The whispers began early that morning while I was hauling buckets from the well, weaving between sparring groups and scolded apprentices. Sena and Riku were crouched behind the west barracks, too distracted to notice me walk past.
"Third attack this week," Sena murmured. "They burned a storehouse near the outer village. Two elders were hurt. And there was no sign of the guards."
Riku's voice lowered to a hiss. "They're saying it's the same group--those rogue dacoits. Exiled warriors. Bandits who stopped fearing the clans."
Sena glanced around before whispering, "Fangless, they call themselves. But from what I hear, they've got sharper fangs than most."
I didn't stop walking, didn't make a sound, but the words stuck like thorns. I'd heard rumors, of course. Talk of brutal men in mismatched armor, blades crusted with blood, villages raided under moonlight. I just never expected them to be so close. And yet, deep down, I wasn't surprised. The world didn't get quieter just because we wanted it to.
That night, after I finished wiping down the practice dummies and delivered soaked wraps to the laundry quarters, I returned to the forest--my quiet place, the old herb trails that curved through the roots of forgotten trees. I carried my practice sword, a crude satchel of dried rice, and the lingering ache of my last failed attempt at Inazuma Nuki. The system hadn't spoken since then, but its words clung to memory like ink on cloth.
The forest air was cooler than usual, damp and still. Clouds slid across the moon, casting silver patches between the trees. I moved with practiced silence, stepping over moss instead of stones, ducking under the low-hanging branches that brushed my hair like familiar hands. The moment I stepped into the clearing near the leaning pine, I exhaled slowly and placed my wooden blade across my lap. Time to try again.
My legs folded into seiza. I closed my eyes and focused on the rhythm of my breathing, letting the world blur around me. I remembered Souta's voice--calm, sharp, instructional and -- the feel of the pulse I'd caught last time. Lightning wasn't chased, he'd said. It was released.
I reached for it again.
But that's when I heard something unfamiliar. A crack--wood snapping, heavy and fast. Not a deer. Not wind. Something big. I opened my eyes slowly and scanned the dark. A shadow moved through the trees, broad and deliberate. My fingers tensed around the wooden blade, but I didn't rise.
It was a man and that man didn't step from the trees--he tore through them.
Branches cracked and fell in his wake as he emerged into the moonlit clearing like a beast pulled from war-torn folklore. His chest was bare save for thick leather straps, his arms as thick as tree trunks and covered in grime, burn scars, and tangled black hair. A rusted cleaver rested against his shoulder, dull from neglect yet monstrous in size. There was something in his eyes that made the air feel colder. Upon seeing me, His pale gold irises narrowed with glee, as if he'd already decided how I would die.
He didn't speak right away. He grinned instead, mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. His neck rolled with a pop, and then his boots moved across the dirt like thunder wrapped in leather.
"Well now," he muttered, voice like gravel soaked in blood. "Didn't think supper would walk right into my lap."
I froze, my feet digging into the earth but refusing to lift. My body stiffened with a familiar terror--one that often gripped my chest, not with fear of pain, but the fear of absolute helplessness. My hands trembled and the wooden blade I'd been training with dropped to my side like a lifeline made of twigs.
The man approached me with deliberate slowness. He wanted me to run. I could see it in the sway of his gait, in the smirk that curled behind his beard. He raised the cleaver, dragging its heavy edge along the bark of a nearby tree as if testing whether it would sing before it split me open.
"You got a name, little rat?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or should I carve one on what's left of your face?"
Before I could think to speak, he surged forward. The clearing vanished behind the rush of his body. His cleaver came down in a wide arc, crude and devastating. I somehow managed to raise my blade in a clumsy block, but the impact shattered it instantly. The wooden sword exploded in my hands, and I was thrown backward through a tangle of ferns and rotted leaves. My shoulder cracked against a stump and pain flared down my arm, and for a moment, I couldn't hear anything but the rush of blood and the whimper hiding in my throat.
I rolled sideways, gasping for air, crawling on instinct. He was already moving again, his footfalls pounding the ground as he came for me, with his cleaver trailing sparks where it scraped against stone.
"Don't break yet," he growled, swinging low. "I haven't even started."
I twisted just in time. The blade tore through the earth beside me, slicing a groove into the dirt with terrifying ease. I scrambled upright, with my legs wobbling beneath me, and lunged for the smaller blade sheathed at his side--an iron short sword strapped loosely against his hip, forgotten in the chaos.
My hand found the hilt.
The sword slid free.
The moment I held it, the forest seemed to pause.
It wasn't just a blade. It was the blade.
My breath caught as recognition surged through me like heat rising from my spine. This sword was the same one I had seen in the mist--the one the system had shown me when I first awakened. Its weight, its hum, the slight warmth at the grip--everything matched.
Before I could comprehend how or why, the system flared back to life in my head, silent and brilliant.
[Weapon Resonance Confirmed – 97% Match]
[Lightning Affinity Detected – Internal Kettai Flow Active]
[Inazuma Nuki Ready: Breath Synced. Intent Locked.]
[Strike the Pulse. No Hesitation.]
I didn't understand what it meant to "strike the pulse," but I felt the truth of it settle deep in my bones. The dacoit turned toward me with a sneer, drawing the cleaver back with both hands, preparing to bring it down like an executioner's axe. He didn't know what had changed, and maybe neither did I, but the sword in my hand thrummed with a hunger I hadn't felt before.
I remembered drowning. I remembered begging the dark for a chance. I remembered Souta's voice whispering that lightning wasn't forced--it was released.
I took one step.
My breath had slowed down a tempo.
And then I drew.
The blade flashed once. It wasn't a strike. It was a release.
Inazuma Nuki ignited from within my veins.
A brilliant white arc split the clearing. For a moment, I felt suspended in time, watching the dacoit's body twist as my blade passed through him. The cleaver missed its mark entirely, falling short as a deep gash bloomed across his chest--clean, perfect, and glowing faintly at the edges as if seared by pure heat.
He staggered, his eyes wide, looking down at the crimson line stretching from his collar to his ribs as his mouth opened in disbelief and then he hit the ground.
There was no dramatic collapse, no final insult. Just the thud of a body hitting dirt and the whisper of a blade returning to stillness.
I stood there, chest heaving, arms trembling from the recoil. My knees nearly gave out beneath me. Every part of my body screamed exhaustion, but somewhere beneath the sweat and pain, I realized something had shifted inside me -- something irreversible.
The fear was still there.
But I had moved through it.
And lightning had answered.
Inazuma Nuki.
I was alive.
And he wasn't.
The sword in my hand hummed like it knew this was only the beginning.
[Target Neutralized – Rogue Dacoit, Rank D]
[Shinketsu Sync Increased +4%]
[+120 XP]
[Technique Proficiency Increased: +12% ]
[Hidden Memory Fragment Detected...]
The forest had returned, dark and still, branches shivering gently in the breeze as though nothing had happened. I sat beside the fallen man's body, breath slowing, the sword resting across my knees.
Tonight, I had drawn blood.
Tomorrow, I will carry the weight of it.