The mountain winds howled like wolves over the high cliffs of Yagami Ridge, slicing through the silence of the dawn. Deep within its forested belly, a solitary sound echoed—a rhythmic clang, whoosh, crack—the sound of effort, of flesh against stone, of a body pushing past its limit.
In a clearing chiseled out by time and toil, a boy—lean, shirtless, scarred—struck at a granite slab with his bare fists. Each punch snapped with brutal efficiency. His breath fogged in the cold air, each exhale a reminder that he was alive. Barely.
"Again," came the gravelly command from the shadows of the nearby pine trees.
The boy, no older than fifteen, didn't hesitate. Blood ran freely down his knuckles now, but he didn't cry out. Pain had long since become part of the routine.
"Again."
He struck once more. The stone cracked. Not much. But it cracked.
From under his straw hat, the old man nodded. Kirozan—a name feared in a former life. A name whispered in war camps and enemy lines as "The Crimson Ghost." He no longer wore armor, no longer wielded his black halberd, yet the spirit of war clung to him like the scent of ash to flame.
The boy's name was Rei. Just Rei. An orphan from the outskirts of the ruined Eastern Province. Kirozan had found him near death a decade ago, curled around the burnt remains of his village, too weak to cry.
"You strike better today," the old man finally said, stepping forward, his heavy staff digging into the moss-covered ground. "But strength alone won't save you."
Rei wiped the blood off his hands on his trousers. "Then what will?"
Kirozan stopped beside him and looked up at the sky. "Discipline. Clarity. The ability to see the moment before the moment."
Rei didn't respond. He never did. Not until he could understand the words, not just hear them.
They trained until dusk.
Pushups until arms failed. Meditation under waterfalls until breath froze. Kicks through bamboo thickets. Shadow combat. Even cooking was done blindfolded. There were no comforts. No distractions. Only repetition. Precision. Pain.
And silence. Always silence.
---
That night, Rei lay on the floor of their modest cabin, staring at the wooden ceiling. His body ached in places that had no name. Yet a fire burned within him—an invisible flame that only grew with each passing day.
Kirozan sat by the fire, sharpening a blade that had not tasted blood in years.
"Old man," Rei muttered, breaking an unwritten rule. Kirozan looked up, a rare flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
"Why haven't you ever taught me about aura?"
Kirozan froze. The blade stopped mid-stroke.
Silence again.
Then, slowly, he placed the blade down.
"Because once you awaken it, there's no going back."
Rei sat up, intrigued.
"I've heard of aura colors in town. That they... show power. Why not teach me? Don't you trust me?"
"It's not about trust," Kirozan whispered. "It's about the weight. Once you see your aura, the world will see you too. And the world is not kind to those who shine too brightly."
He leaned back, eyes distant. "When aura awakens… it reveals the truth of your soul. Its color, its magnitude, its thickness—they will all scream your fate louder than any prophecy."
Rei's eyes shimmered with the glow of the firelight. "Then I want to know my truth."
Kirozan looked at him for a long moment. A gust of wind slammed against the cabin. Outside, somewhere in the far heavens, thunder rolled.
"So be it," he said, his voice now that of the old battalion commander.
"Tomorrow... we begin the Aura Path."