Ryosuke leaned back in the chair, eyes dimmed by memory, his voice even and low, as though the words carried weight carved into stone.
"As you know, I am from Hiroki. A village high in the mountains, in the range of the same name. The Hiroki Mountains."
His gaze flicked toward Mikey briefly, then drifted past him as if looking back through decades.
"Like Rossen, we were part of the Union. But for us, it was… a silent agreement."
Mikey frowned softly.
"Silent agreement?"
"Yes."
Ryosuke's head dipped once in affirmation.
"Generations before I was born, my ancestors decided it was better to let go of the past. They forbade the telling of it. No stories, no records. So, by the time of my childhood, the outside world was unknown to us. The Council, the Defectors, the politics of men—we knew nothing. We lived by tradition, bound to the rhythms of the mountain. To us, there was no greater truth than the village, the seasons, and the discipline of our ways."
Mikey sat forward, his elbows on his knees, listening as if the words were the only thing tethering him in that moment.
Ryosuke's voice dropped lower, steadier.
"When I was a boy, no older than ten, a stranger came to Hiroki. A pale-skinned man. A foreigner. None of us had ever seen one before. His clothes were unlike anything we had known—simple, but not of our make. He carried nothing but a sword at his hip. And it was no katana."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, as if he could still see the blade glinting.
"We asked him his name. He would not give it. So my people named him Michio—'Man of the Path.'"
Mikey's brow furrowed.
"And what did he want?"
"One word," Ryosuke answered softly. "'Rest.'"
The image lingered in the air, and Mikey tilted his head, lips parted slightly.
"So we gave him shelter. Food, water. A place among us. He lived in the village, though never truly of it. At times, he would vanish into the mountains. Days, weeks. Then he would return carrying medicines we had never seen, poultices that healed wounds faster than our herbs could. And… he did not change. His face, his form. Some whispered that he did not age. Others swore they had seen him struck by a stray arrow, only for it to glance from his skin as if he were stone. To many, he became a god."
Ryosuke's voice tightened, a note of respect there.
"But he rejected worship. He wanted no shrine, no prayers. Only his solitude. His home. And his sword."
Mikey blinked, leaning forward.
"The villagers wanted him to train them, right?"
Ryosuke nodded slowly.
"Yes. Many of the young men went to him, begged him for mentorship. Each time, he refused. He would not be a teacher."
A faint glint entered Ryosuke's eyes then, a rare hint of warmth.
"Except with me. When I was twelve, I did not ask him. I never begged, never pleaded. I only trained in secret, striking at the air with a stick. He came upon me one evening. Watched for some time in silence before approaching. Without a word, he placed a wooden sword in my hands. And then, he told me to attack him. With everything I had."
Mikey's eyes lit faintly.
"And you did?"
"I did," Ryosuke replied. "And I lost. Badly."
For a moment, the corner of his mouth curved—the smallest shadow of a smile.
"But instead of scorn, he offered me what he denied the others. Training. He said I was… interesting."
Mikey looked at him closely, and Ryosuke's expression softened as his voice grew quieter.
"So I trained. Every day. Every night. My father had died young, and Michio became father and master both. I called him Sensei, but in my heart, he was Otōsan. He shaped me. Hardened me. Every scar I carry is from those days."
The boy said nothing, only listening, his grief slowly giving way to fascination.
Ryosuke's eyes darkened as he continued.
"When I reached sixteen, he asked me to leave the village with him. I was the first of Hiroki to ever step beyond. He told me there was work—evil men who needed to be stopped. So I fought at his side. We hunted— who he called raiders, killers, mercenaries who preyed on the weak. Each one had weapon I had never seen. Steel weapons that shot out metal balls. And I killed. Again and again. Each strike, I wanted only to make him proud. And he was."
Mikey swallowed hard.
"And then you went back?"
"Yes," Ryosuke said with a slow nod. "Three years passed. I was nineteen when we returned to Hiroki. My mother had died while I was away. Her loss… it hollowed me. For weeks, I felt nothing but the weight of her absence. Until I met her."
For the first time, Ryosuke's voice shifted—gentler, tinged with something fragile. His eyes softened, that faint crimson hue glinting in the lamplight.
Mikey tilted his head.
"Her?"
"Yes. Sakura..."
Ryosuke's words came like reverence.
"The perfect woman. Strong-willed. Beautiful. Kind. Gentle as the flowers her name carried. She was everything the world was not. Everything I was not. I chased her—again and again. She rejected me, many times. But I did not stop."
His breath drew shallow, but his lips curved faintly.
"After months, my persistence wore her down. Or perhaps… she saw something worth keeping. She became mine. And I hers. I introduced her to Michio. They liked each other well. Every evening, the three of us shared meals, laughter. For a time… it was peace."
Ryosuke's gaze drifted, far away.
"And still, Michio never aged."
The silence after hung thick, broken only by Mikey's whisper:
"What happened next?"
Ryosuke's voice grew quieter, almost hollow.
"It was around two years later, when Sakura was with child. Michio vanished again. He had always left and returned, but this time his absence lingered. Yet… even without him, my world was whole. Sakura gave birth to a daughter. Kaori. My little Kaori."
The way he said her name was softer than anything Mikey had ever heard from him. His crimson eyes seemed to glaze over, not with sharpness, but memory.
"She was… perfect. Small and gentle, but strong in spirit. Never frowned. Not once. Always smiling, always laughing. I would come home from training and she would run into my arms, and in those moments, nothing else existed. Michio was gone… but we were happy."
Mikey's chest tightened. He could see the faintest smile tug at Ryosuke's lips, a fragile thing that disappeared almost instantly.
"Five years passed. Still no sign of him. Until one morning, a scout ran into the village, shouting that Michio had been spotted climbing the mountain. Joy spread like wildfire. He was loved by everyone, revered even. My people prepared festivities, gathered gifts, dressed in their finest clothes. They thought the prodigal son had returned."
Ryosuke's voice hardened.
"But when he came over the ridge… I knew something was wrong. He looked older somehow, though his face was unchanged. His eyes carried a weight I had never seen. His smile was gone. His clothes were not rags but finery—garments foreign to our land. And when he entered, though the people cheered, his face was carved from stone."
Mikey leaned forward, pulse racing.
"A little boy was waiting by the gate. He held out a baby chick, trembling in his small hands—a gift for Michio's return. Michio looked at him, and I saw it. A tear in his eye. He whispered one word… 'I'm sorry.'"
Ryosuke's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists.
"Then his sword was out. One blink, and the boy's head fell to the ground. Blood spilled onto the dirt. At first I thought my mind was broken, that I had imagined it. But then—then it began. Screams. Panic. The people scattered, only to be cut down in an instant. It was a slaughter. A massacre. My sensei… my father figure… butchered them like animals."
His voice wavered, though he fought to keep it steady.
"My instincts screamed only one thing—protect them. I grabbed Sakura and Kaori, dragged them to our home, told them to hide. I ran back into the square. My friends, my brothers-in-arms… all dead. I shouted at him, demanded to know who was controlling him. But his face never changed. Blank. Only that one tear. I drew my blade. Told him I didn't want to hurt him."
Ryosuke's gaze dropped to the floor. His cybernetic leg shifted.
"I was nothing to him. He cut my leg off as if swatting a fly. The pain was blinding, but it didn't matter. I crawled, begged my body to move, to fight. He kicked me with such force I thought my insides had ruptured. I crashed into my home."
Mikey's breath caught. He already feared where this was going.
"My Sakura… she ran to me. Always so gentle, always worried for even the smallest wound. She saw me broken, bleeding, and her instincts took over. She didn't see him behind her. My throat tried to scream, but nothing came out. And then—"
His voice cracked, the steel in it faltering. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to continue.
"She fell in half before me. Cut clean through. Her body landed next to mine. I… I watched the light leave her eyes, and I couldn't move. Couldn't save her. And then… Kaori came in."
Mikey felt his stomach twist violently.
"She was six. Just six. She didn't understand. She saw Michio, and in her innocent heart, she thought—'Uncle.' She smiled. She walked to him, calling his name. I found my voice. I screamed for her to run. But it was too late. She didn't even have time to frown. He… he killed her before the sound could leave her lips."
Ryosuke's hand trembled—the cybernetic one, as if even the machine could feel the memory.
"That was the first time I ever screamed in rage. A roar I did not know lived inside me. I charged him, tears streaming, swinging my blade with everything I had. He cut my arm from me. Then he held his sword to my throat."
He paused, swallowing hard. His voice dropped low, almost a whisper.
"But he didn't finish it. He looked at me, eyes full of that same tear, and he said: 'I am sorry, my boy.' Then he walked away. Left me broken. Left me to rot."
Silence fell.
Mikey couldn't breathe.
"I laid there for two days. I couldn't move. My wife, my daughter… their bodies decayed beside me. The smell of them still haunts me. I was the only one left. The last of Hiroki."
He reached down, pulled up his pant leg, and revealed the small yellow bead anklet around his ankle. He touched it with a reverence that made Mikey's chest ache.
"My Kaori made this for me. I am never without it."
A faint smile flickered and died.
"Luciana built me these limbs. Bobby helped me learn to walk again. But nothing could change what happened. And eventually… I learned the truth. Michio's real name."
Mikey leaned forward, heart pounding.
"What was it?"
Ryosuke met his eyes. His voice was sharp, venomous.
"Kael."
Mikey froze, eyes wide.
"Kael? The Director of the East?"
"Yes. The very same. My father, my sensei, my destroyer. Kael."
The weight of it sank into Mikey like stone. He didn't know what to say.
Ryosuke leaned back, face calm but his hands tight with restrained fury.
"So now you understand, boy. Why I hate him. Why I will never forgive the Directors. Why I live with shame every day of my life. Because I was his student. Because I called him father. And when the time came… I could not save my family."
Mikey's eyes stung. His throat ached with the urge to speak but no words felt enough. Finally, voice shaking, he whispered, "Ryosuke… I'm so sorry."
Ryosuke nodded once, almost curt, though his gaze softened at Mikey's sincerity.
"Thank you for your condolences. But this is my burden to carry. Not yours. Never yours."
And yet the weight of it sat heavy between them, binding the boy and the broken warrior in silence.
Ryosuke's voice was calm, steady, almost like the slow crackle of a fire that had burned too long to rage anymore.
"I tell you this because even a man like me could not save those closest to me. Not a single one."
His gaze lowered, shadows pooling beneath his red eyes.
"So do not listen to those lying voices that tell you that you could have done more. Because you could not have. You are just a boy."
Mikey blinked, his breath catching in his throat. For the first time in what felt like forever, the crushing weight of guilt pressing against his ribs shifted—just slightly, but enough to draw breath without pain. His shoulders sagged as though Ryosuke had reached inside him and pulled some invisible anchor free.
Ryosuke leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I have known great happiness and great hatred. I know you carry both. But do not let them control you. Do not let them define you."
He tapped a finger against his chest.
"Your guilt, your shame, your anger… they are not curses. They are proof you are alive. Proof you still feel. That is not weakness. That is humanity."
Mikey's lip trembled, his throat tight. He didn't want to cry again—but the words broke something open inside him.
Ryosuke went on, his tone softer now, like he was speaking not just to Mikey, but to the boy he used to be.
"It is okay to feel those things. It is okay to be broken and angry. Feeling one or the other does not decide who you are. What matters… is how you shape them. How you use them. They can destroy you, or they can sharpen you. They can make you into the person you will become."
He sat back in his chair, letting the silence settle between them. The pod was quiet, except for Mikey's unsteady breathing and the faint hum of the walls. Then Ryosuke added, almost in a whisper:
"So all I say to you, young Mikey… is think carefully about who you want to become."
For a moment, Mikey just stared at him. His chest rose and fell, heart hammering. The storm inside him hadn't vanished—but it no longer felt endless. The words had cracked it open, let light in through the fractures.
Ryosuke rose from his chair with the deliberate grace of a man who had carried too much weight for too many years. He stood over Mikey, looking down—not as a soldier to a recruit, not as a hardened killer to a boy, but as something closer. Something warmer.
Without a word, Ryosuke reached out, rustled Mikey's hair with his large hand, then turned and walked toward the pod door. His heavy steps echoed softly against the floor.
Mikey sat frozen, his journal still open beside him, ink smudged where his tears had fallen. His eyes followed Ryosuke's broad back as it disappeared through the doorway. The door hissed shut, leaving the pod quiet again.
But the quiet was different now. Lighter.
Mikey lifted the pen with trembling fingers, staring at the page. He didn't know what to write, not yet.
But for the first time since all the death, the thoughts didn't crush him.
He exhaled, long and shaky, and pressed the pen down.