Kairo stared at his sensei through the gathering darkness, his amber eyes filled with something deeper than pain, deeper than desperation. The world seemed to slow as his mind drifted backward, pulled into memories of simpler times when everything was different yet somehow exactly the same.
Seven years old, using a carved wooden cane to support his frail body as he limped through the grand halls of his father's estate. The silk of his formal kimono hung loose on his thin frame, tailored to hide the weakness that marked him as broken, unusable, shameful. Little Amelia, barely four years old, stayed close to his side with the innocent loyalty only a child could possess, her tiny hand sometimes reaching out to steady him when his legs trembled.
At the elaborate gatherings of Kagoshima's noble houses, he became invisible—a shadow that even his own father refused to acknowledge. Lord Ren would avert his gaze when guests asked about his eldest son, fear flickering in his eyes at the thought of drawing attention to his shame. The workers moved around Kairo with hurried efficiency, completing their tasks as quickly as possible, desperate to escape the uncomfortable presence of the broken heir.
His mother tried. She tried more than anyone ever had, kneeling beside his bed during the long nights when fever ravaged his small body, reading him stories in her gentle voice. But even through her tender care, he could see the shadow of disappointment in her eyes, the grief for the strong son she had hoped to bear. She loved him—truly loved him—but she was still ashamed.
Only Amelia remained oblivious to their culture's cruel judgment, innocent of what it meant to have a useless brother. She would sit with him for hours, chattering about butterflies and clouds while he struggled to breathe, her presence the only pure thing in his world of whispered shame and hidden disgrace.
The memory faded as rain began to fall, soft droplets pattering against the leaves above. Kairo's wide-brimmed ayaigasa shifted on his head, sliding down to reveal the dark, messy hair that framed his almond brown face. His amber eyes never left his sensei's form as he whispered, barely audible above the gentle rainfall:
"I will."
His fingers wrapped around the katana's leather-bound hilt, and with agonizing slowness, he pulled the blade from the earth. In one swift, decisive motion, he cleaved through both the arrow's tail and head, the wooden shaft splitting cleanly as he straightened his wounded body and aimed the sword toward his master. His stance was unsteady, favoring his injured leg, but his voice carried absolute conviction.
"I will fight... I will earn my freedom, if that is what you seek of me."
His sensei's hand moved to his own katana, drawing the blade with the fluid grace of decades of practice. The steel sang as it left its scabbard, catching what little moonlight filtered through the storm clouds.
"Begin."
The final lesson he would teach his student. The final clash of their blades—not in practice, not in sparring, but a lesson of the real world, the harsh reality Kairo would inevitably face beyond the shores of Kagoshima.
Their blades met with a tremendous CLANG that echoed through the woods like thunder, the sound rolling between the trees and fading into the darkness. Steel ground against steel as they pressed against each other, neither giving ground.
Between their locked blades, their eyes met—master and student, teacher and pupil, hunter and hunted. Kairo's teeth clenched as the weight of the moment crashed down upon him. This was the day. The day of his escape. The day he abandoned everything: his place, his family, his sensei, his homeland. Everything that had ever defined him was being severed with each clash of steel.
Kagoshima. Everything.
His sensei pressed forward, and Kairo was forced to give ground, his wounded leg nearly buckling under the assault. Each exchange brought flashes of memory—years of training in the mountain dojo, the patient corrections of his form, the proud nods when he finally mastered a difficult technique. But this was different. This was real.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
His master fought with his usual style—a perfect counter-fighter who read his opponent's moves like poetry written in steel. Dodge, parry, riposte. Each of Kairo's desperate attacks was turned aside with minimal effort, his sensei conserving energy while his student burned through what little strength remained.
"A true swordsman does not rush to attack, Kairo. He waits. He watches. He lets his opponent defeat himself."
The boy pressed forward with a wild overhead strike, but his sensei side-stepped effortlessly, his counter-attack slicing across Kairo's ribs and drawing a line of crimson through his torn kimono. Kairo stumbled backward, gasping.
"Your enemy's exhaustion is your greatest weapon. When they grow desperate, when they make mistakes—that is when you strike."
And his sensei was pressing forward now, recognizing the signs. Kairo's movements were becoming labored, slowed by the arrow shaft still embedded in his calf. Each step sent fire shooting up his leg, each parry came a fraction of a second slower than the last.
CLANG.
His master's blade nearly took his head off. Kairo ducked desperately, feeling the steel whistle through his hair.
CLANG.
A thrust toward his heart was deflected by mere inches, the point of his sensei's katana slicing through the silk of his sleeve.
"When you are wounded, when you are tired, when all hope seems lost—that is when your true nature reveals itself, Kairo. What will you choose to be?"
Kairo's vision blurred from pain and exhaustion. His sensei circled him like a predator, each step calculated and precise. The boy's blade trembled in his grip as he tried to maintain a defensive stance, but he could feel his strength ebbing away like water through a sieve.
CLANG. CLANG.
Two lightning-fast strikes that he barely managed to parry, the impact sending shockwaves up his arms. His wounded leg gave out completely, and he dropped to one knee in the mud, his katana the only thing keeping him upright.
His sensei stood above him, katana raised for the killing blow, rain dripping from the steel edge. In that terrible moment, with death hovering inches from his throat, Kairo understood with crystal clarity that he was about to lose everything—his freedom, his dreams, his life.
The blade began its descent, and time seemed to slow to a crawl.