been careful. We've been—"
"Careful?" Akira laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "You meet her in the same clearing every week. You leave letters in the same hollow trees. You think the Fujiwara don't have spies watching their most valuable assets? You think they don't know exactly what you're doing?"
Haruki's face twisted with rage. "You don't understand. You don't know what it's like. You've never felt this way about anyone. You've never—"
"I've never been a fool," Akira cut him off, his voice like a whip crack. "I've never let my heart lead me to self-destruction. Kami is not just a woman, Haruki. She's a political asset. A weapon. A tool. And you are playing with fire."
"Kami loves me." Haruki's voice was trembling now, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "She loves me, Akira. She believes in me. She told me that if I can make it to the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad, she'll petition her father to let us be together. She—"
"She's lying to you."
The words hung in the air between them, cold and final.
Haruki stared at him, his face a mask of shock. "What?"
"She's lying to you," Akira repeated. "Or if she's not lying, she's being manipulated. There's something wrong with her, Haruki. I can feel it. Every time I look at her, every time I sense her presence, I feel a disgust so profound it makes me want to vomit. She's not what she appears to be."
"You're insane." Haruki's voice was shaking with barely suppressed fury. "You're jealous. You've never had anyone love you, so you can't stand that I have someone. You want me to be alone, just like you. You want—"
"I want you to survive." Akira stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I want you to live. I want you to achieve everything we've fought for. And I will not let you throw it all away for a woman who is clearly being used to manipulate you."
Haruki's fist connected with his jaw.
The blow was fast and powerful, fueled by a lifetime of training and the raw emotion of the moment. Akira stumbled back, his head snapping to the side, blood trickling from his split lip. He raised a hand to his face, touched the wound, and looked at his brother with an expression of cold disappointment.
"Mind your bloody business," Haruki spat. "Stay out of my life. Stay away from Kami. And don't ever speak to me about her again."
He turned and stormed away, vanishing into the darkness of the forest.
Akira watched him go, his heart heavy with a grief that he could not express. He had failed. He had tried to warn his brother, tried to protect him, and he had failed.
He's too far gone, he thought. He's been poisoned, and he doesn't even know it.
He wiped the blood from his lip and stared up at the moon, his mind racing with possibilities. He couldn't wait until the end of the year. He couldn't afford to wait. Haruki was spiraling out of control, and Akira needed more influence, more power, more authority if he was going to save him.
It's time, he decided. It's time to challenge the instructors. It's time to graduate early.
He turned and vanished into the night, his resolve hardening with every step.
---
The dojo loomed before him like a monument to everything he had endured—the pain, the suffering, the endless grinding machinery of the Fujiwara's will. Its wooden walls had witnessed his blood and sweat, his tears and his screams. They had seen him break and rebuild himself, again and again, until he had become something more than human.
He stood at the entrance, his gaze fixed on the darkened interior, the Transparent World shimmering at the edges of his perception. The hourglass in his mind continued to turn, its sands falling steady and relentless. He had eighty-three years left—enough time to become something great, to save his brother, to carve his name into the history of this world.
But first, he had to prove himself. He had to demonstrate that he was ready, that he had surpassed the limits of their training, that he could no longer be contained by the systems they had built.
Akira stepped forward, his feet carrying him across the threshold. The dojo was empty, the training grounds silent and still. He moved to the center of the floor and knelt, his posture perfect, his head bowed. Then he raised his voice, letting it ring out across the vast space.
"I challenge the instructors. I challenge any who would test me. I am ready to graduate early. Show yourselves, and let us begin."
The shadows stirred, and figures emerged from the darkness.
The Transparent World descended upon him like a shroud, and he saw everything.
Amaterasu above. Protect your sons. We are all we have left.
---
Author's Note:
And the dominos continue to fall, enjoy your chapter Maximaru Out 🙌
And please I'll appreciate if you guys can throw in a few tips to support the story and others I write. No amount is too small and a single dollar or two would be very much appreciated 🥹
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Breaking of Chains
The shadows stirred, and figures emerged from the darkness—six instructors, each one a master of their craft, each one hardened by years of combat and the relentless demands of the Fujiwara's training program. Among them was Ogata, his weasel-faced supervisor, his expression twisted into a mask of grim determination. They formed a circle around Akira, their weapons drawn, their Cursed Energy flaring like bonfires in the night.
They attacked as one.
Akira moved, and the Transparent World unfolded around him like a blooming flower. The instructors' movements became a symphony of intention, their bodies revealing their secrets before they could act. He saw their muscles contract, saw the shift of their weight, saw the trajectory of their blades before they had even begun to swing. More than that, he saw the possibilities—over a dozen images emanating from each instructor, a cascade of potential futures that stretched out before him like branches on a tree. Every possible move they could make in the next second was rendered to him in perfect clarity, and when he narrowed his focus, narrowing the images to one per person, he could see their movements up to five seconds into the future.
This is the current limit of my Transparent World, he thought, his body flowing like water around the first instructor's strike. Five seconds. It's not infinite, but it's enough. It's more than enough for these small fry.
He could have used a binding vow to boost his perception further, to push past the limits of what his body could naturally achieve. But that was unnecessary. These instructors were beneath him now, their skills outdated, their techniques predictable. He had surpassed them long ago.
He danced around their attacks, his movements fluid and graceful, weaving through their Cursed Techniques and abilities with an ease that bordered on contempt. A blade passed through the space where his head had been; he tilted his body, letting it slide past his shoulder. A burst of Cursed Energy detonated where he'd been standing; he was already gone, his feet carrying him to the other side of the circle. A chain weapon whipped toward his legs; he leaped over it, his body twisting in midair.
He didn't even unsheathe his sword.
Instead, his hands shot out, his fingers finding the pressure points on each instructor's body with surgical precision. One tap to the neck, and the first instructor collapsed, his body twitching uncontrollably as his own nervous system betrayed him. A strike to the shoulder, and the second dropped, his arm going limp, his weapon clattering to the floor. A touch to the temple, and the third crumpled like a sack of wheat, his eyes rolling back in his head.
One by one, they fell. Ogata was the last, his face twisted with rage as he lunged at Akira with a desperate, reckless attack. Akira sidestepped, his hand brushing against the man's spine, and Ogata collapsed, his body seizing, his eyes wide with shock.
"They taught us well," Akira murmured, looking down at the twitching bodies of his instructors. "Perhaps too well."
He straightened, his breathing steady, his expression calm. The Transparent World receded, the flood of information fading to a manageable trickle. He had won. He had proven himself.
But the battle was not over.
A figure strode out of the darkness, his presence commanding attention like a thunderclap. He was tall, his features sharp and aristocratic, his robes immaculate. His eyes were cold, distant, utterly devoid of warmth—but there was something else in them now, something that had not been there before. A spark of interest. A glimmer of respect.
Fujiwara no Korechika.
Akira bowed instantly, his body moving on instinct. "Lord Korechika," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I did not expect—"
"Draw your blade," Korechika interrupted, his voice flat. "Fight me."
Akira's eyes widened, his heart lurching in his chest. "My lord, I could never raise my blade against a member of the Fujiwara family. The binding vow—"
"An exception." Korechika's voice was cold, implacable. "For this battle, you may raise your blade against a member of the family. This is my command, and it supersedes your vow. Draw your sword."
The words hung in the air, heavy with power. Akira felt the restrictions of the binding vow lift slightly—just slightly, just enough to allow him to do what Korechika had commanded. It was a loophole, a crack in the chains that bound him to the Fujiwara. And Akira, who had spent years looking for a way to break free, seized it without hesitation.
He reached into his soul, grasping the thread of his Cursed Energy, and made a binding vow of his own. I sacrifice half of my Cursed Energy reserves, he thought, his mind racing. I offer them up willingly, freely, without reservation. In exchange, I ask that this loophole be made permanent. That the restrictions of the vow be adjusted from temporary to permanent. That I be free of the Fujiwara's control.
The words were not spoken aloud, but they were heard—by the universe, by the laws of sorcery, by whatever cosmic force governed the binding vows. Akira felt something shift inside him, a weight lifting from his shoulders that he had carried for five long years. The chains that bound him to the Fujiwara clattered to the ground, shattered and broken.
Finally, he thought, a surge of pure, unadulterated joy coursing through him. Finally, after all these years, I am free.
Korechika noticed nothing. His eyes were fixed on Akira, his impatience growing. "I gave you an order," he said, his voice sharp. "Draw your blade."
Akira unsheathed his katana, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. He faced his commander, his stance relaxed, his eyes calm. The fear that had once gripped him was gone, replaced by a quiet, unshakeable confidence.
I am free, he thought. And now, I will show you what freedom looks like.
Korechika vanished.
The world seemed to twist, space warping around him as his Cursed Technique—Sky Dancing, a variant of Sky Manipulation—carried him across the battlefield in an instant. His nodachi swung in a devastating arc, aimed directly at Akira's head, its edge gleaming with the promise of death.
The blade was massive, easily as long as Akira was tall, and it moved with a speed that defied comprehension.
But Akira was already gone.
He had seen the attack coming five seconds before it had even begun—had seen the shift in Korechika's weight, the contraction of his muscles, the gathering of his Cursed Energy. He had seen the exact trajectory of the blade and had stepped aside before Korechika had even finished his teleportation.
The nodachi smashed into the dojo floor, ripping apart the stone and cleaving open a ravine that stretched from one end of the room to the other. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the air, shattering the paper screens and sending debris flying in all directions.
Akira moved, his katana flashing toward Korechika's side. The commander vanished again, reappearing a few meters away, his hand clutching his ribs. Blood welled between his fingers, bright and stark against the dark fabric of his robes.
He stared at Akira, his eyes wide with shock. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—a mad, savage grin that revealed teeth stained with blood.
"Excellent," he breathed. "Excellent. You're even better than I thought."
He dropped the nodachi, pulling two short swords from sheaths on his back. He vanished again, reappearing in front of Akira, his blades flashing in a blur of steel and fury.
Akira met him blow for blow, his katana singing as it clashed against the short swords. The Transparent World showed him everything—every feint, every strike, every desperate lunge. He saw Korechika's movements five seconds before they happened and countered them effortlessly, his body flowing like water around the commander's attacks.
The dojo shattered around them. The walls crumbled. The roof collapsed. The two combatants moved like monsters, their battle a symphony of destruction that tore the training ground apart. Stone splintered, wood splintered, and the air itself seemed to scream as their weapons clashed again and again.
The commotion drew the attention of Fujiwara no Michinaga.
He had been in the compound that night, attending to matters of state, when the shockwaves of the battle reached his ears. He rose from his seat, his expression cold, and strode toward the dojo, a retinue of elders and guards following in his wake.
What he saw made him stop in his tracks.
Korechika was laughing—laughing like a madman, his eyes wild, his face twisted into a mask of savage joy—as he clashed with a boy in trainee robes. And that boy, that mere trainee, was not only holding his own against the commander, but was actively suppressing him, driving him back step by step with a relentless barrage of precise, devastating strikes.
Who is this? Michinaga thought, his eyes narrowing. A trainee? A mere trainee?
Akira swung his katana once more, and Korechika blocked with his short swords. The impact was immense, the force of it throwing the commander backward like a ragdoll. He smashed through the wall of the dojo, his body tumbling across the ground, leaving a trail of shattered stone and broken wood in his wake.
Akira chased after him, his blade raised, his eyes blazing with cold fury.
But then space fluctuated around him—a sudden, violent distortion that slammed him into the ceiling of the dojo with bone-crushing force. He crashed through the roof, his body smashing through the wooden beams, before crashing back down to the ground in a shower of debris.
Korechika rose from the rubble, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He had stopped holding back. The full might of the Sky Dancing technique was being deployed, space warping around him like a living thing, bending and twisting to his will.
Michinaga raised a hand, stopping the guards and Sun, Moon, and Stars squad members who had rushed to the scene. "Do not interfere," he commanded, his voice cold and absolute. "Let them fight."
He turned to Uro, who was watching the battle with wide, shock-filled eyes. "Explain," he said. "Who is that boy?"
Uro bowed, her voice trembling slightly. "His name is Akira, my lord. He and his twin brother, Haruki, were recruited from a peasant village five years ago. They have been training with the other orphans under Lord Korechika's supervision."
"A peasant?" Michinaga's eyebrows rose. "And he fights like this? He suppresses my nephew like he is a mere child?"
"It appears so, my lord." Uro hesitated, then continued. "He and his brother are... exceptional. They have been the top of their training batch since the very beginning. But we did not realize—"
"You did not realize he was this powerful," Michinaga finished, his voice flat. "You did not realize he was a monster."
Uro bowed lower. "Forgive me, my lord."
Michinaga turned his attention back to the battle, his mind racing. A twin orphan. Barely seventeen. And yet he fought like a seasoned warrior, his skill and power far surpassing anything a mere trainee should possess.
If this is him restricted, Michinaga thought, what would happen if one of them died and the other was unleashed?
He didn't want to think about it. The implications were too dangerous, too unpredictable. Twins were strange beings, their souls linked in ways that sorcerers still did not fully understand. If one of them were to die, the other would be driven mad with grief—and that madness would unleash power beyond imagining.
I need to tie them deeper to the Fujiwara, Michinaga decided. Mere binding vows are not enough. Such pristine genes must be brought into the family. They must be made to understand that their loyalty belongs to us, and to us alone.
He watched as the battle raged on, a cold smile playing at the corners of his lips.
---
The fight between Akira and Korechika had hit a fever pitch. They clashed several times per second, their blades singing as they struck at each other over and over again, only to disengage and circle each other like wolves. The air was thick with Cursed Energy, the ground scarred and broken from the force of their blows.
Korechika threw away his daggers, his chest heaving. He pounded his chest with his fists, a wild grin spreading across his face. "Drop the sword!" he roared. "Brawl like a man! Show me what you're really made of!"
Akira was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he dropped his katana, letting it clatter to the ground. He fell into a stance—Crane Dance Style: Diving Crane—his hands crackling with Cursed Energy.
Korechika's laughter echoed across the shattered dojo. "YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! BRING IT ON, AKIRA! SHOW ME EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOT!"
His hands reached out, grabbing the space around him, warping it into existence around his fists. Spheres of distorted reality appeared, crackling with power—Fujiwara Style: Army Breaker.
He vanished and appeared before Akira, his fist swinging in a devastating arc. Akira's palm met it, and the impact was cataclysmic. The shockwave obliterated the dojo, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Michinaga raised a barrier, protecting the onlookers, as the two combatants continued their battle.
The fight spread across the compound, tearing through walls and gardens, reducing everything in their path to rubble. Michinaga extended his barrier, containing the damage, his eyes fixed on the battle with growing fascination.
Akira broke through Army Breaker, his palm driving into Korechika's guard. He grabbed the commander by the neck and hauled him to the ground, his strength immense, his movement unstoppable.
But Korechika was not finished. He warped space around him, a lance of distorted reality slamming into Akira and sending him flying backward. He rose from the ground, space continuing to warp around him, forming into the shape of a snarling tiger.
Fujiwara Style: Tiger Bagua.
The Transparent World showed Akira the intricacies of this technique—the way Korechika's Cursed Energy flowed, the way he shaped space into the form of the tiger. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of Cursed Energy manipulation.
Akira breathed in, and his own Cursed Energy began to flow and warp. It formed the image of a red crane behind him, its wings spread wide, its eyes blazing with power.
Crane Dance: Ashura Crane.
He drew his leg back, condensing his Cursed Energy into his palm. Korechika condensed his own energy into a tiger claw.
Then both men vanished, clashing in the middle, crane and tiger meeting in a battle that shook the heavens themselves. The fight raged on, neither man willing to yield, neither man willing to admit defeat.
A winner remained undecided for now.
---
Author's Note:
And the fights officially begin, from here on out, life becomes simultaneously better and worse. Enjoy your chapter Maximaru Out 🙌
And please I'll appreciate if you guys can throw in a few tips to support the story and others I write. No amount is too small and a single dollar or two would be very much appreciated 🥹
The Nature of Power
Humanity's greatest mistake was reducing Cursed Energy to a weapon.
A sword is merely one application of steel, yet we built entire civilizations from it—bridges and buildings, tools and technologies, art and architecture. Steel became the backbone of progress, its applications limited only by the imagination of those who wielded it. So why, then, did sorcerers insist upon treating Cursed Energy as nothing more than a means to kill? Why did they limit themselves to destruction when the potential for creation lay before them, vast and untapped?
At its core, Cursed Energy was information given form through emotion and will. It possessed mass enough to interact with reality, enough potency to violate the laws of physics, and enough versatility to birth entirely unique phenomena through Cursed Techniques. To call it merely an energy source would be a gross understatement—it was the raw material of miracles, the clay from which gods shaped their creations. And yet sorcerers used it only to destroy, to maim, to kill. They had become so obsessed with the blade that they had forgotten the steel from which it was forged.
How did Cursed Energy interact with living organisms? Who was to say evolution itself could not be directed? If emotions could shape energy, and energy could shape reality, then what was to stop a sufficiently powerful sorcerer from reshaping their very existence? From transcending the limitations of flesh and blood? From becoming something more than human?
Akira had never truly considered these questions before. He had been too focused on survival, too consumed by the endless grind of training and the desperate need to protect his brother. But now, as he exchanged blows with Korechika, the Transparent World laid everything bare before him. He saw the commander's Cursed Energy flowing through his body, saw the way it warped and twisted and shaped itself into weapons and barriers and attacks. He saw the information encoded within it—the emotions that fueled it, the will that directed it, the intentions that gave it form.
And he began to understand.
Cursed Energy is not a weapon, he thought, his body moving on instinct, his fist slamming into Korechika's ribs. It is a language. A means of communication between the soul and the world. We have been using it to shout, to scream, to destroy—but what if we could learn to whisper? What if we could learn to build?
His fist connected with Korechika's side, and the world exploded into black.
The impact was different from anything he had ever felt. His Cursed Energy surged, spiking with a violence that was almost painful, and the energy around his fist twisted into something new—something darker, more potent. The black flash rippled outward, a shockwave of pure power that sent Korechika flying across the shattered dojo, his body smashing through the rubble like a stone through paper.
Akira's mind cleared. The Transparent World sharpened, its edges becoming more defined, its focus more intense. He felt his Cursed Energy smoothen, the chaotic flow of power settling into a steady, rhythmic pulse. He had entered a flow state—a state of perfect equilibrium, where body and mind and spirit moved as one.
Black Flash, he realized, his heart pounding with exhilaration. I just hit a Black Flash.
The sensation was incredible. It was as though his body had memorized the feeling, the exact moment of impact, the precise alignment of his Cursed Energy. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he could do it again—that he could do it whenever he wanted, as long as he remained in this flow state.
Korechika rose from the rubble, his face twisted with rage. He raised his hands, space warping around him, and a lance of distorted reality shot toward Akira with the speed of a falling star.
Akira dodged. It was effortless, almost casual—he had seen the attack coming seconds before it had even begun, had already chosen the exact path of his evasion. He vanished from his position, reappearing before Korechika in the blink of an eye, and slammed another fist into the commander's gut.
Black Flash.
Korechika's body convulsed, his eyes bulging with shock. He flew backward, his momentum carrying him through the air like a ragdoll. But Akira was not done. He grabbed the commander's leg mid-air, his grip like iron, and pulled him into a devastating knee strike to the ribs.
Black Flash.
Korechika cried out, his body arching with pain. Akira released him, letting him fly through the air before appearing above him, his foot slamming down into the commander's chest.
Black Flash.
Korechika crashed into the ground, his body carving a crater into the stone. He lay there, gasping, his limbs twitching with the residual effects of the Black Flashes. His Cursed Energy flickered, unstable and weak, and his eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief.
Akira landed near him, his breathing steady, his body humming with power. He clasped his hands together and bowed, his movements fluid and precise.
"Please yield, Lord Korechika," he said, his voice calm and respectful. "You have already lost."
Korechika glared at him, his chest heaving, his body wracked with pain. For a long moment, Akira thought he might continue the fight, might push himself beyond his limits in a desperate attempt to reclaim his pride. But then the commander let out a long, slow breath, and his body relaxed.
"Fine," he said, his voice hoarse. "You win."
He pulled himself up slowly, his movements stiff and painful. He approached Akira, his gaze appraising, and clasped the young man's shoulder.
"You're something else, boy," he said, a grudging respect in his voice. "I've never seen anyone fight like that. Not even the best of my squad could match you. Where did you learn to move like that? The instructors barely taught you enough to survive, and yet you dance through my attacks like they're nothing."
Akira bowed his head. "I learned from watching, Lord Korechika. The instructors taught me the foundations, but I built upon them myself. I studied your movements during our sparring session, analyzed your techniques, and found ways to counter them."
Korechika's eyebrows rose. "You analyzed my techniques? While fighting me?"
"Every moment is an opportunity to learn, my lord. I simply chose to take advantage of that opportunity."
The commander laughed—a harsh, rasping sound that echoed across the shattered dojo. "You're a bloody monster, you know that? A seventeen-year-old monster who makes a mockery of everything I've spent decades perfecting. I should be furious. I should be humiliated. But I can't bring myself to be. You're just too damned impressive."
"I am grateful for your praise, Lord Korechika."
"Praise? I'm not praising you. I'm stating the truth." Korechika's eyes narrowed, a calculating gleam appearing in their depths. "Tell me, boy. What do you think about becoming my son-in-law?"
Akira froze. His mind raced, his heart lurching in his chest. He had not expected this—had never even considered the possibility. Korechika was a powerful man, a commander in the Fujiwara clan, and his daughter would be a prize beyond measure. But Akira had no interest in marriage, no desire to bind himself further to the Fujiwara. He had only just broken free of their control, and he would not allow himself to be trapped again.
"My lord, I am honored by your offer—"
"Then accept it." Korechika's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "My daughter is beautiful, well-bred, and she would make you a fine wife. You would be elevated to the highest circles of Fujiwara society. Your children would be nobles of the highest rank. What more could you possibly want?"
Akira opened his mouth to respond, to craft a diplomatic refusal that would not offend the commander's pride, when a cold voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Let the boy rest, Korechika."
The commander's expression darkened, his jaw tightening with barely suppressed fury. Fujiwara no Michinaga strode toward them, his robes immaculate, his presence commanding. Behind him, the elders and guards watched with wide eyes, their faces pale with shock at the spectacle they had witnessed.
Korechika turned to face his uncle, his posture rigid, his voice dripping with venom. "Michinaga. I was in the middle of—"
"I heard what you were in the middle of." Michinaga's voice was flat, dismissive, as though he were addressing a recalcitrant child rather than a commander of the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad. "You lost. The boy won. And now you're trying to claim him as your own before anyone else can. It's almost pathetic, nephew. Truly."
"I am not claiming him. I am offering him an honor." Korechika's voice was tight, strained. "A place in my family. A future—"
"A future that you would control." Michinaga smiled, a cold, thin smile that did not reach his eyes. "I'm afraid I can't allow that."
Korechika's face flushed with anger. "You intend to poach my trainee from right under me? This boy was trained by my instructors, honed by my methods. He belongs to me. I found him. I cultivated him. I—"
"He belongs to the Fujiwara clan, nephew. As do you. As do we all." Michinaga's gaze shifted to Akira, and something in his eyes made the young man's blood run cold. "The boy is ultimately a trainee, yes. But that needn't remain the case."
He stepped closer, his presence commanding, his voice dropping to a soft, almost intimate tone. "Akira. From this moment forward, your name shall be Akira Fujiwara. No longer shall you have no surname. You are one of us now—a part of the family, bound by blood and honor."
Akira felt nothing. No surge of pride, no swell of gratitude. The name meant nothing to him except as a tool—a key to unlock doors that had previously been closed, a shield to deflect the arrows of his enemies, a weapon to wield in the endless struggle for power. He would use it as he used everything else, and he would discard it when it no longer served his purposes.
He bowed, his movements precise, his expression carefully neutral. "I am honored, Lord Michinaga. I will serve the Fujiwara clan with everything I have."
The words were empty. Meaningless. A performance for the benefit of the elders and guards who watched with hungry eyes. But Michinaga seemed satisfied, his cold smile widening.
"I look forward to your future, Akira. Do not disappoint the family."
Akira kept his head bowed. "I will not, my lord."
Michinaga turned to Korechika, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement. "You see, nephew? The boy understands his place. He knows that his loyalty belongs to the clan as a whole, not to any single faction within it. I suggest you learn from his example."
Korechika's face was a mask of barely suppressed fury. His hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles white with tension. "You are a snake, Michinaga. A damned snake."
"Perhaps. But I am a snake who holds the power, nephew. And power, as you well know, is the only currency that matters." Michinaga turned and strode away, his robes billowing behind him, the elders and guards falling into step behind him.
Korechika watched him go, his chest heaving with barely contained rage. Then he turned to Akira, his expression softening into something almost paternal.
"Go to your quarters, boy," he said, his voice gruff. "Rest. Your new privileges will be settled tomorrow. You've earned a break."
Akira bowed. "Thank you, Lord Korechika. I am grateful for your kindness."
"Kindness?" Korechika laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "There's no kindness in this world, boy. Only power and the will to use it. Remember that. It will serve you well." He ruffled Akira's hair, a gesture that was almost fond, and then he too departed, leaving Akira alone in the ruins of the dojo.
---
Akira stood in the silence, his body aching, his mind racing. The battle was over. He had won. He had proven himself stronger than his commander, had achieved the rank of provincial military commander, had earned the favor of Michinaga himself.
But the cost was higher than he had anticipated.
He had been named a Fujiwara. He had been claimed by the clan, bound to them by more than just a vow. The name was a chain, a gilded cage that would follow him for the rest of his life. He had thought he was free, but he had only traded one set of chains for another.
I am a Fujiwara now, he thought, the words echoing in his mind. I am a noble. I have power. I have influence. But I am also bound to them, tied to their fate, their politics, their endless schemes.
He closed his eyes, reaching deep into his soul. The hourglass was still there, its sands falling steady and relentless. He had eighty-three years left—enough time to achieve his goals, to protect his brother, to carve out a place for himself in this world.
But he also had a new responsibility. He was a Fujiwara now, and that meant he had to play the game. He had to navigate the treacherous waters of court politics, to build alliances and counter plots, to ensure that he and Haruki survived the coming years.
I will do what I must, he decided. I will become strong. I will protect my brother. I will build a legacy that will outlast the Fujiwara, the Minamoto, the Taira—all of them. I will become something greater than any of them could ever imagine.
He opened his eyes, and a cold smile spread across his face.
The Transparent World has shown me the truth. Cursed Energy is not a weapon. It is a language—a means of communication between the soul and the world. And I am just beginning to learn how to speak it.
He turned and walked away, his steps carrying him toward his quarters. The night was silent, the stars bright overhead, and the air was cool and crisp.
---
Author's Note:
And Akira punching his way to the big leagues, who says one can't ascend through violence. Enjoy your chapter Maximaru Out
And please I'll appreciate if you guys can throw in a few tips to support the story and others I write. No amount is too small and a single dollar or two would be very much appreciated
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