The moon is a pale ghost tonight, smothered by clouds that drag their shadows over the trees. Rain trickles from black branches, cold as the steel that binds the children. A line of small, hunched figures winds through the forest path—ten in all, hands tied, lips trembling. They are cargo, not companions.
Aru staggers near the middle, his bare feet splashing through mud and leaves. His wrists are rubbed raw where the ropes bite. Every stumble earns him a yank forward from the cloaked master ahead. The air reeks of wet moss and iron; somewhere distant, a wolf's cry threads through the thunder.
One of the children sobs. A ninja master's masked face turns, eyes hard as flint. "Silence. The Forest listens."
Aru lifts his chin. Blood beads at the corner of his mouth from an earlier blow, but his voice is steady, low.
"Then let it listen."
The nearest guard slows his pace. "What did you say, whelp?"
Aru's lips curl. "Let it know I will tear your world apart."
The strike comes swift—a backhand that sends him face-first into the mud. Laughter flickers among the guards, but not all of them laugh. The forest wind rustles the branches above, and for a moment even the thunder seems to hold its breath.
---
By dawn they reach the hidden citadel. Ancient stone towers rise from the mist like broken teeth. Moss carpets their walls; the air here feels older than empires. The masters herd the children to a pit—a hollow ringed with sharpened stakes and whispering trees.
"Survive the night," one master announces flatly. "Those who live will begin their training. Those who die will feed the forest."
The rope is cut from their wrists. Some children cry openly; others stare at the earth as if it will swallow them. When the masters leave, the pit grows silent except for rain on stone.
A boy lunges for food scraps left in the mud. Another slashes him with a stolen dagger. Chaos blooms—fists, screams, wet thuds. Aru steps back, eyes scanning. He does not waste strength on the strong or mercy on the weak. He studies the pit's jagged rocks, the shadows of the stakes, the roots that snake through loose soil.
When an older boy charges him, Aru sidesteps, trips him toward a splintered stake, and uses his fall to hide behind a boulder. Two others grapple nearby—he waits until they're locked together, then shoves them both into a sinkhole where water churns. The forest itself seems to aid him: a root trips a charging boy, a gust of wind blinds another with dirt. By dawn, half the children lie still.
The masters return, their cloaks trailing water. One, an elder with braided grey hair beneath his mask—Kenzai—watches Aru with unreadable eyes.
"You are still standing," Kenzai says, voice a low rumble. "Standing is the first lie of strength."
Aru meets his gaze and does not flinch.
---
That night, the survivors lie under a sky scraped raw by lightning. Aru's body aches, bruises blooming across his ribs, but his mind will not rest. The forest hums around him—a living, breathing presence that crawls beneath his skin.
A single wolf's howl rises from the distant hills, ancient and mournful. The moon breaks free of the clouds, spilling silver light through the branches. The pattern it paints on the ground is unmistakable: the curved jaw of a serpent, fangs poised to strike.
Aru whispers into the darkness, his lips cracked but smiling faintly.
"If you are real…watch me."
The wind answers, a low, mournful sigh through the trees. And for just a heartbeat, the forest seems to lean closer—as if it has been waiting.