The salty tang of the Ventus docks clung to Orin, even in the dead of night. His sanctuary wasn't a hidden alcove in the orphanage, but a forgotten, derelict warehouse near the old harbor – a place even the Iron Grasp avoided, deeming it too unstable. For Orin, it was perfect. Here, amidst the creaking timbers and the whisper of the tide, he could shed the skin of the unassuming orphan and become, once more, Ryo.
His training was a brutal symphony of silence. He moved through the shadows, a fluid ghost in the moonless gloom. The Muon no Jutsu was not merely a collection of techniques; it was a philosophy. His body, still young and small, flowed through Kage no Hōyō, each movement a study in imperceptibility. He practiced finding weak points in phantom guards, slipping through imagined patrols, becoming one with the deeper darkness. Sweat beaded on his brow, stinging his grey eyes, but he pushed past the discomfort. Every strained muscle, every aching joint, was a step towards reclaiming the precision Ryo once commanded.
This body is a cage, he thought, twisting into a seamless roll that brought him from a low crouch to an upright stance in a single breath. Soft. Weak. But it learns. It remembers. Memories, dark and visceral, flickered at the edge of his awareness. The sharp tang of fear, the chill of constant hunger, the gnawing emptiness of a childhood stolen by brutality. Survival hadn't been a choice; it had been the only law. And if he was to survive this life, to protect the fragile bonds he was, against his better judgment, forging, this weakness had to be purged.
He moved on to Ja no Rasen, practicing the intricate deflections and redirection of force. His small hands became viper-quick, striking at unseen joints, twisting phantom limbs, disarming imaginary opponents. The concrete floor beneath his feet, scarred and uneven, became his sparring partner. He fell, he rose, each stumble a lesson.
A sharp clang echoed from the warehouse entrance. Orin froze, instantly dropping into the deeper shadows, his body taut. He hadn't heard them approach. Sloppy.
Two figures slipped into the warehouse, their silhouettes framed against the faint moonlight filtering through the doorway. It was Joric and Elara.
"He's not here," Joric grumbled, his voice low but audible in the stillness. "I told you, Elara, he probably found a new spot."
"No. I know it." Elara's voice was firm, though tinged with worry. "He wouldn't just vanish. He comes here. I feel it." She peered into the gloom, her gaze surprisingly perceptive. "Orin?"
Orin remained silent, hidden. He watched them. Joric's heavy steps, Elara's lighter, more uncertain ones. They were looking for him. His companions. A warmth, alien and unsettling, flickered in his chest. Weakness. Ryo would have suppressed it, crushed it. But Orin found he couldn't.
He stepped out of the shadows, a faint scuff of his worn shoe breaking the silence. "What do you want?" His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
Joric yelped, startled, nearly tripping over a loose plank. Elara, however, simply sighed in relief. "There you are! We were worried sick!" she exclaimed, rushing forward. "You vanished right after we got Joric back. You okay?"
"I'm fine," Orin said, his gaze distant. He picked up a loose piece of driftwood, testing its weight. "You shouldn't be here."
"We saw you sneak out. You always do," Joric said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You… you do weird stuff out here. Like dancing in the dark."
Elara's eyes, wide and earnest, fixed on him. "We saw what you did at the warehouse, Orin. How you moved. How you… dealt with them. No one else can do that." She hesitated, then took a step closer. "Please, Orin. Teach us. Teach us how to protect ourselves. We don't want to be helpless anymore."
Her words struck a chord, a discordant memory from Ryo's past. Helplessness. The biting cold of it, the searing rage of being unable to defend. He remembered the faces of those who couldn't fight back, who were crushed under the heel of cruelty. A cold, hard knot formed in his stomach, a familiar drive. This wasn't about him. It was about prevention.
Misfortune awaits the weak, he thought, his mind flashing to the shadows of his own childhood, to the faces of those he'd failed to save, even as Ryo. This life won't be like the last. Not for them.
"It's not easy," Orin finally said, his voice unusually strained. He snapped the piece of driftwood in his hand, splintering it clean in two, startling Joric. "You'll get hurt. You'll bleed. You'll want to quit."
Joric's eyes widened, but a fierce determination sparked within them. "We don't care! We can take it!"
Elara nodded, her small chin held high. "We need this, Orin. Please."
Orin looked at their faces, young and earnest, so different from the hollow eyes he remembered from his past. He looked at their small, hopeful gestures. He thought of the unseen hand of his divine caretaker, the Emperor's chilling touch, the sealed power within him. He was a weapon forged in misery, but perhaps, this time, he could wield himself differently.
"Alright," Orin said, the single word cutting through the damp air. "But you follow my every instruction. No questions. No hesitation. You learn the Muon no Jutsu, or you learn nothing." He looked at Joric. "You. You learn the Ja no Rasen. To redirect. To disarm. To survive." His gaze shifted to Elara, a softer, but no less serious, light in his eyes. "You. You learn Kage no Hōyō. To disappear. To observe. To gather."
As the first sliver of dawn painted the sky, the derelict warehouse became a silent dojo. Orin, the child with an assassin's soul, began to teach. Not how to kill, but how to survive. How to become ghosts in the harsh reality of Ventus.