The mountains of the eastern provinces were quiet that morning—the kind of quiet that carried weight, as though the world itself were holding its breath. Only the wind moved, brushing through the cedars that grew thick around the Kagutsuchi home. The house, a modest wooden structure of dark beams and sliding screens, clung to the slope like a sentinel. Thin trails of smoke curled into the pale sky, carrying the faint scent of breakfast rice and firewood.
To travelers, this place might have seemed peaceful. To Haruto Kagutsuchi, it was both a refuge and a crucible.
He sat cross-legged in the yard, a boy of ten with dark hair that never stayed in place. His eyes, however, were calm—deep brown, far steadier than those of other children his age. His back was straight, his knees pressed down into the dirt, his small hands resting on his thighs.
He drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, and tried to match the rhythm of his father's instructions.
"Again," came the voice from behind him.
His father, Renga Kagutsuchi, sat on the veranda wrapped in a plain robe. His frame was lean but powerful, though his shoulders rose and fell with a heaviness that betrayed the illness eating away at him. Still, his gaze was sharp, carrying the weight of a man who had once faced countless demons in the dark.
"Draw it in. Spiritual energy is everywhere—the wind, the earth beneath you, even the flame of a candle. Do not force it. Breathe, and let it come."
Haruto obeyed, inhaling deeply. He imagined the world's energy as his father described it: a current flowing through every stone and tree, waiting to be drawn into his body. His lungs filled until his chest ached. His face flushed red as he tried to hold the breath, tried to cling to the invisible tide.
Don't fail. Don't cough. Not again.
His body trembled. The air in his chest turned to fire. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms—
—and then his concentration snapped. He coughed hard, nearly falling forward as air burst from his lungs.
His father didn't scold him. Instead, Renga's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Not bad. You lasted longer than yesterday."
Haruto wiped sweat and dirt from his face, scowling. "But I still failed."
"Failed?" Renga's voice, even weakened by illness, carried weight enough to silence the cicadas in the trees. "Failure is when you refuse to stand back up. This—" he tapped his own chest with a thin, calloused finger—"this is training. Each breath you hold is a coal. Many coals together become a flame. One day, that flame will burn inside you."
The boy turned to look at him. Renga sat tall despite his frailty, posture unyielding, eyes like flint. He looked, Haruto thought, like a man carved from steel—steel slowly worn away by time and sickness.
A low cough wracked his father's chest. He brought a hand to his mouth, and when he lowered it, his fingers curled tight, concealing the faint red stain. Haruto noticed. He always noticed. But he said nothing. His father never admitted weakness.
Instead, Haruto bit his lip and stayed silent, though a storm of questions spun in his chest. Why does this matter so much? Why must I learn to hold this strange energy? We live in peace. No demons come here. No one has even seen one in years…
But every time he looked into his father's eyes, he saw something larger than questions. He saw scars carved by battles Haruto could barely imagine.
Demons are real. That was the first lesson his father had ever given him—not fairy tales, not superstition, but truth.
Monsters that walked the night. Claws that tore flesh. Teeth that shredded bone. Hunger that no feast could sate. His father never gave him all the details—not yet—but the shadows in Renga's gaze told him enough.
Haruto wanted to believe the monsters were far away. But his father trained him as if they waited just beyond the trees.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"Enough for today, both of you."
Haruto turned. His mother, Akane, approached with a tray in hand. Her dark hair shimmered as it caught the morning light, her smile as warm as a hearth fire. She moved gracefully, though her clothes were plain and worn. Everything about her presence softened the hard edges of the world.
"Breakfast is ready," she said, setting the tray near her husband. "Renga, don't push him too hard."
"Hardship tempers steel," Renga replied. "If our son is to become strong, he must be tempered."
"And if you temper steel too much," Akane answered, her eyes narrowing gently, "it breaks."
Haruto smothered a grin. His father scowled faintly, but the fight drained from his shoulders. Akane had a way of winning arguments without raising her voice.
"Come, Haruto," she said, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. "Eat, or you'll collapse before you ever learn to hold your breath."
Haruto followed eagerly, his stomach growling louder than his pride. Inside the small house, the warmth of cooked rice and miso washed over him. The low table creaked as the family sat together, bowls in hand.
For a moment, the world outside—the talk of demons, the weight of training—felt far away. For a moment, there was only the simple joy of family. His mother's laughter, his father's silence that somehow held warmth, the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth.
And yet, as Haruto watched his father's hand tremble faintly when he lifted his bowl, a thought burned quietly in the back of his mind:
One day, I'll master this. I'll become strong. Strong enough to protect them both.
The day stretched on with chores and drills. Haruto hauled buckets of water from the stream until his arms ached, chopped firewood until his hands blistered, and ran laps along the forest path until his legs shook. His father called it forging the body. His mother called it wearing the boy out so he'd sleep.
By afternoon, the sun painted the mountains in gold. Haruto gripped a wooden sword in the yard, practicing stances. His father's voice guided him from the veranda.
"Too wide. Narrow your feet. A demon will slip through a stance like that and take your head."
Haruto adjusted, sweat dripping down his temple. "Like this?"
"Better. But don't just mimic me. Feel the ground. Let the earth lend you its strength. Every strike you make must carry the weight of the world."
Haruto swung, the wooden blade cutting the air. He imagined striking a demon. He imagined standing in front of his mother, unafraid. He imagined himself tall and strong, a true warrior like his father once was.
But his arms wavered, his stance faltered.
"Again," Renga ordered.
And so Haruto struck again. And again. Until his breath came ragged and his arms hung heavy as lead.
By dusk, the yard was alive with fireflies, their glow flickering like fallen stars. Haruto collapsed onto the grass, staring at the sky where day bled into night. His chest heaved, lungs raw.
Renga descended into the yard, his cane tapping softly against the earth. With slow, deliberate care, he sat beside his son. For a long time, they watched the fireflies together, the silence broken only by cicadas and the whisper of wind through cedars.
Finally, Renga spoke.
"Haruto. Do you know why we train?"
Haruto turned his head, puzzled. "To get stronger?"
"Yes. But not only that." His father's eyes, dark as embers, fixed on him. "Strength without purpose is wasted flame. We train so that when the darkness comes—and it will come—you will be ready to protect what matters."
Haruto's throat tightened. "Have you… fought them? The demons?"
Renga's gaze shifted toward the forest. Shadows had thickened there, gathering in the spaces between trees. His silence was answer enough.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. "I have seen what they do. I have seen villages burned. Children devoured. Mothers weeping over bones. I have seen men braver than me cut down like grass before the scythe. That is why you must be stronger than I ever was."
The weight of his words pressed into Haruto's chest. Stronger than his father? How could that be possible?
"But Father," he whispered, "I'm not strong at all."
Renga's hand, rough and scarred, rested firmly on his shoulder. "Not yet. But you will be. Because the fire burns in you. Our family carries the Flame Arts—a legacy passed down for generations. One day, that fire will be yours to master."
Haruto's breath caught. Flame Arts. His father had mentioned them before but never explained. A fighting style, a secret technique, something more than simple drills. The words filled him with equal parts fear and excitement.
"Will you teach me?" he asked.
Renga's lips curved into a faint smile. "When the time is right."
The boy turned back to the sky, where the first stars shimmered into being. A cool breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and earth. For the first time that day, Haruto felt calm.
But beyond the treeline, unseen, something stirred.
A rustle too heavy for deer. A shadow that lingered too long against the moonlight.
The night belonged to demons. And though the Kagutsuchi home stood in peace—for now—darkness was never far away.
To be continued…