Flashback: The Girl Who Burned
Long before she was feared for lava and poison, Mei Terumī was a girl with too much power and no place to put it.
She was born into war.
Not a clan war—but a war of silence, of suspicion. Her bloodline made her dangerous. Her smile made her threatening. And her eyes—those eyes made elders whisper.
She was eight the first time they tried to kill her.
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Her own kin.
A cousin. A brother. A hand raised in apology before the blade.
They said it was mercy. That the Mist had no room for monsters.
She disagreed.
She survived.
And the brother didn't.
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She learned to hide her bloodline, but never her rage. Lava came first—violent and loud. It destroyed a training hall before she understood the seals. Then came boil release—slow and suffocating.
She practiced in caves. In craters. She taught herself control the same way lava cools: by letting it burn first.
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She was twelve when she killed her first superior.
He laughed when she said bloodline children deserved freedom.
She laughed when his lungs dissolved in acid mist.
They said she was unstable.
She said the system was worse.
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Years passed. She survived ambushes, sabotage, starvation. But she also found allies. Broken children like her. Quiet ANBU who turned a blind eye. A boy named Ao who taught her politics. A boy named Chōjūrō who didn't flinch when she trained.
She learned patience. Strategy. The art of fire disguised as kindness.
And one day, she saw a boy refuse to kill at the academy ceremony.
Kozan.
And for the first time, she saw not just resistance.
She saw the future.
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