The Yamazaki estate was no ordinary household. Its halls echoed with decades of discipline, the floors scarred from repeated combat drills, and the courtyards littered with remnants of weapons, broken boards, and faint stains of sweat and blood from generations of warriors. To an outsider, it might have looked harsh, even cruel. But here, among these walls, children were forged into predators.
Even among them, Zerath was exceptional. From the moment he could walk, his days were dictated not by play, but by relentless self-improvement. While other children tumbled over each other, chasing toys or seeking approval, Zerath practiced movement with precision. Chairs became climbing obstacles, wooden poles became sparring opponents, and even simple blocks became instruments of balance and strength training. Every motion was deliberate, every fall analyzed and corrected.
"Again," he muttered to himself, his small voice cold and unwavering. Exhaustion did not slow him, and tears never came. For Zerath, failure was a teacher, not a punishment.
By age three, his awareness was unnerving. He did not merely react to sounds or movement; he anticipated them. The gentle sway of a lantern, the murmur of a tutor's voice, the subtle shift of his playmates' stance — all were logged, calculated, and stored. While others learned through repetition, Zerath learned through observation, understanding patterns and weaknesses far beyond his years.
During these early years, his parents occasionally stepped into the courtyard. His father, Hiroshi Yamazaki, the imposing clan head, observed silently, arms folded, commanding respect even in stillness. Occasionally, he would nod or give a short, precise instruction, and Zerath would absorb it instantly, adding it to his growing repertoire of knowledge. Hiroshi's stern demeanor reflected a life built on dominance and discipline, yet there was a subtle pride in his gaze, the faintest acknowledgment that his son was extraordinary.
His mother, Akane Yamazaki, watched from the sidelines with a composed elegance. Her eyes, sharp yet soft, followed every movement, every misstep. Sometimes she corrected his grip or posture, but more often, she let him learn through struggle. Her presence offered rare warmth, a fleeting human connection that contrasted with the unyielding rigor of his training. Even in his obsession with perfection, Zerath noticed these moments, storing them in memory like quiet treasures.
By five, Zerath began sparring with older children. Their attacks were sloppy, predictable, easily read. Zerath moved with uncanny precision, dodging and countering in ways that astonished even the most seasoned tutors. A child twice his size found themselves off balance, knocked aside by blows delivered with exact force and timing. When he fell — which he did occasionally — he rose immediately, testing new angles, recalibrating his movements like a weapon being tuned to perfection.
By seven, minor mentors — warriors trained for decades — were brought in to challenge him. They expected an easy victory, a demonstration of their superiority. What they found instead was a child who adapted mid-combat, calculated distance, timing, and strength in real time, and countered with skill far beyond his years. Bruises covered his body, cuts streaked his skin, but he never faltered, never screamed. Pain was fuel; limitation was a lie.
Even at this young age, Zerath's obsession set him apart. While others sought approval, toys, or affection, he sought strength. Every strike, every maneuver, every jump or lift was a calculation. Each day was a test of limits, and he was determined to see how far he could push.
Even play was a lesson. While other children delighted in games of tag or hide-and-seek, Zerath turned every movement into analysis. When running, he calculated the exact force needed to pivot, jump, or dodge. When lifting objects, he measured weight, balance, and leverage. Even eating became an exercise in efficiency, consuming food while maintaining posture, strength, and energy.
By eight, his training expanded to include environmental adaptation. He climbed walls, leaped across rooftops, balanced on beams, and ran along the estate's steep stairs with lethal grace. Every corner of the Yamazaki estate became a tool, a challenge, a battlefield. Tutors tried to outwit him, but each attempt was cataloged in his mind for future reference. Every mistake, every near-fall, every bruise was analyzed and internalized.
By nine, Zerath's strength had become undeniable. He could lift objects twice his weight, strike with precision, and move with an agility that startled even seasoned mentors. Yet he remained dissatisfied. Each achievement was merely a baseline for the next challenge. Limits were lies. The world, he decided, existed only to be tested and conquered.
By ten, his mind had reached a level of strategic calculation rarely seen even in adults. He could anticipate movements, understand tendencies, and formulate responses within a fraction of a second. He did not simply fight; he predicted, planned, and exploited. Each day, the Yamazaki estate became both his playground and his laboratory. The elders' whispers grew more frequent.
"He is no child," one whispered to another during a rare moment of privacy. "He is a weapon."
By night, while others slept, Zerath's mind remained active. He replayed falls, strikes, and movements. He dissected errors and devised solutions, dreaming not of friends or toys, but of strength, precision, and mastery. The boy who once lay in a crib under the storm now prowled the corridors of the estate in thought, already planning the limits he would break tomorrow.
And so, from the age of three to ten, Zerath yamazaki evolved. The predator within was awakening, silent but relentless. His body grew stronger, faster, sharper. His mind became a calculating machine, always analyzing, always learning. The Yamazaki estate, vast and storied as it was, had become the first arena of a lifetime of conquest, a world to be measured, tested, and surpassed.
Even at ten, Zerath was no ordinary child. He was the beginning of something far greater — a force that would not stop, a mind that would never rest, and a body that would never yield. His parents, Hiroshi and Akane Yamazaki, would remain distant observers of the predator in their midst, recognizing that the child before them was already far beyond what the estate had ever produced.