Warm water still clinging to his skin, Yuki sat on the edge of the tub and watched steam curl toward the ceiling like lazy ghosts. The bath had been everything he'd hoped for—hot, heavy, a small white exile from the world—but his head wouldn't stop turning. Memory after memory rifled through him, not as tidy scenes but as overlapping tapes: a highway light, Eloise's flat voice, then the pond, the cold, the gasp—then the silk of this room, his mother's hand. Everything about him felt identical to the boy who'd lived here before: his laugh, the way he scratched his chin, the stupid habit of sighing when nothing fixed itself. It was unnerving and oddly comforting at once.
He propped his elbows on his knees and asked the question aloud because silence was starting to feel dishonest. "System, do you have any idea why our mannerisms are the same? I mean—practically everything. Am I right?" He tried to make the end of the sentence a joke, as if levity could squeeze answers from the machine.
Silence answered him. Not the system's usual flat tone, not even the polite software-voice that had introduced his name. Just the hollow hiss of steam and the faint clink of a distant tray.
Yuki frowned. That quiet felt wrong—the way a skipped heartbeat feels when you expect a bass drop. He repeated the question once more, amusement in his voice like a dare. Still nothing.
Before his curiosity could curdle into frustration, the system spoke up as if deciding to ignore the question and pivot to something more interesting.
> [Host has unlocked new abilities: One combat technique and one movement technique. Would host like to view them now?]
"What? That's—where did that come from?" Yuki sat up straighter, water spilling from his hair in a sparkling, embarrassing sprinkle. The system changing the subject like that felt rude in a deeply mechanical way.
"What about the mannerisms?" he pressed. "Answer me that first." His voice sharpened, half irritation, half the grown-boy irritation of someone being ignored by a teacher.
A long beat of silence. Then, softer than usual, the system replied.
> [Host does not have access to that information yet.]
There was something in the phrasing that made Yuki's skin walk. It was the tiny hitch, the almost-human way the system dodged. Machines didn't dodge. Machines gave facts, or error messages, or the occasional snarky system-flavor text when someone asked for an item list. This voice had something like a glance behind a curtain, as if it had to pretend to be unreadable while knowing something tender and inconvenient.
So the system had feelings? No—he corrected himself immediately. Systems didn't have feelings. They had logic—lines of code and trigger conditions. But the code that just answered him had been written with a private aside. He caught a faint quiver of something that wanted to put words in place of secrecy, and for a second his curiosity bloomed into full, hungry fascination.
Fine. He would let the mannerism question sit. There were more immediate gifts to examine.
"Show me the abilities," he said, resigning himself to secrets but thrilled, like a kid finally allowed into a candy room.
> [Combat Technique Unlocked: Vanishing Palm Technique — Beginner Stage.]
[Movement Technique Unlocked: Vanishing Movement Technique — Beginner Stage.]
[Both techniques will scale with host growth and practice.]
Yuki blinked. Vanishing palm? Vanishing movement? The names sounded like something from a wuxia novel. He grinned despite the dampness still in his hair. It fit. It sounded cool.
"Beginner stage, huh?" he muttered. "So I get the fancy names now, but no fancy moves?" He felt the heat of impatience—partly because this system hoarded information, and partly because the boy inside him loved the idea of testing something new, of feeling his fist sing differently when he struck.
The system, predictably, offered no immediate demo. No animated tutorial, no glowing training dummy materialized in the bath. Code aside, it had made the unveiling, and that had to be enough. For now.
He climbed out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and let the house noises settle around him—murmurs from residents, a clink of dishes, the particular rhythm of a home that had weathered winters. He dressed quickly and told the butler to send his meal up when it was ready. Having food delivered to the room felt like a small indulgence, but after the day he'd had it also felt like a necessary one.
No sooner had he given the order than footsteps paused outside the door. A soft knock, practiced and patient.
"Yuki—may I come in?" The voice was all warmth; he didn't have to turn to know it was his mother.
He opened the door with a nonchalant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Suzume Akio stood there holding a neat tray. Her hair was pulled back, and her eyes were that same mix of command and tenderness that, from the old Yuki's memories, made it clear why everyone deferred to her in the house.
"Why didn't you join us at dinner? Your father and I waited," she said, brows knitting with concern that would have been embarrassing if it weren't so sincere.
Yuki shrugged, palms still damp. "I trained a lot. I wanted to eat alone. It's nothing." He kept it light—those were his best lies.
Her mouth tightened for a second, then smoothed. "Shadow told your father you were training again. Five hours, was it?" Her voice carried the faint edge that said you were reckless, and down beneath it and I am angry you might fall. She wasn't only scolding; she was measuring risk.
Guilty heat colored his face. "He's right. We sparred. I'm fine, Mother. I'm not that weak. I'm—" He caught himself, remembering he wasn't the original Yuki. For a flashing moment his humor touched truth. "—your son. Yours and Father's son. I won't be a bother."
The words came out almost prayerlike—not boastful, not defensive, but shaped with an earnestness that made Suzume's expression twitch into something he hadn't expected. For a beat her face wrinkled; a small crease like a shutter opening, and then it smoothed out so quickly he almost missed it. It was a reaction so faint it could be dismissed as habit. He wanted to dismiss it. He couldn't.
He watched the change, a slow fork of intuition slipping in. Does she know? he wondered. Does she sense I'm…different? The idea was ridiculous. She would have called him by the wrong name if she suspected. But the wrinkle had been real. Her eyes had sharpened, then dulled as if someone had brushed away a thought. There was depth to her attention that didn't stop at the surface of family small talk.
Suzume inclined her head and handed him the tray. The scent hit him first—warm broth, simmered root vegetables, the small, aromatic marinade he'd tasted in a memory just before. The food smelled like home in both lives.
"Eat," she said, softer now. "I'll send a servant to clear your plate later." She had the practiced quickness of someone who could pivot a conversation—her little social magic to keep things from becoming dangerous.
"Thank you," he said, voice low. He meant it more than he thought. He took the bowl; the warmth seeped into his fingers and into the hollows where worry had been lodged.
She hesitated a second as if about to ask something else, then smiled and left. The door shut with a quiet finality that felt almost ceremonial.
When he lifted the spoon the first time, the broth was hot and steady and very real. He ate slowly, letting the flavors anchor him to the present. Each mouthful quieted the whirl of questions for a breath. Vanishing techniques, sealed INT, an odd system that dodged his manners question—each mystery stacked on the table next to his plate like a second serving.
Between bites he replayed the wrinkle again and again. If she suspected, why didn't she confront me? He thought. If she knew, she would have said something—wouldn't she?
Maybe she did know and simply loved the old Yuki too fiercely to ruin the illusion. Maybe she was waiting to see if he—the new he—would slide into the same place. The idea both comforted and unsettled him. He finished the soup and set the bowl aside, the steam cooling.
The system remained quiet when he whispered the mannerism question one more time. It had already chosen secrecy. Yuki could play the patient student, learn the ones the system would teach, work on the techniques it gave him, and practice until his fists sang. Or he could pry and prod and possibly pull at threads he didn't yet understand.
He spooned the last of the porridge and decided he would practice the Vanishing Palm and Vanishing Movement tomorrow at first light. He would test the beginner stages and chart every oddity. He would train until Shadow's still face had to crack.
For now, there was food in his belly, the house breathed around him, and his mother's absent-footsteps softened the edges of the day. The system hid its reasons, his new name felt manageable, and somewhere under the surface of his contentment, a small, curious flame burned: not just the wish to grow strong, but the curiosity of why the world kept pulling its lips closed whenever he asked the important questions.
He lay back and let the warmth of the bed take him. When the house quieted completely, he smiled to the ceiling and, for the first time since the crash and the pond and the silk sheets, fell asleep without counting his sighs.